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The included with this eBook or online at 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. Proofreading Team at _The_ BIRTH _and_ BABYHOOD OF THE TELEPHONE _by_ Thomas A. Watson _Assistant to Alexander Graham Bell_ (An address delivered before the Third Annual Convention of the Telephone Pioneers of America at Chicago, October 17, 1913) _Information Department_ AMERICAN TELEPHONE AND TELEGRAPH COMPANY _Biography of THOMAS A. WATSON_ Thomas A. Watson was born on January 18, 1854, in Salem, Massachusetts, and died December 13, 1934, at more than four-score years. At the age of 13 he left school and went to work in a store. Always keenly interested in learning more and in making the most of all he learned, every new experience was to him, from his childhood on, an opening door into a larger, more beautiful and more wonderful world. This was the key to the continuous variety that gave interest to his life. In 1874 he obtained employment in the electrical shop of Charles Williams, Jr., at 109 Court Street, Boston. Here he met Alexander Graham Bell, and the telephone chapter in his life began. This he has told in the little book herewith presented. In 1881, having well earned a rest from the unceasing struggle with the problems of early telephony, and being now a man of means, he resigned his position in the American Bell Telephone Company and spent a year in Europe. On his return he started a little machine shop for his own pleasure, at his place in East Braintree, Massachusetts. From this grew the Fore River Ship and Engine Company, which did its large share of building the U. S. Navy of the Spanish War. In 1904 he retired from active business. When 40 years of age and widely known as a shipbuilder, he went to college, taking special courses in geology and biology at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. At the same time he specialized in literature. These studies dominated his later years, leading him in extensive travels all over the world, and at home extending to others the inspiration of a genial simplicity of life and of a love for science, literature and all that is fine in life. The Birth and Babyhood of the Telephone _By_ Thomas A. Watson I am to speak to you of the birth and babyhood of the telephone, and something of the events which preceded that important occasion. These are matters that must seem to you ancient history; in fact, they seem so to me, although the events all happened less than 40 years ago, in the years 1874 to 1880. The occurrences of which I shall speak, lie in my mind as a splendid drama, in which it was my great privilege to play a part. I shall try to put myself back into that wonderful play, and tell you its story from the same attitude of mind I had thenthe point of view of a mere boy, just out of his apprenticeship as an electro-mechanician, intensely interested in his work, and full of boyish hope and enthusiasm. Therefore, as it must be largely a personal narrative, I shall ask you to excuse my many Is and mys and to be indulgent if I show how proud and glad I am that I was chosen by the fates to be the associate of Alexander Graham Bell, to work side by side with him day and night through all these wonderful happenings that have meant so much to the world. The Williams Electrical Workshop I realize now what a lucky boy I was, when at 13 years of age I had to leave school and go to work for my living, although I didnt think so at that time. I am not advising my young friends to leave school at this age, for they may not have the opportunity to enter college as I did at 40. Theres a tide in the affairs of men, you know, and that was the beginning of its flood in my life, for after trying several vocationsclerking, bookkeeping, carpentering, etc.and finding them all unattractive, I at last found just the job that suited me in the electrical work-shop of Charles Williams, at 109 Court Street, Bostonone of the best men I have ever known. Better luck couldnt befall a boy than to be brought so early in life under the influence of such a high-minded gentleman as Charles Williams. I want to say a few words about my work there, not only to give you a picture of such a shop in the early 70s, but also because in this shop the telephone had its birth and a good deal of its early development. I was first set to work on a hand lathe turning binding posts for $5 a week. The mechanics of to-day with their automatic screw machines, hardly know what it is to turn little rough castings with a hand tool. How the hot chips used to fly into our eyes! One day I had a fine idea. I bought a pair of 25-cent goggles, thinking the others would hail me as a benefactor of mankind and adopt my plan. But they laughed at me for being such a sissy boy and public opinion forced me back to the old time-honored plan of winking when I saw a chip coming. It was not an efficient plan, for the chip usually got there first. There was a liberal education in it for me in manual dexterity. There was no specializing in these shops at that time. Each workman built everything there was in the shop to build, and an apprentice also had a great variety of jobs, which kept him interested all the time, for his tools were poor and simple and it required lots of thought to get a job done right. Studies and Experiments There were few books on electricity published at that time. Williams had copies of most of them in his showcase, which we boys used to read noons, but the book that interested me most was Davis Manual of Magnetism, published in 1847, a copy of which I made mine for 25 cents. If you want to get a good idea of the state of the electrical art at that time, you should read that book. I found it very stimulating and that same old copy in all the dignity of its dilapidation has a place of honor on my book shelves to-day. My promotion to higher work was rapid. Before two years had passed, I had tried my skill on about all the regular work of the establishmentcall bells, annunciators, galvanometers, telegraph keys, sounders, relays, registers and printing telegraph instruments. Individual initiative was the rule in Williams shopwe all did about as we pleased. Once I built a small steam engine for myself during working hours, when business was slack. No one objected. That steam engine, by the way, was the embryo of the biggest shipbuilding plant in the United States to-day, which I established some ten years later with telephone profits, and which now employs more than 4,000 men. Such were the electrical shops of that day. Crude and small as they were, they were the forerunners of the great electrical works of to-day. In them were being trained the men who were among the leaders in the wonderful development of applied electricity which began soon after the time of which I am to speak. Williams, although he never had at that time more than 30 or 40 men working for him, had one of the largest and best fitted shops in the country. I think the Western Electric shop at Chicago was the only larger one. That was also undoubtedly better organized and did better work than Williams. When a piece of machinery built by the Western Electric came into our shop for repairs, we boys always used to admire the superlative excellence of the workmanship. Experience with Inventors Besides the regular work at Williams, there was a constant stream of wild-eyed inventors, with big ideas in their heads and little money in their pockets, coming to the shop to have their ideas tried out in brass and iron. Most of them had an angel whom they had hypnotized into paying the bills. My enthusiasm, and perhaps my sympathetic nature, made me a favorite workman with those men of visions, and in 1873-74 my work had become largely making experimental apparatus for such men. Few of their ideas ever amounted to anything, but I liked to do the work, as it kept me roaming in fresh fields and pastures new all the time. Had it not been, however, for my youthful enthusiasmalways one of my chief assetsI fear this experience would have made me so skeptical and cynical as to the value of electrical inventions that my future prospects might have been injured. I remember one limber-tongued patriarch who had induced some men to subscribe $1,000 to build what he claimed to be an entirely new electric engine. I had made much of it for him. There was nothing new in the engine, but he intended to generate his electric current in a series of iron tanks the size of trunks, to be filled with nitric acid with the usual zinc plates suspended therein. When the engine was finished and the acid poured into the tanks for the first time, no one waited to see the engine run, for inventor, angel, and workmen all tried to see who could get out of the shop quickest. I won the race as I had the best start. I suppose there is just such a crowd of crude minds still besieging the work-shops, men who seem incapable of finding out what has been already done, and so keep on, year after year, threshing old straw. The Harmonic Telegraph All the men I worked for at that time were not of that type. There were a few very different. Among them, dear old Moses G. Farmer, perhaps the leading practical electrician of that day. He was full of good ideas, which he was constantly bringing to Williams to have worked out. I did much of his work and learned from him more about electricity than ever before or since. He was electrician at that time for the United States Torpedo Station at Newport, Rhode Island, and in the early winter of 1874 I was making for him some experimental torpedo exploding apparatus. That apparatus will always be connected in my mind with the telephone, for one day when I was hard at work on it, a tall, slender, quick-motioned man with pale face, black side whiskers, and drooping mustache, big nose and high sloping forehead crowned with bushy, jet black hair, came rushing out of the office and over to my work bench. It was Alexander Graham Bell, whom I saw then for the first time. He was bringing to me a piece of mechanism which I had made for him under instructions from the office. It had not been made as he had directed and he had broken down the rudimentary discipline of the shop in coming directly to me to get it altered. It was a receiver and a transmitter of his Harmonic Telegraph, an invention of his with which he was then endeavoring to win fame and fortune. It was a simple affair by means of which, utilizing the law of sympathetic vibration, he expected to send six or eight Morse messages on a single wire at the same time, without interference. Although most of you are probably familiar with the device, I must, to make my story clear, give you a brief description of the instruments, for though Bell never succeeded in perfecting his telegraph, his experimenting on it led to a discovery of the highest importance. The essential parts of both transmitter and receiver were an electro-magnet and a flattened piece of steel clock spring. The spring was clamped by one end to one pole of the magnet, and had its other end free to vibrate over the other pole. The transmitter had, besides this, make-and-break points like an ordinary vibrating bell which, when the current was on, kept the spring vibrating in a sort of nasal whine, of a pitch corresponding to the pitch of the spring. When the signalling key was closed, an electrical copy of that whine passed through the wire and the distant receiver. There were, say, six transmitters with their springs tuned to six different pitches and six receivers with their springs tuned to correspond. Now, theoretically, when a transmitter sent its electrical whine into the line wire, its own faithful receiver spring at the distant station would wriggle sympathetically but all the others on the same line would remain coldly quiescent. Even when all the transmitters were whining at once through their entire gamut, making a row as if all the miseries this world of trouble ever produced were concentrated there, each receiver spring along the line would select its own from that sea of troubles and ignore all the others. Just see what a simple, sure-to-work invention this was; for just break up those various whines into the dots and dashes of Morse messages and one wire would do the work of six, and the Duplex telegraph that had just been invented would be beaten to a frazzle. Bells reward would be immediate and rich, for the Duplex had been bought by the Atlantic and Pacific Telegraph Company, giving them a great advantage over their only competitor, the Western Union Company, and the latter would, of course, buy Bells invention and his financial problems would be solved. All this was, as I have said, theoretical, and it was mighty lucky for Graham Bell that it was, for had his harmonic telegraph been a well behaved apparatus that always did what its parent wanted it to do, the speaking telephone might never have emerged from a certain marvelous conception, that had even then been surging back of Bells high forehead for two or three years. What that conception was, I soon learned, for he couldnt help speaking about it, although his friends tried to hush it up. They didnt like to have him get the reputation of being visionary, orsomething worse. To go on with my story; after Mr. Farmers peace-making machines were finished, I made half a dozen pairs of the harmonic instruments for Bell. He was surprised, when he tried them, to find that they didnt work as well as he expected. The cynical Watson wasnt at all surprised for he had never seen anything electrical yet that worked at first the way the inventor thought it would. Bell wasnt discouraged in the least and a long course of experiments followed which gave me a steady job that winter and brought me into close contact with a wonderful personality that did more to mould my life rightly than anything else that ever came into it. I became mightily tired of those whiners that winter. I called them by that name, perhaps, as an inadequate expression of my disgust with their persistent perversity, the struggle with which soon began to take all the joy out of my young life, not being endowed with the power of Macbeths weird sisters to Look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not. Let me say here, that I have always had a feeling of respect for Elisha Gray, who, a few years later, made that harmonic telegraph work, and vibrate well-behaved messages, that would go where they were sent without fooling with every receiver on the line. Most of Bells early experimenting on the harmonic telegraph was done in Salem, at the home of Mrs. George Sanders, where he resided for several years, having charge of the instruction of her deaf nephew. The present Y. M. C. A. building is on the site of that house. I would occasionally work with Bell there, but most of his experimenting in which I took part was done in Boston. Bells Theory of Transmitting Speech Mr. Bell was very apt to do his experimenting at night, for he was busy during the day at the Boston University, where he was Professor of Vocal Physiology, especially teaching his fathers system of visible speech, by which a deaf mute might learn to talkquite significant of what Bell was soon to do in making mute metal talk. For this reason I would often remain at the shop during the evening to help him test some improvement he had had me make on the instruments. One evening when we were resting from our struggles with the apparatus, Bell said to me: Watson, I want to tell you of another idea I have, which I think will surprise you. I listened, I suspect, somewhat languidly, for I must have been working that day about sixteen hours, with only a short nutritive interval, and Bell had already given me, during the weeks we had worked together, more new ideas on a great variety of subjects, including visible speech, elocution and flying machines, than my brain could assimilate, but when he went on to say that he had an idea by which he believed it would be possible to talk by telegraph, my nervous system got such a shock that the tired feeling vanished. I have never forgotten his exact words; they have run in my mind ever since like a mathematical formula. _If_, he said, _I could make a current of electricity vary in intensity, precisely as the air varies in density during the production of a sound, I should be able to transmit speech telegraphically_. He then sketched for me an instrument that he thought would do this, and we discussed the possibility of constructing one. I did not make it; it was altogether too costly, and the chances of its working too uncertain to impress his financial backersMr. Gardiner G. Hubbard and Mr. Thomas Sanderswho were insisting that the wisest thing for Bell to do was to perfect the harmonic telegraph; then he would have money and leisure enough to build air castles like the telephone. June 2, 1875 I must have done other work in the shop besides Bells during the winter and spring of 1875, but I cannot remember a single item of it. I do remember that when I was not working for Bell I was thinking of his ideas. All through my recollection of that period runs that nightmarethe harmonic telegraph, the ill working of which got on my conscience, for I blamed my lack of mechanical skill for the poor operation of an invention apparently so simple. Try our best, we could not make that thing work rightly, and Bell came as near to being discouraged as I ever knew him to be. But this spring of 1875 was the dark hour just before the dawn. If the exact time could be fixed, the date when the conception of the undulatory or speech-transmitting current took its perfect form in Bells mind would be the greatest day in the history of the telephone, but certainly June 2, 1875, must always rank next; for on that day the mocking fiend inhabiting that demonic telegraph apparatus, just as a now-you-see-it-and-now-you-dont sort of satanic joke, opened the curtain that hides from man great Natures secrets and gave us a glimpse as quick as if it were through the shutter of a snap-shot camera, into that treasury of things not yet discovered. That imp didnt do this in any kindly, helpful spiritany inventor knows he isnt that kind of a beinghe just meant to tantalize and prove that a man is too stupid to grasp a secret, even if it is revealed to him. But he hadnt properly estimated Bell, though he had probably sized me up all right. That glimpse was enough to let Bell see and seize the very thing he had been dreaming about and drag it out into the world of human affairs. The Telephone Born Coming back to earth, Ill try and tell you what happened that day. In the experiments on the harmonic telegraph, Bell had found that the reason why the messages got mixed up was inaccuracy in the adjustment of the pitches of the receiver springs to those of the transmitter. Bell always had to do this tuning himself, as my sense of pitch and knowledge of music were quite lackinga faculty (or lackulty) which you will hear later became quite useful. Mr. Bell was in the habit of observing the pitch of a spring by pressing it against his ear while the corresponding transmitter in a distant room was sending its intermittent current through the magnet of that receiver. He would then manipulate the tuning screw until that spring was tuned to accord with the pitch of the whine coming from the transmitter. All this experimenting was carried on in the upper story of the Williams building, where we had a wire connecting two rooms perhaps sixty feet apart looking out on Court Street. Realization On the afternoon of June 2, 1875, we were hard at work on the same old job, testing some modification of the instruments. Things were badly out of tune that afternoon in that hot garret, not only the instruments, but, I fancy, my enthusiasm and my temper, though Bell was as energetic as ever. I had charge of the transmitters as usual, setting them squealing one after the other, while Bell was retuning the receiver springs one by one, pressing them against his ear as I have described. One of the transmitter springs I was attending to stopped vibrating and I plucked it to start it again. It didnt start and I kept on plucking it, when suddenly I heard a shout from Bell in the next room, and then out he came with a rush, demanding, What did you do then? Dont change anything. Let me see! I showed him. It was very simple. The contact screw was screwed down so far that it made permanent contact with the spring, so that when I snapped the spring the circuit had remained unbroken while that strip of magnetized steel by its vibration over the pole of its magnet was generating that marvelous conception of Bellsa current of electricity that varied in intensity precisely as the air was varying in density within hearing distance of that spring. That undulatory current had passed through the connecting wire to the distant receiver which, fortunately, was a mechanism that could transform that current back into an extremely faint echo of the sound of the vibrating spring that had generated it, but what was still more fortunate, the right man had that mechanism at his ear during that fleeting moment, and instantly recognized the transcendent importance of that faint sound thus electrically transmitted. The shout I heard and his excited rush into my room were the result of that recognition. The speaking telephone was born at that moment. Bell knew perfectly well that the mechanism that could transmit all the complex vibrations of one sound could do the same for any sound, even that of speech. That experiment showed him that the complex apparatus he had thought would be needed to accomplish that long dreamed result was not at all necessary, for here was an extremely simple mechanism operating in a perfectly obvious way, that could do it perfectly. All the experimenting that followed that discovery, up to the time the telephone was put into practical use, was largely a matter of working out the details. We spent a few hours verifying the discovery, repeating it with all the differently tuned springs we had, and before we parted that night Bell gave me directions for making the first electric speaking telephone. I was to mount a small drumhead of gold-beaters skin over one of the receivers, join the center of the drumhead to the free end of the receiver spring and arrange a mouthpiece over the drumhead to talk into. His idea was to force the steel spring to follow the vocal vibrations and generate a current of electricity that would vary in intensity as the air varies in density during the utterance of speech sounds. I followed these directions and had the instrument ready for its trial the very next day. I rushed it, for Bells excitement and enthusiasm over the discovery had aroused mine again, which had been sadly dampened during those last few weeks by the meagre results of the harmonic experiments. I made every part of that first telephone myself, but I didnt realize while I was working on it what a tremendously important piece of work I was doing. The First Telephone Line The two rooms in the attic were too near together for the test, as our voices would be heard through the air, so I ran a wire especially for the trial from one of the rooms in the attic down two flights to the third floor where Williams main shop was, ending it near my work bench at the back of the building. That was the first telephone line. You can well imagine that both our hearts were beating above the normal rate while we were getting ready for the trial of the new instrument that evening. I got more satisfaction from the experiment than Mr. Bell did, for shout my best I could not make him hear me, but I could hear his voice and almost catch the words. I rushed downstairs and told him what I had heard. It was enough to show him that he was on the right track, and before he left that night he gave me directions for several improvements in the telephones I was to have ready for the next trial. I hope my pride in the fact that I made the first telephone, put up the first telephone wire and heard the first words ever uttered through a telephone, has never been too ostentatious and offensive to my friends, but I am sure that you will grant that a reasonable amount of that human weakness is excusable in me. My pride has been tempered to quite a bearable degree by my realization that the reason why I heard Bell in that first trial of the telephone and he did not hear me, was the vast superiority of his strong vibratory tones over any sound my undeveloped voice was then able to utter. My sense of hearing, however, has always been unusually acute, and that might have helped to determine this result. The building where these first telephone experiments were made is still in existence. It is now used as a theater. The lower stories have been much altered, but that attic is still quite unchanged and a few weeks ago I stood on the very spot where I snapped those springs and helped test the first telephone thirty-seven years and seven months before. (_Editors Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm collection. 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The included with this eBook or online at NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE Summit of Mont Blanc, MADE IN JULY, 1819. _BY WM. HOWARD, M. D._ "Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crown'd him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow." BALTIMORE: PUBLISHED BY FIELDING LUCAS, JR. J. Robinson, printer. 1821. The account of the following journey was written a few days after its execution, while the author was confined to his chamber by the inconveniences he had suffered, and it was then penned for the gratification of his immediate friends, and without any view to publication. The partiality of friends, however, having permitted it, during his absence, to appear in the Analectic Magazine, for May 1820, it excited more attention than he could have anticipated, which has induced the author to correct the errors arising from haste and other sources, and to republish it in the present form. _Baltimore, April, 1821._ NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY TO THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. ----------------- "Above me are the Alps The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And thron'd Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow, All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below." BYRON. NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY, &c. Geneva, July, 1819. You, my dear friend, who are well acquainted from my infancy with my clambering disposition, which, within these few months, has carried me to the top of both Vesuvius and tna, will not be much surprised to learn, that I have attempted, with success, to mount to the summit of Mont Blanc; an aerial journey which the sight of this mountain has inspired many persons with a wish to accomplish; but in which few have engaged, and still fewer have succeeded. I am somewhat afraid that you will condemn the expedition as a wild one, and will justly consider the gratification of our curiosity, which was, unfortunately, the only object we attained, as an inadequate recompense for our toil and danger; but you have no cause to fear my embarking in similar adventures in future. Having reached a spot, undoubtedly the highest in Europe, and, with the exception of the Himalaya mountains in India, the highest in the Old World, my curiosity is completely gratified, and there is scarcely any possibility of my meeting with an enterprise of this nature, of sufficient magnitude to renew its excitement: since five of the loftiest of the Alleghanies piled on each other, would scarcely reach to the height I have attained. To give you a correct idea of the nature of our undertaking, I will begin with a concise account of this king of the Alps, and of the various attempts that have been made to reach its summit. Mont Blanc is situated amidst some of the highest mountains of Savoy, forming a part of the great chain of the Alps, above which, however, it raises far its snowy head, as with a dignified air of conscious triumph. It is this white head, which its elevation renders doubly bright, that gives its name. On the north side of the mountain, and immediately at its foot, is the valley of Chamouny, which is sixteen leagues south from Geneva, and is much frequented in the summer season by the inhabitants of that city, and strangers, who throng to this enchanted vale, to enjoy the coolness of the air, and to view its stupendous glaciers, several of which are formed by the snow and ice gliding down from Mont Blanc itself. On the south-east side is the valley of Entrves, which separates Mont Blanc both from the great and the little St. Bernard, and through which runs a small river, whose waters join the Po, below Turin, while the Arva, which flows through Chamouny, joins the Rhone, near Geneva. These rivers finally discharge themselves into the sea, at the distance of several hundred miles from each other; the one into the Mediterranean, near Marseilles, and the other into the Adriatic, near Venice. The chain of Alps, of which Mont Blanc forms a part, runs from N. E. to S. W. and is partly surmounted in its neighbourhood, by sharp pointed rocks, whose sides are too steep for the snow to rest upon, and of which seven, rising abruptly to a great height, have the appropriate name of the "Needles of Chamouny." The height of Mont Blanc, according to the observations of Saussure, is 14,790 French feet above the level of the sea, which is only 5800 less than that of Chimborazo, the summit of which has been never reached: on the other hand, its relative height above the surrounding country is greater; for Mont Blanc is 11,500 above the valley of Chamouny, while Chimborazo, according to Humboldt, is only 11,200 above the plain of Tapia, at its foot. It is calculated that, from this height, the eye could reach sixty-eight leagues, or about 170 of our miles, without being intercepted by the convexity of the earth. Mont Blanc is seen from Lyons in all its magnificence; from the mountains of Burgundy, from Dijon, and even from Langrs, sixty-five leagues distant in a straight line: M. Saussure thought he recognised the mountain of Cavme, near Toulon. About 15,500 English feet, or something less than three miles. In 1760 and 61, Saussure, the celebrated philosopher of Geneva, then engaged in examining the natural history of the Alps, promised a considerable reward to any person who should succeed in finding a practicable path to the summit, offering even to pay for the lost time of those who made ineffectual efforts. The first who undertook this, was Pierre Simon, a hunter of Chamouny, in 1762: but he was unsuccessful. In 1775, four men of the same village endeavoured for the same object, and with as ill success, to follow the ridge of the Montagne de la Cte, which runs parallel to the Glacier of Boissons. In 1783, three others followed the same track, but were attacked by an increasing disposition to sleep, from which they could only relieve themselves by returning. M. Bouritt, of Geneva, made two ineffectual attempts the same year, and the following year another, accompanied by Saussure, his own son, and fifteen guides. In June 1786, six men of the valley of Chamouny, renewed the effort to reach the summit, but fatigue and cold forced them to renounce it; one of them, however, Jacques Balmat, separating from his companions to search for crystals, and having lost himself, was prevented by a storm from rejoining them, and compelled to pass the night on the snow, unprovided and alone; youth, however, and the vigour of his constitution, saved his life. In the morning he perceived the top at no great distance, and having the whole day before him to provide for his descent, he examined leisurely the approaches to it, and observed one, that appeared more accessible than any he had hitherto seen. At his return to Chamouny, he was taken ill, in consequence of his great exposure, and was attended by Dr. Paccard, the physician of the village, to whom he communicated his discovery, and offered, in gratitude for his care, to guide him to the summit of Mont Blanc. In consequence of this, Jacques Balmat and Dr. Paccard, set out from Chamouny the 7th of August, the same year, and slept on the top of the Montagne de la Cte. The next day they experienced great difficulties and excessive fatigue, and were long doubtful of the ultimate event of their enterprise; but finally, at half past 6, P. M. they reached the pinnacle of the mountain, in sight of many visitors, who were at Chamouny, watching their progress with telescopes. The cold was so intense, that provision was frozen in their pockets, the ink congealed in their ink horns, and the mercury in Farenheit's thermometer, sunk to eighteen and a half degrees. They remained about half an hour on the top, regained at midnight the Montagne de la Cte, and after two hours repose, set out for Chamouny, where they arrived at eight in the morning, with their lips swollen, their faces excoriated, and their eyes much inflamed; and it was some time before they recovered from these disagreeable effects. As soon as the intelligence of this success reached Saussure at Geneva, he determined on making a similar attempt: which he in fact did the same year, but was compelled by unfavourable weather to return. He was, however, not discouraged, but as the season was now far advanced, he postponed his operations until the ensuing summer. Accordingly, on the 1st of August, 1787, he again set out from Chamouny, accompanied by his servant, and eighteen guides, carrying a tent, a bed, ladders, cords, provisions, and philosophical instruments. The party arrived early the same day at the Montagne de la Cte, where they passed the night. The next day, notwithstanding an increase of dangers and difficulties, they passed under the Dome de Gout, and reached a platform, or small plain, at the height of 11,790 feet above the sea, where they pitched their tent in the snow, and passed the night. The following morning, (August 3d) the snow was so hard, and the ascent so steep, that they were compelled to cut their footsteps with a hatchet, and it was only by proceeding with the greatest caution, that they were enabled to pass this dangerous acclivity with safety. They, however, persevered, and reached the summit about an hour before noon, in view of many persons who were observing them from Chamouny. M. Saussure turned his eyes to the house where his mother and sisters were watching his progress with a telescope, and had the satisfaction of seeing the waving of a flag, which was the signal they had agreed to make, as soon as they should be assured of his safety. The latter part of his ascent was the slowest and most fatiguing, owing to the difficulty of breathing, occasioned by the rarity of the air: the stoutest of his guides could not take more than thirty steps, without stopping to take breath. No one had the least appetite, but all were much tormented by thirst. The guides pitched the tent, in which M. Saussure remained four hours, making a number of observations. At half after three, the party began to descend, and slept lower 1100 feet than the preceding night. The next day they arrived, without any accident, at Chamouny. This successful expedition of Saussure, and the interesting account he published of it, inspired many persons with a wish of accomplishing the same task; but they were generally soon deterred by an examination into the difficulties attending its execution, and returned satisfied with a view from the vallies below, of the terrific glaciers, and everlasting snows, which defend the approaches to the summit. The following are the principal attempts that have since been made, and it will be perceived that of these few, only a part have succeeded. On the 8th of August, 1787, five days after M. Saussure's return, Col. Beaufoy, an Englishman, set out from Chamouny for Mont Blanc, accompanied by ten guides. He reached the top the following day, and returned the third day to the village, with his face and eyes so inflamed, that he nearly lost his sight in consequence. As he was not properly provided with instruments, he was unable to add much to the observations which had been made by Saussure. He, however, determined the latitude of the summit to be 45, 49, 59. The year following these two journeys, (1788,) Mr. Bouritt, of Geneva, in company with his son, two other gentleman, and a number of guides, attempted the ascent of Mont Blanc. The party was dispersed by a storm, and only Mr. Bouritt, his son, and three guides, succeeded in reaching the top, where the violence of the cold compelled them to abridge their stay to a few minutes. While there, Mr. Bouritt thought he perceived the sea in the direction of Genoa; but the immense distance rendered the objects at the horizon, too indistinct to be certain of it. The whole party returned to Chamouny in a terrible condition. One of Mr. Bouritt's companions, who had lost himself, suffered dreadfully, as well as the guides who were with him, and returned with his feet and hands frozen, while some of the company, who were more fortunate, had only their fingers and ears in the same condition. Mr. Bouritt was obliged to wash for thirteen days in ice water, to restore the use of his limbs, which had suffered from the extreme cold. In 1792, four Englishmen undertook the same journey, but were prevented, by an accident, from proceeding farther than the Montagne de la Cte, where, unfortunately, one of the guides had his leg broken, and another his skull driven in: they themselves were all more or less wounded. A false step of one of the foremost of the party upon a loose rock, which brought it and a number of others down upon his companions, was the cause of this accident. M. Forneret, of Lausanne, and M. d'Ortern set out on the 10th of August, 1802, with seven guides, for Mont Blanc, and notwithstanding a storm, reached the summit the following day. They remained there only twenty minutes, and returned on the 12th to Chamouny, protesting that nothing in the world could tempt them to undertake again the same expedition. In August, 1808, Jacques Balmat, surnamed Mont Blanc, from his having been the first to discover the way to the summit, safely conducted thither fifteen of the inhabitants of Chamouny, one of whom was a _woman_. About this time also he returned with two of his companions, and placed on the top an obelisk of wood, twelve feet in height, (which they had brought up in pieces) to serve in the trigonometrical survey, that was then making of the country. In 1812, M. Rodasse, a banker of Hamburgh, undertook and accomplished the same journey, without any accident. The 16th of September, 1816, the Comte de Lucy, a Frenchman, succeeded, notwithstanding the severity of the cold he experienced, in attaining a rock only 600 feet lower than the summit of Mont Blanc. He was there, however, so entirely overcome with cold and fatigue, that he was unable to proceed this short distance, and compelled, with much reluctance, to return. On reaching the valley he was unable to walk, but was carried by his guides to the inn, where his feet proved to be so much frozen, that on drawing his boot, the skin peeled off and remained in it. Two of his guides were also severely frozen. Count Malzeski, a Pole, left Chamouny the 5th of August, 1818, for Mont Blanc, accompanied by eleven guides, reached the summit the following day, and returned, in safety, the third, without suffering much more inconvenience than having his nose frozen. During our visit to Chamouny, in the beginning of this month, my friend Dr. Van Rensselaer and myself, in our various excursions to the glaciers, and other scenes of the valley, had frequently opportunities of conversing with the guides, who had participated in these journeys, and among them with old Balmat, the Columbus of Mont Blanc. The result was, that our curiosity was strongly excited, and being induced by their representations of the almost certainty of succeeding in the present favourable weather, we finally determined, after much deliberation, to make the attempt. We therefore engaged _Marie Coutet_, an experienced guide, who had been three times on the summit, as leader, and eight other guides to accompany us. They refused to undertake the journey with a smaller party, on account of the number of articles which it was necessary to take with us, as a ladder, cords, provisions, charcoal to melt the snow for drinking, and a number of other things, which were indispensable, and which formed a sufficient quantity to load each of the nine with a considerable burthen. One day was occupied in making preparations, on which our comfort and our ultimate success depended. These were passed in review in the evening, and having found that nothing material was omitted, an early hour the next day was appointed for our departure. Accordingly, on Sunday the 11th of July, we left the village of Chamouny, at five o'clock, full of anxiety ourselves, and accompanied by the good wishes of the honest inhabitants for our success. The necessity of taking advantage of the fine weather, opposed our delaying another day. Our guides, who in common with all the inhabitants of the mountainous parts of Savoy, are very attentive to the duties of their religion, were unwilling to set out on a church day, without having previously attended service. They had, therefore, induced the Cur to celebrate mass at three o'clock, and, notwithstanding the fatigue they expected during the day, the early hour had not prevented them from attending it. We descended the valley by the side of the Arva, about a league, till we approached the glacier of Boissons, and then turning suddenly to the left into the woods, we began immediately a very steep ascent, parallel to, and about a half mile from the edge of the glacier. After about three hours toilsome mounting, we came to the last house on our road. It was the highest dwelling in the neighbourhood, and was one of those cottages called "Chalets," which are inhabited only during three of the summer months, when the peasants drive their cattle from the plains below, to the then richer verdure of the mountains. We found there the old man and his two daughters; his wife, as is the custom, was left behind to take care of the house in the valley. After refreshing ourselves with a delicious draught of fresh milk, and receiving the wishes of these good people, for a 'bon voyage,' we bade adieu to all traces of man, and continued to mount. Another hour's toil brought us above the region of wood, after which the few stinted vegetables we met with, gradually diminished in size, and when we arrived, at 10 o'clock, at the upper edge of the glacier of Boissons, only a few mosses, and the most hardy alpine plants were to be found. We had been compelled a little before, by the precipices of the Aiguille du Midi, which presented themselves like a wall before us, to change our direction, and instead of proceeding parallel to the glacier, to strike off suddenly towards it. We had now a close view of some of the obstacles which bar the approach to Mont Blanc; the glacier of Boissons, on which we were about to enter, seemed to me absolutely impassable. The only relief to the white snow and ice before us, was an occasional rock, thrusting its sharp point above their surface, and too steep to permit the snow to lodge on it. One of these rocks, or rather a chain of them, called the 'Grand Mulet,' which we had destined for our resting place for the night, was before us, but far above our heads at the distance of four or five miles; the glacier, however, still intervened, and appeared to defy all attempts to approach it. The glacier of Boissons, like all the glaciers of the Alps, is an immense mass of ice filling a valley which stretches down the mountain side, and is formed by the accumulated snow and ice, which are constantly in the summer months, falling from above. While the glaciers are thus continually increasing on the surface, the internal heat of the earth is slowly melting them below. Hence, when they are large, there generally proceeds from under them a considerable stream: such are the sources of the Rhine and of the Rhone. Their surface, often resembles that of a violent agitated sea, suddenly congealed. They are frequently of several leagues in breadth, and from 100 to 600 feet in depth. The snow which falls on them, to the depth of several feet every winter, is softened by the sun's rays in summer--and freezing again at the return of cold weather, but in a more solid state, forms a successive layer every year. This stratum may be easily measured, (as each of them is distinctly separated from its neighbour by a dark line,) at the section made by those cracks, which traverse every glacier in all directions. These cracks or crevices, are generally thought to be caused by the irregular sinking of part of the mass, whose support below has been gradually melted away. They are formed suddenly, and frequently with a noise that may be heard at the distance of several miles, and with a shock that makes the neighbouring country tremble: this effect takes place principally in summer. These rents are from a few inches to 20, 30, or even 50 or 60 feet in breadth, and generally of immense depth: probably extending to the bottom of the glacier. They present the greatest danger and difficulty to the passenger. They are often concealed by a layer of snow, which gives no indication on its surface, of its want of solidity; and it often happens that the chamois hunter, notwithstanding all his caution, suddenly sinks through this treacherous veil into the chasm beneath. We remained a couple of hours at our resting place, to take some refreshment, and to regain strength for our next difficult task. Jacques Balmat accompanied us this far, to point out the best means of attaining that spot on which he was the first to set foot; but the infirmities of age prevented him from accompanying us farther. Our feet seemed to linger, and to leave with reluctance the last ground they were to touch until the period of our return. We however entered on the glacier with confidence in the skill and prudence of our guides; several of whom being hunters, and accustomed to chase the chamois over such places, were acquainted with all the precautions, that it was necessary to take for our safety. To avoid the danger of falling into the crevices, especially those masked by the snow, we connected ourselves, three persons together, at the distance of 10 or 12 feet apart, by a cord round the body: so that in case of one of the three falling into a chasm, the other two could at least support him, until assistance could be procured from the rest of the party. Each person was provided with a pole, 6 feet long, and pointed at the bottom with iron, which we found to be a necessary article. Where the crevices were not more than two or three feet broad, we leaped over them with the assistance of our staff; others we passed on natural bridges of snow, that threatened every moment to sink with us into the abyss, and over others, we made a bridge of the ladder, which was extremely slight, as otherwise it would have been impossible for a man to carry it up the steeps we had ascended. Without its assistance, we could not have passed the glacier. Over this slender support we crawled with caution, suspended over a chasm, into which we could see to an immense depth; but of which in no instance could we see the bottom. We were sometimes forced to pass on a narrow ridge of treacherous ice, not more than a foot in breadth, with one of these terrific chasms on either side. The firm step, with which we saw our guides pass these difficulties, inspired us with confidence: but I cannot even now think of some of the situations we were placed in, without a feeling of dread; and especially when in bed, and in the silence of the night, they present themselves to my imagination, I involuntarily shrink with horror at the idea, and am astonished in recollecting what little sensation I felt at the moment. We threw down into some of the narrow cracks, pieces of ice and fragments of rock, and heard for a considerable time, the more and more distant sound, as they bounded from side to side. In no instance could we perceive the stone strike the bottom; but the sound, instead of ceasing suddenly, as would then have been the case, grew fainter and fainter, until it was too feeble to be heard. What then must be the immense depth of these openings, when in these silent regions, the noise of a large stone striking the bottom is too distant to be heard at the orifice! The number of openings we met with, which were broader than the length of our ladder, and which, of course, we had no means of crossing, rendered our path extremely circuitous. We were often enabled, by the ladder's assistance, to scale high and perpendicular banks of snow. It sometimes proved too short to reach to the top; but where the steep was not absolutely perpendicular, we contrived in several instances to remedy this inconvenience. One of the guides, standing on the top of the ladder, enabled the rest, who clambered up by his assistance, and over his shoulders, to reach the summit; when there, we easily drew up him and the ladder with cords. We were occasionally compelled to retrace our steps, and we were frequently so involved in the intricacies of the glacier, that we had to remain without proceeding, a considerable time, until the guides, who were dispersed in every direction on the discovery, could find a practical path to extricate us. In addition to these difficulties, I had not been long on the glacier, before I perceived that my faithless boot had given way; which, as every thing depended upon the state of our feet, was a serious misfortune. Necessity, however, is the mother of invention, and I contrived to bind it with cords in such a manner, that it served me tolerably well the rest of the journey. In consequence of all these obstacles, we only arrived at 5 o'clock at the "Grand Mulet," not more than four or five miles distant, in a straight line from the point where we entered on the glacier; but, from the circuitous route we had taken, we could not have walked less, in this distance, than 14 or 15 miles. We were now 11,000 feet above the level of the sea, and 8,000 feet above the village of Chamouny. A niche on the steep side, and near the top of the rock, about a hundred and fifty feet from its base, and to which we had much difficulty in climbing, was selected for our lodging place; indeed it was the only part of the rock, that afforded any thing like a level place. We were fortunate in finding the day had been so warm, that there was water in some of the crevices of the ice, which circumstance enabled us to economize our charcoal. The sun shone very bright on our side of the rock; but as soon as it sunk below the horizon, the eternal frost around us regained its influence, and the air became very cold. We had, however, time to dry our boots and pantaloons, and I found a pair of large woolen stockings, that I had with me, an invaluable article. Our guides stretched the ladder from one point of the rock to another, and, throwing over it a couple of sheets they had brought for the purpose, formed a kind of tent, just large enough for Dr. Van Rensselaer and myself to creep in: a single blanket upon the rock was our bed. The guides were so loaded with indispensable articles, that we had not been able to bring a blanket, or even an extra coat to cover us. After a cold and uncomfortable supper, we crept into our den, soon after the genial sun had left us, and endeavoured, by every means our ingenuity could suggest, but ineffectually, to keep ourselves warm. We suffered much from the cold, but principally towards morning, as the thermometer was several degrees below freezing. The night seemed to last at least twenty hours; at one time I thought the day must certainly be not distant, and was surprised, at looking at my watch by the light of the moon, to find it only 11 o'clock. Tired of inaction, and shivering with the cold, I crawled out about midnight to endeavour to warm myself, by the exercise of clambering on the rock. The view around was sublime, and rendered me for a time insensible to all feelings of personal suffering. The sky was very clear, but perfectly black; the moon and stars, whose rays were not obscured by passing through the lower dense region of the atmosphere, as when seen from the surface of the earth, shone with a brilliancy, tenfold of what I had ever observed from below; and the comet, with its bright tail, formed in the north-west, a beautiful object. Nothing was to be seen around the rock on which we were placed, but white snow and some heavy clouds, that, floating below us, shut out the valley from our view. The guides appeared to be all asleep, and the only interruption to the silence of death, was the occasional avalanche, rolling with the sound of distant thunder from the highest part of the surrounding glaciers, and heightening the feelings of awful sublimity, which our situation was so calculated to inspire. As our lodging was extremely uncomfortable in every respect, we were under no temptation of lying till a late hour in the morning. On the contrary, we hailed with joy the first appearance of the dawn, which enabled us to substitute the warmth of marching, for the cold inactivity from which we had suffered all night. We set out at three o'clock, leaving most of our provisions and other articles on the rock. Four hours of laborious, but not dangerous walking, brought us to a large plain, called the 'Grand Plateau,' which is nearly surrounded, (on the one hand) by a spur of Mont Blanc, and the Aiguille du Midi; on the other, by the Montagne de la Cte, while Mont Blanc presents itself directly in front. These mountains form a steep amphitheatre around this plain. Here we stopped an hour to breakfast, and to recruit strength for the last and most difficult part of the ascent. We were now more than 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, and only 3,000 feet lower than the summit, which was in full view before us. But I looked around, in vain, for any part of its steep sides that seemed to offer a possibility of being scaled, and when the guides pointed out the route we were to take, among and over precipices, and huge broken masses of snow, and up almost perpendicular steeps, I involuntarily shrunk at the prospect, and could not forbear casting my eye wistfully at our road back. But it would not have done to be deterred at this time by a few difficulties; and a moment's reflection, on the skill and experience of our guides, renewed our confidence, and we began cheerfully to mount the first steep before us. We here began to feel more seriously an effect, that is always experienced at considerable heights, and which had not much incommoded us before. It was impossible for the strongest of us, to take more than twenty or thirty steps, without stopping to take breath, and this effect gradually increased as we continued to ascend; insomuch, that when near the summit, even the stoutest of our guides, who could run for leagues over the lower mountains without panting, could not take more than twelve, or at most fifteen steps, without being ready to sink for want of breath. If we attempted to exceed this number by even three or four steps, a horrible oppression, as of approaching death, seized us; our limbs became excessively painful, and threatened to sink under us. It is very possible, that Walter Scot's hero, Up Ben Lomond's side could press, And not a sob his toil confess; but I am very certain he could not perform the same feat on Mont Blanc. It is remarkable, that a few seconds rest was sufficient to restore both our strength and breath. One of our guides, a robust man, who had been once on the summit, was so much incommoded, that we were compelled to leave him behind to await our return. I experienced some inconvenience from a slight degree of nausea and head-ache, of which most of those, who have made this journey have complained. When ascending tna, two months before, I had been seriously affected both by a difficulty of breathing, and by a violent thumping of the heart and arteries, which was loud enough to be easily heard by my companions, and which the slightest exertion was sufficient to excite. In the present instance I dreaded these effects, and had already begun to feel them in an uncomfortable degree; but was almost entirely relieved by drinking plentifully of vinegar and water, with which our guides, to whom experience had taught its utility, had taken care to be well provided. This drink was extremely agreeable to us; wine on the contrary, disgusted us. All the water we had, we had brought from the rock at which we slept, where we had carefully collected it from the cracks of the ice: for we were now in the region of eternal ice, where rain never falls, and where the utmost power of the midsummer sun can only soften, in a slight degree, the surface of the snow. The acclivity we were now ascending, was steeper than any we had before encountered, so much so that we could only accomplish it by a zigzag path, advancing not more than a few feet every 20 or 30 yards we walked. To have an idea of our situation, you must imagine us marching in single file on the steep mountain side, placing with the greatest care our feet in the steps, which the hardness of the snow rendered it necessary for our leader to cut with an axe, supporting ourselves with our poles against the upper side of the slope, and having on the other side, the same rapid slope terminating below in a precipice several hundred feet in height, over which we saw rapidly hurried all the small pieces of ice, that we loosened with our feet. Our situation was similar to that of a person scaling the steep and iced roof of a lofty house, and constantly liable, by an incautious step, to be suddenly precipitated over the eaves. After we had been proceeding in this manner for some time, I looked down on the Plateau beneath, for the guide we had left, and when at last I discerned him, like a speck on the snow, my head began to grow dizzy at the idea of the distance below me, and I was forced to keep my head averted from this side, to recover from this disagreeable feeling. Our guides had attached themselves and us with cords, each three persons together, as when passing the glacier. They were provided with large iron cramps fastened to their feet, which prevented them from slipping. Doctor Van Ranselaer and myself had found this contrivance impede too much our walking, and after a short trial had given it up, so that we had to rely on the firmness of foot of those guides to whom we were tied, to preserve us in case of our falling. I am not entirely convinced, that if one of us had had the misfortune to fall, and were slipping down the declivity, he would not have drawn his two companions, in spite of these precautions, over the precipice. To add to our difficulties, the sun was excessively bright, and almost blinded us, notwithstanding the gauze veils with which we were all provided. Fortunately, we met with but few crevices; however, on passing one of these that was hid by the snow, I suddenly sunk, but my body being thrown forward by this motion, my breast opposed a larger surface to the snow which thus supported me, and I was easily extricated by a guide. On looking back through the hole I had broken, I could perceive the black cavity beneath. At one period, our path necessarily led us close under a wall of snow, more than 150 feet high, from the top of which projected several large masses of snow, that appeared to require only a touch to bring them down on our heads. Our captain pointed out our danger, and enjoined us to pass as quickly as possible, and to observe the strictest silence. When we looked up at these -------- Toppling crags of ice, The avalanches, whom a breath draws down In mountainous o'erwhelming, we felt no disposition to disobey his directions, but passed on with hurried step, and in the stillness of death. The inhabitants of those parts of the Alps, exposed to these avalanches, assert that the concussion of the air, produced by the voice, is often sufficient to loosen, and bring down their immense masses. Hence the muleteer is often seen to take the bells from his animals, when he passes through a valley subject to this danger. A few years since some young men, relying on the solidity of the ice, and wishing to try the echo, were so imprudent as to discharge a pistol in a large cave which is at the lower edge of the glacier des Bois, near Chamouny. The shock brought down the roof, which crushed them on the spot. At 11 o'clock we had passed most of the difficulties, and all the dangers of our ascent, and reached a granite rock, which appears or nipple, which forms the summit of Mont Blanc. This rock is only 1000 feet lower than the summit. Here we enjoyed a full view of the valley and village of Chamouny, which had hitherto been masked by the 'Aiguille du Midi;' and when we recollected the promises of our friends there, to watch our progress with their glasses, and were convinced that they were at that moment observing us, we felt relieved from the sensation which we had previously experienced, of being shut out from the world. In fact, we learned afterwards, that they had seen us distinctly, counted our number, and observed that one of the party was missing: this was the guide we had left at the 'plateau.' Our final object was now close at hand. We turned, with renewed ardor, to accomplish it; continuing our zigzag path, till, after much suffering from fatigue, cold, and shortness of breath, we stood, at half an hour after noon, on the highest point of Europe! Our first impulse, on arriving, was to enjoy the pleasure of throwing our eyes around, without encountering any obstacle. The world was at our feet. The sensations I felt were rather those of awe, than of sublimity. It seemed that I no longer trod on this globe, but that I was removed to some higher planet, from which I could look down on a scene which I had lately inhabited, and where I had left behind me the passions, the sufferings, and the vices of men. The houses of Chamouny, appeared like dwellings of ants, and the river which flows through the valley, seemed not sufficient to drown one of these pigmy animals. These emotions made me for some time insensible to the cold, but the piercing wind, which here had free scope, soon put an end to my waking dream, and bringing me back to the reality of life, enabled me to fix my attention on the objects around. Notwithstanding the pleasure inspired by the view, it was certainly more terrific than beautiful. The distant objects appeared as if covered by a veil. To the north-west was the chain of Jura, with a mist hanging on its whole extent, which prevented the eye from penetrating into France, in that direction. On the north was the lake of Geneva; of a black colour, and surrounded by mountains, which we had thought high, while we were on its banks, but which now appeared insignificant, and the lake itself seemed scarcely capacious enough to bathe in. To the east were the only mountains that appeared of a considerable size; among which, the most conspicuous were the Jungfrau and Schreckhorn in Grindelwalden, and Monte Rosa, on the borders of Piedmont, which raises its hoary and magnificent head to within a few hundred feet of the level of Mont Blanc. The grand St. Bernard was at our feet, to the south east, scarcely appearing to rise to more than a mole hill's height above the adjoining vallies. The obstacles which Bonaparte had to encounter in leading his army over this mountain, even in winter, appeared so diminished in our eyes, that this vaunted undertaking lost, at the moment, in our estimation, much of its heroism and grandeur. The view below and immediately around, presented a shapeless collection of craggy points, among which the 'Needles' were easily distinguished. We could hardly trust our senses, when we saw, beneath our feet, those rocks which, from below, appear higher than Mont Blanc itself, and which seem to penetrate into the region of the stars, and to threaten to 'disturb the moon in passing by.' Our view may be compared with that from the top of an elevated steeple over an extensive city, of which, except in the immediate neighbourhood, the roof only of the various buildings which compose it, are to be seen. The only green that we could perceive, was the narrow valley of Chamouny, and the two vallies by the side of St. Bernard. The portion of the earth that was not covered with snow, appeared of a gloomy and dark grey colour. The world presented an image of chaos, and offered but little to tempt our return to it. The top of Mont Blanc is a ridge of perhaps 150 feet in length, and six or eight in breadth. It is entirely composed of snow, which is probably of immense depth, and is constantly accumulating. We could see no traces of the obelisk, 12 feet in height, which had been set up about ten years before. One of our guides was of the number of those who placed it, and designated to us its position. The highest rock which appears above the snow, is a small one of granite, 600 feet below the summit. We remained but a few minutes immediately on the top, as the wind blew hard and piercingly cold. Descending a few feet on the south side, we were partially sheltered from the wind, and here the sun shone with an excessive brightness, heating every part of the body exposed to his rays; but the least breath of wind, which reached us at intervals, was sufficient to make us shiver with cold. Farenheit's thermometer in the sun, was two degrees below freezing, and five and a half in the shade. It must be considered, however, that we suffered a much greater degree of cold than the thermometer indicated, from the rapid evaporation from the surface of our bodies, of the insensible transpiration occasioned by the dryness and great rarity of the surrounding air. This cause, familiar to physiologists, affected our sensations, and could not influence the thermometer. Most of our guides stretched themselves on the snow in the sun, and yielded to the strong inclination to sleep, which we all felt. Only one or two of them ate: the others, on the contrary, evinced an aversion to all kinds of food. We did not suffer the great thirst which Saussure and his party experienced; This we prevented by drinking vinegar and water, which was very grateful to us, instead of pure water. Our pulses were increased in frequency and fulness, and we had all the symptoms of fever. I occupied myself, notwithstanding the indisposition to action which I felt, in making a few observations, and in stopping and sealing very carefully a bottle which I had filled with the air of the summit, intended for examination on my return. The colour of the sky had gradually assumed a deeper tint of blue as we ascended: its present colour was dark indigo, approaching nearly to black. There was something awful in this appearance, so different from any we had ever witnessed. There was nothing to which we could compare it, except to the sun shining at midnight. During some of the first attempts that were made to ascend Mont Blanc, this appearance produced so strong an effect on the minds of the guides, who imagined that Heaven was frowning on their undertaking, that they refused to proceed. The portion of atmosphere above us was entirely free from the vapours which the lower strata always contain, and was truly the 'pure empyreal,' seldom seen by mortal eyes. We had all our life beheld the sun through a mist, but we now saw him, face to face, in all his splendour. The guides asserted that the stars can be seen, in full day, by a person placed in the shade. It being near noon, and the sun almost over our heads, we could not find shadow to enable us to make the experiment. The air on the top of Mont Blanc is of but little more than half the density of that at the surface of the ocean. According to the observations of Saussure, the height of the barometer on the summit, was sixteen and a half inches, while that of a corresponding one at Geneva, was twenty-eight inches. In consequence of this rarity of the air, a pistol, heavily charged, which we fired several times, made scarcely more noise than the crack of a postillion's whip. We remained an hour and a quarter on the summit, part of which time was spent in useless regrets at not having waited to provide ourselves with instruments, as we were now so admirably situated to make with them a series of interesting experiments. Those which had suggested themselves, were principally concerning the absorption and radiation of caloric, and on the degree of cold produced by the evaporation of ther and other liquids. We found the descent more easy and much less fatiguing, though perhaps more dangerous than the ascent, on account of the greater risk of slipping. We passed under the place where the avalanche threatened us, with even more caution and more rapidity than before, as we found that a small piece had actually fallen, and covered our path since we had passed by. We arrived in about an hour at the 'Grand Plateau,' where we stopped to refresh ourselves, and gratify our returning appetites. We found the guide whom we had left, quite relieved. Here the sun, reflected from the walls of snow which surrounded us on three sides, poured down upon us with the most burning heat that I ever experienced from its rays, while our feet, cold from being immersed in the snow, prevented perspiration, and thus increased its power. Wherever its rays could penetrate, as between the cap and neckcloth, or even to the hands, it resembled the application of a heated iron. We were compelled, in addition to the assistance of our veils, to keep our eyes half closed, and even then the light was too powerful for them. We however continued with ease and cheerfulness our descent, until an unexpected difficulty occurred. Where in the morning we had cut our footsteps with an axe, we now found the snow so much softened by the sun, that we sunk in it every third or fourth step, to the middle of the body. My friend and myself were more subject to this inconvenience than the guides, on account of the soles of our boots presenting a less surface to the snow, than those of their large shoes. After plunging on in this manner for some time, I began to despair of reaching our rock, which was yet four or five miles distant: but there was no alternative but to proceed. We therefore kept on, though with excessive fatigue. We frequently fell forward, and one limb being tightly engaged in the snow, was violently twisted, and constantly liable to be sprained; which in our situation would have been a serious misfortune. The crevices too were, from their edges having become softened, more dangerous than before. Perseverance and caution, however, triumphed over all these difficulties, and we reached the 'Grand Mulet,' half an hour after five, our boots, stockings, and pantaloons completely soaked. These were immediately stretched on the rock to dry, which the heat of the sun soon effected. I had the disappointment to find, on examining my pockets, that the bottle which I had so carefully filled with the air of the summit, had been broken in one of my frequent falls, and of course my hopes of making with it some interesting experiments, were now destroyed. The thermometer was also broken. Notwithstanding the Herculean labour of the day, and the fatigue we experienced at the time, we had not been long on our rock before we felt strong and invigorated, as if just risen from a comfortable night's repose. This effect of the mountain air has often been remarked. We had even sufficient strength, and ample time to enable us to continue our descent with ease to Chamouny; but in the present softened state of the snow it would have been madness to attempt to cross the glacier, which we had found difficult and dangerous the preceding day, even before the sun's rays had affected it. In fact, while two of the guides were looking down on our path over the glacier, they saw a bridge of snow which we all crossed the day before, suddenly sink into the chasm beneath. Imprisoned thus by the glacier, which was now all that intervened betwixt us and terra firma, we quietly resolved to remain where we were, and made the same arrangements for passing the night, as we had done the evening before. We were, however, at present better off: I mentioned that we had been so fortunate as to find a sufficient supply of water in the neighbourhood of our rock, in consequence of which most of the charcoal, we had brought to melt the snow, remained. With this we made a small fire at our feet, and by blowing almost constantly, kept it up during the night. It has been often observed, that as we ascend in the atmosphere, the difficulty of maintaining combustion, is proportionably increased. The cold was notwithstanding our fire, so great, that whenever I fell asleep, I was awakened in a few minutes to shiver and chatter my teeth. Our guides slept in the open air, huddled as close together as possible. July 13th.--The dawning of the day was truly welcome, as it promised a near termination to our toils and suffering, while the gratification of having accomplished a difficult and interesting object remained as a recompense. We left our hard bed without reluctance, and were impatient at the slowness with which the guides made their preparations in packing up their numerous articles. We began to descend as the sun illumined the white top of Mont Blanc, but long before his beams penetrated below. Above our heads the sky was perfectly clear, while the vallies beneath, and all except a few of the highest surrounding mountains, were concealed by a sea of clouds. The appearance of the clouds when seen from above is singular; they resemble immense floating masses of light carded cotton. We retraced our path of the first day, and took the same precaution as then of tying ourselves together. When the sun's rays began to shine on the snow around us, I found that my eyes were so much inflamed, I could scarcely bear them sufficiently open to see the path; notwithstanding the gauze veil I had constantly used, my face was in a terrible condition: the outer skin had fallen, rendering my chin and lips one continued sore. Doctor Van Rensselaer's eyes were in a worse condition than mine, and his face nearly as bad. At one part of the glacier where the snow had been so hard at our passing, that our feet left no impression, we lost our path, which was a misfortune, as we had chosen a much better path in ascending, than we could have done in descending. We however fell in with the track of two chamois, which our guides followed with confidence, relying on the instinct, which they attribute to these animals, of finding a practicable path over the most difficult glaciers. When we had at last past the glacier, our feet seemed to rejoice at once more touching firm ground; and we felt as if returning to the world from a distant voyage. The rest of our task offered no difficulty, being a constant descent down the rocky mountain side, except what was occasioned by our almost total blindness, and the pain we suffered in our eyes. It was however very fatiguing, as the descent from a mountain is generally more so than the ascent to it. We stopped at the same Chalet, where two days before we had bid adieu to the world; and were regaled by the old man and his daughters with another delicious draught of milk and cream. We reached the village soon after ten o'clock in the morning, having been absent fifty-three hours, during forty-five of which we were on the ice. We were received with many congratulations by the honest villagers, who had taken considerable interest in our success. As soon as my companion and myself reached our inn, we buried ourselves in our chamber, to enjoy the luxury of a bed, and of darkness, which was necessary for our eyes. It was not until the sun had set, and the twilight was not too strong for them, that we ventured out to regale ourselves with a comfortable meal. Two English visitors, who had watched with a glass our progress on the top of Mont Blanc, had expressed a determination to follow our example; but our account of the difficulties we met with, and still more the view of the condition we were in, soon induced them to abandon the design. We walked out at the approach of night under the "Needles," and as we saw these rocks, on whose sides -------- the clouds Pause to repose themselves in passing by, and on whose tops the stars seemed to rest, we could scarcely realize the idea that they were the same we had seen only thirty hours before, far below our feet. The next day after our return to Chamouny, our eyes had become so much stronger, that we were enabled, without much inconvenience, to proceed to Geneva, where we have since remained to recover from our sufferings. Though now more than a week has elapsed, my face is yet much inflamed; but my eyes have regained their usual strength. Dr. Van Rensselaer has suffered in the same manner, but on the whole rather less than myself. Wherever the sun's rays could penetrate, even behind the ears to the level of the neckcloth, the skin has fallen off, and I have exchanged the tawny hue of an Italian and Sicilian sun, for the fair complexion of a German or Englishman. We have purchased perhaps too dearly the indulgence of our curiosity; but at present, when the difficulties are passed, and the gratification remains, I cannot regret our hardships, especially if I succeed in making you partake of the one, without suffering from the other. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. The following misprints have been corrected: "Bourrit" corrected to "Bouritt" (page 12) "representa-ons" corrected to "representations" (page 15) "breath" corrected to "breadth" (page 20) "visiters" corrected to "visitors" (page 47) 3. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation usage have been retained. End of the (available with this file or online at Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. 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included with this eBook or online at This file was first posted on August 12, 2003 Last Updated: May 12, 2013 THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN. (LES FOURBERIES DE SCAPIN.) By Molire Translated Into English Prose. With Short Introductions And Explanatory Notes By Charles Heron Wall Acted on May 24, 1671, at the Palais Royal, 'Les Fourberies de Scapin' had great success. It is nothing, however, but a farce, taken partly from classical, partly from Italian or from French sources. Molire acted the part of Scapin. PERSONS REPRESENTED. ARGANTE, _father to_ OCTAVE _and_ ZERBINETTE. GRONTE, _father to_ LANDRE _and_ HYACINTHA. OCTAVE, _son to_ ARGANTE, _and lover to_ HYACINTHA. LANDRE, _son to_ GRONTE, _and lover_ to ZERBINETTE. ZERBINETTE, _daughter to_ ARGANTE, _believed to be a gypsy girl_. HYACINTHA, _daughter to_ GRONTE. SCAPIN, _servant to_ LANDRE. SILVESTRE, _servant to_ OCTAVE. NRINE, _nurse to_ HYACINTHA. CARLE. TWO PORTERS. _The scene is at_ NAPLES. THE IMPOSTURES OF SCAPIN. ACT I. SCENE I.--OCTAVE, SILVESTRE. OCT. Ah! what sad news for one in love! What a hard fate to be reduced to! So, Silvestre, you have just heard at the harbour that my father is coming back? SIL. Yes. OCT. That he returns this very morning? SIL. This very morning. OCT. With the intention of marrying me? SIL. Of marrying you. OCT. To a daughter of Mr. Gronte? SIL. Of Mr. Gronte. OCT. And that this daughter is on her way from Tarentum for that purpose? SIL. For that purpose. OCT. And you have this news from my uncle? SIL. From your uncle. OCT. To whom my father has given all these particulars in a letter? SIL. In a letter. OCT. And this uncle, you say, knows all about our doings? SIL. All our doings. OCT. Oh! speak, I pray you; don't go on in such a way as that, and force me to wrench everything from you, word by word. SIL. But what is the use of my speaking? You don't forget one single detail, but state everything exactly as it is. OCT. At least advise me, and tell me what I ought to do in this wretched business. SIL. I really feel as much perplexed as you, and I myself need the advice of some one to guide me. OCT. I am undone by this unforeseen return. SIL. And I no less. OCT. When my father hears what has taken place, a storm of reprimands will burst upon me. SIL. Reprimands are not very heavy to bear; would to heaven I were free at that price! But I am very likely to pay dearly for all your wild doings, and I see a storm of blows ready to burst upon my shoulders. OCT. Heavens! how am I to get clear of all the difficulties that beset my path! SIL. You should have thought of that before entering upon it. OCT. Oh, don't come and plague me to death with your unreasonable lectures. SIL. You plague me much more by your foolish deeds. OCT. What am I to do? What steps must I take? To what course of action have recourse? SCENE II.--OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. How now, Mr. Octave? What is the matter with you? What is it? What trouble are you in? You are all upset, I see. OCT. Ah! my dear Scapin, I am in despair; I am lost; I am the most unfortunate of mortals. SCA. How is that? OCT. Don't you know anything of what has happened to me? SCA. No. OCT. My father is just returning with Mr. Gronte, and they want to marry me. SCA. Well, what is there so dreadful about that? OCT. Alas! you don't know what cause I have to be anxious. SCA. No; but it only depends on you that I should soon know; and I am a man of consolation, a man who can interest himself in the troubles of young people. OCT. Ah! Scapin, if you could find some scheme, invent some plot, to get me out of the trouble I am in, I should think myself indebted to you for more than life. SCA. To tell you the truth, there are few things impossible to me when I once set about them. Heaven has bestowed on me a fair enough share of genius for the making up of all those neat strokes of mother wit, for all those ingenious gallantries to which the ignorant and vulgar give the name of impostures; and I can boast, without vanity, that there have been very few men more skilful than I in expedients and intrigues, and who have acquired a greater reputation in the noble profession. But, to tell the truth, merit is too ill rewarded nowadays, and I have given up everything of the kind since the trouble I had through a certain affair which happened to me. OCT. How? What affair, Scapin? SCA. An adventure in which justice and I fell out. OCT. Justice and you? SCA. Yes; we had a trifling quarrel. SIL. You and justice? SCA. Yes. She used me very badly; and I felt so enraged against the ingratitude of our age that I determined never to do anything for anybody. But never mind; tell me about yourself all the same. OCT. You know, Scapin, that two months ago Mr. Gronte and my father set out together on a voyage, about a certain business in which they are both interested. SCA. Yes, I know that. OCT. And that both Landre and I were left by our respective fathers, I under the management of Silvestre, and Landre under your management. SCA. Yes; I have acquitted myself very well of my charge. OCT. Some time afterwards Landre met with a young gipsy girl, with whom he fell in love. SCA. I know that too. OCT. As we are great friends, he told me at once of his love, and took me to see this young girl, whom I thought good-looking, it is true, but not so beautiful as he would have had me believe. He never spoke of anything but her; at every opportunity he exaggerated her grace and her beauty, extolled her intelligence, spoke to me with transport of the charms of her conversation, and related to me her most insignificant saying, which he always wanted me to think the cleverest thing in the world. He often found fault with me for not thinking as highly as he imagined I ought to do of the things he related to me, and blamed me again and again for being so insensible to the power of love. SCA. I do not see what you are aiming at in all this. OCT. One day, as I was going with him to the people who have charge of the girl with whom he is in love, we heard in a small house on a by-street, lamentations mixed with a good deal of sobbing. We inquired what it was, and were told by a woman that we might see there a most piteous sight, in the persons of two strangers, and that unless we were quite insensible to pity, we should be sure to be touched with it. SCA. Where will this lead to? OCT. Curiosity made me urge Landre to come in with me. We went into a low room, where we saw an old woman dying, and with her a servant who was uttering lamentations, and a young girl dissolved in tears, the most beautiful, the most touching sight that you ever saw. SCA. Oh! oh! OCT. Any other person would have seemed frightful in the condition she was in, for all the dress she had on was a scanty old petticoat, with a night jacket of plain fustian, and turned back at the top of her head a yellow cap, which let her hair fall in disorder on her shoulders; and yet dressed even thus she shone with a thousand attractions, and all her person was most charming and pleasant. SCA. I begin to understand. OCT. Had you but seen her, Scapin, as I did, you would have thought her admirable. SCA. Oh! I have no doubt about it; and without seeing her, I plainly perceive that she must have been altogether charming. OCT. Her tears were none of those unpleasant tears which spoil the face; she had a most touching grace in weeping, and her sorrow was a most beautiful thing to witness. SCA. I can see all that. OCT. All who approached her burst into tears whilst she threw herself, in her loving way, on the body of the dying woman, whom she called her dear mother; and nobody could help being moved to the depths of the heart to see a girl with such a loving disposition. SCA. Yes, all that is very touching; and I understand that this loving disposition made you love her. OCT. Ah! Scapin, a savage would have loved her. SCA. Certainly; how could anyone help doing so? OCT. After a few words, with which I tried to soothe her grief, we left her; and when I asked Landre what he thought of her, he answered coldly that she was rather pretty! I was wounded to find how unfeelingly he spoke to me of her, and I would not tell him the effect her beauty had had on my heart. SIL. (_to_ OCTAVE). If you do not abridge your story, we shall have to stop here till to-morrow. Leave it to me to finish it in a few words. (_To_ SCAPIN) His heart takes fire from that moment. He cannot live without going to comfort the amiable and sorrowful girl. His frequent visits are forbidden by the servant, who has become her guardian by the death of the mother. Our young man is in despair; he presses, begs, beseeches--all in vain. He is told that the young girl, although without friends and without fortune, is of an honourable family, and that, unless he marries her, he must cease his visits. His love increases with the difficulties. He racks his brains; debates, reasons, ponders, and makes up his mind. And, to cut a long story short, he has been married these three days. SCA. I see. SIL. Now, add to this the unforeseen return of the father, who was not to be back before two whole months; the discovery which the uncle has made of the marriage; and that other marriage projected between him and a daughter which Mr. Gronte had by a second wife, whom, they say, he married at Tarentum. OCT. And, above all, add also the poverty of my beloved, and the impossibility there is for me to do anything for her relief. SCA. Is that all? You are both of you at a great loss about nothing. Is there any reason to be alarmed? Are you not ashamed, you, Silvestre, to fall short in such a small matter? Deuce take it all! You, big and stout as father and mother put together, you can't find any expedient in your noddle? you can't plan any stratagem, invent any gallant intrigue to put matters straight? Fie! Plague on the booby! I wish I had had the two old fellows to bamboozle in former times; I should not have thought much of it; and I was no bigger than that, when I had given a hundred delicate proofs of my skill. SIL. I acknowledge that Heaven has not given me your talent, and that I have not the brains like you to embroil myself with justice. OCT. Here is my lovely Hyacintha! SCENE III.--HYACINTHA, OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. HYA. Ah! Octave, is what Silvestre has just told Nrine really true? Is your father back, and is he bent upon marrying you? OCT. Yes, it is so, dear Hyacintha; and these tidings have given me a cruel shock. But what do I see? You are weeping? Why those tears? Do you suspect me of unfaithfulness, and have you no assurance of the love I feel for you? HYA. Yes, Octave, I am sure that you love me now; but can I be sure that you will love me always? OCT. Ah! could anyone love you once without loving you for ever? HYA. I have heard say, Octave, that your sex does not love so long as ours, and that the ardour men show is a fire which dies out as easily as it is kindled. OCT. Then, my dear Hyacintha, my heart is not like that of other men, and I feel certain that I shall love you till I die. HYA. I want to believe what you say, and I have no doubt that you are sincere; but I fear a power which will oppose in your heart the tender feelings you have for me. You depend on a father who would marry you to another, and I am sure it would kill me if such a thing happened. OCT. No, lovely Hyacintha, there is no father who can force me to break my faith to you, and I could resolve to leave my country, and even to die, rather than be separated from you. Without having seen her, I have already conceived a horrible aversion to her whom they want me to marry; and although I am not cruel, I wish the sea would swallow her up, or drive her hence forever. Do not weep, then, dear Hyacintha, for your tears kill me, and I cannot see them without feeling pierced to the heart. HYA. Since you wish it, I will dry my tears, and I will wait without fear for what Heaven shall decide. OCT. Heaven will be favourable to us. HYA. It cannot be against us if you are faithful. OCT. I certainly shall be so. HYA. Then I shall be happy. SCA. (_aside_). She is not so bad, after all, and I think her pretty enough. OCT. (_showing_ SCAPIN). Here is a man who, if he would, could be of the greatest help to us in all our trouble. SCA. I have sworn with many oaths never more to meddle with anything. But if you both entreat me very much, I might.... OCT. Ah! if entreaties will obtain your help, I beseech you with all my heart to steer our bark. SCA. (_to_ HYACINTHA). And you, have you anything to say? HYA. Like him, I beseech you, by all that is most dear to you upon earth, to assist us in our love. SCA. I must have a little humanity, and give way. There, don't be afraid; I will do all I can for you. OCT. Be sure that.... SCA. (_to_ OCTAVE). Hush! (_To_ HYACINTHA) Go, and make yourself easy. SCENE IV.--OCTAVE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. (_to_ OCTAVE). You must prepare yourself to receive your father with firmness. OCT. I confess that this meeting frightens me before hand, for with him I have a natural shyness that I cannot conquer. SCA. Yes; you must be firm from the first, for fear that he should take advantage of your weakness, and lead you like a child. Now, come, try to school yourself into some amount of firmness, and be ready to answer boldly all he can say to you. OCT. I will do the best I can. SCA. Well! let us try a little, just to see. Rehearse your part, and let us see how you will manage. Come, a look of decision, your head erect, a bold face. OCT. Like this. SCA. A little more. OCT. So? SCA. That will do. Now, fancy that I am your father, just arrived; answer me boldly as if it were he himself.--"What! you scoundrel, you good-for-nothing fellow, you infamous rascal, unworthy son of such a father as I, dare you appear before me after what you have done, and after the infamous trick you have played me during my absence? Is this, you rascal, the reward of all my care? Is this the fruit of all my devotion? Is this the respect due to me? Is this the respect you retain for me?" --Now then, now then.--"You are insolent enough, scoundrel, to go and engage yourself without the consent of your father, and contract a clandestine marriage! Answer me, you villain! Answer me. Let me hear your fine reasons"....--Why, the deuce, you seem quite lost. OCT. It is because I imagine I hear my father speaking. SCA. Why, yes; and it is for this reason that you must try not to look like an idiot. OCT. I will be more resolute, and will answer more firmly. SCA. Quite sure? SIL. Here is your father coming. OCT. Oh heavens! I am lost. SCENE V.--SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. Stop, Octave; stop. He's off. What a poor specimen it is! Let's wait for the old man all the same. SIL. What shall I tell him? SCA. Leave him to me; only follow me. SCENE VI.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE (_at the further part of thestage_). ARG. (_thinking himself alone_). Did anyone ever hear of such an action? SCA. (_to_ SILVESTRE). He has already heard of the affair, and is so struck by it that, although alone, he speaks aloud about it. ARG. Such a bold thing to do. SCA. (_to_ SILVESTRE). Let us listen to him. ARG. I should like to know what they can say to me about this fine marriage. SCA. (_aside_). We have it all ready. ARG. Will they try to deny it? SCA. (_aside_). No: we have no thought of doing so. ARG. Or will they undertake to excuse it? SCA. (_aside_). That may be. ARG. Do they intend to deceive me with impertinent stories? SCA. (_aside_). May be. ARG. All they can say will be useless. SCA. We shall see. ARG. They will not take me in. SCA. (_aside_). I don't know that. ARG. I shall know how to put my rascal of a son in a safe place. SCA. (_aside_). We shall see about that. ARG. And as for that rascal Silvestre, I will cudgel him soundly. SIL. (_to_ SCAPIN). I should have been very much astonished if he had forgotten me. ARG. (_seeing_ SILVESTRE). Ah, ah! here you are, most wise governor of a family, fine director of young people! SCA. Sir, I am delighted to see you back. ARG. Good morning, Scapin. (_To_ SILVESTRE) You have really followed my orders in a fine manner, and my son has behaved splendidly. SCA. You are quite well, I see. ARG. Pretty well. (_To_ SILVESTRE) You don't say a word, you rascal! SCA. Have you had a pleasant journey? ARG. Yes, yes, very good. Leave me alone a little to scold this villain! SCA. You want to scold? ARG. Yes, I wish to scold. SCA. But whom, Sir? ARG. (_Pointing to_ SILVESTRE). This scoundrel! SCA. Why? ARG. Have you not heard what has taken place during my absence? SCA. Yes, I have heard some trifling thing. ARG. How! Some trifling thing! Such an action as this? SCA. You are about right. ARG. Such a daring thing to do! SCA. That's quite true. ARG. To marry without his father's consent! SCA. Yes, there is something to be said against it, but my opinion is that you should make no fuss about it. ARG. This is your opinion, but not mine; and I will make as much fuss as I please. What! do you not think that I have every reason to be angry? SCA. Quite so. I was angry myself when I first heard it; and I so far felt interested in your behalf that I rated your son well. Just ask him the fine sermons I gave him, and how I lectured him about the little respect he showed his father, whose very footsteps he ought to kiss. You could not yourself talk better to him. But what of that? I submitted to reason, and considered that, after all, he had done nothing so dreadful. ARG. What are you telling me? He has done nothing so dreadful? When he goes and marries straight off a perfect stranger? SCA. What can one do? he was urged to it by his destiny. ARG. Oh, oh! You give me there a fine reason. One has nothing better to do now than to commit the greatest crime imaginable--to cheat, steal, and murder--and give for an excuse that we were urged to it by destiny. SCA. Ah me! You take my words too much like a philosopher. I mean to say that he was fatally engaged in this affair. ARG. And why did he engage in it? SCA. Do you expect him to be as wise as you are? Can you put an old head on young shoulders, and expect young people to have all the prudence necessary to do nothing but what is reasonable? Just look at our Landre, who, in spite of all my lessons, has done even worse than that. I should like to know whether you yourself were not young once, and have not played as many pranks as others? I have heard say that you were a sad fellow in your time, that you played the gallant among the most gallant of those days, and that you never gave in until you had gained your point. ARG. It is true, I grant it; but I always confined myself to gallantry, and never went so far as to do what he has done. SCA. But what was he to do? He sees a young person who wishes him well; for he inherits it from you that all women love him. He thinks her charming, goes to see her, makes love to her, sighs as lovers sigh, and does the passionate swain. She yields to his pressing visits; he pushes his fortune. But her relations catch him with her, and oblige him to marry her by main force. SIL. (_aside_). What a clever cheat! SCA. Would you have him suffer them to murder him? It is still better to be married than to be dead. ARG. I was not told that the thing had happened in that way. SCA. (_showing_ SILVESTRE). Ask him, if you like; he will tell you the same thing. ARG. (_to_ SILVESTRE). Was he married against his wish? SIL. Yes, Sir. SCA. Do you think I would tell you an untruth? ARG. Then he should have gone at once to a lawyer to protest against the violence. SCA. It is the very thing he would not do. ARG. It would have made it easier for me to break off the marriage. SCA. Break off the marriage? ARG. Yes SCA. You will not break it off. ARG. I shall not break it off? SCA. No. ARG. What! Have I not on my side the rights of a father, and can I not have satisfaction for the violence done to my son? SCA. This is a thing he will not consent to. ARG. He will not consent to it? SCA. No. ARG. My son? SCA. Your son. Would you have him acknowledge that he was frightened, and that he yielded by force to what was wanted of him? He will take care not to confess that; it would be to wrong himself, and show himself unworthy of a father like you. ARG. I don't care for all that. SCA. He must, for his own honour and yours, say that he married of his own free will. ARG. And I wish for my own honour, and for his, that he should say the contrary. SCA. I am sure he will not do that. ARG. I shall soon make him do it. SCA. He will not acknowledge it, I tell you. ARG. He shall do it, or I will disinherit him. SCA. You? ARG. I. SCA. Nonsense! ARG. How nonsense? SCA. You will not disinherit him. ARG. I shall not disinherit him? SCA. No. ARG. No? SCA. No. ARG. Well! This is really too much! I shall not disinherit my son! SCA. No, I tell you. ARG. Who will hinder me? SCA. You yourself. ARG. I? SCA. Yes; you will never have the heart to do it. ARG. I shall have the heart. SCA. You are joking. ARG. I am not joking. SCA. Paternal love will carry the day. ARG. No, it will not. SCA. Yes, yes. ARG. I tell you that I will disinherit him. SCA. Rubbish. ARG. You may say rubbish; but I will. SCA. Gracious me, I know that you are naturally a kind-hearted man. ARG. No, I am not kind-hearted; I can be angry when I choose. Leave off talking; you put me out of all patience. (_To_ SYLVESTRE) Go, you rascal, run and fetch my son, while I go to Mr. Gronte and tell him of my misfortune. SCA. Sir, if I can be useful to you in any way, you have but to order me. ARG. I thank you. (_Aside_) Ah! Why is he my only son? Oh! that I had with me the daughter that Heaven has taken away from me, so that I might make her my heir. SCENE VII.--SCAPIN, SYLVESTRE. SIL. You are a great man, I must confess; and things are in a fair way to succeed. But, on the other hand, we are greatly pressed for money, and we have people dunning us. SCA. Leave it to me; the plan is all ready. I am only puzzling my brains to find out a fellow to act along with us, in order to play a personage I want. But let me see; just look at me a little. Stick your cap rather rakishly on one side. Put on a furious look. Put your hand on your side. Walk about like a king on the stage. {Footnote: Compare the 'Impromptu of Versailles'.} That will do. Follow me. I possess some means of changing your face and voice. SIL. I pray you, Scapin, don't go and embroil me with justice. SCA. Never mind, we will share our perils like brothers, and three years more or less on the galleys are not sufficient to check a noble heart. ACT II. SCENE I.--GRONTE, ARGANTE. GER. Yes, there is no doubt but that with this weather we shall have our people with us to-day; and a sailor who has arrived from Tarentum told me just now that he had seen our man about to start with the ship. But my daughter's arrival will find things strangely altered from what we thought they would be, and what you have just told me of your son has put an end to all the plans we had made together. ARG. Don't be anxious about that; I give you my word that I shall remove that obstacle, and I am going to see about it this moment. GER. In all good faith, Mr. Argante, shall I tell you what? The education of children is a thing that one could never be too careful about. ARG. You are right; but why do you say that? GER. Because most of the follies of young men come from the way they have been brought up by their fathers. ARG. It is so sometimes, certainly; but what do you mean by saying that to me? GER. Why do I say that to you? ARG. Yes. GER. Because, if, like a courageous father, you had corrected your son when he was young, he would not have played you such a trick. ARG. I see. So that you have corrected your own much better? GER. Certainly; and I should be very sorry if he had done anything at all like what yours has done. ARG. And if that son, so well brought up, had done worse even than mine, what would you say? GER. What? ARG. What? GER. What do you mean? ARG. I mean, Mr. Gronte, that we should never be so ready to blame the conduct of others, and that those who live in glass houses should not throw stones. GER. I really do not understand you. ARG. I will explain myself. GER. Have you heard anything about my son? ARG. Perhaps I have. GER. But what? ARG. Your servant Scapin, in his vexation, only told me the thing roughly, and you can learn all the particulars from him or from some one else. For my part, I will at once go to my solicitor, and see what steps I can take in the matter. Good-bye. SCENE II.--GRONTE (_alone_). GER. What can it be? Worse than what his son has done! I am sure I don't know what anyone can do more wrong than that; and to marry without the consent of one's father is the worst thing that I can possibly imagine. {Footnote: No exaggeration, if we consider that this was said two hundred years ago, and by a French father.} SCENE III--GRONTE, LANDRE. GER. Ah, here you are! LEA. (_going quickly towards his father to embrace him_). Ah! father, how glad I am to see you! GER. (_refusing to embrace him_). Stay, I have to speak to you first. LEA. Allow me to embrace you, and.... GER. (_refusing him again_). Gently, I tell you. LEA. How! father, you deprive me of the pleasure of showing you my joy at your return? GER. Certainly; we have something to settle first of all. LEA. But what? GER. Just stand there before me, and let me look at you. LEA. What for? GER. Look me straight in the face. LEA. Well? GER. Will you tell me what has taken place here in my absence? LEA. What has taken place? GER. Yes; what did you do while I was away? LEA. What would you have me do, father? GER. It is not I who wanted you to do anything, but who ask you now what it is you did? LEA. I have done nothing to give you reason to complain. GER. Nothing at all? LEA. No. GER. You speak in a very decided tone. LEA. It is because I am innocent. GER. And yet Scapin has told me all about you. LEA. Scapin! GER. Oh! oh! that name makes you change colour. LEA. He has told you something about me? GER. He has. But this is not the place to talk about the business, and we must go elsewhere to see to it. Go home at once; I will be there presently. Ah! scoundrel, if you mean to bring dishonour upon me, I will renounce you for my son, and you will have to avoid my presence for ever! SCENE IV.--LANDRE (_alone_). LEA. To betray me after that fashion! A rascal who for so many reasons should be the first to keep secret what I trust him with! To go and tell everything to my father! Ah! I swear by all that is dear to me not to let such villainy go unpunished. SCENE V.--OCTAVE, LANDRE, SCAPIN. OCT. My dear Scapin, what do I not owe to you? What a wonderful man you are, and how kind of Heaven to send you to my help! LEA. Ah, ah! here you are, you rascal! SCA. Sir, your servant; you do me too much honour. LEA. (_drawing his sword_). You are setting me at defiance, I believe...Ah! I will teach you how.... SCA. (_falling on his knees_). Sir! OCT. (_stepping between them_). Ah! Landre. LEA. No, Octave, do not keep me back. SCA. (_to_ LANDRE). Eh! Sir. OCT. (_keeping back_ LANDRE). For mercy's sake! LEA. (_trying to strike_). Leave me to wreak my anger upon him. OCT. In the name of our friendship, Landre, do not strike him. SCA. What have I done to you, Sir? LEA. What you have done, you scoundrel! OCT. (_still keeping back_ LANDRE). Gently, gently. LEA. No, Octave, I will have him confess here on the spot the perfidy of which he is guilty. Yes, scoundrel, I know the trick you have played me; I have just been told of it. You did not think the secret would be revealed to me, did you? But I will have you confess it with your own lips, or I will run you through and through with my sword. SCA. Ah! Sir, could you really be so cruel as that? LEA. Speak, I say. SCA. I have done something against you, Sir? LEA. Yes, scoundrel! and your conscience must tell you only too well what it is. SCA. I assure you that I do not know what you mean. LEA. (_going towards_ SCAPIN _to strike him_). You do not know? Landre! SCA. Well, Sir, since you will have it, I confess that I drank with some of my friends that small cask of Spanish wine you received as a present some days ago, and that it was I who made that opening in the cask, and spilled some water on the ground round it, to make you believe that all the wine had leaked out. LEA. What! scoundrel, it was you who drank my Spanish wine, and who suffered me to scold the servant so much, because I thought it was she who had played me that trick? SCA. Yes, Sir; I am very sorry, Sir. LEA. I am glad to know this. But this is not what I am about now. SCA. It is not that, Sir? LEA. No; it is something else, for which I care much more, and I will have you tell it me. SCA. I do not remember, Sir, that I ever did anything else. LEA. (_trying to strike_ SCAPIN). Will you speak? SCA. Ah! Gently. SCA. Yes, Sir; it is true that three weeks ago, when you sent me in the evening to take a small watch to the gypsy {Footnote: _gyptienne_. Compare act v. scene ii. _Bohmienne_ is a more usual name.} girl you love, and I came back, my clothes spattered with mud and my face covered with blood, I told you that I had been attacked by robbers who had beaten me soundly and had stolen the watch from me. It is true that I told a lie. It was I who kept the watch, Sir. LEA. It was you who stole the watch? SCA. Yes, Sir, in order to know the time. LEA. Ah! you are telling me fine things; I have indeed a very faithful servant! But it is not this that I want to know of you. SCA. It is not this? LEA. No, infamous wretch! it is something else that I want you to confess. SCA. (_aside_). Mercy on me! LEA. Speak at once; I will not be put off. SCA. Sir, I have done nothing else. LEA. Nothing else? Ah! I beg.... SCA. Well, Sir, you remember that ghost that six months ago cudgelled you soundly, and almost made you break your neck down a cellar, where you fell whilst running away? LEA. Well? SCA. It was I, Sir, who was playing the ghost. LEA. It was you, wretch! who were playing the ghost? SCA. Only to frighten you a little, and to cure you of the habit of making us go out every night as you did. LEA. I will remember in proper time and place all I have just heard. But I'll have you speak about the present matter, and tell me what it is you said to my father. SCA. What I said to your father? LEA. Yes, scoundrel! to my father. SCA. Why, I have not seen him since his return! LEA. You have not seen him? SCA. No, Sir. LEA. Is that the truth? SCA. The perfect truth; and he shall tell you so himself. LEA. And yet it was he himself who told me. SCA. With your leave, Sir, he did not tell you the truth. SCENE VI.--LANDRE, OCTAVE, CARLE, SCAPIN. CAR. Sir, I bring you very bad news concerning your love affair. LEA. What is it now? CAR. The gypsies are on the point of carrying off Zerbinette. She came herself all in tears to ask me to tell you that, unless you take to them, before two hours are over, the money they have asked you for her, she will be lost to you for ever. LEA. Two hours? CAR. Two hours. SCENE VII.--LANDRE, OCTAVE, SCAPIN. LEA. Ah! my dear Scapin, I pray you to help me. SCA. (_rising and passing proudly before_ LANDRE). Ah! my dear Scapin! I am my dear Scapin, now that I am wanted. LEA. I will forgive you all that you confessed just now, and more also. SCA. No, no; forgive me nothing; run your sword through and through my body. I should be perfectly satisfied if you were to kill me. LEA. I beseech you rather to give me life by serving my love. SCA. Nay, nay; better kill me. LEA. You are too dear to me for that. I beg of you to make use for me of that wonderful genius of yours which can conquer everything. SCA. Certainly not. Kill me, I tell you. LEA. Ah! for mercy's sake, don't think of that now, but try to give me the help I ask. OCT. Scapin, you must do something to help him. SCA. How can I after such abuse? LEA. I beseech you to forget my outburst of temper, and to make use of your skill for me. OCT. I add my entreaties to his. SCA. I cannot forget such an insult. OCT. You must not give way to resentment, Scapin. LEA. Could you forsake me, Scapin, in this cruel extremity? SCA. To come all of a sudden and insult me like that. LEA. I was wrong, I acknowledge. SCA. To call me scoundrel, knave, infamous wretch! LEA. I am really very sorry. SCA. To wish to send your sword through my body! LEA. I ask you to forgive me, with all my heart; and if you want to see me at your feet, I beseech you, kneeling, not to give me up. OCT. Scapin, you cannot resist that? SCA. Well, get up, and another time remember not to be so hasty. LEA. Will you try to act for me? SCA. I will see. LEA. But you know that time presses. SCA. Don't be anxious. How much is it you want? LEA. Five hundred crowns. SCA. You? OCT. Two hundred pistoles. SCA. I must extract this money from your respective fathers' pockets. (_To_ OCTAVE) As far as yours is concerned, my plan is all ready. (_To_ LANDRE) And as for yours, although he is the greatest miser imaginable, we shall find it easier still; for you know that he is not blessed with too much intellect, and I look upon him as a man who will believe anything. This cannot offend you; there is not a suspicion of a resemblance between him and you; and you know what the world thinks, that he is your father only in name. LEA. Gently, Scapin. SCA. Besides, what does it matter? But, Mr. Octave, I see your father coming. Let us begin by him, since he is the first to cross our path. Vanish both of you; (_to_ OCTAVE) and you, please, tell Silvestre to come quickly, and take his part in the affair. SCENE VIII.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN. SCA. (_aside_). Here he is, turning it over in his mind. ARG. Such behaviour and such lack of consideration! To entangle himself in an engagement like that! Ah! rash youth. SCA. Your servant, Sir. ARG. SCA. You are thinking of your son's conduct. ARG. Yes, I acknowledge that it grieves me deeply. SCA. Ah! Sir, life is full of troubles; and we should always be prepared for them. I was told, a long time ago, the saying of an ancient philosopher which I have never forgotten. ARG. What was it? SCA. That if the father of a family has been away from home for ever so short a time, he ought to dwell upon all the sad news that may greet him on his return. He ought to fancy his house burnt down, his money stolen, his wife dead, his son married, his daughter ruined; and be very thankful for whatever falls short of all this. In my small way of philosophy, I have ever taken this lesson to heart; and I never come home but I expect to have to bear with the anger of my masters, their scoldings, insults, kicks, blows, and horse-whipping. And I always thank my destiny for whatever I do not receive. ARG. That's all very well; but this rash marriage is more than I can put up with, and it forces me to break off the match I had intended for my son. I have come from my solicitor's to see if we can cancel it. SCA. Well, Sir, if you will take my advice, you will look to some other way of settling this business. You know what a law-suit means in this country, and you'll find yourself in the midst of a strange bush of thorns. ARG. I am fully aware that you are quite right; but what else can I do? SCA. I think I have found something that will answer much better. The sorrow that I felt for you made me rummage in my head to find some means of getting you out of trouble; for I cannot bear to see kind fathers a prey to grief without feeling sad about it, and, besides, I have at all times had the greatest regard for you. ARG. I am much obliged to you. SCA. Then you must know that I went to the brother of the young girl whom your son has married. He is one of those fire-eaters, one of those men all sword-thrusts, who speak of nothing but fighting, and who think no more of killing a man than of swallowing a glass of wine. I got him to speak of this marriage; I showed him how easy it would be to have it broken off, because of the violence used towards your son. I spoke to him of your prerogatives as father, and of the weight which your rights, your money, and your friends would have with justice. I managed him so that at last he lent a ready ear to the propositions I made to him of arranging the matter amicably for a sum of money. In short, he will give his consent to the marriage being cancelled, provided you pay him well. ARG. And how much did he ask? SCA. Oh! at first things utterly out of the question. ARG. But what? SCA. Things utterly extravagant. ARG. But what? SCA. He spoke of no less than five or six hundred pistoles. ARG. Five or six hundred agues to choke him withal. Does he think me a fool? SCA. Just what I told him. I laughed his proposal to scorn, and made him understand that you were not a man to be duped in that fashion, and of whom anyone can ask five or six hundred pistoles! However, after much talking, this is what we decided upon. "The time is now come," he said, "when I must go and rejoin the army. I am buying my equipments, and the want of money I am in forces me to listen to what you propose. I must have a horse, and I cannot obtain one at all fit for the service under sixty pistoles." ARG. Well, yes; I am willing to give sixty pistoles. SCA. He must have the harness and pistols, and that will cost very nearly twenty pistoles more. ARG. Twenty and sixty make eighty. SCA. Exactly. ARG. It's a great deal; still, I consent to that. SCA. He must also have a horse for his servant, which, we may expect, will cost at least thirty pistoles. ARG. How, the deuce! Let him go to Jericho. He shall have nothing at all. SCA. Sir! ARG. No; he's an insolent fellow. SCA. Would you have his servant walk? ARG. Let him get along as he pleases, and the master too. SCA. Now, Sir, really don't go and hesitate for so little. Don't have recourse to law, I beg of you, but rather give all that is asked of you, and save yourself from the clutches of justice. ARG. Well, well! I will bring myself to give these thirty pistoles also. SCA. "I must also have," he said, "a mule to carry...." ARG. Let him go to the devil with his mule! This is asking too much. We will go before the judges. SCA. I beg of you, Sir! ARG. No, I will not give in. SCA. Sir, only one small mule. ARG. No; not even an ass. SCA. Consider.... ARG. No, I tell you; I prefer going to law. SCA. Ah! Sir, what are you talking about, and what a resolution you are going to take. Just cast a glance on the ins and outs of justice, look at the number of appeals, of stages of jurisdiction; how many embarrassing procedures; how many ravening wolves through whose claws you will have to pass; serjeants, solicitors, counsel, registrars, substitutes, recorders, judges and their clerks. There is not one of these who, for the merest trifle, couldn't knock over the best case in the world. A serjeant will issue false writs without your knowing anything of it. Your solicitor will act in concert with your adversary, and sell you for ready money. Your counsel, bribed in the same way, will be nowhere to be found when your case comes on, or else will bring forward arguments which are the merest shooting in the air, and will never come to the point. The registrar will issue writs and decrees against you for contumacy. The recorder's clerk will make away with some of your papers, or the instructing officer himself will not say what he has seen, and when, by dint of the wariest possible precautions, you have escaped all these traps, you will be amazed that your judges have been set against you either by bigots or by the women they love. Ah! Sir, save yourself from such a hell, if you can. 'Tis damnation in this world to have to go to law; and the mere thought of a lawsuit is quite enough to drive me to the other end of the world. ARG. How much does he want for the mule? SCA. For the mule, for his horse and that of his servant, for the harness and pistols, and to pay a little something he owes at the hotel, he asks altogether two hundred pistoles, Sir. ARG. Two hundred pistoles? SCA. Yes. ARG. (_walking about angrily_). No, no; we will go to law. SCA. Recollect what you are doing. ARG. I shall go to law. SCA. Don't go and expose yourself to.... ARG. I will go to law. SCA. But to go to law you need money. You must have money for the summons, you must have money for the rolls, for prosecution, attorney's introduction, solicitor's advice, evidence, and his days in court. You must have money for the consultations and pleadings of the counsel, for the right of withdrawing the briefs, and for engrossed copies of the documents. You must have money for the reports of the substitutes, for the court fees {1} at the conclusion, for registrar's enrolment, drawing up of deeds, sentences, decrees, rolls, signings, and clerks' despatches; letting alone all the presents you will have to make. Give this money to the man, and there you are well out of the whole thing. {1} _pices_, "spices," in ancient times, equalled _sweetmeats_, and were given to the judge by the side which gained the suit, as a mark of gratitude. These _pices_ had long been changed into a compulsory payment of money when Molire wrote. In Racine's _Plaideurs_, act ii. scene vii., Petit Jean takes literally the demand of the judge for _pices_, and fetches the pepper-box to satisfy him. ARG. SCA. Yes, and you will save by it. I have made a small calculation in my head of all that justice costs, and I find that by giving two hundred pistoles to your man you will have a large margin left--say, at least a hundred and fifty pistoles--without taking into consideration the cares, troubles, and anxieties, which you will spare yourself. For were it only to avoid being before everybody the butt of some facetious counsel, I had rather give three hundred pistoles than go to law. {Footnote: What would Molire have said if he had been living now!} ARG. I don't care for that, and I challenge all the lawyers to say anything against me. SCA. You will do as you please, but in your place I would avoid a lawsuit. ARG. I will never give two hundred pistoles. SCA. Ah! here is our man. SCENE IX.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE, _dressed out as a bravo_. SIL. Scapin, show me that Argante who is the father of Octave. SCA. What for, Sir? SIL. I have just been told that he wants to go to law with me, and to have my sister's marriage annulled. SCA. I don't know if such is his intention, but he won't consent to give the two hundred pistoles you asked; he says it's too much. SIL. S'death! s'blood! If I can but find him, I'll make mince-meat of him, were I to be broken alive on the wheel afterwards. (ARGANTE _hides, trembling, behind_ SCAPIN.) SCA. Sir, the father of Octave is a brave man, and perhaps he will not be afraid of you. SIL. Ah! will he not? S'blood! s'death! If he were here, I would in a moment run my sword through his body. (_Seeing_ ARGANTE.) Who is that man? SCA. He's not the man, Sir; he's not the man. SIL. Is he one of his friends? SCA. No, Sir; on the contrary, he's his greatest enemy. SIL. His greatest enemy? SCA. Yes. SIL. Ah! zounds! I am delighted at it. (_To_ ARGANTE) You are an enemy of that scoundrel Argante, are you? SCA. Yes, yes; I assure you that it is so. SIL. (_shaking_ ARGANTE'S _hand roughly_). Shake hands, shake hands. I give you my word, I swear upon my honour, by the sword I wear, by all the oaths I can take, that, before the day is over, I shall have delivered you of that rascally knave, of that scoundrel Argante. Trust me. SCA. But, Sir, violent deeds are not allowed in this country. SIL. I don't care, and I have nothing to lose. SCA. He will certainly take his precautions; he has relations, friends, servants, who will take his part against you. SIL. Blood and thunder! It is all I ask, all I ask. Ah! s'death! ah! s'blood! Why can I not meet him at this very moment, with all these relations and friends of his? If he would only appear before me, surrounded by a score of them! Why do they not fall upon me, arms in hand? (_Standing upon his guard_.) What! you villains! you dare to attack me? Now, s'death! Kill and slay! (_He lunges out on all sides; as if he were fighting many people at once_.) No quarter; lay on. Thrust. Firm. Again. Eye and foot. Ah! knaves! ah! rascals! ah! you shall have a taste of it. I'll give you your fill. Come on, you rabble! come on. That's what you want, you there. You shall have your fill of it, I say. Stick to it, you brutes; stick to it. Now, then, parry; now, then, you. (_Turning towards_ ARGANTE and SCAPIN.) Parry this; parry. You draw back? Stand firm, man! S'death! What! Never flinch, I say. SCA. Sir, we have nothing to do with it. SIL. That will teach you to trifle with me. SCENE X.--ARGANTE, SCAPIN. SCA. Well, Sir, you see how many people are killed for two hundred pistoles. Now I wish you a good morning. ARG. (_all trembling_). Scapin. SCA. What do you say? ARG. I will give the two hundred pistoles. SCA. I am very glad of it, for your sake. ARG. Let us go to him; I have them with me. SCA. Better give them to me. You must not, for your honour, appear in this business, now that you have passed for another; and, besides, I should be afraid that he would ask you for more, if he knew who you are. ARG. True; still I should be glad to see to whom I give my money. SCA. Do you mistrust me then? ARG. Oh no; but.... SCA. Zounds! Sir; either I am a thief or an honest man; one or the other. Do you think I would deceive you, and that in all this I have any other interest at heart than yours and that of my master, whom you want to take into your family? If I have not all your confidence, I will have no more to do with all this, and you can look out for somebody else to get you out of the mess. ARG. Here then. SCA. No, Sir; do not trust your money to me. I would rather you trusted another with your message. ARG. Ah me! here, take it. SCA. No, no, I tell you; do not trust me. Who knows if I do not want to steal your money from you? ARG. Take it, I tell you, and don't force me to ask you again. However, mind you have an acknowledgment from him. SCA. Trust me; he hasn't to do with an idiot. ARG. I will go home and wait for you. SCA. I shall be sure to go. (_Alone_.) That one's all right; now for the other. Ah! here he is. They are sent one after the other to fall into my net. SCENE XI.--GRONTE, SCAPIN. SCA. (_affecting not to see_ GRONTE). O Heaven! O unforeseen misfortune! O unfortunate father! Poor Gronte, what will you do? GER. (_aside_). What is he saying there with that doleful face? SCA. Can no one tell me whereto find Mr. Gronte? GER. What is the matter, Scapin? SCA. (_running about on the stage, and still affecting not to see or hear_ GRONTE). Where could I meet him, to tell him of this misfortune? GER. (_stopping_ SCAPIN). What is the matter? SCA. (_as before_). In vain I run everywhere to meet him. I cannot find him. GER. Here I am. SCA. (_as before_). He must have hidden himself in some place which nobody can guess. GER. (_stopping_ SCAPIN _again_). Ho! I say, are you blind? Can't you see me? SCA. Ah! Sir, it is impossible to find you. GER. I have been near you for the last half-hour. What is it all about? SCA. Sir.... GER. Well! SCA. Your son, Sir.... GER. Well! My son.... SCA. Has met with the strangest misfortune you ever heard of. GER. What is it? SCA. This afternoon I found him looking very sad about something which you had said to him, and in which you had very improperly mixed my name. While trying: to dissipate his sorrow, we went and walked about in the harbour. There, among other things, was to be seen a Turkish galley. A young Turk, with a gentlemanly look about him, invited us to go in, and held out his hand to us. We went in. He was most civil to us; gave us some lunch, with the most excellent fruit and the best wine you have ever seen. GER. What is there so sad about all this? SCA. Wait a little; it is coming. Whilst we were eating, the galley left the harbour, and when in the open sea, the Turk made me go down into a boat, and sent me to tell you that unless you sent by me five hundred crowns, he would take your son prisoner to Algiers. GER. What! SCA. Yes, Sir; and, moreover, he only gave me two hours to find them in. GER. Ah! the scoundrel of a Turk to murder me in that fashion! SCA. It is for you, Sir, to see quickly about the means of saving from slavery a son whom you love so tenderly. GER. What the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? {Footnote: _Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galre?_ This sentence has become established in the language with the meaning, "Whatever business had he there?"} SCA. He had no idea of what would happen. GER. Go, Scapin, go quickly, and tell that Turk that I shall send the police after him. SCA. The police in the open sea! Are you joking? GER. SCA. A cruel destiny will sometimes lead people. GER. Listen, Scapin; you must act in this the part of a faithful servant. SCA. How, Sir? GER. You must go and tell that Turk that he must send me back my son, and that you will take his place until I have found the sum he asks. SCA. Ah! Sir; do you know what you are saying? and do you fancy that that Turk will be foolish enough to receive a poor wretch like me in your son's stead? GER. SCA. He could not foresee his misfortune. However, Sir, remember that he has given me only two hours. GER. You say that he asks.... SCA. GER. Has he no conscience? SCA. Ah! ah! Conscience in a Turk! GER. Does he understand what five hundred crowns are? SCA. Yes, Sir, he knows that five hundred crowns are one thousand five hundred francs. {Footnote: The _cu_ stands usually for _petit cu_, which equalled three franks. "Crown," employed in a general sense, seems the only translation possible.} GER. Does the scoundrel think that one thousand five hundred francs are to be found in the gutter? SCA. Such people will never listen to reason. GER. But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? SCA. Ah! what a waste of words! Leave the galley alone; remember that time presses, and that you are running the risk of losing your son for ever. Alas! my poor master, perhaps I shall never see you again, and that at this very moment, whilst I am speaking to you, they are taking you away to make a slave of you in Algiers! But Heaven is my witness that I did all I could, and that, if you are not brought back, it is all owing to the want of love of your father. GER. Wait a minute, Scapin; I will go and fetch that sum of money. SCA. Be quick, then, for I am afraid of not being in time. GER. You said four hundred crowns; did you not? SCA. No, five hundred crowns. GER. SCA. Yes. GER. SCA. Quite right, but be quick. GER. Could he not have chosen another walk? SCA. It is true; but act promptly. GER. Cursed galley! SCA. (_aside_) That galley sticks in his throat. GER. Here, Scapin; I had forgotten that I have just received this sum in gold, and I had no idea it would so soon be wrenched from me. (_Taking his purse out of his pocket, and making as if he were giving it to_ SCAPIN.) But mind you tell that Turk that he is a scoundrel. SCA. (_holding out his hand_). Yes. GER. (_as above_). An infamous wretch. SCA. (_still holding out his hand_). Yes. GER. (_as above_). A man without conscience, a thief. SCA. Leave that to me. GER. (_as above_). That.... SCA. All right. GER. (_as above_). And that, if ever I catch him, he will pay for it. SCA. Yes. GER. (_putting back the purse in his pocket_). Go, go quickly, and fetch my son. SCA. (_running after him_). Hallo! Sir. GER. Well? SCA. And the money? GER. Did I not give it to you? SCA. No, indeed, you put it back in pour pocket. GER. Ah! it is grief which troubles my mind. SCA. So I see. GER. Ah! cursed galley! Scoundrel of a Turk! May the devil take you! SCAPIN (_alone_). He can't get over the five hundred crowns I wrench from him; but he has not yet done with me, and I will make him pay in a different money his imposture about me to his son. SCENE XII.-OCTAVE, LANDRE, SCAPIN. OCT. Well, Scapin, have your plans been successful? LEA. Have you done anything towards alleviating my sorrow? SCA. (_to_ OCTAVE). Here are two hundred pistoles I have got from your father. OCT. Ah! how happy you make me. SCA. (_to_ LANDRE), But I could do nothing for you. LEA. (_going away_). Then I must die, Sir, for I could not live without Zerbinette. SCA. Hallo! stop, stop; my goodness, how quick you are! LEA. What can become of me? SCA. There, there, I have all you want. LEA. Ah! you bring me back to life again. SCA. But I give it you only on one condition, which is that you will allow me to revenge myself a little on your father for the trick he has played me. LEA. You may do as you please. SCA. You promise it to me before witnesses? LEA. Yes. SCA. There, take these five hundred crowns. LEA. Ah! I will go at once and buy her whom I adore. ACT III. SCENE I.--ZERBINETTE, HYACINTHA, SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SIL. Yes; your lovers have decided that you should be together, and we are acting according to their orders. HYA. (_to_ ZERBINETTE). Such an order has nothing in it but what is pleasant to me. I receive such a companion with joy, and it will not be my fault if the friendship which exists between those we love does not exist also between us two. ZER. I accept the offer, and I am not one to draw back when friendship is asked of me. SCA. And when it is love that is asked of you? ZER. Ah! love is a different thing. One runs more risk, and I feel less determined. SCA. You are determined enough against my master, and yet what he has just done for you ought to give you confidence enough to respond to his love as you should. ZER. As yet I only half trust him, and what he has just done is not sufficient to reassure me. I am of a happy disposition, and am very fond of fun, it is true. But though I laugh, I am serious about many things; and your master will find himself deceived if he thinks that it is sufficient for him to have bought me, for me to be altogether his. He will have to give something else besides money, and for me to answer to his love as he wishes me, he must give me his word, with an accompaniment of certain little ceremonies which are thought indispensable. SCA. It is so he understands this matter. He only wants you as his wife, and I am not a man to have mixed in this business if he had meant anything else. ZER. I believe it since you say so; but I foresee certain difficulties with the father. SCA. We shall find a way of settling that. HYA. (_to_ ZERBINETTE). The similarity of our fate ought to strengthen the tie of friendship between us. We are both subject to the same fears, both exposed to the same misfortune. ZER. You have this advantage at least that you know who your parents are, and that, sure of their help, when you wish to make them known, you can secure your happiness by obtaining a consent to the marriage you have contracted. But I, on the contrary, have no such hope to fall back upon, and the position I am in is little calculated to satisfy the wishes of a father whose whole care is money. HYA. That is true; but you have this in your favour, that the one you love is under no temptation of contracting another marriage. ZER. A change in a lover's heart is not what we should fear the most. We may justly rely on our own power to keep the conquest we have made; but what I particularly dread is the power of the fathers; for we cannot expect to see them moved by our merit. HYA. Alas! Why must the course of true love never run smooth? How sweet it would be to love with no link wanting in those chains which unite two hearts. SCA. How mistaken you are about this! Security in love forms a very unpleasant calm. Constant happiness becomes wearisome. We want ups and downs in life; and the difficulties which generally beset our path in this world revive us, and increase our sense of pleasure. ZER. Do tell us, Scapin, all about that stratagem of yours, which, I was told, is so very amusing; and how you managed to get some money out of your old miser. You know that the trouble of telling me something amusing is not lost upon me, and that I well repay those who take that trouble by the pleasure it gives me. SCA. Silvestre here will do that as well as I. I am nursing in my heart a certain little scheme of revenge which I mean to enjoy thoroughly. SIL. Why do you recklessly engage in enterprises that may bring you into trouble? SCA. I delight in dangerous enterprises. SIL. As I told you already, you would give up the idea you have if you would listen to me. SCA. I prefer listening to myself. SIL. Why the deuce do you engage in such a business? SCA. Why the deuce do you trouble yourself about it? SIL. It is because I can see that you will without necessity bring a storm of blows upon yourself. SCA. Ah, well, it will be on my shoulders, and not on yours. SIL. It is true that you are master of your own shoulders, and at liberty to dispose of them as you please. SCA. Such dangers never stop me, and I hate those fearful hearts which, by dint of thinking of what may happen, never undertake anything. ZER. (_to_ SCAPIN). But we shall want you. SCA. Oh, yes! but I shall soon be with you again. It shall never be said that a man has with impunity put me into a position of betraying myself, and of revealing secrets which it were better should not be known. SCENE II.--GRONTE, SCAPIN. GER. Well! Scapin, and how have we succeeded about my son's mischance? SCA. Your son is safe, Sir; but you now run the greatest danger imaginable, and I sincerely wish you were safe in your house. GER. How is that? SCA. While I am speaking to you, there are people who are looking out for you everywhere. GER. For me? SCA. Yes. GER. But who? SCA. The brother of that young girl whom Octave has married. He thinks that you are trying to break off that match, because you intend to give to your daughter the place she occupies in the heart of Octave; and he has resolved to wreak his vengeance upon you. All his friends, men of the sword like himself, are looking out for you, and are seeking you everywhere. I have met with scores here and there, soldiers of his company, who question every one they meet, and occupy in companies all the thoroughfares leading to your house, so that you cannot go home either to the right or the left without falling into their hands. GER. What can I do, my dear Scapin? SCA. I am sure I don't know, Sir; it is an unpleasant business. I tremble for you from head to foot and.... Wait a moment. (SCAPIN _goes to see in the back of the stage if there is anybody coming_.) GER. (_trembling_). Well? SCA. (_coming back_). No, no; 'tis nothing. GER. Could you not find out some means of saving me? SCA. I can indeed think of one, but I should run the risk of a sound beating. GER. Ah! Scapin, show yourself a devoted servant. Do not forsake me, I pray you. SCA. I will do what I can. I feel for you a tenderness which renders it impossible for me to leave you without help. GER. Be sure that I will reward you for it, Scapin, and I promise you this coat of mine when it is a little more worn. SCA. Wait a minute. I have just thought, at the proper moment, of the very thing to save you. You must get into this sack, and I.... GER. (_thinking he sees somebody_). Ah! SCA. No, no, no, no; 'tis nobody. As I was saying, you must get in here, and must be very careful not to stir. I will put you on my shoulders, and carry you like a bundle of something or other. I shall thus be able to take you through your enemies, and see you safe into your house. When there, we will barricade the door and send for help. GER. A very good idea. SCA. The best possible. You will see. (_Aside_) Ah! you shall pay me for that lie. GER. What? SCA. I only say that your enemies will be finely caught. Get in right to the bottom, and, above all things, be careful not to show yourself and not to move, whatever may happen. GER. You may trust me to keep still. SCA. Hide yourself; here comes one of the bullies! He is looking for you. (_Altering his voice_.) {Footnote: All the parts within inverted commas are supposed to be spoken by the man Scapin is personating; the rest by himself.} "Vat! I shall not hab de pleasure to kill dis Gronte, and one vill not in sharity show me vere is he?" (_To_ GRONTE, _in his ordinary tone_) Do not stir. "Pardi! I vill find him if he lied in de mittle ob de eart" (_To_ GRONTE, _in his natural tone_) Do not show yourself. "Ho! you man vid a sack!" Sir! "I will give thee a pound if thou vilt tell me where dis Gronte is." You are looking for Mr. Gronte? "Yes, dat I am." And on what business, Sir? "For vat pusiness?" Yes. "I vill, pardi! trash him vid one stick to dead." Oh! Sir, people like him are not thrashed with sticks, and he is not a man to be treated so. "Vat! dis fob of a Gronte, dis prute, dis cat." Mr. Gronte, Sir, is neither a fop, a brute, nor a cad; and you ought, if you please, to speak differently. "Vat! you speak so mighty vit me?" I am defending, as I ought, an honourable man who is maligned. "Are you one friend of dis Gronte?" Yes, Sir, I am. "Ah, ah! You are one friend of him, dat is goot luck!" (_Beating the sack several times with the stick_.) "Here is vat I give you for him." (_Calling out as if he received the beating_) Ah! ah! ah! ah! Sir. Ah! ah! Sir, gently! Ah! pray. Ah! ah! ah! "Dere, bear him dat from me. Goot-pye." Ah! the wretch. Ah!...ah! GER. (_looking out_). Ah! Scapin, I can bear it no longer. SCA. Ah! Sir, I am bruised all over, and my shoulders are as sore as can be. GER. How! It was on mine he laid his stick. SCA. I beg your pardon, Sir, it was on my back. GER. What do you mean? I am sure I felt the blows, and feel them still. SCA. No, I tell you; it was only the end of his stick that reached your shoulders. GER. You should have gone a little farther back, then, to spare me, and.... SCA. (_pushing_ GRONTE'S _head back into the sack_). Take care, here is another man who looks like a foreigner. "Frient, me run like one Dutchman, and me not fint all de tay dis treatful Gronte." Hide yourself well. "Tell me, you, Sir gentleman, if you please, know you not vere is dis Gronte, vat me look for?" No, Sir, I do not know where Gronte is. "Tell me, trutful, me not vant much vit him. Only to gife him one tosen plows vid a stick, and two or tree runs vid a swort tro' his shest." I assure you, Sir, I do not know where he is. "It seems me I see sometink shake in dat sack." Excuse me, Sir. "I pe shure dere is sometink or oder in dat sack." Not at all, Sir. "Me should like to gife one plow of de swort in dat sack." Ah! Sir, beware, pray you, of doing so. "Put, show me ten vat to be dere?" Gently, Sir. "Why chently?" You have nothing to do with what I am carrying. "And I, put I vill see." You shall not see. "Ah! vat trifling." It is some clothes of mine. "Show me tem, I tell you." I will not. "You vill not?" No. "I make you feel this shtick upon de sholders." I don't care. "Ah! you vill poast!" (_Striking the sack, and calling out as if he were beaten_) Oh! oh! oh! Oh! Sir. Oh! oh! "Goot-bye, dat is one littel lesson teach you to speak so insolent." Ah! plague the crazy jabberer! Oh! GER. (_looking out of the sack_). Ah! all my bones are broken. SCA. Ah! I am dying. GER. Why the deuce do they strike on my back? SCA. (_pushing his head back into the bag_). Take care; I see half a dozen soldiers coming together. (_Imitating the voices of several people_.) "Now, we must discover Gronte; let us look everywhere carefully. We must spare no trouble, scour the town, and not forget one single spot Let us search on all sides. Which way shall we go? Let us go that way. No, this. On the left. On the right. No; yes." (_To_ GRONTE _in his ordinary voice_) Hide yourself well. "Ah! here is his servant. I say, you rascal, you must tell us where your master is. Speak. Be quick. At once. Make haste. Now." Ah! gentlemen, one moment. (GRONTE _looks quietly out of the bag, and sees_ SCAPIN'S _trick_.) "If you do not tell us at once where your master is, we will shower a rain of blows on your back." I had rather suffer anything than tell you where my master is. "Very well, we will cudgel you soundly." Do as you please. "You want to be beaten, then?" I will never betray my master. "Ah! you will have it--there." Oh! (_As he is going to strike_, GRONTE _gets out of the bag, and_ SCAPIN _runs away_.) GER. (_alone_). Ah! infamous wretch! ah I rascal! ah! scoundrel! It is thus that you murder me? SCENE III.--ZERBINETTE, GRONTE. ZER. (_laughing, without seeing_ GRONTE). Ah, ah! I must really come and breathe a little. GER. (_aside, not seeing_ ZERBINETTE). Ah! I will make you pay for it. ZER. (_not seeing_ GRONTE). Ah, ah, ah, ah! What an amusing story! What a good dupe that old man is! GER. This is no matter for laughter; and you have no business to laugh at it. ZER. Why? What do you mean, Sir? GER. I mean to say that you ought not to laugh at me. ZER. Laugh at you? GER. Yes. ZER. How! Who is thinking of laughing at you? GER. Why do you come and laugh in my face? ZER. This has nothing to do with you. I am only laughing with myself at the remembrance of a story which has just been told me. The most amusing story in the world. I don't know if it is because I am interested in the matter, but I never heard anything so absurd as the trick that has just been played by a son to his father to get some money out of him. GER. By a son to his father to get some money out of him? ZER. Yes; and if you are at all desirous of hearing how it was done, I will tell you the whole affair. I have a natural longing for imparting to others the funny things I know. GER. Pray, tell me that story. ZER. Willingly. I shall not risk much by telling it you, for it is an adventure which is not likely to remain secret long. Fate placed me among one of those bands of people who are called gypsies, and who, tramping from province to province, tell you your fortune, and do many other things besides. When we came to this town, I met a young man, who, on seeing me, fell in love with me. From that moment he followed me everywhere; and, like all young men, he imagined that he had but to speak and things would go on as he liked; but he met with a pride which forced him to think twice. He spoke of his love to the people in whose power I was, and found them ready to give me up for a certain sum of money. But the sad part of the business was that my lover found himself exactly in the same condition as most young men of good family, that is, without any money at all. His father, although rich, is the veriest old skinflint and greatest miser you ever heard of. Wait a moment--what is his name? I don't remember it--can't you help me? Can't you name some one in this town who is known to be the most hard-fisted old miser in the place? GER. No. ZER. There is in his name some Ron...Ronte... Or...Oronte...No. G...Gronte. Yes, Gronte, that's my miser's name. I have it now; it is the old churl I mean. Well, to come back to our story. Our people wished to leave this town to-day, and my lover would have lost me through his lack of money if, in order to wrench some out of his father, he had not made use of a clever servant he has. As for that servant's name, I remember it very well. His name is Scapin. He is a most wonderful man, and deserves the highest praise. GER. (_aside_). Ah, the wretch! ZER. But just listen to the plan he adopted to take in his dupe--ah! ah! ah! ah! I can't think of it without laughing heartily--ah! ah! ah! He went to that old screw--ah! ah! ah!--and told him that while he was walking about the harbour with his son--ah! ah!--they noticed a Turkish galley; that a young Turk had invited them to come in and see it; that he had given them some lunch--ah! ah!--and that, while they were at table, the galley had gone into the open sea; that the Turk had sent him alone back, with the express order to say to him that, unless he sent him five hundred crowns, he would take his son to be a slave in Algiers--ah, ah, ah! You may imagine our miser, our stingy old curmudgeon, in the greatest anguish, struggling between his love for his son and his love for his money. Those five hundred crowns that are asked of him are five hundred dagger-thrusts--ah! ah! ah! ah! He can't bring his mind to tear out, as it were, this sum from his heart, and his anguish makes him think of the most ridiculous means to find money for his son's ransom--ah! ah! ah! He wants to send the police into the open sea after the Turk's galley--ah! ah! ah! He asks his servant to take the place of his son till he has found the money to pay for him--money he has no intention of giving--ah! ah! ah! He yields up, to make the five hundred crowns, three or four old suits which are not worth thirty--ah! ah! ah! The servant shows him each time how absurd is what he proposes, and each reflection of the old fellow is accompanied by an agonising, "But what the deuce did he want to go in that galley for? Ah! cursed galley. Ah! At last, after many hesitations, after having sighed and groaned for a long time...But it seems to me that my story does not make you laugh; what do you say to it? GER. What I say? That the young man is a scoundrel--a good-for-nothing fellow--who will be punished by his father for the trick he has played him; that the gypsy girl is a bold, impudent hussy to come and insult a man of honour, who will give her what she deserves for coming here to debauch the sons of good families; and that the servant is an infamous wretch, whom Gronte will take care to have hung before to-morrow is over. SCENE IV.--ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE. SIL. Where are you running away to? Do you know that the man you were speaking to is your lover's father? ZER. I have just begun to suspect that it was so; and I related to him his own story without knowing who he was. SIL. What do you mean by his story? ZER. Yes; I was so full of that story that I longed to tell it to somebody. But what does it matter? So much the worse for him. I do not see that things can be made either better or worse. SIL. You must have been in a great hurry to chatter; and it is indiscretion, indeed, not to keep silent on your own affairs. ZER. Oh! he would have heard it from somebody else. SCENE V.--ARGANTE, ZERBINETTE, SILVESTRE. ARG. (_behind the scenes_). Hullo! Silvestre. SIL. (_to_ ZERBINETTE). Go in there; my master is calling me. SCENE VI.--ARGANTE, SILVESTRE. ARG. So you agreed, you rascals; you agreed--Scapin, you, and my son--to cheat me out of my money; and you think that I am going to bear it patiently? SIL. Upon my word, Sir, if Scapin is deceiving you, it is none of my doing. I assure you that I have nothing whatever to do with it. ARG. We shall see, you rascal! we shall see; and I am not going to be made a fool of for nothing. SCENE VII.-GRONTE, ARGANTE, SILVESTRE. GER. Ah! Mr. Argante, you see me in the greatest trouble. ARG. And I am in the greatest sorrow. GER. This rascal, Scapin, has got five hundred crowns out of me. ARG. Yes, and this same rascal, Scapin, two hundred pistoles out of me. GER. He was not satisfied with getting those five hundred crowns, but treated me besides in a manner I am ashamed to speak of. But he--shall pay me for it. ARG. I shall have him punished for the trick he has played me. GER. And I mean to make an example of him. SIL. (_aside_). May Heaven grant that I do not catch my share of all this! GER. But, Mr. Argante, this is not all; and misfortunes, as you know, never come alone. I was looking forward to the happiness of to-day seeing my daughter, who was everything to me; and I have just heard that she left Tarentum a long while since; and there is every reason to suppose that the ship was wrecked, and that she is lost to me for ever. ARG. But why did you keep her in Tarentum, instead of enjoying the happiness of having her with you? GER. I had my reasons for it; some family interests forced me till now to keep my second marriage secret. But what do I see? SCENE VIII.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. GER. What! you here, Nrine? NER. (_on her knees before_ GRONTE). Ah! Mr. Pandolphe, how.... GER. Call me Gronte, and do not use the other name any more. The reasons which forced me to take it at Tarentum exist no longer. NER. Alas! what sorrow that change of name has caused us; what troubles and difficulties in trying to find you out! GER. And where are my daughter and her mother? NER. Your daughter, Sir, is not far from here; but before I go to fetch her, I must ask you to forgive me for having married her, because of the forsaken state we found ourselves in, when we had no longer any hope of meeting you. GER. My daughter is married? NER. Yes, Sir. GER. And to whom? NER. To a young man, called Octave, the son of a certain Mr. Argante. GER. O Heaven! ARG. What an extraordinary coincidence. GER. Take us quickly where she is. NER. You have but to come into this house. GER. Go in first; follow me, follow me, Mr. Argante. SIL. (alone). Well, this is a strange affair. SCENE IX.--SCAPIN, SILVESTRE. SCA. Well, Silvestre, what are our people doing? SIL. I have two things to tell you. One is that Octave is all right; our Hyacintha is, it seems, the daughter of Gronte, and chance has brought to pass what the wisdom of the fathers had decided. The other, that the old men threaten you with the greatest punishments--particularly Mr. Gronte. SCA. Oh, that's nothing. Threats have never done me any harm as yet; they are but clouds which pass away far above our heads. SIL. You had better take care. The sons may get reconciled to their fathers, and leave you in the lurch. SCA. Leave that to me. I shall find the means of soothing their anger, and.... SIL. Go away; I see them coming. SCENE X.--GRONTE, ARGANTE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. GER. Come, my daughter; come to my house. My happiness would be perfect if your mother had been with you. ARG. Here is Octave coming just at the right time. SCENE XI.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. ARG. Come, my son, come and rejoice with us about the happiness of your marriage. Heaven.... OCT. No, father, all your proposals for marriage are useless. I must be open with you, and you have been told how I am engaged. ARG. Yes; but what you do not know.... OCT. I know all I care to know. ARG. I mean to say that the daughter of Mr. Gronte.... OCT. The daughter of Mr. Gronte will never be anything to me. GER. It is she who.... OCT. (_to_ GRONTE). You need not go on, Sir; I hope you will forgive me, but I shall abide by my resolution. SIL. (_to_ OCTAVE). Listen.... OCT. Be silent; I will listen to nothing. ARG. (_to_ OCTAVE). Your wife.... OCT. No, father, I would rather die than lose my dear Hyacintha (_crossing the theatre, and placing himself by_ HYACINTHA). Yes, all you would do is useless; this is the one to whom my heart is engaged. I will have no other wife. ARG. Well! she it is whom we give you. What a madcap you are never to listen to anything but your own foolish whim. HYA. (_showing_ GRONTE). Yes, Octave, this is my father whom I have found again, and all our troubles are over. GER. Let us go home; we shall talk more comfortably at home. HYA. (_showing_ ZERBINETTE). Ah! father, I beg of you the favour not to part me from this charming young lady. She has noble qualities, which will be sure to make you like her when you know her. GER. What! do you wish me to take to my house a girl with whom your brother is in love, and who told me to my face so many insulting things? ZER. Pray forgive me, Sir; I should not have spoken in that way if I had known who you were, and I only knew you by reputation. GER. By reputation; what do you mean? HYA. Father, I can answer for it that she is most virtuous, and that the love my brother has for her is pure. GER. It is all very well. You would try now to persuade me to marry my son to her, a stranger, a street-girl! SCENE XII.-ARGANTE, GRONTE, LANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE. LEA. My father, you must no longer say that I love a stranger without birth or wealth. Those from whom I bought her have just told me that she belongs to an honest family in this town. They stole her away when she was four years old, and here is a bracelet which they gave me, and which will help me to discover her family. ARG. Ah! To judge by this bracelet, this is my daughter whom I lost when she was four years old. GER. Your daughter? ARG. Yes, I see she is my daughter. I know all her features again. My dear child! GER. Oh! what wonderful events! SCENE XIII.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, LANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE, SILVESTRE, CARLE. CAR. Ah! gentlemen, a most sad accident has just taken place. GER. What is it? CAR. Poor Scapin.... GER. Is a rascal whom I shall see hung. CAR. Alas! Sir, you will not have that trouble. As he was passing near a building, a bricklayer's hammer fell on his head and broke his skull, leaving his brain exposed. He is dying, and he has asked to be brought in here to speak to you before he dies. SCENE XIV.--ARGANTE, GRONTE, LANDRE, OCTAVE, HYACINTHA, ZERBINETTE, NRINE. SILVESTRE, CARLE, SCAPIN. SCA. (_brought in by some men, his head wrapped up, as if he were wounded_). Oh, oh! gentlemen, you see me.... Oh! You see me in a sad state. Oh! I would not die without coming to ask forgiveness of all those I may have offended. Oh! Yes, gentlemen, before I give up the ghost, I beseech you to forgive me all I have done amiss, and particularly Mr. Argante and Mr. Gronte. Oh! ARG. I forgive you; die in peace, Scapin. SCA. (_to_ GRONTE). It is you, Sir, I have offended the most, because of the beating with the cudgel which I.... GER. Leave that alone. SCA. I feel in dying an inconceivable grief for the beating which I.... GER. Ah me! be silent. SCA. That unfortunate beating that I gave.... GER. Be silent, I tell you; I forgive you everything. SCA. Alas! how good you are. But is it really with all your heart that you forgive me the beating which I...? GER. Yes, yes; don't mention it. I forgive you everything. You are punished. SCA. Ah! Sir, how much better I feel for your kind words. GER. Yes, I forgive you; but on one condition, that you die. SCA. How! Sir? GER. I retract my words if you recover. SCA. Oh! oh! all my pains are coming hack. ARG. Mr. Gronte, let us forgive him without any condition, for we are all so happy. GER. Well, be it so. ARG. Let us go to supper, and talk of our happiness. SCA. And you, take me to the end of the table; it is there I will await death. End of available with this file or online at Section 1. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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included with this eBook or online at For upper grammar grades Editor: Larkin Dunton Distributed Proofreading Team at THE LAND OF SONG BOOK III. _FOR UPPER GRAMMAR GRADES_ SELECTED BY KATHARINE H. SHUTE EDITED BY LARKIN DUNTON, LL.D. HEAD MASTER OF THE BOSTON NORMAL SCHOOL SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 1899 Copyright, 1899, By Silver, Burdett & Company. C. J. PETERS & SON, TYPOGRAPHERS, BOSTON. Plimpton Press H. M. PLIMPTON & CO., PRINTERS & BINDERS, NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A. _COMPILERS' PREFACE._ The inestimable value of literature in supplying healthful recreation, in opening the mind to larger views of life, and in creating ideals that shall mold the spiritual nature, is conceded now by every one who has intelligently considered the problems of education. But the basis upon which literature shall be selected and arranged is still a matter of discussion. Chronology, race-correspondence, correlation, and ethical training should all be recognized incidentally; but the main purpose of the teacher of literature is to send children on into life with a genuine love for good reading. To accomplish this, three things should be true of the reading offered: first, it should be _literature_; second, it should be literature of some scope, not merely some small phase of literature, such as the fables, or the poetry of one of the less eminent poets; and third, it should appeal to children's natural interests. Children's interests, varied as they seem, center in the marvelous and the preternatural; in the natural world; and in human life, especially child life and the romantic and heroic aspects of mature life. In the selections made for each grade, we have recognized these different interests. To grade poetry perfectly for different ages is an impossibility; much of the greatest verse is for all ages--that is one reason why it _is_ great. A child of five will lisp the numbers of Horatius with delight; and Scott's _Lullaby of an Infant Chief_, with its romantic color and its exquisite human tenderness, is dear to childhood, to manhood, and to old age. But the Land of Song is a great undiscovered country to the little child; by some road or other he must find his way into it; and these volumes simply attempt to point out a path through which he may be led into its happy fields. Our earnest thanks are due to the following publishers for permission to use copyrighted poems: to Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for poems by Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, Holmes, Lowell, Aldrich, Bayard Taylor, James T. Fields, Phbe Cary, Lucy Larcom, Celia Thaxter, and Sarah Orne Jewett; to D. Appleton & Co. for a large number of Bryant's poems: to Charles Scribner's Sons for two poems by Stevenson, from _Underwoods_, and _A Child's Garden of Verses_; to J. B. Lippincott & Co. for two poems by Thomas Buchanan Read; and to Henry T. Coates & Co. for a poem by Charles Fenno Hoffman. The present volume is intended for the seventh, eighth, and ninth school years, or higher grammar grades. It is the third of three books prepared for use in the grades below the high school. As no collection of this size can supply as much poetry as may be used to advantage, and as many desirable poems by American writers have necessarily been omitted, we have noted at the end of this volume lists of poems which it would be well to add to the material given here, that our children may realize the scope and beauty of the poetry of their own land. CONTENTS PAGE ABIDE WITH ME 72 ADVERSITY 92 ANNIE LAURIE 168 ANNIE OF THARAW 199 ANTONY'S EULOGY ON CSAR 221 ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM, THE 13 APPARITIONS 253 AULD LANG SYNE 112 AWAKENING OF SPRING, THE 68 BALLAD OF THE BOAT, THE 119 BANNOCKBURN 52 BEFORE SEDAN 109 BEGGAR MAID, THE 98 BIRKENHEAD, THE 108 "BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN" 151 BONNIE DUNDEE 53 BONNIE LESLEY 167 BOOT AND SADDLE 231 BUILDING OF THE SHIP, THE 46 CAVALIER, THE 230 CONSOLATION, A 261 COUNTY GUY 96 CROSSING THE BAR 269 CUMNOR HALL 27 DEATHBED, THE 152 DEATH THE LEVELER 60 DESERTED HOUSE, THE 238 DORA 160 DOWNFALL OF WOLSEY, THE 177 EACH AND ALL 172 ELAINE 247 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 184 EVENING (Milton) 212 EVENING (Scott) 97 FAITH 206 FALL OF POLAND, THE 181 FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON 196 FORBEARANCE 260 GLENARA 104 GOOD GREAT MAN, THE 59 GROWING OLD 253 HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS, THE 183 HELVELLYN 101 HERV RIEL 141 HESTER 165 HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, THE 17 HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 69 HORATIUS 31 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 214 HYMN OF TRUST 159 HYMN TO DIANA 101 HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR, 211 ICHABOD 178 IMMORTALITY 202 IN HEAVENLY LOVE ABIDING 245 IVRY 136 JACOBITE'S EPITAPH, A 236 JACOBITE IN EXILE, A 232 JAFFAR 57 JOHN ANDERSON 113 KNIGHT'S TOMB, THE 103 LADY OF SHALOTT, THE 76 LAST LEAF, THE 239 LAST ROSE OF SUMMER, THE 15 LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS, THE 111 LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS, THE 134 LOCHIEL'S WARNING 61 LOCHINVAR 50 LONDON, 1802 229 LORD OF HIMSELF 58 LOST LEADER, THE 180 LUCY 192 MAN AND NATURE 74 MAN THAT HATH NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF, THE 91 MORNING 75 MY DOVES 206 MY LOVE 254 NECKAN, THE 116 NIGHT AND DEATH 201 NORA'S VOW 255 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 226 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM 49 O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST 140 OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS 195 OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST 260 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 218 ON HIS BLINDNESS 46 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 241 ON THE SEA 120 OUTLAW, THE 257 OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 61 PATRIOT, THE 150 PETITION TO TIME, A 104 PILLAR OF THE CLOUD, THE 135 POET AND THE BIRD, THE 115 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 210 QUALITY OF MERCY, THE 30 QUIET WORK 213 RAISING OF LAZARUS, THE 204 RECESSIONAL 270 RHODORA, THE 174 ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST 82 ROSABELLE 24 RUGBY CHAPEL 147 SAFE HOME 133 ST. AGNES' EVE 246 SANDS OF DEE, THE 16 SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH 45 SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE, THE 106 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 99 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 200 SIR GALAHAD 249 SLEEP 156 SLEEP, THE 153 SNOWSTORM, THE 67 SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES," 73 SONG OF THE CAMP, A 169 SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN, THE 56 SONG: "WHO IS SILVIA? WHAT IS SHE?" 256 SONNET ON CHILLON 14 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 196 TELLING THE BEES 86 THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE, A 157 THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE 231 THREE FISHERS, THE 236 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 95 TO A SKYLARK (Shelley) 261 TO A SKYLARK (Wordsworth) 26 TO THE DAISY 92 TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 198 TRUE KNIGHTHOOD 252 TWILIGHT CALM 70 ULYSSES 218 VILLAGE PREACHER, THE 190 WATERLOO 266 WENDELL PHILLIPS 149 WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH THE SHIP WOULD GO 114 WHITE SHIP, THE 121 _INDEX OF AUTHORS._ PAGE ARNOLD, MATTHEW. Quiet Work 213 Rugby Chapel: A Selection 147 The Neckan 116 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. Man and Nature 74 My Doves 206 Romance of the Swan's Nest 82 The Poet and the Bird 115 The Sleep 153 BROWNING, ROBERT. Apparitions 253 Boot and Saddle 231 Growing Old: A Selection 253 Herv Riel 141 Home Thoughts from Abroad 69 Song from "Pippa Passes" 73 The Lost Leader 180 The Patriot 150 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. "Blessed are They that Mourn" 151 Hymn to the North Star 211 Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids 195 The Antiquity of Freedom 13 BURNS, ROBERT. Auld Lang Syne 112 Bannockburn 52 Bonnie Lesley 167 Flow Gently, Sweet Afton 196 John Anderson 113 Oh, wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 260 There'll Never be Peace 231 To a Mountain Daisy 95 BYRON, LORD (George Noel Gordon). She walks in Beauty 9 Sonnet on Chillon 14 Stanzas for Music 196 Waterloo: A Selection 266 CAMPBELL, THOMAS. Glenara 104 Lochiel's Warning 61 The Fall of Poland 181 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. Qua Cursum Ventus 210 Say not, the Struggle Naught availeth 45 Where lies the Land to which the Ship would go 114 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 214 The Good Great Man 59 The Knight's Tomb 103 CORNWALL, BARRY. (See Procter.) COWPER, WILLIAM. Light Shining out of Darkness, The 134 On the receipt of my Mother's Picture 241 DOBSON, AUSTIN. Before Sedan 109 DOUGLAS, WILLIAM. Annie Laurie. 168 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. Each and All 172 Forbearance 260 The Rhodora 174 The Snowstorm 67 GARNETT, RICHARD. The Ballad of the Boat 119 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. The Village Preacher 190 GRAY, THOMAS. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 184 HAWKER, ROBERT S. The Song of the Western Men 56 HERRICK, ROBERT. A Thanksgiving to God for His House 157 HAYWOOD, THOMAS. Morning 75 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. Hymn of Trust 159 The Last Leaf 239 HOOD, THOMAS. The Deathbed 152 HUNT, LEIGH. Jaffar 57 INGELOW, JEAN. The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 17 JOHNSON, BEN. Hymn to Diana 101 Triumph of Charis 198 KEATS, JOHN. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 218 On the Sea 120 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. The Sands of Dee 16 The Three Fishers 236 KIPLING, RUDYARD. Recessional 270 LAMB, CHARLES. Hester 165 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. Annie of Tharaw 199 The Building of the Ship: A Selection 46 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. My Love 254 Wendell Phillips 149 LYTE, HENRY F. Abide with Me 72 MACAULEY, THOMAS BABBINGTON. A Jacobite's Epitaph 236 Horatius: A Selection 31 Ivry 136 MICKLE, WILLIAM F. Cumnor Hall 27 MILTON, JOHN. Evening: A Selection 212 On his Blindness 46 MONTGOMERY, JAMES. Immortality 202 MOORE, THOMAS. The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 183 The Last Rose of Summer 15 The Light of Other Days 111 NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY. The Pillar of the Cloud 135 PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER. A Petition to Time 104 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. Twilight Calm 70 ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. The White Ship 121 ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM. Safe Home. Translated by J. M. Neale 133 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. Bonnie Dundee 53 County Guy 96 Evening 97 Helvellyn 101 Lochinvar 50 Nora's Vow 255 Rosabelle 24 The Cavalier 230 The Outlaw 257 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. A Consolation 261 Adversity: A Selection 92 Antony's Eulogy on Caesar: A Selection 221 Sleep: A Selection 156 Song: "Who is Silvia? what is she?" From "Two Gentlemen of Verona" 256 The Downfall of Wolsey: A Selection 177 The Man that hath no Music in Himself: A Selection 91 The Quality of Mercy: A Selection 30 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. Ozymandias of Egypt 61 To a Skylark 261 SHIRLEY, JAMES. Death the Leveler 60 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. A Jacobite in Exile 232 TAYLOR, BAYARD. A Song of the Camp 169 TENNYSON, ALFRED. Crossing the Bar 269 Dora 160 Elaine: A Selection from "The Idylls of the King" 247 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington: A Selection 226 Of Old sat Freedom 49 St. Agnes' Eve 246 Sir Galahad 249 The Awakening of Spring: A Selection 68 The Beggar Maid 98 The Deserted House 238 The Lady of Shalott 76 The Raising of Lazarus: A Selection 204 True Knighthood: A Selection 252 Ulysses 218 WARING, ANNA L. In Heavenly Love abiding 245 WATTS, ISAAC. O God, our Help in Ages Past 140 WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. Night and Death 201 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Ichabod 178 Telling the Bees 86 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. Faith: A Selection 206 London, 1802 229 Lucy 192 She was a Phantom of Delight 200 The Seven Sisters: or, The Solitude of Binnorie 106 To a Skylark 26 To the Daisy 92 WOTTON, SIR HENRY. Lord of Himself 58 YULE, SIR HENRY. The Birkenhead 108 THE LAND OF SONG: BOOK III. _PART I._ _The Land of Song: Book III._ PART ONE. THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. A SELECTION. Oh Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, And wavy tresses gushing from the cap With which the Roman master crowned his slave When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, Armed to the teeth, art thou; one maild hand Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow, Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound, The links are shivered, and the prison walls Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, As springs the flame above a burning pile, And shoutest to the nations, who return Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. SONNET ON CHILLON. Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned-- To fetters, and the damp vault's day less gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON. THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, O, who would inhabit This bleak world alone? THOMAS MOORE. THE SANDS OF DEE. "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- A tress of golden hair, A drownd maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee. CHARLES KINGSLEY. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. (1571.) The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song-- "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, ay, long ago, When I beginne to think how long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swifte as an arrow, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the time of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadow mote be seene, Save where full fyve miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby! "For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) "The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way, With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls againe. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- Then beaten foam flew round about-- Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks upon the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and mee: But each will mourn his own (she saith); And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha! Cusha!" all along Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." JEAN INGELOW. ROSABELLE. O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. "The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. "Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle hall. "'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." O'er Roslin all that dreary night, A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castle rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from caverned Hawthornden. Seemed all on fire that chapel proud, Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seemed all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmered all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold-- But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, The dirge of lovely Rosabelle! SIR WALTER SCOTT. TO A SKYLARK. Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond-- Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. CUMNOR HALL. The dews of summer night did fall; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now naught was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs That issued from that lonely pile. "Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity? "No more thou com'st with lover's speed Thy once-belovd bride to see; But, be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. "Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appall. "I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn So merrily sung the livelong day. "If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized? "But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or, 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather, ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. "Then, Leicester, why,--again I plead, The injured surely may repine,-- Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? "Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day? "The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe. "How far less blest am I than them! Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. "My spirits flag--my hopes decay-- Still that dread death-bell smites my ear: And many a boding seems to say, Countess, prepare, thy end is near!" Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring; An arial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour--for never more That hapless countess e'er was seen! And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient mossgrown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveler oft hath sighed And pensive wept the countess' fall, As wand'ring onwards they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. WILLIAM F. MICKLE. THE QUALITY OF MERCY. The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The thrond monarch better than his crown: His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptered sway; It is enthrond in the heart of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. _The "Merchant of Venice. "_ HORATIUS. A SELECTION. But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?" Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods; "And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee." "Horatius," quoth the Consul, "As thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, And the Fathers grind the low, As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an ax: And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose; And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way; Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum towers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath: Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth: At Picus Brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accursd sail." But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes, A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. But hark! the cry is "Astur"; And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter Stands savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh; The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?" But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, Along that glittering van. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest Were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless Three. And from the ghastly entrance Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack: But those behind cried, "Forward!" And those before cried, "Back!" And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel, To and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away. Yet one man for one moment Stood out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away, Here lies the road to Rome." Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread; And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile ax and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" Loud cried the Fathers all, "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free; And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace." Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. "Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day." So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place: But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within; And our good father Tiber Bore bravely up his chin. "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plow from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, Plain for all folk to see; Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge, In the brave days of old. And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within; When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armor, And trims his helmet's plume; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH. Say not, the struggle naught availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. ON HIS BLINDNESS. When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide,-- "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest:-- They also serve who only stand and wait." JOHN MILTON. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. A SELECTION. All is finished! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. To-day the vessel shall be launched! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. * * * * * On the deck another bride Is standing by her lover's side. Shadows from the flags and shrouds, Like the shadows cast by clouds, Broken by many a sunny fleck, Fall around them on the deck. * * * * * Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand; And at the word, Loud and sudden there was heard, All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs. And see! she stirs! She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel, And, spurning with her foot the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms! * * * * * Sail forth into the sea of life, O gentle, loving, trusting wife, And safe from all adversity Upon the bosom of that sea Thy comings and thy goings be! For gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives! Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O UNION, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee,--are all with thee! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. OF OLD SAT FREEDOM. Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gathered in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men revealed The fullness of her face-- Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, godlike, grasps the triple forks, And kinglike, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes! ALFRED TENNYSON. LOCHINVAR. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Grmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? SIR WALTER SCOTT. BANNOCKBURN. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour: See approach proud Edward's pow'r-- Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us do or die! ROBERT BURNS. BONNIE DUNDEE. To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke, "Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!" Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee!" As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee! With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee." The Gordon demands of him which way he goes: "Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry _hoigh!_ for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "There's brass on the target of barkened bull hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!" He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettledrums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war notes of Bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, and fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee! SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN. A good sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do. And have they fixed the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why! Out spake their captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he: "If London Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawny free! "We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay, With one and all, and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay? "And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you. "Trelawny he's in keep and hold, Trelawny he may die; But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why!" ROBERT S. HAWKER. JAFFAR. Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,-- Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. All Araby and Persia held their breath. All but the brave Mondeer.--He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief, For his great heart wanted a great relief, Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square Where once had stood a happy home, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. "Bring me this man," the caliph cried: the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still. "Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." "Gifts!" cried the friend. He took: and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar." LEIGH HUNT. LORD OF HIMSELF. How happy is he born or taught Who serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill: Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death-- Not tied unto the world with care Of prince's ear or vulgar breath; Who hath his ear from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great; Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend-- This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all. SIR HENRY WOTTON. THE GOOD GREAT MAN. How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. For shame, dear friend; renounce this canting strain. What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? Place, titles, salary, a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends. Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures--love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. DEATH THE LEVELER. The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. JAMES SHIRLEY. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT. I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. WIZARD--LOCHIEL. WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead: For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer; Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. WIZARD. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed,--for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-- WIZARD. --Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors: Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the ironbound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah no! for a darker departure is near; The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death bell is tolling: oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale-- LOCHIEL. --Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Tho' my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the deathbed of fame. THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE SNOWSTORM. Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn: Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night work, The frolic architecture of the snow. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. THE AWAKENING OF SPRING. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. ALFRED TENNYSON. _From "In Memoriam. "_ HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD. Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree hole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower! ROBERT BROWNING. TWILIGHT CALM. O Pleasant eventide! Clouds on the western side Grow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun: The bees and birds, their happy labors done, Seek their close nests and bide. Screened in the leafy wood The stockdoves sit and brood: The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough But lazily; pauses; and settles now Where once he stored his food. One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon: The grasshoppers are still; but not so soon Are still the noisy crows. The dormouse squats and eats Choice little dainty bits Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime; Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time And listens where he sits. From far the lowings come Of cattle driven home: From farther still the wind brings fitfully The vast continual murmur of the sea, Now loud, now almost dumb. The gnats whirl in the air, The evening gnats; and there The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail For prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail Comes forth, clammy and bare. Hark! that's the nightingale. Telling the selfsame tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale. We call it love and pain, The passion of her strain; And yet we little understand or know: Why should it not be rather joy that so Throbs in each throbbing vein? In separate herds the deer Lie; here the bucks, and here The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn: Through all the hours of night until the dawn They sleep, forgetting fear. The hare sleeps where it lies, With wary half-closed eyes: The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck: Only the fox is out, some heedless duck Or chicken to surprise. Remote, each single star Comes out, till there they are All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp! While close at hand the glowworm lights her lamp Or twinkles from afar. But evening now is done As much as if the sun Day-giving had arisen in the east: For night has come; and the great calm has ceased, The quiet sands have run. CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. ABIDE WITH ME. Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me! Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away: Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou, who changest not, abide with me! Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word, But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord, Familiar, condescending, patient, free, Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me! Come not in terrors, as the King of kings; But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings: Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:-- Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me! Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee; On to the close, O Lord, abide with me! I need Thy presence every passing hour: What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power? Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me! I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory? --I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies: Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:-- In life and death, O Lord, abide with me! HENRY F. LYTE. SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES." The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven-- All's right with the world. ROBERT BROWNING. MAN AND NATURE. A sad man on a summer day Did look upon the earth and say-- "Purple cloud, the hilltop binding, Folded hills, the valleys wind in, Valleys, with fresh streams among you, Streams, with bosky trees along you, Trees, with many birds and blossoms, Birds, with music-trembling bosoms, Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe you To your fellow flowers beneath you, Flowers, that constellate on earth, Earth, that shakest to the mirth Of the merry Titan ocean, All his shining hair in motion! Why am I thus the only one Who can be dark beneath the sun?" But when the summer day was past, He looked to heaven and smiled at last, Self-answered so-- "Because, O cloud, Pressing with thy crumpled shroud Heavily on mountain top,-- Hills, that almost seem to drop, Stricken with a misty death, To the valleys underneath,-- Valleys, sighing with the torrent,-- Waters, streaked with branches horrent,-- Branchless trees, that shake your head Wildly o'er your blossoms spread Where the common flowers are found,-- Flowers, with foreheads to the ground,-- Ground, that shriekest while the sea With his iron smiteth thee-- I am, besides, the only one Who can be bright _without_ the sun." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. MORNING. Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow, Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft To give my Love good morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good morrow; To give my Love good morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Sing birds in every furrow, And from each hill, let music shrill, Give my fair Love good morrow: Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good morrow. To give my Love good morrow Sing birds in every furrow. THOMAS HEYWOOD. THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART I. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veiled, Slide the heavy barges trailed By slow horses; and unhailed The shallop flitteth silken-sailed, Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market-girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-haired page in crimson clad, Goes by to towered Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two; She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. PART III. A bowshot from her bower eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazoned baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jeweled shone the saddle leather, The helmet and the helmet feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; On burnished hooves his war horse trode; From underneath his helmet flowed His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra, lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV. In the stormy east wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote _The Lady of Shalott_. And down the river's dim expanse-- Like some bold ser in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot; For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, _The Lady of Shalott_. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." ALFRED TENNYSON. ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of the meadow, By a stream-side on the grass; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow. Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses, Fills the silence like a speech; While she thinks what shall be done,-- And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach. Little Ellie in her smile Chooses, "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile; And to _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds. "And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath; And the lute he plays upon, Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death! "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs, along the sod, Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. "But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face; He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in; And I kneel here for thy grace.' "Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand-- Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!' For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand. "Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a _yes_ I must not say-- Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' I will utter and dissemble-- 'Light to-morrow with to-day.' "Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong, To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet-- 'Lo! my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it?' "And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time a glove; But the third time--I may bend From my pride, and answer--'Pardon, If he comes to take my love.' "Then the young foot-page will run-- Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but _thee_!' "He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds." Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the _two_. Pushing through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, Past the boughs she stoops, and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds! Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth, I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds. TELLING THE BEES. Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall. There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we parted, a month had passed,-- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well sweep near. I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her windowpane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves. Just the same as a month before,-- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- Nothing changed but the hives of bees. Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black. Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go! Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in. And the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on:-- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE LAND OF SONG: Book III. _PART II_. PART TWO. THE MAN THAT HATH NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. _From "The Merchant of Venice. "_ ADVERSITY. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. _From_ "_As You Like It._" TO THE DAISY. In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy. But now my own delights I make,-- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of thee, sweet daisy! Thee winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs That she may sun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right: And autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling. Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy. A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;--thou not in vain Art Nature's favorite. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786. A SELECTION. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! ROBERT BURNS. COUNTY GUY. Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour-- But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings highborn Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know-- But where is County Guy? SIR WALTER SCOTT. EVENING. The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song; The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart; And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The wood lark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song-- All meet whom day and care divide,-- But Leonard tarries long! SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE BEGGAR MAID. Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day." As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!" ALFRED TENNYSON. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! HYMN TO DIANA. Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close: Bless us then with wishd sight, Goddess, excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess, excellently bright. BEN JONSON. HELVELLYN. I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide, All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam; And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?-- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown. The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust. A PETITION TO TIME. Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three,-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!) We've not proud nor soaring wings, Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime;-- Touch us gently, gentle Time! BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_). GLENARA. O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" --said Glenara the stern. "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain:--no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed. "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud: "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn: "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne-- Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn! THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies wrought! Seven sisters that together dwell; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly, to left, to right-- Of your fair household, father knight, Methinks you take small heed! Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There foot had never been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE BIRKENHEAD. Amid the loud ebriety of War, With shouts of "la Rpublique" and "la Gloire," The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag And broadside blazing level with the wave Went down erect, defiant, to their grave Beneath the sea.--Twas but a Frenchman's brag, Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear! And when they tell thee "England is a fen Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey For the first comer," tell how the other day A crew of half a thousand Englishmen Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay! Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command. Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath, But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes! Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith Of many a hurricane and trenchd field? Far other: weavers from the stocking frame; Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin, But steeped in honor and in discipline! Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name, Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame, Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay! SIR HENRY YULE. BEFORE SEDAN. Here in this leafy place Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence,-- Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves; So this man's eyes are dim;-- Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched There at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died;-- Message or wish, may be;-- Smooth the folds out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled!-- Only the tremulous Words of a child;-- Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His--her dead father's--kiss, Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet; That is all. "Marguerite." Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died;--but no;-- Death will not have it so. AUSTIN DOBSON. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! THOMAS MOORE. AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne! We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne. ROBERT BURNS. JOHN ANDERSON. John Andersson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' are anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. ROBERT BURNS. WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH THE SHIP WOULD GO? Where lies the land to which the ship would go; Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go. On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. THE POET AND THE BIRD. Said a people to a poet--"Go out from among us straightway! While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine. There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway, Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!" The poet went out weeping--the nightingale ceased chanting, "Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?" -- --"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting, Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under the sun." The poet went out weeping,--and died abroad, bereft there. The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails. And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's. THE NECKAN. In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song. Green rolls beneath the headlands, Green rolls the Baltic Sea; And there, below the Neckan's feet, His wife and children be. He sings not of the ocean, Its shells and roses pale; Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale. He sits upon the headlands, And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and felt on earth, Far from the kind sea wave. Sings how, a knight, he wandered By castle, field, and town-- But earthly knights have harder hearts Than the sea children own. Sings of his earthly bridal-- Priests, knights, and ladies gay. " --And who art thou," the priest began, "Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?" -- "--I am no knight," he answered; "From the sea waves I come." -- The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed, The surpliced priest stood dumb. He sings how from the chapel He vanished with his bride, And bore her down to the sea halls, Beneath the salt sea tide. He sings how she sits weeping 'Mid shells that round her lie. " --False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps; "No Christian mate have I." -- He sings how through the billows He rose to earth again, And sought a priest to sign the cross, That Neckan Heaven might gain. He sings how, on an evening, Beneath the birch trees cool, He sate and played his harp of gold, Beside the river pool. Beside the pool sate Neckan-- Tears filled his mild blue eye. On his white mule, across the bridge, A cassocked priest rode by. " --Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, And play'st thy harp of gold? Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, Than thou shalt Heaven behold." -- But, lo, the staff, it budded! It greened, it branched, it waved. " --O ruth of God," the priest cried out, "This lost sea creature saved!" The cassocked priest rode onwards, And vanished with his mule; But Neckan in the twilight gray Wept by the river pool. He wept: "The earth hath kindness, The sea, the starry poles; Earth, sea, and sky, and God above-- But, ah, not human souls!" In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings this plaintive song. MATTHEW ARNOLD. THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT. The stream was smooth as glass; we said, "Arise and let's away:" The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar; we gayly took our way. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay? The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains, The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains; The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away. Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large, Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge. The waves are bright with mirrored light as jacinths on our way. The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see The spreading river's either bank, and surging distantly There booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away. Now shall the sandy bar be crossed, now shall we find the bay! The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night. We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay, When once the sandy bar is crossed, and we are in the bay. What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost? What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast? Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away. O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay? RICHARD GARNETT. ON THE SEA. It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. O ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the sea; O ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody,-- Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired! JOHN KEATS. THE WHITE SHIP. HENRY I. OF ENGLAND.--25th NOVEMBER, 1120. By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._) 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._) King Henry held it as life's whole gain That after his death his son should reign. 'Twas so in my youth I heard men say, And my old age calls it back to-day. King Henry of England's realm was he, And Henry Duke of Normandy. The times had changed when on either coast "Clerkly Harry" was all his boast. Of ruthless strokes full many a one He had struck to crown himself and his son; And his elder brother's eyes were gone. And when to the chase his court would crowd, The poor flung plowshares on his road, And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!" But all the chiefs of the English land Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand. And next with his son he sailed to France To claim the Norman allegiance: And every baron in Normandy Had taken the oath of fealty. 'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come When the King and the Prince might journey home: For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, And Christmas now was drawing near. Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,-- A pilot famous in seafaring; And he held to the King, in all men's sight, A mark of gold for his tribute's right. "Liege Lord! my father guided the ship From whose boat your father's foot did slip When he caught the English soil in his grip, "And cried: 'By this clasp I claim command O'er every rood of English land!' "He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now In that ship with the archer carved at her prow: "And thither I'll bear, an' it be my due, Your father's son and his grandson too. "The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day, "With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears And with fifty well-tried mariners." Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one, But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son. "My son and daughter and fellowship Shall cross the water in the White Ship." The King set sail with the eve's south wind, And soon he left that coast behind. The Prince and all his, a princely show, Remained in the good White Ship to go. With noble knights and with ladies fair, With courtiers and sailors gathered there, Three hundred living souls we were: And I Berold was the meanest hind In all that train to the Prince assigned. The Prince was a lawless, shameless youth; From his father's loins he sprang without ruth: Eighteen years till then he had seen, And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. And now he cried: "Bring wine from below; Let the sailors revel ere yet they row: "Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight Though we sail from the harbor at midnight." The rowers made good cheer without check; The lords and ladies obeyed his beck; The night was light, and they danced on the deck. But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, And the White Ship furrowed the water way. The sails were set, and the oars kept tune To the double flight of the ship and the moon: Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead: As white as a lily glimmered she Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing! Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?" And under the winter stars' still throng, From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, The knights and the ladies raised a song. A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky, That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry Of three hundred living that now must die. An instant shriek that sprang to the shock As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. 'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh-- The King's ships heard it and knew not why. Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. A great King's heir for the waves to whelm, And the helpless pilot pale at the helm! The ship was eager and sucked athirst, By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced: And like the moil round a sinking cup, The waters against her crowded up. A moment the pilot's senses spin,-- The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in. A few friends leaped with him, standing near. "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!" "What! none to be saved but these and I?" "Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!" Out of the churn of the choking ship, Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. 'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim The Prince's sister screamed to him. He gazed aloft, still rowing apace, And through the whirled surf he knew her face. To the toppling decks clave one and all As a fly cleaves to a chamber wall. I, Berold, was clinging anear; I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. He knew her face and he heard her cry, And he said, "Put back! she must not die!" And back with the current's force they reel Like a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel. 'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat. Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, The sister toiled to the brother's side. He reached an oar to her from below, And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. But now from the ship some spied the boat, And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat. And down to the boat they leaped and fell: It turned as a bucket turns in a well, And nothing was there but the surge and swell. The Prince that was and the King to come, There in an instant gone to his doom, Despite of all England's bended knee And maugre the Norman fealty! He was a Prince of lust and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died. When he should be King, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow. O'er him the ships score their furrows now. God only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._) And now the end came o'er the water's womb Like the last great day that's yet to come. With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White Ship sundered on the midmain: And what were men and what was a ship, Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. I, Berold, was down in the sea; And passing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me. Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land: And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam When mothers call the children home: And high do the bells of Rouen beat When the Body of Christ goes down the street. These things and the like were heard and shown In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone; And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, And not these things, to be all in a dream. The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, And the deep shuddered and the moon shone: And in a straight grasp my arms did span The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; And on it with me was another man. Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky, We told our names, that man and I. "O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight, And son I am to a belted knight." "And I am Berold the butcher's son Who slays the beasts in Rouen town." Then cried we upon God's name, as we Did drift on the bitter winter sea. But lo! a third man o'er the wave, And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!" He clutched to the yard with panting stare, And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there. He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he. "Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!" And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. And soul with soul again in that space We two were together face to face: And each knew each, as the moments sped, Less for one living than for one dead: And every still star overhead Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead. And the hours passed; till the noble's son Sighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone! "O farewell, friend, for I can no more!" "Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er. Three hundred souls were all lost but one, And I drifted over the sea alone. At last the morning rose on the sea Like an angel's wing that beat towards me. Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher boat. The sun was high o'er the eastern brim As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. That day I told my tale to a priest, Who charged me, till the shrift was released, That I should keep it in mine own breast. And with the priest I thence did fare To King Henry's court at Winchester. We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, And he wept and mourned again and again, As if his own son had been slain: And round us ever there crowded fast Great men with faces all aghast: And who so bold that might tell the thing Which now they knew to their lord the King? Much woe I learnt in their communing. The King had watched with a heart sore stirred For two whole days, and this was the third: And still to all his court would he say, "What keeps my son so long away?" And they said: "The ports lie far and wide That skirt the swell of the English tide; "And England's cliffs are not more white Than her women are, and scarce so light Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright; "And in some port that he reached from France The Prince has lingered for his pleasance." But once the King asked: "What distant cry Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?" And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie! Do the fishers fling their nets at sea." And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest When the seamew misses its young from the nest?" 'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread, Albeit they knew not what they said: But who should speak to-day of the thing That all knew there except the King? Then pondering much they found a way, And met round the King's high seat that day: And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. 'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware Of a little boy with golden hair, As bright as the golden poppy is That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss: Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in spring, And his garb black like the raven's wing. Nothing was heard but his foot through the hall, For now the lords were silent all. And the King wondered, and said, "Alack! Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black? "Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?" Then lowly knelt the child at the dais, And looked up weeping in the King's face. "O wherefore black, O King, ye may say, For white is the hue of death to-day. "Your son and all his fellowship Lie low in the sea with the White Ship." King Henry fell as a man struck dead; And speechless still he stared from his bed When to him next day my rede I read. There's many an hour must needs beguile A King's high heart that he should smile,-- Full many a lordly hour, full fain Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:-- But this King never smiled again. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._) DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. SAFE HOME. Safe home, safe home in port! Rent cordage, shattered deck, Tom sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck: But, oh, the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage,--perils o'er! The prize, the prize secure! The athlete nearly fell; Bare all he _could_ endure, And bare not always well: But he may smile at troubles gone, Who sets the victor-garland on! No more the foe can harm; No more of leaguered camp, And cry of night alarm, And need of ready lamp: And yet how nearly he had failed,-- How nearly had that foe prevailed! The exile is at home! O nights and days of tears, O longings not to roam, O sins, and doubts, and fears: What matter now this bitter fray? The King has wiped those tears away. ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM, A.D. 870 (translated by J. M. Neale). THE LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS. GOD moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain. WILLIAM COWPER. THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD. LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home-- Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene,--one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on, O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. IVRY. A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rose the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest, He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andr's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day, And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear-men's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST. O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home: Under the shadow of Thy throne Thy saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure. Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. O God, our help in ages past; Our hope for years to come; Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home! ISAAC WATTS. HERV RIEL. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) Not a minute more to wait! "Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting pilot he, Herv Riel the Croisickese. And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herv Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. "Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Herv Riel. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief." Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Herv Riel hollas "Anchor!" --sure as fate Up the English come, too late! So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Herv Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herv Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herv Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herv Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! ROBERT BROWNING. RUGBY CHAPEL. But thou wouldst not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages.... * * * * * Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of His little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died! * * * * * Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, reinspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. MATTHEW ARNOLD. WENDELL PHILLIPS. He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose; He saw God stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes; Many there were who made great haste and sold Unto the cunning enemy their swords, He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, And, underneath their soft and flowery words, Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went And humbly joined him to the weaker part, Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content So he could be the nearer to God's heart, And feel its solemn pulses sending blood Through all the widespread veins of endless good. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. THE PATRIOT. AN OLD STORY. It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad; The house roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church spires flamed, such flags they had A year ago on this very day. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels-- But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered, "And afterward, what else?" Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the house tops now-- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?" --God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. ROBERT BROWNING. "BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep: The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and bleeding heart And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. THE DEATHBED. We watched her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours. THOMAS HOOD. THE SLEEP. "He giveth his beloved sleep." --PSALM cxxvii. 2. Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this-- "He giveth His beloved, sleep"? What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows?-- He giveth His beloved, sleep. What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved, sleep. O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delvd gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved, sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill; His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap. More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved, sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word I think their happy smile is _heard_-- "He giveth His beloved, sleep." For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who giveth His beloved, sleep. And, friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; 'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'" SLEEP. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch case or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. _From "King Henry IV. "_ A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE. Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat: Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small: A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead: Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one: Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day: Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year: The while the conduits of my kine Run cream (for wine.) All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance,--that must be, My Christ, by Thee. ROBERT HERRICK. HYMN OF TRUST. O Love Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earthborn care, We smile at pain while Thou art near! Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. DORA. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearned towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan called his son, and said, "My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die; And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora: she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter; he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answered madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obeyed my uncle until now, And I have sinned, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you; You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest; let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then, when the farmer passed into the field, He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answered softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bowed down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bowed down And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answered Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back. But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kissed Each other, and set out, and reached the farm. The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her; And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora; take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I asked him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus; 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turned His face and passed--unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him--but I loved him--my dear son. May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. ALFRED TENNYSON. HESTER. When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was trained in Nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbor! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning? CHARLES LAMB. BONNIE LESLEY. O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she ga'ed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee." The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie; That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. ROBERT BURNS. ANNIE LAURIE. Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true,-- Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on,-- That e'er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e'e; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet,-- Her voice is low and sweet; And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. WILLIAM DOUGLAS. A SONG OF THE CAMP. "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camp allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon,-- Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem rich and strong, Their battle eve confession. Dear girl! her name he dared not speak; But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie." Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring. BAYARD TAYLOR. EACH AND ALL. Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hilltop looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth:"-- As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club moss burs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. THE RHODORA. ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER? In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you. _PART III._ PART THREE. THE DOWNFALL OF WOLSEY. Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. _From "Henry VIII. "_ ICHABOD! So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore! Revile him not,--the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall! O, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven! Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains,-- A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone: from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead! Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame! THE LOST LEADER. Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! ROBERT BROWNING. THE FALL OF POLAND. O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man. Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-- O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!-- Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die! He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm. In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:-- Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe. Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;-- Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell. The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-- On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below; The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay. Hark, as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook--red meteors flashed along the sky, And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry! O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod, That smote the foes of Zion and of God; That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar? Where was the storm that slumbered till the host Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast; Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, And heaved an ocean on their march below? Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot Tell--the Bruce of Bannockburn! Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see That man hath yet a soul--and dare be free. A little while, along thy saddening plains, The starless night of desolation reigns; Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven. Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled, Her name, her nature, withered from the world. THOMAS CAMPBELL. _From "The Pleasures of Hope. "_ THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. THOMAS MOORE. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense, kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had, a tear: He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. THOMAS GRAY. THE VILLAGE PREACHER. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all: And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood: at his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile: His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest. To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven: As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. _From "The Deserted Village. "_ LUCY. Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown: This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That, wild with glee, across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute, insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake--the work was done-- How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And nevermore will be. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS. Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot impressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmd ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stockdove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen; Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-- I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow. There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays. My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream! ROBERT BURNS. TRIUMPH OF CHARIS. See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, And well the car, Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty, And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes! they do light All that Love's world compriseth; Do but look on her hair! it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark--her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there, triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? Or nard i' the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she! BEN JONSON. ANNIE OF THARAW. FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH. Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood! Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow, We will stand by each other, however it blow. Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain Shall be to our true love as links to the chain. As the palm tree standeth so straight and so tall, The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,-- So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong. Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,-- Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows, Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes. Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun, The threads of our two lives are woven in one. Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed, Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand? Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife; Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love; Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen; I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell; While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. NIGHT AND DEATH. Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came; And lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?-- If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. IMMORTALITY. Forever with the Lord! Amen! so let it be! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality! Here in the body pent, Absent from Him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. My Father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to Faith's foreseeing eye, Thy golden gates appear. Ah! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above! Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies. Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease; While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart Expands the bow of peace! Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallowed ground, I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around. I hear at morn and even, At noon and midnight hour, The choral harmonies of Heaven Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. Then, then I feel, that He, Remembered or forgot, The Lord, is never far from me, Though I perceive Him not. JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE RAISING OF LAZARUS. When Lazarus left his charnel cave, And home to Mary's house returned, Was this demanded--if he yearned To hear her weeping by his grave? "Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbors met, The streets were filled with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crowned The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unrevealed; He told it not; or something sealed The lips of that Evangelist. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face, And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? ALFRED TENNYSON. _From "In Memoriam. "_ FAITH. I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy; for from within were heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea. Even such a shell the universe itself Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and everduring power; And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. Here you stand, Adore, and worship, when you know it not; Pious beyond the intention of your thought; Devout above the meaning of your will. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. _From "The Excursion. "_ MY DOVES. My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest Or motion from the sea; For, ever there, the sea winds go With sunlit paces to and fro. The tropic flowers looked up to it, The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown, And glittering eyes that showed their right To gentle Nature's deep delight. And God them taught, at every close Of murmuring waves beyond, And green leaves round to interpose Their choral voices fond, Interpreting that love must be The meaning of the earth and sea. Fit ministers! Of living loves, Theirs hath the calmest fashion, Their living voice the likest moves To lifeless intonation, The lovely monotone of spring And winds, and such insensate things. My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean rolling gray, And tempest-clouded airs. My little doves,--who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue! And now, within the city prison, In mist and chillness pent, With' sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content-- For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut fruit falling from the trees. The stir without the glow of passion, The triumph of the mart, The gold and silver as they clash on Man's cold metallic heart-- The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,-- These only sounds are heard instead. Yet still, as on my human hand Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand What human musings mean, (Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine, Are fastened upwardly to mine!) Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep. And love that keeps the music, fills With pastoral memories: All echoing from out the hills, All droppings from the skies, All flowings from the wave and wind, Remembered in their chant, I find. So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves! to move Along the city ways with heart Assured by holy love, And vocal with such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown. 'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream-- More hard, in Babel's street! But if the soulless creatures deem Their music not unmeet For sunless walls--let _us_ begin, Who wear immortal wings within! To me, fair memories belong Of scenes that used to bless, For no regret, but present song, And lasting thankfulness, And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they. I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields! I will have humble thoughts instead Of silent, dewy fields! My spirit and my God shall be My seaward hill, my boundless sea. QUA CURSUM VENTUS. As ships becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side: E'en so,--but why the tale reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered; Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides,-- To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last! One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare,-- O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there! ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. The sad and solemn night Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise, Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. Alone, in thy cold skies, Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. There, at morn's rosy birth, Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done; High towards the starlit sky Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, The night storm on a thousand hills is loud And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze, And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old, Sages and hermits of the solemn wood, Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. EVENING. Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. JOHN MILTON. _From "Paradise Lost. "_ QUIET WORK. One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at one Though the loud world proclaim their enmity-- Of toil unsevered from tranquillity; Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil, Still do thy quiet ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil, Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone. MATTHEW ARNOLD. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? so long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arv and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thoughts: entranced in prayer I worshiped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy: Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing,--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest,--not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn! Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink; Companion of the morning star at dawn, Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Coherald! O, wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad, Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, Forever shattered and the same forever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded--and the silence came-- "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" Ye ice falls! ye that from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain, Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer; and let the ice plains echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soullike sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!" Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks! Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast, Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me,--rise, O, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices praises God. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien. JOHN KEATS. ULYSSES. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times have I enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honored of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the scepter and the isle-- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me-- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides: and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. ALFRED TENNYSON. ANTONY'S EULOGY ON CSAR. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Csar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interrd with their bones; So let it be with Csar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Csar was ambitious: If it were so, it were a grievous fault, And grievously hath Csar answered it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest-- For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men-- Come I to speak in Csar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Csar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Csar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause: What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him? O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me: My heart is in the coffin there with Csar, And I must pause till it come back to me. * * * * * But yesterday the word of Csar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters, if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men: I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Csar; I found it in his closet, 'tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament-- Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read-- And they would go and kiss dead Csar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. * * * * * Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; It is not meet you know how Csar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Csar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad: Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For, if you should, O, what would come of it! * * * * * Will you be patient? will you stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it: I fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabbed Csar; I do fear it. * * * * * You will compel me, then, to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Csar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? * * * * * Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. * * * * * If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Csar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii: Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-belovd Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his cursd steel away, Mark how the blood of Csar followed it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Csar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Csar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all: For when the noble Csar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statua, Which all the while ran blood, great Csar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Csar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. * * * * * Stay, countrymen. * * * * * Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable: What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it: they are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him: For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on: I tell you that which you yourselves do know: Show you sweet Csar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Csar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. * * * * * Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. * * * * * Why, friends, you go to do you know not what: Wherein hath Csar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then: You have forgot the will I told you of. * * * * * Here is the will, and under Csar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy five drachmas. * * * * * Hear me with patience. * * * * * Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever, common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Csar! when comes such another? _From "Julius Csar. "_ ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. A SELECTION. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Followed by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honor showered all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden roses. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory: He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevailed, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table lands To which our God himself is moon and sun, Such was he: his work is done, But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; Till in all lands and thro' all human story The path of duty be the way to glory: And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Their ever loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. ALFRED TENNYSON. LONDON, 1802. Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters! altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE CAVALIER. While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My truelove has mounted his steed, and away Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown! He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws; Her King is his leader, her church is his cause; His watchward is honor, his pay is renown,-- God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the North have encircled the crown. There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown With the Barons of England, that fight for the crown? Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier! Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray; And as he was singing the tears down came, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame! ROBERT BURNS. BOOT AND SADDLE. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, (_Chorus_) _Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_ Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- (_Chorus_) '_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_'" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, (_Chorus_) '_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_'" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counselors; what counsel they? (_Chorus_) '_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_'" ROBERT BROWNING. A JACOBITE IN EXILE. The weary day rins down and dies, The weary night wears through: And never an hour is fair wi' flower And never a flower wi' dew. I would the day were night for me, I would the night were day: For then would I stand in my ain fair land, As now in dreams I may. O lordly flow the Loire and Seine, And loud the dark Durance: But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne Than a' the fields of France; And the waves of Till that speak sae still Gleam goodlier where they glance. O weel were they that fell fighting On dark Drumossie's day: They keep their hame ayont the faem And we die far away. O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep, But night and day wake we; And ever between the sea banks green Sounds loud the sundering sea. And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep, But sweet and fast sleep they; And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them Is e'en their country's clay; But the land we tread that are not dead Is strange as night by day. Strange as night in a strange man's sight, Though fair as dawn it be: For what is here that a stranger's cheer Should yet wax blithe to see? The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep, The fields are green and gold; The hill streams sing, and the hillsides ring, As ours at home of old. But hills and flowers are nane of ours, And ours are over sea: And the kind strange land whereon we stand, It wotsna what were we Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame, To try what end might be. Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name, And a weary time and strange, Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing Can die, and cannot change. Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn, Though sair be they to dree: But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide, Mair keen than wind and sea. Ill may we thole the night's watches, And ill the weary day: And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep, A waefu' gift gie they; For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us, The morn blaws all away. On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw, The burn rins blithe and fain; There's naught wi' me I wadna gie To look thereon again. On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide: There sounds nae hunting horn That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat Round banks where Tyne is born. The Wansbeck sings with all her springs, The bents and braes give ear; But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings I may not see nor hear; For far and far thae blithe burns are, And strange is a' thing near. The light there lightens, the day there brightens, The loud wind there lives free: Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me That I wad hear or see. But O gin I were there again, Afar ayont the faem, Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed That haps my sires at hame! We'll see nae mair the sea banks fair, And the sweet gray gleaming sky, And the lordly strand of Northumberland, And the goodly towers thereby; And none shall know but the winds that blow The graves wherein we lie. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH. To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honors, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Gray-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting place I asked--an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I speak like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. THE THREE FISHERS. Three fishers went sailing out into the west, Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep And good-by to the bar and its moaning. CHARLES KINGSLEY. THE DESERTED HOUSE. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide: Careless tenants they! All within is dark as night; In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark, deserted house. Come away: no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. Come away: for life and thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious-- A great and distant city--have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us! ALFRED TENNYSON. THE LAST LEAF. I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. O that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit; or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humor interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might,-- But no--what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed-- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. WILLIAM COWPER. IN HEAVENLY LOVE ABIDING. In heavenly love abiding, No change my heart shall fear, And safe is such confiding, For nothing changes here. The storm may roar without me, My heart may low be laid; But God is round about me, And can I be dismayed? Wherever He may guide me, No want shall turn me back; My Shepherd is beside me, And nothing can I lack. His wisdom ever waketh, His sight is never dim, He knows the way He taketh, And I will walk with Him. Green pastures are before me, Which yet I have not seen; Bright skies will soon be o'er me, Where darkest clouds have been. My hope I cannot measure, My path to life is free; My Father has my treasure, And He will walk with me. ANNA H. WARING. ST. AGNES' EVE. Deep on the convent roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground, As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee, So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride! ALFRED TENNYSON. ELAINE. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone Full summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her "Sister, farewell for ever," and again "Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, Steered by the dumb, went upward with the flood-- In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. ALFRED TENNYSON. _From "Launcelot and Elaine," The Idyls of the King._ SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel; They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle to the end, To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine; I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain meres I find a magic bark, I leap on board: no helmsman steers; I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain walls A rolling organ harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful Knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. ALFRED TENNYSON. TRUE KNIGHTHOOD. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as models for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thoughts, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man. ALFRED TENNYSON. _From "Guinevere," The Idylls of the King._ GROWING OLD. Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" ROBERT BROWNING. _From "Rabbi Ben Ezra. "_ APPARITIONS. Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! World--how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face! ROBERT BROWNING. MY LOVE. Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star, And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman: one in whom The springtime of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems wandering its own wayward will, And yet doth ever flow aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die. NORA'S VOW. Hear what Highland Nora said,-- "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valor lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son." "A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made, and lightly broke; The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost wind soon shall sweep away That luster deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son." -- "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son." Still in the water lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turned the heel: But Nora's heart is lost and won, --She's wedded to the Earlie's son! SIR WALTER SCOTT. SONG. Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her That she might admird be. Is she kind, as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling; To her let us garlands bring. _From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona. "_ THE OUTLAW. O Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton Hall Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily,-- "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen." --"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May." Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen. "I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read for you a ranger sworn, To keep the king's greenwood." --"A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night." Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May! "With burnished brand and musketoon, So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold dragoon That lists the tuck of drum." --"I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. And O! though Brignall banks be fair And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May! "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die! The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." SIR WALTER SCOTT. _From "Rokeby. "_ OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there: Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. ROBERT BURNS. FORBEARANCE. Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk? At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay? O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! A CONSOLATION. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate; Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee--and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. TO A SKYLARK. Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest; Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its arial hue Among he flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingd thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now! WATERLOO. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm, arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose, The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instills The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! _From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. "_ CROSSING THE BAR. Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. ALFRED TENNYSON. RECESSIONAL. A VICTORIAN ODE. God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies-- The Captains and the Kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet Lest we forget--lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! _Amen._ RUDYARD KIPLING. _RECOMMENDED POEMS._ As it has been impossible to include in this collection as many poems by American authors as we desired, we recommend the following, all of which are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with the exception of Bryant's poems, which are published by D. Appleton & Co:-- ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. An Arab Welcome. A Turkish Legend. Baby Bell. Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book. In the Old Church Tower. On Lynn Terrace. BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. A Forest Hymn. Thanatopsis. The Conqueror's Grave. EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. Boston. Days. Good-bye. Sea-shore. The Apology. The Titmouse. HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. Bill and Joe. Boston Common. Contentment. Dorothy Q. Latter-Day Warnings. Sun and Shadow. The Boston Tea Party. The Boys. The Last Survivor. The Living Temple. The Old Cruiser. To a Caged Lion. Whittier's Seventieth Birthday. LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. Killed at the Ford. King Robert of Sicily. Ser Federigo's Falcon. The Arsenal at Springfield. The Birds of Killingworth. The Leap of Roushan Beg. The North Cape. The Skeleton in Armor. The Three Kings. To the River Charles. To the River Rhone. Warden of the Cinque Ports. LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. Ambrose. Commemoration Ode (Selections from). Irene. Mahmood, the Image-breaker. The Beggar. The Birch Tree. The Courtin'. The Dandelion. The Singing Leaves. The Vision of Sir Launfal. Under the Old Elm. Under the Willows. Yussouf. SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND. A Morning Thought. Opportunity. WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Among the Hills. Amy Wentworth. Barclay of Ury. Benedicite. King Volmer and Elsie. Mary Garvin. Maud Muller. Skipper Ireson's Ride. Snow-Bound. The Eternal Goodness. The Gift of Tritemius. The Two Rabbis. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Inconsistent punctuation corrected without comment. Archaic spellings retained. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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The included with this eBook or online at Voices From Within The Veil Distributed Proofreading Team. DARKWATER Voices from within the Veil W.E.B. DU BOIS Originally published in 1920 by Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York. AD NINAM May 12, 1896 POSTSCRIPT These are the things of which men think, who live: of their own selves and the dwelling place of their fathers; of their neighbors; of work and service; of rule and reason and women and children; of Beauty and Death and War. To this thinking I have only to add a point of view: I have been in the world, but not of it. I have seen the human drama from a veiled corner, where all the outer tragedy and comedy have reproduced themselves in microcosm within. From this inner torment of souls the human scene without has interpreted itself to me in unusual and even illuminating ways. For this reason, and this alone, I venture to write again on themes on which great souls have already said greater words, in the hope that I may strike here and there a half-tone, newer even if slighter, up from the heart of my problem and the problems of my people. Between the sterner flights of logic, I have sought to set some little alightings of what may be poetry. They are tributes to Beauty, unworthy to stand alone; yet perversely, in my mind, now at the end, I know not whether I mean the Thought for the Fancy--or the Fancy for the Thought, or why the book trails off to playing, rather than standing strong on unanswering fact. But this is alway--is it not?--the Riddle of Life. Many of my words appear here transformed from other publications and I thank the _Atlantic_, the _Independent_, the _Crisis_, and the _Journal of Race Development_ for letting me use them again. W.E. BURGHARDT DU BOIS. New York, 1919. Contents CHAPTER PAGE POSTSCRIPT ix _Credo_ 1 I. THE SHADOW OF YEARS 3 _A Litany at Atlanta_ 14 II. THE SOULS OF WHITE FOLK 17 _The Riddle of the Sphinx_ 30 III. THE HANDS OF ETHIOPIA 32 _The Princess of the Hither Isles_ 43 IV. OF WORK AND WEALTH 47 _The Second Coming_ 60 V. "THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE" 63 _Jesus Christ in Texas_ 70 VI. OF THE RULING OF MEN 78 _The Call_ 93 VII. THE DAMNATION OF WOMEN 95 _Children of the Moon_ 109 VIII. THE IMMORTAL CHILD 114 _Almighty Death_ 128 IX. OF BEAUTY AND DEATH 130 _The Prayers of God_ 145 X. THE COMET 149 _A Hymn to the Peoples_ 161 _Credo_ I believe in God, who made of one blood all nations that on earth do dwell. I believe that all men, black and brown and white, are brothers, varying through time and opportunity, in form and gift and feature, but differing in no essential particular, and alike in soul and the possibility of infinite development. Especially do I believe in the Negro Race: in the beauty of its genius, the sweetness of its soul, and its strength in that meekness which shall yet inherit this turbulent earth. I believe in Pride of race and lineage and self: in pride of self so deep as to scorn injustice to other selves; in pride of lineage so great as to despise no man's father; in pride of race so chivalrous as neither to offer bastardy to the weak nor beg wedlock of the strong, knowing that men may be brothers in Christ, even though they be not brothers-in-law. I believe in Service--humble, reverent service, from the blackening of boots to the whitening of souls; for Work is Heaven, Idleness Hell, and Wage is the "Well done!" of the Master, who summoned all them that labor and are heavy laden, making no distinction between the black, sweating cotton hands of Georgia and the first families of Virginia, since all distinction not based on deed is devilish and not divine. I believe in the Devil and his angels, who wantonly work to narrow the opportunity of struggling human beings, especially if they be black; who spit in the faces of the fallen, strike them that cannot strike again, believe the worst and work to prove it, hating the image which their Maker stamped on a brother's soul. I believe in the Prince of Peace. I believe that War is Murder. I believe that armies and navies are at bottom the tinsel and braggadocio of oppression and wrong, and I believe that the wicked conquest of weaker and darker nations by nations whiter and stronger but foreshadows the death of that strength. I believe in Liberty for all men: the space to stretch their arms and their souls, the right to breathe and the right to vote, the freedom to choose their friends, enjoy the sunshine, and ride on the railroads, uncursed by color; thinking, dreaming, working as they will in a kingdom of beauty and love. I believe in the Training of Children, black even as white; the leading out of little souls into the green pastures and beside the still waters, not for pelf or peace, but for life lit by some large vision of beauty and goodness and truth; lest we forget, and the sons of the fathers, like Esau, for mere meat barter their birthright in a mighty nation. Finally, I believe in Patience--patience with the weakness of the Weak and the strength of the Strong, the prejudice of the Ignorant and the ignorance of the Blind; patience with the tardy triumph of Joy and the mad chastening of Sorrow. I THE SHADOW OF YEARS I was born by a golden river and in the shadow of two great hills, five years after the Emancipation Proclamation. The house was quaint, with clapboards running up and down, neatly trimmed, and there were five rooms, a tiny porch, a rosy front yard, and unbelievably delicious strawberries in the rear. A South Carolinian, lately come to the Berkshire Hills, owned all this--tall, thin, and black, with golden earrings, and given to religious trances. We were his transient tenants for the time. My own people were part of a great clan. Fully two hundred years before, Tom Burghardt had come through the western pass from the Hudson with his Dutch captor, "Coenraet Burghardt," sullen in his slavery and achieving his freedom by volunteering for the Revolution at a time of sudden alarm. His wife was a little, black, Bantu woman, who never became reconciled to this strange land; she clasped her knees and rocked and crooned: "Do bana coba--gene me, gene me! Ben d'nuli, ben d'le--" Tom died about 1787, but of him came many sons, and one, Jack, who helped in the War of 1812. Of Jack and his wife, Violet, was born a mighty family, splendidly named: Harlow and Ira, Clo, Lucinda, Maria, and Othello! I dimly remember my grandfather, Othello,--or "Uncle Tallow,"--a brown man, strong-voiced and redolent with tobacco, who sat stiffly in a great high chair because his hip was broken. He was probably a bit lazy and given to wassail. At any rate, grandmother had a shrewish tongue and often berated him. This grandmother was Sarah--"Aunt Sally"--a stern, tall, Dutch-African woman, beak-nosed, but beautiful-eyed and golden-skinned. Ten or more children were theirs, of whom the youngest was Mary, my mother. Mother was dark shining bronze, with a tiny ripple in her black hair, black-eyed, with a heavy, kind face. She gave one the impression of infinite patience, but a curious determination was concealed in her softness. The family were small farmers on Egremont Plain, between Great Barrington and Sheffield, Massachusetts. The bits of land were too small to support the great families born on them and we were always poor. I never remember being cold or hungry, but I do remember that shoes and coal, and sometimes flour, caused mother moments of anxious thought in winter, and a new suit was an event! At about the time of my birth economic pressure was transmuting the family generally from farmers to "hired" help. Some revolted and migrated westward, others went cityward as cooks and barbers. Mother worked for some years at house service in Great Barrington, and after a disappointed love episode with a cousin, who went to California, she met and married Alfred Du Bois and went to town to live by the golden river where I was born. Alfred, my father, must have seemed a splendid vision in that little valley under the shelter of those mighty hills. He was small and beautiful of face and feature, just tinted with the sun, his curly hair chiefly revealing his kinship to Africa. In nature he was a dreamer,--romantic, indolent, kind, unreliable. He had in him the making of a poet, an adventurer, or a Beloved Vagabond, according to the life that closed round him; and that life gave him all too little. His father, Alexander Du Bois, cloaked under a stern, austere demeanor a passionate revolt against the world. He, too, was small, but squarish. I remember him as I saw him first, in his home in New Bedford,--white hair close-cropped; a seamed, hard face, but high in tone, with a gray eye that could twinkle or glare. Long years before him Louis XIV drove two Huguenots, Jacques and Louis Du Bois, into wild Ulster County, New York. One of them in the third or fourth generation had a descendant, Dr. James Du Bois, a gay, rich bachelor, who made his money in the Bahamas, where he and the Gilberts had plantations. There he took a beautiful little mulatto slave as his mistress, and two sons were born: Alexander in 1803 and John, later. They were fine, straight, clear-eyed boys, white enough to "pass." He brought them to America and put Alexander in the celebrated Cheshire School, in Connecticut. Here he often visited him, but one last time, fell dead. He left no will, and his relations made short shrift of these sons. They gathered in the property, apprenticed grandfather to a shoemaker; then dropped him. Grandfather took his bitter dose like a thoroughbred. Wild as was his inner revolt against this treatment, he uttered no word against the thieves and made no plea. He tried his fortunes here and in Haiti, where, during his short, restless sojourn, my own father was born. Eventually, grandfather became chief steward on the passenger boat between New York and New Haven; later he was a small merchant in Springfield; and finally he retired and ended his days at New Bedford. Always he held his head high, took no insults, made few friends. He was not a "Negro"; he was a man! Yet the current was too strong even for him. Then even more than now a colored man had colored friends or none at all, lived in a colored world or lived alone. A few fine, strong, black men gained the heart of this silent, bitter man in New York and New Haven. If he had scant sympathy with their social clannishness, he was with them in fighting discrimination. So, when the white Episcopalians of Trinity Parish, New Haven, showed plainly that they no longer wanted black Folks as fellow Christians, he led the revolt which resulted in St. Luke's Parish, and was for years its senior warden. He lies dead in the Grove Street Cemetery, beside Jehudi Ashmun. Beneath his sternness was a very human man. Slyly he wrote poetry,--stilted, pleading things from a soul astray. He loved women in his masterful way, marrying three beautiful wives in succession and clinging to each with a certain desperate, even if unsympathetic, affection. As a father he was, naturally, a failure,--hard, domineering, unyielding. His four children reacted characteristically: one was until past middle life a thin spinster, the mental image of her father; one died; one passed over into the white world and her children's children are now white, with no knowledge of their Negro blood; the fourth, my father, bent before grandfather, but did not break--better if he had. He yielded and flared back, asked forgiveness and forgot why, became the harshly-held favorite, who ran away and rioted and roamed and loved and married my brown mother. So with some circumstance having finally gotten myself born, with a flood of Negro blood, a strain of French, a bit of Dutch, but, thank God! no "Anglo-Saxon," I come to the days of my childhood. They were very happy. Early we moved back to Grandfather Burghardt's home,--I barely remember its stone fireplace, big kitchen, and delightful woodshed. Then this house passed to other branches of the clan and we moved to rented quarters in town,--to one delectable place "upstairs," with a wide yard full of shrubbery, and a brook; to another house abutting a railroad, with infinite interests and astonishing playmates; and finally back to the quiet street on which I was born,--down a long lane and in a homely, cozy cottage, with a living-room, a tiny sitting-room, a pantry, and two attic bedrooms. Here mother and I lived until she died, in 1884, for father early began his restless wanderings. I last remember urgent letters for us to come to New Milford, where he had started a barber shop. Later he became a preacher. But mother no longer trusted his dreams, and he soon faded out of our lives into silence. From the age of five until I was sixteen I went to a school on the same grounds,--down a lane, into a widened yard, with a big choke-cherry tree and two buildings, wood and brick. Here I got acquainted with my world, and soon had my criterions of judgment. Wealth had no particular lure. On the other hand, the shadow of wealth was about us. That river of my birth was golden because of the woolen and paper waste that soiled it. The gold was theirs, not ours; but the gleam and glint was for all. To me it was all in order and I took it philosophically. I cordially despised the poor Irish and South Germans, who slaved in the mills, and annexed the rich and well-to-do as my natural companions. Of such is the kingdom of snobs! Most of our townfolk were, naturally, the well-to-do, shading downward, but seldom reaching poverty. As playmate of the children I saw the homes of nearly every one, except a few immigrant New Yorkers, of whom none of us approved. The homes I saw impressed me, but did not overwhelm me. Many were bigger than mine, with newer and shinier things, but they did not seem to differ in kind. I think I probably surprised my hosts more than they me, for I was easily at home and perfectly happy and they looked to me just like ordinary people, while my brown face and frizzled hair must have seemed strange to them. Yet I was very much one of them. I was a center and sometimes the leader of the town gang of boys. We were noisy, but never very bad,--and, indeed, my mother's quiet influence came in here, as I realize now. She did not try to make me perfect. To her I was already perfect. She simply warned me of a few things, especially saloons. In my town the saloon was the open door to hell. The best families had their drunkards and the worst had little else. Very gradually,--I cannot now distinguish the steps, though here and there I remember a jump or a jolt--but very gradually I found myself assuming quite placidly that I was different from other children. At first I think I connected the difference with a manifest ability to get my lessons rather better than most and to recite with a certain happy, almost taunting, glibness, which brought frowns here and there. Then, slowly, I realized that some folks, a few, even several, actually considered my brown skin a misfortune; once or twice I became painfully aware that some human beings even thought it a crime. I was not for a moment daunted,--although, of course, there were some days of secret tears--rather I was spurred to tireless effort. If they beat me at anything, I was grimly determined to make them sweat for it! Once I remember challenging a great, hard farmer-boy to battle, when I knew he could whip me; and he did. But ever after, he was polite. As time flew I felt not so much disowned and rejected as rather drawn up into higher spaces and made part of a mightier mission. At times I almost pitied my pale companions, who were not of the Lord's anointed and who saw in their dreams no splendid quests of golden fleeces. Even in the matter of girls my peculiar phantasy asserted itself. Naturally, it was in our town voted bad form for boys of twelve and fourteen to show any evident weakness for girls. We tolerated them loftily, and now and then they played in our games, when I joined in quite as naturally as the rest. It was when strangers came, or summer boarders, or when the oldest girls grew up that my sharp senses noted little hesitancies in public and searchings for possible public opinion. Then I flamed! I lifted my chin and strode off to the mountains, where I viewed the world at my feet and strained my eyes across the shadow of the hills. I was graduated from high school at sixteen, and I talked of "Wendell Phillips." This was my first sweet taste of the world's applause. There were flowers and upturned faces, music and marching, and there was my mother's smile. She was lame, then, and a bit drawn, but very happy. It was her great day and that very year she lay down with a sigh of content and has not yet awakened. I felt a certain gladness to see her, at last, at peace, for she had worried all her life. Of my own loss I had then little realization. That came only with the after-years. Now it was the choking gladness and solemn feel of wings! At last, I was going beyond the hills and into the world that beckoned steadily. There came a little pause,--a singular pause. I was given to understand that I was almost too young for the world. Harvard was the goal of my dreams, but my white friends hesitated and my colored friends were silent. Harvard was a mighty conjure-word in that hill town, and even the mill owners' sons had aimed lower. Finally it was tactfully explained that the place for me was in the South among my people. A scholarship had been already arranged at Fisk, and my summer earnings would pay the fare. My relatives grumbled, but after a twinge I felt a strange delight! I forgot, or did not thoroughly realize, the curious irony by which I was not looked upon as a real citizen of my birth-town, with a future and a career, and instead was being sent to a far land among strangers who were regarded as (and in truth were) "mine own people." Ah! the wonder of that journey, with its faint spice of adventure, as I entered the land of slaves; the never-to-be-forgotten marvel of that first supper at Fisk with the world "colored" and opposite two of the most beautiful beings God ever revealed to the eyes of seventeen. I promptly lost my appetite, but I was deliriously happy! As I peer back through the shadow of my years, seeing not too clearly, but through the thickening veil of wish and after-thought, I seem to view my life divided into four distinct parts: the Age of Miracles, the Days of Disillusion, the Discipline of Work and Play, and the Second Miracle Age. The Age of Miracles began with Fisk and ended with Germany. I was bursting with the joy of living. I seemed to ride in conquering might. I was captain of my soul and master of fate! I _willed_ to do! It was done. I _wished!_ The wish came true. Now and then out of the void flashed the great sword of hate to remind me of the battle. I remember once, in Nashville, brushing by accident against a white woman on the street. Politely and eagerly I raised my hat to apologize. That was thirty-five years ago. From that day to this I have never knowingly raised my hat to a Southern white woman. I suspect that beneath all of my seeming triumphs there were many failures and disappointments, but the realities loomed so large that they swept away even the memory of other dreams and wishes. Consider, for a moment, how miraculous it all was to a boy of seventeen, just escaped from a narrow valley: I willed and lo! my people came dancing about me,--riotous in color, gay in laughter, full of sympathy, need, and pleading; darkly delicious girls--"colored" girls--sat beside me and actually talked to me while I gazed in tongue-tied silence or babbled in boastful dreams. Boys with my own experiences and out of my own world, who knew and understood, wrought out with me great remedies. I studied eagerly under teachers who bent in subtle sympathy, feeling themselves some shadow of the Veil and lifting it gently that we darker souls might peer through to other worlds. I willed and lo! I was walking beneath the elms of Harvard,--the name of allurement, the college of my youngest, wildest visions! I needed money; scholarships and prizes fell into my lap,--not all I wanted or strove for, but all I needed to keep in school. Commencement came and standing before governor, president, and grave, gowned men, I told them certain astonishing truths, waving my arms and breathing fast! They applauded with what now seems to me uncalled-for fervor, but then! I walked home on pink clouds of glory! I asked for a fellowship and got it. I announced my plan of studying in Germany, but Harvard had no more fellowships for me. A friend, however, told me of the Slater Fund and how the Board was looking for colored men worth educating. No thought of modest hesitation occurred to me. I rushed at the chance. The trustees of the Slater Fund excused themselves politely. They acknowledged that they had in the past looked for colored boys of ability to educate, but, being unsuccessful, they had stopped searching. I went at them hammer and tongs! I plied them with testimonials and mid-year and final marks. I intimated plainly, impudently, that they were "stalling"! In vain did the chairman, Ex-President Hayes, explain and excuse. I took no excuses and brushed explanations aside. I wonder now that he did not brush me aside, too, as a conceited meddler, but instead he smiled and surrendered. I crossed the ocean in a trance. Always I seemed to be saying, "It is not real; I must be dreaming!" I can live it again--the little, Dutch ship--the blue waters--the smell of new-mown hay--Holland and the Rhine. I saw the Wartburg and Berlin; I made the Harzreise and climbed the Brocken; I saw the Hansa towns and the cities and dorfs of South Germany; I saw the Alps at Berne, the Cathedral at Milan, Florence, Rome, Venice, Vienna, and Pesth; I looked on the boundaries of Russia; and I sat in Paris and London. On mountain and valley, in home and school, I met men and women as I had never met them before. Slowly they became, not white folks, but folks. The unity beneath all life clutched me. I was not less fanatically a Negro, but "Negro" meant a greater, broader sense of humanity and world-fellowship. I felt myself standing, not against the world, but simply against American narrowness and color prejudice, with the greater, finer world at my back urging me on. I builded great castles in Spain and lived therein. I dreamed and loved and wandered and sang; then, after two long years, I dropped suddenly back into "nigger"-hating America! My Days of Disillusion were not disappointing enough to discourage me. I was still upheld by that fund of infinite faith, although dimly about me I saw the shadow of disaster. I began to realize how much of what I had called Will and Ability was sheer Luck! _Suppose_ my good mother had preferred a steady income from my child labor rather than bank on the precarious dividend of my higher training? _Suppose_ that pompous old village judge, whose dignity we often ruffled and whose apples we stole, had had his way and sent me while a child to a "reform" school to learn a "trade"? _Suppose_ Principal Hosmer had been born with no faith in "darkies," and instead of giving me Greek and Latin had taught me carpentry and the making of tin pans? _Suppose_ I had missed a Harvard scholarship? _Suppose_ the Slater Board had then, as now, distinct ideas as to where the education of Negroes should stop? Suppose _and_ suppose! As I sat down calmly on flat earth and looked at my life a certain great fear seized me. Was I the masterful captain or the pawn of laughing sprites? Who was I to fight a world of color prejudice? I raise my hat to myself when I remember that, even with these thoughts, I did not hesitate or waver; but just went doggedly to work, and therein lay whatever salvation I have achieved. First came the task of earning a living. I was not nice or hard to please. I just got down on my knees and begged for work, anything and anywhere. I wrote to Hampton, Tuskegee, and a dozen other places. They politely declined, with many regrets. The trustees of a backwoods Tennessee town considered me, but were eventually afraid. Then, suddenly, Wilberforce offered to let me teach Latin and Greek at $750 a year. I was overjoyed! I did not know anything about Latin and Greek, but I did know of Wilberforce. The breath of that great name had swept the water and dropped into southern Ohio, where Southerners had taken their cure at Tawawa Springs and where white Methodists had planted a school; then came the little bishop, Daniel Payne, who made it a school of the African Methodists. This was the school that called me, and when re-considered offers from Tuskegee and Jefferson City followed, I refused; I was so thankful for that first offer. I went to Wilberforce with high ideals. I wanted to help to build a great university. I was willing to work night as well as day. I taught Latin, Greek, English, and German. I helped in the discipline, took part in the social life, begged to be allowed to lecture on sociology, and began to write books. But I found myself against a stone wall. Nothing stirred before my impatient pounding! Or if it stirred, it soon slept again. Of course, I was too impatient! The snarl of years was not to be undone in days. I set at solving the problem before I knew it. Wilberforce was a colored church-school. In it were mingled the problems of poorly-prepared pupils, an inadequately-equipped plant, the natural politics of bishoprics, and the provincial reactions of a country town loaded with traditions. It was my first introduction to a Negro world, and I was at once marvelously inspired and deeply depressed. I was inspired with the children,--had I not rubbed against the children of the world and did I not find here the same eagerness, the same joy of life, the same brains as in New England, France, and Germany? But, on the other hand, the ropes and myths and knots and hindrances; the thundering waves of the white world beyond beating us back; the scalding breakers of this inner world,--its currents and back eddies--its meanness and smallness--its sorrow and tragedy--its screaming farce! In all this I was as one bound hand and foot. Struggle, work, fight as I would, I seemed to get nowhere and accomplish nothing. I had all the wild intolerance of youth, and no experience in human tangles. For the first time in my life I realized that there were limits to my will to do. The Day of Miracles was past, and a long, gray road of dogged work lay ahead. I had, naturally, my triumphs here and there. I defied the bishops in the matter of public extemporaneous prayer and they yielded. I bearded the poor, hunted president in his den, and yet was re-elected to my position. I was slowly winning a way, but quickly losing faith in the value of the way won. Was this the place to begin my life work? Was this the work which I was best fitted to do? What business had I, anyhow, to teach Greek when I had studied men? I grew sure that I had made a mistake. So I determined to leave Wilberforce and try elsewhere. Thus, the third period of my life began. First, in 1896, I married--a slip of a girl, beautifully dark-eyed and thorough and good as a German housewife. Then I accepted a job to make a study of Negroes in Philadelphia for the University of Pennsylvania,--one year at six hundred dollars. How did I dare these two things? I do not know. Yet they spelled salvation. To remain at Wilberforce without doing my ideals meant spiritual death. Both my wife and I were homeless. I dared a home and a temporary job. But it was a different daring from the days of my first youth. I was ready to admit that the best of men might fail. I meant still to be captain of my soul, but I realized that even captains are not omnipotent in uncharted and angry seas. I essayed a thorough piece of work in Philadelphia. I labored morning, noon, and night. Nobody ever reads that fat volume on "The Philadelphia Negro," but they treat it with respect, and that consoles me. The colored people of Philadelphia received me with no open arms. They had a natural dislike to being studied like a strange species. I met again and in different guise those curious cross-currents and inner social whirlings of my own people. They set me to groping. I concluded that I did not know so much as I might about my own people, and when President Bumstead invited me to Atlanta University the next year to teach sociology and study the American Negro, I accepted gladly, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars. My real life work was done at Atlanta for thirteen years, from my twenty-ninth to my forty-second birthday. They were years of great spiritual upturning, of the making and unmaking of ideals, of hard work and hard play. Here I found myself. I lost most of my mannerisms. I grew more broadly human, made my closest and most holy friendships, and studied human beings. I became widely-acquainted with the real condition of my people. I realized the terrific odds which faced them. At Wilberforce I was their captious critic. In Philadelphia I was their cold and scientific investigator, with microscope and probe. It took but a few years of Atlanta to bring me to hot and indignant defense. I saw the race-hatred of the whites as I had never dreamed of it before,--naked and unashamed! The faint discrimination of my hopes and intangible dislikes paled into nothing before this great, red monster of cruel oppression. I held back with more difficulty each day my mounting indignation against injustice and misrepresentation. With all this came the strengthening and hardening of my own character. The billows of birth, love, and death swept over me. I saw life through all its paradox and contradiction of streaming eyes and mad merriment. I emerged into full manhood, with the ruins of some ideals about me, but with others planted above the stars; scarred and a bit grim, but hugging to my soul the divine gift of laughter and withal determined, even unto stubbornness, to fight the good fight. At last, forbear and waver as I would, I faced the great Decision. My life's last and greatest door stood ajar. What with all my dreaming, studying, and teaching was I going to _do_ in this fierce fight? Despite all my youthful conceit and bumptiousness, I found developed beneath it all a reticence and new fear of forwardness, which sprang from searching criticisms of motive and high ideals of efficiency; but contrary to my dream of racial solidarity and notwithstanding my deep desire to serve and follow and think, rather than to lead and inspire and decide, I found myself suddenly the leader of a great wing of people fighting against another and greater wing. Nor could any effort of mine keep this fight from sinking to the personal plane. Heaven knows I tried. That first meeting of a knot of enthusiasts, at Niagara Falls, had all the earnestness of self-devotion. At the second meeting, at Harper's Ferry, it arose to the solemnity of a holy crusade and yet without and to the cold, hard stare of the world it seemed merely the envy of fools against a great man, Booker Washington. Of the movement I was willy-nilly leader. I hated the role. For the first time I faced criticism and _cared_. Every ideal and habit of my life was cruelly misjudged. I who had always overstriven to give credit for good work, who had never consciously stooped to envy was accused by honest colored people of every sort of small and petty jealousy, while white people said I was ashamed of my race and wanted to be white! And this of me, whose one life fanaticism had been belief in my Negro blood! Away back in the little years of my boyhood I had sold the Springfield _Republican_ and written for Mr. Fortune's _Globe_. I dreamed of being an editor myself some day. I am an editor. In the great, slashing days of college life I dreamed of a strong organization to fight the battles of the Negro race. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is such a body, and it grows daily. In the dark days at Wilberforce I planned a time when I could speak freely to my people and of them, interpreting between two worlds. I am speaking now. In the study at Atlanta I grew to fear lest my radical beliefs should so hurt the college that either my silence or the institution's ruin would result. Powers and principalities have not yet curbed my tongue and Atlanta still lives. It all came--this new Age of Miracles--because a few persons in 1909 determined to celebrate Lincoln's Birthday properly by calling for the final emancipation of the American Negro. I came at their call. My salary even for a year was not assured, but it was the "Voice without reply." The result has been the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and _The Crisis_ and this book, which I am finishing on my Fiftieth Birthday. Last year I looked death in the face and found its lineaments not unkind. But it was not my time. Yet in nature some time soon and in the fullness of days I shall die, quietly, I trust, with my face turned South and eastward; and, dreaming or dreamless, I shall, I am sure, enjoy death as I have enjoyed life. _A Litany at Atlanta_ O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears an-hungered in these fearful days-- _Hear us, good Lord!_ Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery in Thy Sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy Heaven, O God, crying: _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ We are not better than our fellows, Lord; we are but weak and human men. When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed,--curse them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home. _Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_ And yet, whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity? _Thou knowest, good God!_ Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence and the innocent be crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty? _Justice, O Judge of men!_ Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the Fathers dead? Have not seers seen in Heaven's halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of endless dead? _Awake, Thou that sleepest!_ Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, through blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women strong and free--far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy, and chaste prostitution of this shameful speck of dust! _Turn again, O Lord; leave us not to perish in our sin!_ From lust of body and lust of blood,-- _Great God, deliver us!_ From lust of power and lust of gold,-- _Great God, deliver us!_ From the leagued lying of despot and of brute,-- _Great God, deliver us!_ A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack, and cry of death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars where church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance! _Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_ In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears and held our leaping hands, but they--did they not wag their heads and leer and cry with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime!_ The word was mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one. _Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_ Behold this maimed and broken thing, dear God; it was an humble black man, who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told him: _Work and Rise!_ He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but someone told how someone said another did--one whom he had never seen nor known. Yet for that man's crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife naked to shame, his children to poverty and evil. _Hear us, O heavenly Father!_ Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes, who do such deeds, high on Thine Altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever and forever! _Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_ Bewildered we are and passion-tossed, mad with the madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth this? Tell us the plan; give us the sign! _Keep not Thou silent, O God!_ Sit not longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb suffering. Surely Thou, too, art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing! _Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_ Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words! Thou art still the God of our black fathers and in Thy Soul's Soul sit some soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night. But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path! Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and without, the liar. Whither? To death? _Amen! Welcome, dark sleep!_ Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we must,--and it is red. Ah! God! It is a red and awful shape. _Selah!_ In yonder East trembles a star. _Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!_ Thy Will, O Lord, be done! _Kyrie Eleison!_ Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little children. _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ Our voices sink in silence and in night. _Hear us, good Lord!_ In night, O God of a godless land! _Amen!_ In silence, O Silent God. _Selah!_ II THE SOULS OF WHITE FOLK High in the tower, where I sit above the loud complaining of the human sea, I know many souls that toss and whirl and pass, but none there are that intrigue me more than the Souls of White Folk. Of them I am singularly clairvoyant. I see in and through them. I view them from unusual points of vantage. Not as a foreigner do I come, for I am native, not foreign, bone of their thought and flesh of their language. Mine is not the knowledge of the traveler or the colonial composite of dear memories, words and wonder. Nor yet is my knowledge that which servants have of masters, or mass of class, or capitalist of artisan. Rather I see these souls undressed and from the back and side. I see the working of their entrails. I know their thoughts and they know that I know. This knowledge makes them now embarrassed, now furious. They deny my right to live and be and call me misbirth! My word is to them mere bitterness and my soul, pessimism. And yet as they preach and strut and shout and threaten, crouching as they clutch at rags of facts and fancies to hide their nakedness, they go twisting, flying by my tired eyes and I see them ever stripped,--ugly, human. The discovery of personal whiteness among the world's peoples is a very modern thing,--a nineteenth and twentieth century matter, indeed. The ancient world would have laughed at such a distinction. The Middle Age regarded skin color with mild curiosity; and even up into the eighteenth century we were hammering our national manikins into one, great, Universal Man, with fine frenzy which ignored color and race even more than birth. Today we have changed all that, and the world in a sudden, emotional conversion has discovered that it is white and by that token, wonderful! This assumption that of all the hues of God whiteness alone is inherently and obviously better than brownness or tan leads to curious acts; even the sweeter souls of the dominant world as they discourse with me on weather, weal, and woe are continually playing above their actual words an obligato of tune and tone, saying: "My poor, un-white thing! Weep not nor rage. I know, too well, that the curse of God lies heavy on you. Why? That is not for me to say, but be brave! Do your work in your lowly sphere, praying the good Lord that into heaven above, where all is love, you may, one day, be born--white!" I do not laugh. I am quite straight-faced as I ask soberly: "But what on earth is whiteness that one should so desire it?" Then always, somehow, some way, silently but clearly, I am given to understand that whiteness is the ownership of the earth forever and ever, Amen! Now what is the effect on a man or a nation when it comes passionately to believe such an extraordinary dictum as this? That nations are coming to believe it is manifest daily. Wave on wave, each with increasing virulence, is dashing this new religion of whiteness on the shores of our time. Its first effects are funny: the strut of the Southerner, the arrogance of the Englishman amuck, the whoop of the hoodlum who vicariously leads your mob. Next it appears dampening generous enthusiasm in what we once counted glorious; to free the slave is discovered to be tolerable only in so far as it freed his master! Do we sense somnolent writhings in black Africa or angry groans in India or triumphant banzais in Japan? "To your tents, O Israel!" These nations are not white! After the more comic manifestations and the chilling of generous enthusiasm come subtler, darker deeds. Everything considered, the title to the universe claimed by White Folk is faulty. It ought, at least, to look plausible. How easy, then, by emphasis and omission to make children believe that every great soul the world ever saw was a white man's soul; that every great thought the world ever knew was a white man's thought; that every great deed the world ever did was a white man's deed; that every great dream the world ever sang was a white man's dream. In fine, that if from the world were dropped everything that could not fairly be attributed to White Folk, the world would, if anything, be even greater, truer, better than now. And if all this be a lie, is it not a lie in a great cause? Here it is that the comedy verges to tragedy. The first minor note is struck, all unconsciously, by those worthy souls in whom consciousness of high descent brings burning desire to spread the gift abroad,--the obligation of nobility to the ignoble. Such sense of duty assumes two things: a real possession of the heritage and its frank appreciation by the humble-born. So long, then, as humble black folk, voluble with thanks, receive barrels of old clothes from lordly and generous whites, there is much mental peace and moral satisfaction. But when the black man begins to dispute the white man's title to certain alleged bequests of the Fathers in wage and position, authority and training; and when his attitude toward charity is sullen anger rather than humble jollity; when he insists on his human right to swagger and swear and waste,--then the spell is suddenly broken and the philanthropist is ready to believe that Negroes are impudent, that the South is right, and that Japan wants to fight America. After this the descent to Hell is easy. On the pale, white faces which the great billows whirl upward to my tower I see again and again, often and still more often, a writing of human hatred, a deep and passionate hatred, vast by the very vagueness of its expressions. Down through the green waters, on the bottom of the world, where men move to and fro, I have seen a man--an educated gentleman--grow livid with anger because a little, silent, black woman was sitting by herself in a Pullman car. He was a white man. I have seen a great, grown man curse a little child, who had wandered into the wrong waiting-room, searching for its mother: "Here, you damned black--" He was white. In Central Park I have seen the upper lip of a quiet, peaceful man curl back in a tigerish snarl of rage because black folk rode by in a motor car. He was a white man. We have seen, you and I, city after city drunk and furious with ungovernable lust of blood; mad with murder, destroying, killing, and cursing; torturing human victims because somebody accused of crime happened to be of the same color as the mob's innocent victims and because that color was not white! We have seen,--Merciful God! in these wild days and in the name of Civilization, Justice, and Motherhood,--what have we not seen, right here in America, of orgy, cruelty, barbarism, and murder done to men and women of Negro descent. Up through the foam of green and weltering waters wells this great mass of hatred, in wilder, fiercer violence, until I look down and know that today to the millions of my people no misfortune could happen,--of death and pestilence, failure and defeat--that would not make the hearts of millions of their fellows beat with fierce, vindictive joy! Do you doubt it? Ask your own soul what it would say if the next census were to report that half of black America was dead and the other half dying. Unfortunate? Unfortunate. But where is the misfortune? Mine? Am I, in my blackness, the sole sufferer? I suffer. And yet, somehow, above the suffering, above the shackled anger that beats the bars, above the hurt that crazes there surges in me a vast pity,--pity for a people imprisoned and enthralled, hampered and made miserable for such a cause, for such a phantasy! Conceive this nation, of all human peoples, engaged in a crusade to make the "World Safe for Democracy"! Can you imagine the United States protesting against Turkish atrocities in Armenia, while the Turks are silent about mobs in Chicago and St. Louis; what is Louvain compared with Memphis, Waco, Washington, Dyersburg, and Estill Springs? In short, what is the black man but America's Belgium, and how could America condemn in Germany that which she commits, just as brutally, within her own borders? A true and worthy ideal frees and uplifts a people; a false ideal imprisons and lowers. Say to men, earnestly and repeatedly: "Honesty is best, knowledge is power; do unto others as you would be done by." Say this and act it and the nation must move toward it, if not to it. But say to a people: "The one virtue is to be white," and the people rush to the inevitable conclusion, "Kill the 'nigger'!" Is not this the record of present America? Is not this its headlong progress? Are we not coming more and more, day by day, to making the statement "I am white," the one fundamental tenet of our practical morality? Only when this basic, iron rule is involved is our defense of right nation-wide and prompt. Murder may swagger, theft may rule and prostitution may flourish and the nation gives but spasmodic, intermittent and lukewarm attention. But let the murderer be black or the thief brown or the violator of womanhood have a drop of Negro blood, and the righteousness of the indignation sweeps the world. Nor would this fact make the indignation less justifiable did not we all know that it was blackness that was condemned and not crime. In the awful cataclysm of World War, where from beating, slandering, and murdering us the white world turned temporarily aside to kill each other, we of the Darker Peoples looked on in mild amaze. Among some of us, I doubt not, this sudden descent of Europe into hell brought unbounded surprise; to others, over wide area, it brought the _Schaden Freude_ of the bitterly hurt; but most of us, I judge, looked on silently and sorrowfully, in sober thought, seeing sadly the prophecy of our own souls. Here is a civilization that has boasted much. Neither Roman nor Arab, Greek nor Egyptian, Persian nor Mongol ever took himself and his own perfectness with such disconcerting seriousness as the modern white man. We whose shame, humiliation, and deep insult his aggrandizement so often involved were never deceived. We looked at him clearly, with world-old eyes, and saw simply a human thing, weak and pitiable and cruel, even as we are and were. These super-men and world-mastering demi-gods listened, however, to no low tongues of ours, even when we pointed silently to their feet of clay. Perhaps we, as folk of simpler soul and more primitive type, have been most struck in the welter of recent years by the utter failure of white religion. We have curled our lips in something like contempt as we have witnessed glib apology and weary explanation. Nothing of the sort deceived us. A nation's religion is its life, and as such white Christianity is a miserable failure. Nor would we be unfair in this criticism: We know that we, too, have failed, as you have, and have rejected many a Buddha, even as you have denied Christ; but we acknowledge our human frailty, while you, claiming super-humanity, scoff endlessly at our shortcomings. The number of white individuals who are practising with even reasonable approximation the democracy and unselfishness of Jesus Christ is so small and unimportant as to be fit subject for jest in Sunday supplements and in _Punch_, _Life_, _Le Rire_, and _Fliegende Bltter_. In her foreign mission work the extraordinary self-deception of white religion is epitomized: solemnly the white world sends five million dollars worth of missionary propaganda to Africa each year and in the same twelve months adds twenty-five million dollars worth of the vilest gin manufactured. Peace to the augurs of Rome! We may, however, grant without argument that religious ideals have always far outrun their very human devotees. Let us, then, turn to more mundane matters of honor and fairness. The world today is trade. The world has turned shopkeeper; history is economic history; living is earning a living. Is it necessary to ask how much of high emprise and honorable conduct has been found here? Something, to be sure. The establishment of world credit systems is built on splendid and realizable faith in fellow-men. But it is, after all, so low and elementary a step that sometimes it looks merely like honor among thieves, for the revelations of highway robbery and low cheating in the business world and in all its great modern centers have raised in the hearts of all true men in our day an exceeding great cry for revolution in our basic methods and conceptions of industry and commerce. We do not, for a moment, forget the robbery of other times and races when trade was a most uncertain gamble; but was there not a certain honesty and frankness in the evil that argued a saner morality? There are more merchants today, surer deliveries, and wider well-being, but are there not, also, bigger thieves, deeper injustice, and more calloused selfishness in well-being? Be that as it may,--certainly the nicer sense of honor that has risen ever and again in groups of forward-thinking men has been curiously and broadly blunted. Consider our chiefest industry,--fighting. Laboriously the Middle Ages built its rules of fairness--equal armament, equal notice, equal conditions. What do we see today? Machine-guns against assegais; conquest sugared with religion; mutilation and rape masquerading as culture,--all this, with vast applause at the superiority of white over black soldiers! War is horrible! This the dark world knows to its awful cost. But has it just become horrible, in these last days, when under essentially equal conditions, equal armament, and equal waste of wealth white men are fighting white men, with surgeons and nurses hovering near? Think of the wars through which we have lived in the last decade: in German Africa, in British Nigeria, in French and Spanish Morocco, in China, in Persia, in the Balkans, in Tripoli, in Mexico, and in a dozen lesser places--were not these horrible, too? Mind you, there were for most of these wars no Red Cross funds. Behold little Belgium and her pitiable plight, but has the world forgotten Congo? What Belgium now suffers is not half, not even a tenth, of what she has done to black Congo since Stanley's great dream of 1880. Down the dark forests of inmost Africa sailed this modern Sir Galahad, in the name of "the noble-minded men of several nations," to introduce commerce and civilization. What came of it? "Rubber and murder, slavery in its worst form," wrote Glave in 1895. Harris declares that King Leopold's rgime meant the death of twelve million natives, "but what we who were behind the scenes felt most keenly was the fact that the real catastrophe in the Congo was desolation and murder in the larger sense. The invasion of family life, the ruthless destruction of every social barrier, the shattering of every tribal law, the introduction of criminal practices which struck the chiefs of the people dumb with horror--in a word, a veritable avalanche of filth and immorality overwhelmed the Congo tribes." Yet the fields of Belgium laughed, the cities were gay, art and science flourished; the groans that helped to nourish this civilization fell on deaf ears because the world round about was doing the same sort of thing elsewhere on its own account. As we saw the dead dimly through rifts of battlesmoke and heard faintly the cursings and accusations of blood brothers, we darker men said: This is not Europe gone mad; this is not aberration nor insanity; this _is_ Europe; this seeming Terrible is the real soul of white culture--back of all culture,--stripped and visible today. This is where the world has arrived,--these dark and awful depths and not the shining and ineffable heights of which it boasted. Here is whither the might and energy of modern humanity has really gone. But may not the world cry back at us and ask: "What better thing have you to show? What have you done or would do better than this if you had today the world rule? Paint with all riot of hateful colors the thin skin of European culture,--is it not better than any culture that arose in Africa or Asia?" It is. Of this there is no doubt and never has been; but why is it better? Is it better because Europeans are better, nobler, greater, and more gifted than other folk? It is not. Europe has never produced and never will in our day bring forth a single human soul who cannot be matched and over-matched in every line of human endeavor by Asia and Africa. Run the gamut, if you will, and let us have the Europeans who in sober truth over-match Nefertari, Mohammed, Rameses and Askia, Confucius, Buddha, and Jesus Christ. If we could scan the calendar of thousands of lesser men, in like comparison, the result would be the same; but we cannot do this because of the deliberately educated ignorance of white schools by which they remember Napoleon and forget Sonni Ali. The greatness of Europe has lain in the width of the stage on which she has played her part, the strength of the foundations on which she has builded, and a natural, human ability no whit greater (if as great) than that of other days and races. In other words, the deeper reasons for the triumph of European civilization lie quite outside and beyond Europe,--back in the universal struggles of all mankind. Why, then, is Europe great? Because of the foundations which the mighty past have furnished her to build upon: the iron trade of ancient, black Africa, the religion and empire-building of yellow Asia, the art and science of the "dago" Mediterranean shore, east, south, and west, as well as north. And where she has builded securely upon this great past and learned from it she has gone forward to greater and more splendid human triumph; but where she has ignored this past and forgotten and sneered at it, she has shown the cloven hoof of poor, crucified humanity,--she has played, like other empires gone, the world fool! If, then, European triumphs in culture have been greater, so, too, may her failures have been greater. How great a failure and a failure in what does the World War betoken? Was it national jealousy of the sort of the seventeenth century? But Europe has done more to break down national barriers than any preceding culture. Was it fear of the balance of power in Europe? Hardly, save in the half-Asiatic problems of the Balkans. What, then, does Hauptmann mean when he says: "Our jealous enemies forged an iron ring about our breasts and we knew our breasts had to expand,--that we had to split asunder this ring or else we had to cease breathing. But Germany will not cease to breathe and so it came to pass that the iron ring was forced apart." Whither is this expansion? What is that breath of life, thought to be so indispensable to a great European nation? Manifestly it is expansion overseas; it is colonial aggrandizement which explains, and alone adequately explains, the World War. How many of us today fully realize the current theory of colonial expansion, of the relation of Europe which is white, to the world which is black and brown and yellow? Bluntly put, that theory is this: It is the duty of white Europe to divide up the darker world and administer it for Europe's good. This Europe has largely done. The European world is using black and brown men for all the uses which men know. Slowly but surely white culture is evolving the theory that "darkies" are born beasts of burden for white folk. It were silly to think otherwise, cries the cultured world, with stronger and shriller accord. The supporting arguments grow and twist themselves in the mouths of merchant, scientist, soldier, traveler, writer, and missionary: Darker peoples are dark in mind as well as in body; of dark, uncertain, and imperfect descent; of frailer, cheaper stuff; they are cowards in the face of mausers and maxims; they have no feelings, aspirations, and loves; they are fools, illogical idiots,--"half-devil and half-child." Such as they are civilization must, naturally, raise them, but soberly and in limited ways. They are not simply dark white men. They are not "men" in the sense that Europeans are men. To the very limited extent of their shallow capacities lift them to be useful to whites, to raise cotton, gather rubber, fetch ivory, dig diamonds,--and let them be paid what men think they are worth--white men who know them to be well-nigh worthless. Such degrading of men by men is as old as mankind and the invention of no one race or people. Ever have men striven to conceive of their victims as different from the victors, endlessly different, in soul and blood, strength and cunning, race and lineage. It has been left, however, to Europe and to modern days to discover the eternal world-wide mark of meanness,--color! Such is the silent revolution that has gripped modern European culture in the later nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Its zenith came in Boxer times: White supremacy was all but world-wide, Africa was dead, India conquered, Japan isolated, and China prostrate, while white America whetted her sword for mongrel Mexico and mulatto South America, lynching her own Negroes the while. Temporary halt in this program was made by little Japan and the white world immediately sensed the peril of such "yellow" presumption! What sort of a world would this be if yellow men must be treated "white"? Immediately the eventual overthrow of Japan became a subject of deep thought and intrigue, from St. Petersburg to San Francisco, from the Key of Heaven to the Little Brother of the Poor. The using of men for the benefit of masters is no new invention of modern Europe. It is quite as old as the world. But Europe proposed to apply it on a scale and with an elaborateness of detail of which no former world ever dreamed. The imperial width of the thing,--the heaven-defying audacity--makes its modern newness. The scheme of Europe was no sudden invention, but a way out of long-pressing difficulties. It is plain to modern white civilization that the subjection of the white working classes cannot much longer be maintained. Education, political power, and increased knowledge of the technique and meaning of the industrial process are destined to make a more and more equitable distribution of wealth in the near future. The day of the very rich is drawing to a close, so far as individual white nations are concerned. But there is a loophole. There is a chance for exploitation on an immense scale for inordinate profit, not simply to the very rich, but to the middle class and to the laborers. This chance lies in the exploitation of darker peoples. It is here that the golden hand beckons. Here are no labor unions or votes or questioning onlookers or inconvenient consciences. These men may be used down to the very bone, and shot and maimed in "punitive" expeditions when they revolt. In these dark lands "industrial development" may repeat in exaggerated form every horror of the industrial history of Europe, from slavery and rape to disease and maiming, with only one test of success,--dividends! This theory of human culture and its aims has worked itself through warp and woof of our daily thought with a thoroughness that few realize. Everything great, good, efficient, fair, and honorable is "white"; everything mean, bad, blundering, cheating, and dishonorable is "yellow"; a bad taste is "brown"; and the devil is "black." The changes of this theme are continually rung in picture and story, in newspaper heading and moving-picture, in sermon and school book, until, of course, the King can do no wrong,--a White Man is always right and a Black Man has no rights which a white man is bound to respect. There must come the necessary despisings and hatreds of these savage half-men, this unclean _canaille_ of the world--these dogs of men. All through the world this gospel is preaching. It has its literature, it has its secret propaganda and above all--it pays! There's the rub,--it pays. Rubber, ivory, and palm-oil; tea, coffee, and cocoa; bananas, oranges, and other fruit; cotton, gold, and copper--they, and a hundred other things which dark and sweating bodies hand up to the white world from pits of slime, pay and pay well, but of all that the world gets the black world gets only the pittance that the white world throws it disdainfully. Small wonder, then, that in the practical world of things-that-be there is jealousy and strife for the possession of the labor of dark millions, for the right to bleed and exploit the colonies of the world where this golden stream may be had, not always for the asking, but surely for the whipping and shooting. It was this competition for the labor of yellow, brown, and black folks that was the cause of the World War. Other causes have been glibly given and other contributing causes there doubtless were, but they were subsidiary and subordinate to this vast quest of the dark world's wealth and toil. Colonies, we call them, these places where "niggers" are cheap and the earth is rich; they are those outlands where like a swarm of hungry locusts white masters may settle to be served as kings, wield the lash of slave-drivers, rape girls and wives, grow as rich as Croesus and send homeward a golden stream. They belt the earth, these places, but they cluster in the tropics, with its darkened peoples: in Hong Kong and Anam, in Borneo and Rhodesia, in Sierra Leone and Nigeria, in Panama and Havana--these are the El Dorados toward which the world powers stretch itching palms. Germany, at last one and united and secure on land, looked across the seas and seeing England with sources of wealth insuring a luxury and power which Germany could not hope to rival by the slower processes of exploiting her own peasants and workingmen, especially with these workers half in revolt, immediately built her navy and entered into a desperate competition for possession of colonies of darker peoples. To South America, to China, to Africa, to Asia Minor, she turned like a hound quivering on the leash, impatient, suspicious, irritable, with blood-shot eyes and dripping fangs, ready for the awful word. England and France crouched watchfully over their bones, growling and wary, but gnawing industriously, while the blood of the dark world whetted their greedy appetites. In the background, shut out from the highway to the seven seas, sat Russia and Austria, snarling and snapping at each other and at the last Mediterranean gate to the El Dorado, where the Sick Man enjoyed bad health, and where millions of serfs in the Balkans, Russia, and Asia offered a feast to greed well-nigh as great as Africa. The fateful day came. It had to come. The cause of war is preparation for war; and of all that Europe has done in a century there is nothing that has equaled in energy, thought, and time her preparation for wholesale murder. The only adequate cause of this preparation was conquest and conquest, not in Europe, but primarily among the darker peoples of Asia and Africa; conquest, not for assimilation and uplift, but for commerce and degradation. For this, and this mainly, did Europe gird herself at frightful cost for war. The red day dawned when the tinder was lighted in the Balkans and Austro-Hungary seized a bit which brought her a step nearer to the world's highway; she seized one bit and poised herself for another. Then came that curious chorus of challenges, those leaping suspicions, raking all causes for distrust and rivalry and hatred, but saying little of the real and greatest cause. Each nation felt its deep interests involved. But how? Not, surely, in the death of Ferdinand the Warlike; not, surely, in the old, half-forgotten _revanche_ for Alsace-Lorraine; not even in the neutrality of Belgium. No! But in the possession of land overseas, in the right to colonies, the chance to levy endless tribute on the darker world,--on coolies in China, on starving peasants in India, on black savages in Africa, on dying South Sea Islanders, on Indians of the Amazon--all this and nothing more. Even the broken reed on which we had rested high hopes of eternal peace,--the guild of the laborers--the front of that very important movement for human justice on which we had builded most, even this flew like a straw before the breath of king and kaiser. Indeed, the flying had been foreshadowed when in Germany and America "international" Socialists had all but read yellow and black men out of the kingdom of industrial justice. Subtly had they been bribed, but effectively: Were they not lordly whites and should they not share in the spoils of rape? High wages in the United States and England might be the skilfully manipulated result of slavery in Africa and of peonage in Asia. With the dog-in-the-manger theory of trade, with the determination to reap inordinate profits and to exploit the weakest to the utmost there came a new imperialism,--the rage for one's own nation to own the earth or, at least, a large enough portion of it to insure as big profits as the next nation. Where sections could not be owned by one dominant nation there came a policy of "open door," but the "door" was open to "white people only." As to the darkest and weakest of peoples there was but one unanimity in Europe,--that which Hen Demberg of the German Colonial Office called the agreement with England to maintain white "prestige" in Africa,--the doctrine of the divine right of white people to steal. Thus the world market most wildly and desperately sought today is the market where labor is cheapest and most helpless and profit is most abundant. This labor is kept cheap and helpless because the white world despises "darkies." If one has the temerity to suggest that these workingmen may walk the way of white workingmen and climb by votes and self-assertion and education to the rank of men, he is howled out of court. They cannot do it and if they could, they shall not, for they are the enemies of the white race and the whites shall rule forever and forever and everywhere. Thus the hatred and despising of human beings from whom Europe wishes to extort her luxuries has led to such jealousy and bickering between European nations that they have fallen afoul of each other and have fought like crazed beasts. Such is the fruit of human hatred. But what of the darker world that watches? Most men belong to this world. With Negro and Negroid, East Indian, Chinese, and Japanese they form two-thirds of the population of the world. A belief in humanity is a belief in colored men. If the uplift of mankind must be done by men, then the destinies of this world will rest ultimately in the hands of darker nations. What, then, is this dark world thinking? It is thinking that as wild and awful as this shameful war was, _it is nothing to compare with that fight for freedom which black and brown and yellow men must and will make unless their oppression and humiliation and insult at the hands of the White World cease. The Dark World is going to submit to its present treatment just as long as it must and not one moment longer._ Let me say this again and emphasize it and leave no room for mistaken meaning: The World War was primarily the jealous and avaricious struggle for the largest share in exploiting darker races. As such it is and must be but the prelude to the armed and indignant protest of these despised and raped peoples. Today Japan is hammering on the door of justice, China is raising her half-manacled hands to knock next, India is writhing for the freedom to knock, Egypt is sullenly muttering, the Negroes of South and West Africa, of the West Indies, and of the United States are just awakening to their shameful slavery. Is, then, this war the end of wars? Can it be the end, so long as sits enthroned, even in the souls of those who cry peace, the despising and robbing of darker peoples? If Europe hugs this delusion, then this is not the end of world war,--it is but the beginning! We see Europe's greatest sin precisely where we found Africa's and Asia's,--in human hatred, the despising of men; with this difference, however: Europe has the awful lesson of the past before her, has the splendid results of widened areas of tolerance, sympathy, and love among men, and she faces a greater, an infinitely greater, world of men than any preceding civilization ever faced. It is curious to see America, the United States, looking on herself, first, as a sort of natural peacemaker, then as a moral protagonist in this terrible time. No nation is less fitted for this rle. For two or more centuries America has marched proudly in the van of human hatred,--making bonfires of human flesh and laughing at them hideously, and making the insulting of millions more than a matter of dislike,--rather a great religion, a world war-cry: Up white, down black; to your tents, O white folk, and world war with black and parti-colored mongrel beasts! Instead of standing as a great example of the success of democracy and the possibility of human brotherhood America has taken her place as an awful example of its pitfalls and failures, so far as black and brown and yellow peoples are concerned. And this, too, in spite of the fact that there has been no actual failure; the Indian is not dying out, the Japanese and Chinese have not menaced the land, and the experiment of Negro suffrage has resulted in the uplift of twelve million people at a rate probably unparalleled in history. But what of this? America, Land of Democracy, wanted to believe in the failure of democracy so far as darker peoples were concerned. Absolutely without excuse she established a caste system, rushed into preparation for war, and conquered tropical colonies. She stands today shoulder to shoulder with Europe in Europe's worst sin against civilization. She aspires to sit among the great nations who arbitrate the fate of "lesser breeds without the law" and she is at times heartily ashamed even of the large number of "new" white people whom her democracy has admitted to place and power. Against this surging forward of Irish and German, of Russian Jew, Slav and "dago" her social bars have not availed, but against Negroes she can and does take her unflinching and immovable stand, backed by this new public policy of Europe. She trains her immigrants to this despising of "niggers" from the day of their landing, and they carry and send the news back to the submerged classes in the fatherlands. * * * * * All this I see and hear up in my tower, above the thunder of the seven seas. From my narrowed windows I stare into the night that looms beneath the cloud-swept stars. Eastward and westward storms are breaking,--great, ugly whirlwinds of hatred and blood and cruelty. I will not believe them inevitable. I will not believe that all that was must be, that all the shameful drama of the past must be done again today before the sunlight sweeps the silver seas. If I cry amid this roar of elemental forces, must my cry be in vain, because it is but a cry,--a small and human cry amid Promethean gloom? Back beyond the world and swept by these wild, white faces of the awful dead, why will this Soul of White Folk,--this modern Prometheus,--hang bound by his own binding, tethered by a fable of the past? I hear his mighty cry reverberating through the world, "I am white!" Well and good, O Prometheus, divine thief! Is not the world wide enough for two colors, for many little shinings of the sun? Why, then, devour your own vitals if I answer even as proudly, "I am black!" _The Riddle of the Sphinx_ Dark daughter of the lotus leaves that watch the Southern Sea! Wan spirit of a prisoned soul a-panting to be free! The muttered music of thy streams, the whisper of the deep, Have kissed each other in God's name and kissed a world to sleep. The will of the world is a whistling wind, sweeping a cloud-swept sky, And not from the East and not from the West knelled that soul-waking cry, But out of the South,--the sad, black South--it screamed from the top of the sky, Crying: "Awake, O ancient race!" Wailing, "O woman, arise!" And crying and sighing and crying again as a voice in the midnight cries,-- But the burden of white men bore her back and the white world stifled her sighs. The white world's vermin and filth: All the dirt of London, All the scum of New York; Valiant spoilers of women And conquerers of unarmed men; Shameless breeders of bastards, Drunk with the greed of gold, Baiting their blood-stained hooks With cant for the souls of the simple; Bearing the white man's burden Of liquor and lust and lies! Unthankful we wince in the East, Unthankful we wail from the westward, Unthankfully thankful, we curse, In the unworn wastes of the wild: I hate them, Oh! I hate them well, I hate them, Christ! As I hate hell! If I were God, I'd sound their knell This day! Who raised the fools to their glory, But black men of Egypt and Ind, Ethiopia's sons of the evening, Indians and yellow Chinese, Arabian children of morning, And mongrels of Rome and Greece? Ah, well! And they that raised the boasters Shall drag them down again,-- Down with the theft of their thieving And murder and mocking of men; Down with their barter of women And laying and lying of creeds; Down with their cheating of childhood And drunken orgies of war,-- down down deep down, Till the devil's strength be shorn, Till some dim, darker David, a-hoeing of his corn, And married maiden, mother of God, Bid the black Christ be born! Then shall our burden be manhood, Be it yellow or black or white; And poverty and justice and sorrow, The humble, and simple and strong Shall sing with the sons of morning And daughters of even-song: Black mother of the iron hills that ward the blazing sea, Wild spirit of a storm-swept soul, a-struggling to be free, Where 'neath the bloody finger-marks thy riven bosom quakes, Thicken the thunders of God's Voice and lo! a world awakes! III THE HANDS OF ETHIOPIA "_Semper novi quid ex Africa_," cried the Roman proconsul, and he voiced the verdict of forty centuries. Yet there are those who would write world history and leave out of account this most marvelous of continents. Particularly today most men assume that Africa is far afield from the center of our burning social problems and especially from our problem of world war. Always Africa is giving us something new or some metempsychosis of a world-old thing. On its black bosom arose one of the earliest, if not the earliest, of self-protecting civilizations, which grew so mightily that it still furnishes superlatives to thinking and speaking men. Out of its darker and more remote forest fastnesses came, if we may credit many recent scientists, the first welding of iron, and we know that agriculture and trade flourished there when Europe was a wilderness. Nearly every human empire that has arisen in the world, material and spiritual, has found some of its greatest crises on this continent of Africa, from Greece to Great Britain. As Mommsen says: "It was through Africa that Christianity became the religion of the world." In Africa the last flood of Germanic invasions spent itself within hearing of the last gasp of Byzantium, and it was through Africa that Islam came to play its great rle of conqueror and civilizer. With the Renaissance and the widened world of modern thought Africa came no less suddenly with her new-old gift. Shakespeare's "Ancient Pistol" cries: A foutre for the world and worldlings base! I speak of Africa and golden joys! He echoes a legend of gold from the days of Punt and Ophir to those of Ghana, the Gold Coast, and the Rand. This thought had sent the world's greed scurrying down the hot, mysterious coasts of Africa to the Good Hope of gain, until for the first time a real world-commerce was born, albeit it started as a commerce mainly in the bodies and souls of men. The present problem of problems is nothing more than democracy beating itself helplessly against the color bar,--purling, seeping, seething, foaming to burst through, ever and again overwhelming the emerging masses of white men in its rolling backwaters and held back by those who dream of future kingdoms of greed built on black and brown and yellow slavery. The indictment of Africa against Europe is grave. For four hundred years white Europe was the chief support of that trade in human beings which first and last robbed black Africa of a hundred million human beings, transformed the face of her social life, overthrew organized government, distorted ancient industry, and snuffed out the lights of cultural development. Today instead of removing laborers from Africa to distant slavery, industry built on a new slavery approaches Africa to deprive the natives of their land, to force them to toil, and to reap all the profit for the white world. It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader of the essential facts underlying these broad assertions. A recent law of the Union of South Africa assigns nearly two hundred and fifty million acres of the best of natives' land to a million and a half whites and leaves thirty-six million acres of swamp and marsh for four and a half-million blacks. In Rhodesia over ninety million acres have been practically confiscated. In the Belgian Congo all the land was declared the property of the state. Slavery in all but name has been the foundation of the cocoa industry in St. Thome and St. Principe and in the mines of the Rand. Gin has been one of the greatest of European imports, having increased fifty per cent. in ten years and reaching a total of at least twenty-five million dollars a year today. Negroes of ability have been carefully gotten rid of, deposed from authority, kept out of positions of influence, and discredited in their people's eyes, while a caste of white overseers and governing officials has appeared everywhere. Naturally, the picture is not all lurid. David Livingstone has had his successors and Europe has given Africa something of value in the beginning of education and industry. Yet the balance of iniquity is desperately large; but worse than that, it has aroused no world protest. A great Englishman, familiar with African problems for a generation, says frankly today: "There does not exist any real international conscience to which you can appeal." Moreover, that treatment shows no certain signs of abatement. Today in England the Empire Resources Development Committee proposes to treat African colonies as "crown estates" and by intensive scientific exploitation of both land and labor to make these colonies pay the English national debt after the war! German thinkers, knowing the tremendous demand for raw material which would follow the war, had similar plans of exploitation. "It is the clear, common sense of the African situation," says H.G. Wells, "that while these precious regions of raw material remain divided up between a number of competitive European imperialisms, each resolutely set upon the exploitation of its 'possessions' to its own advantage and the disadvantage of the others, there can be no permanent peace in the world. It is impossible." We, then, who fought the war against war; who in a hell of blood and suffering held hardly our souls in leash by the vision of a world organized for peace; who are looking for industrial democracy and for the organization of Europe so as to avoid incentives to war,--we, least of all, should be willing to leave the backward world as the greatest temptation, not only to wars based on international jealousies, but to the most horrible of wars,--which arise from the revolt of the maddened against those who hold them in common contempt. Consider, my reader,--if you were today a man of some education and knowledge, but born a Japanese or a Chinaman, an East Indian or a Negro, what would you do and think? What would be in the present chaos your outlook and plan for the future? Manifestly, you would want freedom for your people,--freedom from insult, from segregation, from poverty, from physical slavery. If the attitude of the European and American worlds is in the future going to be based essentially upon the same policies as in the past, then there is but one thing for the trained man of darker blood to do and that is definitely and as openly as possible to organize his world for war against Europe. He may have to do it by secret, underground propaganda, as in Egypt and India and eventually in the United States; or by open increase of armament, as in Japan; or by desperate efforts at modernization, as in China; but he must do it. He represents the vast majority of mankind. To surrender would be far worse than physical death. There is no way out unless the white world gives up such insult as its modern use of the adjective "yellow" indicates, or its connotation of "chink" and "nigger" implies; either it gives up the plan of color serfdom which its use of the other adjective "white" implies, as indicating everything decent and every part of the world worth living in,--or trouble is written in the stars! It is, therefore, of singular importance after disquieting delay to see the real Pacifist appear. Both England and Germany have recently been basing their claims to parts of black Africa on the wishes and interests of the black inhabitants. Lloyd George has declared "the general principle of national self-determination applicable at least to German Africa," while Chancellor Hertling once welcomed a discussion "on the reconstruction of the world's colonial possessions." The demand that an Africa for Africans shall replace the present barbarous scramble for exploitation by individual states comes from singularly different sources. Colored America demands that "the conquered German colonies should not be returned to Germany, neither should they be held by the Allies. Here is the opportunity for the establishment of a nation that may never recur. Thousands of colored men, sick of white arrogance and hypocrisy, see in this their race's only salvation." Sir Harry H. Johnston recently said: "If we are to talk, as we do, sentimentally but justly about restoring the nationhood of Poland, about giving satisfaction to the separatist feeling in Ireland, and about what is to be done for European nations who are oppressed, then we can hardly exclude from this feeling the countries of Africa." Laborers, black laborers, on the Canal Zone write: "Out of this chaos may be the great awakening of our race. There is cause for rejoicing. If we fail to embrace this opportunity now, we fail to see how we will be ever able to solve the race question. It is for the British Negro, the French Negro, and the American Negro to rise to the occasion and start a national campaign, jointly and collectively, with this aim in view." From British West Africa comes the bitter complaint "that the West Africans should have the right or opportunity to settle their future for themselves is a thing which hardly enters the mind of the European politician. That the Balkan States should be admitted to the Council of Peace and decide the government under which they are to live is taken as a matter of course because they are Europeans, but no extra-European is credited, even by the extremist advocates of human equality, with any right except to humbly accept the fate which Europe shall decide for him." Here, then, is the danger and the demand; and the real Pacifist will seek to organize, not simply the masses in white nations, guarding against exploitation and profiteering, but will remember that no permanent relief can come but by including in this organization the lowest and the most exploited races in the world. World philanthropy, like national philanthropy, must come as uplift and prevention and not merely as alleviation and religious conversion. Reverence for humanity, as such, must be installed in the world, and Africa should be the talisman. Black Africa, including British, French, Belgian, Portuguese, Italian, and Spanish possessions and the independent states of Abyssinia and Liberia and leaving out of account Egypt and North Africa, on the one hand, and South Africa, on the other, has an area of 8,200,000 square miles and a population well over one hundred millions of black men, with less than one hundred thousand whites. Commercial exploitation in Africa has already larger results to show than most people realize. Annually $200,000,000 worth of goods was coming out of black Africa before the World War, including a third of the world's supply of rubber, a quarter of all of the world's cocoa, and practically all of the world's cloves, gum-arabic, and palm-oil. In exchange there was being returned to Africa one hundred millions in cotton cloth, twenty-five millions in iron and steel, and as much in foods, and probably twenty-five millions in liquors. Here are the beginnings of a modern industrial system: iron and steel for permanent investment, bound to yield large dividends; cloth as the cheapest exchange for invaluable raw material; liquor to tickle the appetites of the natives and render the alienation of land and the breakdown of customary law easier; eventually forced and contract labor under white drivers to increase and systematize the production of raw materials. These materials are capable of indefinite expansion: cotton may yet challenge the southern United States, fruits and vegetables, hides and skins, lumber and dye-stuffs, coffee and tea, grain and tobacco, and fibers of all sorts can easily follow organized and systematic toil. Is it a paradise of industry we thus contemplate? It is much more likely to be a hell. Under present plans there will be no voice or law or custom to protect labor, no trades unions, no eight-hour laws, no factory legislation,--nothing of that great body of legislation built up in modern days to protect mankind from sinking to the level of beasts of burden. All the industrial deviltry, which civilization has been driving to the slums and the backwaters, will have a voiceless continent to conceal it. If the slave cannot be taken from Africa, slavery can be taken to Africa. Who are the folk who live here? They are brown and black, curly and crisp-haired, short and tall, and longheaded. Out of them in days without date flowed the beginnings of Egypt; among them rose, later, centers of culture at Ghana, Melle, and Timbuktu. Kingdoms and empires flourished in Songhay and Zymbabwe, and art and industry in Yoruba and Benin. They have fought every human calamity in its most hideous form and yet today they hold some similar vestiges of a mighty past,--their work in iron, their weaving and carving, their music and singing, their tribal government, their town-meeting and marketplace, their desperate valor in war. Missionaries and commerce have left some good with all their evil. In black Africa today there are more than a thousand government schools and some thirty thousand mission schools, with a more or less regular attendance of three-quarters of a million school children. In a few cases training of a higher order is given chiefs' sons and selected pupils. These beginnings of education are not much for so vast a land and there is no general standard or set plan of development, but, after all, the children of Africa are beginning to learn. In black Africa today only one-seventeenth of the land and a ninth of the people in Liberia and Abyssinia are approximately independent, although menaced and policed by European capitalism. Half the land and the people are in domains under Portugal, France, and Belgium, held with the avowed idea of exploitation for the benefit of Europe under a system of caste and color serfdom. Out of this dangerous nadir of development stretch two paths: one is indicated by the condition of about three per cent of the people who in Sierra Leone, the Gold Coast, and French Senegal, are tending toward the path of modern development; the other path, followed by a fourth of the land and people, has local self-government and native customs and might evolve, if undisturbed, a native culture along their own peculiar lines. A tenth of the land, sparsely settled, is being monopolized and held for whites to make an African Australia. To these later folk must be added the four and one-half millions of the South African Union, who by every modern device are being forced into landless serfdom. Before the World War tendencies were strongly toward the destruction of independent Africa, the industrial slavery of the mass of the blacks and the encouragement of white immigration, where possible, to hold the blacks in subjection. Against this idea let us set the conception of a new African World State, a Black Africa, applying to these peoples the splendid pronouncements which have of late been so broadly and perhaps carelessly given the world: recognizing in Africa the declaration of the American Federation of Labor, that "no people must be forced under sovereignty under which it does not wish to live"; recognizing in President Wilson's message to the Russians, the "principle of the undictated development of all peoples"; recognizing the resolution of the recent conference of the Aborigines Protection Society of England, "that in any reconstruction of Africa, which may result from this war, the interests of the native inhabitants and also their wishes, in so far as those wishes can be clearly ascertained, should be recognized as among the principal factors upon which the decision of their destiny should be based." In other words, recognizing for the first time in the history of the modern world that black men are human. It may not be possible to build this state at once. With the victory of the Entente Allies, the German colonies, with their million of square miles and one-half million black inhabitants, should form such a nucleus. It would give Black Africa its physical beginnings. Beginning with the German colonies two other sets of colonies could be added, for obvious reasons. Neither Portugal nor Belgium has shown any particular capacity for governing colonial peoples. Valid excuses may in both cases be advanced, but it would certainly be fair to Belgium to have her start her great task of reorganization after the World War with neither the burden nor the temptation of colonies; and in the same way Portugal has, in reality, the alternative of either giving up her colonies to an African State or to some other European State in the near future. These two sets of colonies would add 1,700,000 square miles and eighteen million inhabitants. It would not, however, be fair to despoil Germany, Belgium, and Portugal of their colonies unless, as Count Hertling once demanded, the whole question of colonies be opened. How far shall the modern world recognize nations which are not nations, but combinations of a dominant caste and a suppressed horde of serfs? Will it not be possible to rebuild a world with compact nations, empires of self-governing elements, and colonies of backward peoples under benevolent international control? The great test would be easy. Does England propose to erect in India and Nigeria nations brown and black which shall be eventually independent, self-governing entities, with a full voice in the British Imperial Government? If not, let these states either have independence at once or, if unfitted for that, be put under international tutelage and guardianship. It is possible that France, with her great heart, may welcome a Black France,--an enlarged Senegal in Africa; but it would seem that eventually all Africa south of twenty degrees north latitude and north of the Union of South Africa should be included in a new African State. Somaliland and Eritrea should be given to Abyssinia, and then with Liberia we would start with two small, independent African states and one large state under international control. Does this sound like an impossible dream? No one could be blamed for so regarding it before 1914. I, myself, would have agreed with them. But since the nightmare of 1914-1918, since we have seen the impossible happen and the unspeakable become so common as to cease to stir us; in a day when Russia has dethroned her Czar, England has granted the suffrage to women and is in the act of giving Home Rule to Ireland; when Germany has adopted parliamentary government; when Jerusalem has been delivered from the Turks; and the United States has taken control of its railroads,--is it really so far-fetched to think of an Africa for the Africans, guided by organized civilization? No one would expect this new state to be independent and self-governing from the start. Contrary, however, to present schemes for Africa the world would expect independence and self-government as the only possible end of the experiment At first we can conceive of no better way of governing this state than through that same international control by which we hope to govern the world for peace. A curious and instructive parallel has been drawn by Simeon Strunsky: "Just as the common ownership of the northwest territory helped to weld the colonies into the United States, so could not joint and benevolent domination of Africa and of other backward parts of the world be a cornerstone upon which the future federation of the world could be built?" From the British Labor Party comes this declaration: "With regard to the colonies of the several belligerents in tropical Africa, from sea to sea, the British Labor Movement disclaims all sympathy with the imperialist idea that these should form the booty of any nation, should be exploited for the profit of the capitalists, or should be used for the promotion of the militarists' aims of government. In view of the fact that it is impracticable here to leave the various peoples concerned to settle their own destinies it is suggested that the interests of humanity would be best served by the full and frank abandonment by all the belligerents of any dreams of an African Empire; the transfer of the present colonies of the European Powers in tropical Africa, however, and the limits of this area may be defined to the proposed Supernational Authority, or League of Nations." Lloyd George himself has said in regard to the German colonies a word difficult to restrict merely to them: "I have repeatedly declared that they are held at the disposal of a conference, whose decision must have primary regard to the wishes and interests of the native inhabitants of such colonies. None of those territories is inhabited by Europeans. The governing considerations, therefore, must be that the inhabitants should be placed under the control of an administration acceptable to themselves, one of whose main purposes will be to prevent their exploitation for the benefit of European capitalists or governments." The special commission for the government of this African State must, naturally, be chosen with great care and thought. It must represent, not simply governments, but civilization, science, commerce, social reform, religious philanthropy without sectarian propaganda. It must include, not simply white men, but educated and trained men of Negro blood. The guiding principles before such a commission should be clearly understood. In the first place, it ought by this time to be realized by the labor movement throughout the world that no industrial democracy can be built on industrial despotism, whether the two systems are in the same country or in different countries, since the world today so nearly approaches a common industrial unity. If, therefore, it is impossible in any single land to uplift permanently skilled labor without also raising common labor, so, too, there can be no permanent uplift of American or European labor as long as African laborers are slaves. Secondly, this building of a new African State does not mean the segregation in it of all the world's black folk. It is too late in the history of the world to go back to the idea of absolute racial segregation. The new African State would not involve any idea of a vast transplantation of the twenty-seven million Negroids of the western world, of Africa, or of the gathering there of Negroid Asia. The Negroes in the United States and the other Americas have earned the right to fight out their problems where they are, but they could easily furnish from time to time technical experts, leaders of thought, and missionaries of culture for their backward brethren in the new Africa. With these two principles, the practical policies to be followed out in the government of the new states should involve a thorough and complete system of modern education, built upon the present government, religion, and customary laws of the natives. There should be no violent tampering with the curiously efficient African institutions of local self-government through the family and the tribe; there should be no attempt at sudden "conversion" by religious propaganda. Obviously deleterious customs and unsanitary usages must gradually be abolished, but the general government, set up from without, must follow the example of the best colonial administrators and build on recognized, established foundations rather than from entirely new and theoretical plans. The real effort to modernize Africa should be through schools rather than churches. Within ten years, twenty million black children ought to be in school. Within a generation young Africa should know the essential outlines of modern culture and groups of bright African students could be going to the world's great universities. From the beginning the actual general government should use both colored and white officials and later natives should be worked in. Taxation and industry could follow the newer ideals of industrial democracy, avoiding private land monopoly and poverty, and promoting co-operation in production and the socialization of income. Difficulties as to capital and revenue would be far less than many imagine. If a capable English administrator of British Nigeria could with $1,500 build up a cocoa industry of twenty million dollars annually, what might not be done in all Africa, without gin, thieves, and hypocrisy? Capital could not only be accumulated in Africa, but attracted from the white world, with one great difference from present usage: no return so fabulous would be offered that civilized lands would be tempted to divert to colonial trade and invest materials and labor needed by the masses at home, but rather would receive the same modest profits as legitimate home industry offers. There is no sense in asserting that the ideal of an African State, thus governed and directed toward independence and self-government, is impossible of realization. The first great essential is that the civilized world believe in its possibility. By reason of a crime (perhaps the greatest crime in human history) the modern world has been systematically taught to despise colored peoples. Men of education and decency ask, and ask seriously, if it is really possible to uplift Africa. Are Negroes human, or, if human, developed far enough to absorb, even under benevolent tutelage, any appreciable part of modern culture? Has not the experiment been tried in Haiti and Liberia, and failed? One cannot ignore the extraordinary fact that a world campaign beginning with the slave-trade and ending with the refusal to capitalize the word "Negro," leading through a passionate defense of slavery by attributing every bestiality to blacks and finally culminating in the evident modern profit which lies in degrading blacks,--all this has unconsciously trained millions of honest, modern men into the belief that black folk are sub-human. This belief is not based on science, else it would be held as a postulate of the most tentative kind, ready at any time to be withdrawn in the face of facts; the belief is not based on history, for it is absolutely contradicted by Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Arabian experience; nor is the belief based on any careful survey of the social development of men of Negro blood to-day in Africa and America. It is simply passionate, deep-seated heritage, and as such can be moved by neither argument nor fact. Only faith in humanity will lead the world to rise above its present color prejudice. Those who do believe in men, who know what black men have done in human history, who have taken pains to follow even superficially the story of the rise of the Negro in Africa, the West Indies, and the Americas of our day know that our modern contempt of Negroes rests upon no scientific foundation worth a moment's attention. It is nothing more than a vicious habit of mind. It could as easily be overthrown as our belief in war, as our international hatreds, as our old conception of the status of women, as our fear of educating the masses, and as our belief in the necessity of poverty. We can, if we will, inaugurate on the Dark Continent a last great crusade for humanity. With Africa redeemed Asia would be safe and Europe indeed triumphant. I have not mentioned North and South Africa, because my eye was centered on the main mass of the Negro race. Yet it is clear that for the development of Central Africa, Egypt should be free and independent, there along the highway to a free and independent India; while Morocco, Algeria, Tunis, and Tripoli must become a part of Europe, with modern development and home rule. South Africa, stripped of its black serfs and their lands, must admit the resident natives and colored folk to its body politic as equals. The hands which Ethiopia shall soon stretch out unto God are not mere hands of helplessness and supplication, but rather are they hands of pain and promise; hard, gnarled, and muscled for the world's real work; they are hands of fellowship for the half-submerged masses of a distempered world; they are hands of helpfulness for an agonized God! * * * * * Twenty centuries before Christ a great cloud swept over seas and settled on Africa, darkening and well-nigh blotting out the culture of the land of Egypt. For half a thousand years it rested there, until a black woman, Queen Nefertari, "the most venerated figure in Egyptian history," rose to the throne of the Pharaohs and redeemed the world and her people. Twenty centuries after Christ, Black Africa,--prostrated, raped, and shamed, lies at the feet of the conquering Philistines of Europe. Beyond the awful sea a black woman is weeping and waiting, with her sons on her breast. What shall the end be? The world-old and fearful things,--war and wealth, murder and luxury? Or shall it be a new thing,--a new peace and a new democracy of all races,--a great humanity of equal men? "_Semper novi quid ex Africa_!" _The Princess of the Hither Isles_ Her soul was beautiful, wherefore she kept it veiled in lightly-laced humility and fear, out of which peered anxiously and anon the white and blue and pale-gold of her face,-beautiful as daybreak or as the laughing of a child. She sat in the Hither Isles, well walled between the This and Now, upon a low and silver throne, and leaned upon its armposts, sadly looking upward toward the sun. Now the Hither Isles are flat and cold and swampy, with drear-drab light and all manner of slimy, creeping things, and piles of dirt and clouds of flying dust and sordid scraping and feeding and noise. She hated them and ever as her hands and busy feet swept back the dust and slime her soul sat silver-throned, staring toward the great hill to the westward, which shone so brilliant-golden beneath the sunlight and above the sea. The sea moaned and with it moaned the princess' soul, for she was lonely,--very, very lonely, and full weary of the monotone of life. So she was glad to see a moving in Yonder Kingdom on the mountainside, where the sun shone warm, and when the king of Yonder Kingdom, silken in robe and golden-crowned and warded by his hound, walked down along the restless waters and sat beside the armpost of her throne, she wondered why she could not love him and fly with him up the shining mountain's side, out of the dirt and dust that nested between the This and Now. She looked at him and tried to be glad, for he was bonny and good to look upon, this king of Yonder Kingdom,--tall and straight, thin-lipped and white and tawny. So, again, this last day, she strove to burn life into his singularly sodden clay,--to put his icy soul aflame wherewith to warm her own, to set his senses singing. Vacantly he heard her winged words, staring and curling his long mustaches with vast thoughtfulness. Then he said: "We've found more gold in Yonder Kingdom." "Hell seize your gold!" blurted the princess. "No,--it's mine," he maintained stolidly. She raised her eyes. "It belongs," she said, "to the Empire of the Sun." "Nay,--the Sun belongs to us," said the king calmly as he glanced to where Yonder Kingdom blushed above the sea. She glanced, too, and a softness crept into her eyes. "No, no," she murmured as with hesitating pause she raised her eyes above the sea, above the hill, up into the sky where the sun hung silent and splendid. Its robes were heaven's blue, lined and broidered in living flame, and its crown was one vast jewel, glistening in glittering glory that made the sun's own face a blackness,--the blackness of utter light. With blinded, tear-filled eyes she peered into that formless black and burning face and sensed in its soft, sad gleam unfathomed understanding. With sudden, wild abandon she stretched her arms toward it appealing, beseeching, entreating, and lo! "Niggers and dagoes," said the king of Yonder Kingdom, glancing carelessly backward and lighting in his lips a carefully rolled wisp of fragrant tobacco. She looked back, too, but in half-wondering terror, for it seemed-- A beggar man was creeping across the swamp, shuffling through the dirt and slime. He was little and bald and black, rough-clothed, sodden with dirt, and bent with toil. Yet withal something she sensed about him and it seemed,-- The king of Yonder Kingdom lounged more comfortably beside the silver throne and let curl a tiny trail of light-blue smoke. "I hate beggars," he said, "especially brown and black ones." And he then pointed at the beggar's retinue and laughed,--an unpleasant laugh, welded of contempt and amusement. The princess looked and shrank on her throne. He, the beggar man, was--was what? But his retinue,--that squalid, sordid, parti-colored band of vacant, dull-faced filth and viciousness--was writhing over the land, and he and they seemed almost crouching underneath the scorpion lash of one tall skeleton, that looked like Death, and the twisted woman whom men called Pain. Yet they all walked as one. The King of Yonder Kingdom laughed, but the princess shrank on her throne, and the king on seeing her thus took a gold-piece from out of his purse and tossed it carelessly to the passing throng. She watched it with fascinated eyes,--how it rose and sailed and whirled and struggled in the air, then seemed to burst, and upward flew its light and sheen and downward dropped its dross. She glanced at the king, but he was lighting a match. She watched the dross wallow in the slime, but the sunlight fell on the back of the beggar's neck, and he turned his head. The beggar passing afar turned his head and the princess straightened on her throne; he turned his head and she shivered forward on her silver seat; he looked upon her full and slow and suddenly she saw within that formless black and burning face the same soft, glad gleam of utter understanding, seen so many times before. She saw the suffering of endless years and endless love that softened it. She saw the burning passion of the sun and with it the cold, unbending duty-deeds of upper air. All she had seen and dreamed of seeing in the rising, blazing sun she saw now again and with it myriads more of human tenderness, of longing, and of love. So, then, she knew. She rose as to a dream come true, with solemn face and waiting eyes. With her rose the king of Yonder Kingdom, almost eagerly. "You'll come?" he cried. "You'll come and see my gold?" And then in sudden generosity, he added: "You'll have a golden throne,-up there-when we marry." But she, looking up and on with radiant face, answered softly: "I come." So down and up and on they mounted,-the black beggar man and his cavalcade of Death and Pain, and then a space; and then a lone, black hound that nosed and whimpered as he ran, and then a space; and then the king of Yonder Kingdom in his robes, and then a space; and last the princess of the Hither Isles, with face set sunward and lovelight in her eyes. And so they marched and struggled on and up through endless years and spaces and ever the black beggar looked back past death and pain toward the maid and ever the maid strove forward with lovelit eyes, but ever the great and silken shoulders of the king of Yonder Kingdom arose between the princess and the sun like a cloud of storms. Now, finally, they neared unto the hillsides topmost shoulder and there most eagerly the king bent to the bowels of the earth and bared its golden entrails,-all green and gray and rusted-while the princess strained her pitiful eyes aloft to where the beggar, set 'twixt Death and Pain, whirled his slim back against the glory of the setting sun and stood somber in his grave majesty, enhaloed and transfigured, outstretching his long arms, and around all heaven glittered jewels in a cloth of gold. A while the princess stood and moaned in mad amaze, then with one wilful wrench she bared the white flowers of her breast and snatching forth her own red heart held it with one hand aloft while with the other she gathered close her robe and poised herself. The king of Yonder Kingdom looked upward quickly, curiously, still fingering the earth, and saw the offer of her bleeding heart. "It's a Negro!" he growled darkly; "it may not be." The woman quivered. "It's a nigger!" he repeated fiercely. "It's neither God nor man, but a nigger!" The princess stepped forward. The king grasped his sword and looked north and east; he raised his sword and looked south and west. "I seek the sun," the princess sang, and started into the west. "Never!" cried the king of Yonder Kingdom, "for such were blasphemy and defilement and the making of all evil." So, raising his great sword he struck with all his might, and more. Down hissed the blow and it bit that little, white, heart-holding hand until it flew armless and disbodied up through the sunlit air. Down hissed the blow and it clove the whimpering hound until his last shriek shook the stars. Down hissed the blow and it rent the earth. It trembled, fell apart, and yawned to a chasm wide as earth from heaven, deep as hell, and empty, cold, and silent. On yonder distant shore blazed the mighty Empire of the Sun in warm and blissful radiance, while on this side, in shadows cold and dark, gloomed the Hither Isles and the hill that once was golden, but now was green and slimy dross; all below was the sad and moaning sea, while between the Here and There flew the severed hand and dripped the bleeding heart. Then up from the soul of the princess welled a cry of dark despair,--such a cry as only babe-raped mothers know and murdered loves. Poised on the crumbling edge of that great nothingness the princess hung, hungering with her eyes and straining her fainting ears against the awful splendor of the sky. Out from the slime and shadows groped the king, thundering: "Back--don't be a fool!" But down through the thin ether thrilled the still and throbbing warmth of heaven's sun, whispering "Leap!" And the princess leapt. IV OF WORK AND WEALTH For fifteen years I was a teacher of youth. They were years out of the fullness and bloom of my younger manhood. They were years mingled of half breathless work, of anxious self-questionings, of planning and replanning, of disillusion, or mounting wonder. The teacher's life is a double one. He stands in a certain fear. He tends to be stilted, almost dishonest, veiling himself before those awful eyes. Not the eyes of Almighty God are so straight, so penetrating, so all-seeing as the wonder-swept eyes of youth. You walk into a room: to the left is a tall window, bright with colors of crimson and gold and sunshine. Here are rows of books and there is a table. Somber blackboards clothe the walls to the right and beside your desk is the delicate ivory of a nobly cast head. But you see nothing of this: you see only a silence and eyes,--fringed, soft eyes; hard eyes; eyes great and small; eyes here so poignant with beauty that the sob struggles in your throat; eyes there so hard with sorrow that laughter wells up to meet and beat it back; eyes through which the mockery and ridicule of hell or some pulse of high heaven may suddenly flash. Ah! That mighty pause before the class,--that orison and benediction--how much of my life it has been and made. I fought earnestly against posing before my class. I tried to be natural and honest and frank, but it was a bitter hard. What would you say to a soft, brown face, aureoled in a thousand ripples of gray-black hair, which knells suddenly: "Do you trust white people?" You do not and you know that you do not, much as you want to; yet you rise and lie and say you do; you must say it for her salvation and the world's; you repeat that she must trust them, that most white folks are honest, and all the while you are lying and every level, silent eye there knows you are lying, and miserably you sit and lie on, to the greater glory of God. I taught history and economics and something called "sociology" at Atlanta University, where, as our Mr. Webster used to say, we professors occupied settees and not mere chairs. I was fortunate with this teaching in having vivid in the minds of my pupils a concrete social problem of which we all were parts and which we desperately desired to solve. There was little danger, then, of my teaching or of their thinking becoming purely theoretical. Work and wage were thrilling realities to us all. What did we study? I can tell you best by taking a concrete human case, such as was continually leaping to our eyes and thought and demanding understanding and interpretation and what I could bring of prophecy. * * * * * St. Louis sprawls where mighty rivers meet,--as broad as Philadelphia, but three stories high instead of two, with wider streets and dirtier atmosphere, over the dull-brown of wide, calm rivers. The city overflows into the valleys of Illinois and lies there, writhing under its grimy cloud. The other city is dusty and hot beyond all dream,--a feverish Pittsburg in the Mississippi Valley--a great, ruthless, terrible thing! It is the sort that crushes man and invokes some living superman,--a giant of things done, a clang of awful accomplishment. Three men came wandering across this place. They were neither kings nor wise men, but they came with every significance--perhaps even greater--than that which the kings bore in the days of old. There was one who came from the North,--brawny and riotous with energy, a man of concentrated power, who held all the thunderbolts of modern capital in his great fists and made flour and meat, iron and steel, cunning chemicals, wood, paint and paper, transforming to endless tools a disemboweled earth. He was one who saw nothing, knew nothing, sought nothing but the making and buying of that which sells; who out from the magic of his hand rolled over miles of iron road, ton upon ton of food and metal and wood, of coal and oil and lumber, until the thronging of knotted ways in East and real St. Louis was like the red, festering ganglia of some mighty heart. Then from the East and called by the crash of thunderbolts and forked-flame came the Unwise Man,--unwise by the theft of endless ages, but as human as anything God ever made. He was the slave for the miracle maker. It was he that the thunderbolts struck and electrified into gasping energy. The rasp of his hard breathing shook the midnights of all this endless valley and the pulse of his powerful arms set the great nation to trembling. And then, at last, out of the South, like a still, small voice, came the third man,--black, with great eyes and greater memories; hesitantly eager and yet with the infinite softness and ancient calm which come from that eternal race whose history is not the history of a day, but of endless ages. Here, surely, was fit meeting-place for these curiously intent forces, for these epoch-making and age-twisting forces, for these human feet on their super-human errands. Yesterday I rode in East St. Louis. It is the kind of place one quickly recognizes,--tireless and with no restful green of verdure; hard and uneven of street; crude, cold, and even hateful of aspect; conventional, of course, in its business quarter, but quickly beyond one sees the ruts and the hollows, the stench of ill-tamed sewerage, unguarded railroad crossings, saloons outnumbering churches and churches catering to saloons; homes impudently strait and new, prostitutes free and happy, gamblers in paradise, the town "wide open," shameless and frank; great factories pouring out stench, filth, and flame--these and all other things so familiar in the world market places, where industry triumphs over thought and products overwhelm men. May I tell, too, how yesterday I rode in this city past flame-swept walls and over gray ashes; in streets almost wet with blood and beside ruins, where the bones of dead men new-bleached peered out at me in sullen wonder? Across the river, in the greater city, where bronze St. Louis,--that just and austere king--looks with angry, fear-swept eyes down from the rolling heights of Forest Park, which knows him not nor heeds him, there is something of the same thing, but this city is larger and older and the forces of evil have had some curbing from those who have seen the vision and panted for life; but eastward from St. Louis there is a land of no taxes for great industries; there is a land where you may buy grafting politicians at far less rate than you would pay for franchises or privileges in a modern town. There, too, you may escape the buying of indulgences from the great terminal fist, which squeezes industry out of St. Louis. In fact, East St. Louis is a paradise for high and frequent dividends and for the piling up of wealth to be spent in St. Louis and Chicago and New York and when the world is sane again, across the seas. So the Unwise Men pouring out of the East,--falling, scrambling, rushing into America at the rate of a million a year,--ran, walked, and crawled to this maelstrom of the workers. They garnered higher wage than ever they had before, but not all of it came in cash. A part, and an insidious part, was given to them transmuted into whiskey, prostitutes, and games of chance. They laughed and disported themselves. God! Had not their mothers wept enough? It was a good town. There was no veil of hypocrisy here, but a wickedness, frank, ungilded, and open. To be sure, there were things sometimes to reveal the basic savagery and thin veneer. Once, for instance, a man was lynched for brawling on the public square of the county seat; once a mayor who sought to "clean up" was publicly assassinated; always there was theft and rumors of theft, until St. Clair County was a hissing in good men's ears; but always, too, there were good wages and jolly hoodlums and unchecked wassail of Saturday nights. Gamblers, big and little, rioted in East St. Louis. The little gamblers used cards and roulette wheels and filched the weekly wage of the workers. The greater gamblers used meat and iron and undid the foundations of the world. All the gods of chance flaunted their wild raiment here, above the brown flood of the Mississippi. Then the world changed; then civilization, built for culture, rebuilt itself for wilful murder in Europe, Asia, America, and the Southern Seas. Hands that made food made powder, and iron for railways was iron for guns. The wants of common men were forgotten before the groan of giants. Streams of gold, lost from the world's workers, filtered and trickled into the hands of gamblers and put new power into the thunderbolts of East St. Louis. Wages had been growing before the World War. Slowly but remorselessly the skilled and intelligent, banding themselves, had threatened the coffers of the mighty, and slowly the mighty had disgorged. Even the common workers, the poor and unlettered, had again and again gripped the sills of the city walls and pulled themselves to their chins; but, alas! there were so many hands and so many mouths and the feet of the Disinherited kept coming across the wet paths of the sea to this old El Dorado. War brought subtle changes. Wages stood still while prices fattened. It was not that the white American worker was threatened with starvation, but it was what was, after all, a more important question,--whether or not he should lose his front-room and victrola and even the dream of a Ford car. There came a whirling and scrambling among the workers,--they fought each other; they climbed on each others' backs. The skilled and intelligent, banding themselves even better than before, bargained with the men of might and held them by bitter threats; the less skilled and more ignorant seethed at the bottom and tried, as of old, to bring it about that the ignorant and unlettered should learn to stand together against both capital and skilled labor. It was here that there came out of the East a beam of unearthly light,--a triumph of possible good in evil so strange that the workers hardly believed it. Slowly they saw the gates of Ellis Island closing, slowly the footsteps of the yearly million men became fainter and fainter, until the stream of immigrants overseas was stopped by the shadow of death at the very time when new murder opened new markets over all the world to American industry; and the giants with the thunderbolts stamped and raged and peered out across the world and called for men and evermore,--men! The Unwise Men laughed and squeezed reluctant dollars out of the fists of the mighty and saw in their dream the vision of a day when labor, as they knew it, should come into its own; saw this day and saw it with justice and with right, save for one thing, and that was the sound of the moan of the Disinherited, who still lay without the walls. When they heard this moan and saw that it came not across the seas, they were at first amazed and said it was not true; and then they were mad and said it should not be. Quickly they turned and looked into the red blackness of the South and in their hearts were fear and hate! What did they see? They saw something at which they had been taught to laugh and make sport; they saw that which the heading of every newspaper column, the lie of every cub reporter, the exaggeration of every press dispatch, and the distortion of every speech and book had taught them was a mass of despicable men, inhuman; at best, laughable; at worst, the meat of mobs and fury. What did they see? They saw nine and one-half millions of human beings. They saw the spawn of slavery, ignorant by law and by deviltry, crushed by insult and debauched by systematic and criminal injustice. They saw a people whose helpless women have been raped by thousands and whose men lynched by hundreds in the face of a sneering world. They saw a people with heads bloody, but unbowed, working faithfully at wages fifty per cent. lower than the wages of the nation and under conditions which shame civilization, saving homes, training children, hoping against hope. They saw the greatest industrial miracle of modern days,--slaves transforming themselves to freemen and climbing out of perdition by their own efforts, despite the most contemptible opposition God ever saw,--they saw all this and what they saw the distraught employers of America saw, too. The North called to the South. A scream of rage went up from the cotton monopolists and industrial barons of the new South. Who was this who dared to "interfere" with their labor? Who sought to own their black slaves but they? Who honored and loved "niggers" as they did? They mobilized all the machinery of modern oppression: taxes, city ordinances, licenses, state laws, municipal regulations, wholesale police arrests and, of course, the peculiarly Southern method of the mob and the lyncher. They appealed frantically to the United States Government; they groveled on their knees and shed wild tears at the "suffering" of their poor, misguided black friends, and yet, despite this, the Northern employers simply had to offer two and three dollars a day and from one-quarter to one-half a million dark workers arose and poured themselves into the North. They went to the mines of West Virginia, because war needs coal; they went to the industries of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, because war needs ships and iron; they went to the automobiles of Detroit and the load-carrying of Chicago; and they went to East St. Louis. Now there came fear in the hearts of the Unwise Men. It was not that their wages were lowered,--they went even higher. They received, not simply, a living wage, but a wage that paid for some of the decencies, and, in East St. Louis, many of the indecencies of life. What they feared was not deprivation of the things they were used to and the shadow of poverty, but rather the definite death of their rising dreams. But if fear was new-born in the hearts of the Unwise Men, the black man was born in a house of fear; to him poverty of the ugliest and straitest type was father, mother, and blood-brother. He was slipping stealthily northward to escape hunger and insult, the hand of oppression, and the shadow of death. Here, then, in the wide valley which Father Marquette saw peaceful and golden, lazy with fruit and river, half-asleep beneath the nod of God,--here, then, was staged every element for human tragedy, every element of the modern economic paradox. * * * * * Ah! That hot, wide plain of East St. Louis is a gripping thing. The rivers are dirty with sweat and toil and lip, like lakes, along the low and burdened shores; flatboats ramble and thread among them, and above the steamers bridges swing on great arches of steel, striding with mighty grace from shore to shore. Everywhere are brick kennels,--tall, black and red chimneys, tongues of flame. The ground is littered with cars and iron, tracks and trucks, boxes and crates, metals and coal and rubber. Nature-defying cranes, grim elevators rise above pile on pile of black and grimy lumber. And ever below is the water,--wide and silent, gray-brown and yellow. This is the stage for the tragedy: the armored might of the modern world urged by the bloody needs of the world wants, fevered today by a fabulous vision of gain and needing only hands, hands, hands! Fear of loss and greed of gain in the hearts of the giants; the clustered cunning of the modern workman, skilled as artificer and skilled in the rhythm of the habit of work, tasting the world's good and panting for more; fear of poverty and hate of "scabs" in the hearts of the workers; the dumb yearning in the hearts of the oppressed; the echo of laughter heard at the foot of the Pyramids; the faithful, plodding slouch of the laborers; fear of the Shadow of Death in the hearts of black men. We ask, and perhaps there is no answer, how far may the captain of the world's industry do his deeds, despite the grinding tragedy of its doing? How far may men fight for the beginning of comfort, out beyond the horrid shadow of poverty, at the cost of starving other and what the world calls lesser men? How far may those who reach up out of the slime that fills the pits of the world's damned compel men with loaves to divide with men who starve? The answers to these questions are hard, but yet one answer looms above all,--justice lies with the lowest; the plight of the lowest man,--the plight of the black man--deserves the first answer, and the plight of the giants of industry, the last. Little cared East St. Louis for all this bandying of human problems, so long as its grocers and saloon-keepers flourished and its industries steamed and screamed and smoked and its bankers grew rich. Stupidity, license, and graft sat enthroned in the City Hall. The new black folk were exploited as cheerfully as white Polacks and Italians; the rent of shacks mounted merrily, the street car lines counted gleeful gains, and the crimes of white men and black men flourished in the dark. The high and skilled and smart climbed on the bent backs of the ignorant; harder the mass of laborers strove to unionize their fellows and to bargain with employers. Nor were the new blacks fools. They had no love for nothings in labor; they had no wish to make their fellows' wage envelopes smaller, but they were determined to make their own larger. They, too, were willing to join in the new union movement. But the unions did not want them. Just as employers monopolized meat and steel, so they sought to monopolize labor and beat a giant's bargain. In the higher trades they succeeded. The best electrician in the city was refused admittance to the union and driven from the town because he was black. No black builder, printer, or machinist could join a union or work in East St. Louis, no matter what his skill or character. But out of the stink of the stockyards and the dust of the aluminum works and the sweat of the lumber yards the willing blacks could not be kept. They were invited to join unions of the laborers here and they joined. White workers and black workers struck at the aluminum works in the fall and won higher wages and better hours; then again in the spring they struck to make bargaining compulsory for the employer, but this time they fronted new things. The conflagration of war had spread to America; government and court stepped in and ordered no hesitation, no strikes; the work must go on. Deeper was the call for workers. Black men poured in and red anger flamed in the hearts of the white workers. The anger was against the wielders of the thunderbolts, but here it was impotent because employers stood with the hand of the government before their faces; it was against entrenched union labor, which had risen on the backs of the unskilled and unintelligent and on the backs of those whom for any reason of race or prejudice or chicane they could beat beyond the bars of competition; and finally the anger of the mass of white workers was turned toward these new black interlopers, who seemed to come to spoil their last dream of a great monopoly of common labor. These angers flamed and the union leaders, fearing their fury and knowing their own guilt, not only in the larger and subtler matter of bidding their way to power across the weakness of their less fortunate fellows, but also conscious of their part in making East St. Louis a miserable town of liquor and lust, leaped quickly to ward the gathering thunder from their own heads. The thing they wanted was even at their hands: here were black men, guilty not only of bidding for jobs which white men could have held at war prices, even if they could not fill, but also guilty of being black! It was at this blackness that the unions pointed the accusing finger. It was here that they committed the unpardonable crime. It was here that they entered the Shadow of Hell, where suddenly from a fight for wage and protection against industrial oppression East St. Louis became the center of the oldest and nastiest form of human oppression,--race hatred. The whole situation lent itself to this terrible transformation. Everything in the history of the United States, from slavery to Sunday supplements, from disfranchisement to residence segregation, from "Jim-Crow" cars to a "Jim-Crow" army draft--all this history of discrimination and insult festered to make men think and willing to think that the venting of their unbridled anger against 12,000,000 humble, upstriving workers was a way of settling the industrial tangle of the ages. It was the logic of the broken plate, which, seared of old across its pattern, cracks never again, save along the old destruction. So hell flamed in East St. Louis! The white men drove even black union men out of their unions and when the black men, beaten by night and assaulted, flew to arms and shot back at the marauders, five thousand rioters arose and surged like a crested stormwave, from noonday until midnight; they killed and beat and murdered; they dashed out the brains of children and stripped off the clothes of women; they drove victims into the flames and hanged the helpless to the lighting poles. Fathers were killed before the faces of mothers; children were burned; heads were cut off with axes; pregnant women crawled and spawned in dark, wet fields; thieves went through houses and firebrands followed; bodies were thrown from bridges; and rocks and bricks flew through the air. The Negroes fought. They grappled with the mob like beasts at bay. They drove them back from the thickest cluster of their homes and piled the white dead on the street, but the cunning mob caught the black men between the factories and their homes, where they knew they were armed only with their dinner pails. Firemen, policemen, and militiamen stood with hanging hands or even joined eagerly with the mob. It was the old world horror come to life again: all that Jews suffered in Spain and Poland; all that peasants suffered in France, and Indians in Calcutta; all that aroused human deviltry had accomplished in ages past they did in East St. Louis, while the rags of six thousand half-naked black men and women fluttered across the bridges of the calm Mississippi. The white South laughed,--it was infinitely funny--the "niggers" who had gone North to escape slavery and lynching had met the fury of the mob which they had fled. Delegations rushed North from Mississippi and Texas, with suspicious timeliness and with great-hearted offers to take these workers back to a lesser hell. The man from Greensville, Mississippi, who wanted a thousand got six, because, after all, the end was not so simple. No, the end was not simple. On the contrary, the problem raised by East St. Louis was curiously complex. The ordinary American, tired of the persistence of "the Negro problem," sees only another anti-Negro mob and wonders, not when we shall settle this problem, but when we shall be well rid of it. The student of social things sees another mile-post in the triumphant march of union labor; he is sorry that blood and rapine should mark its march,--but, what will you? War is life! Despite these smug reasonings the bare facts were these: East St. Louis, a great industrial center, lost 5,000 laborers,--good, honest, hard-working laborers. It was not the criminals, either black or white, who were driven from East St. Louis. They are still there. They will stay there. But half the honest black laborers were gone. The crippled ranks of industrial organization in the mid-Mississippi Valley cannot be recruited from Ellis Island, because in Europe men are dead and maimed, and restoration, when restoration comes, will raise a European demand for labor such as this age has never seen. The vision of industrial supremacy has come to the giants who lead American industry and finance. But it can never be realized unless the laborers are here to do the work,--the skilled laborers, the common laborers, the willing laborers, the well-paid laborers. The present forces, organized however cunningly, are not large enough to do what America wants; but there is another group of laborers, 12,000,000 strong, the natural heirs, by every logic of justice, to the fruits of America's industrial advance. They will be used simply because they must be used,--but their using means East St. Louis! Eastward from St. Louis lie great centers, like Chicago, Indianapolis, Detroit, Cleveland, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and New York; in every one of these and in lesser centers there is not only the industrial unrest of war and revolutionized work, but there is the call for workers, the coming of black folk, and the deliberate effort to divert the thoughts of men, and particularly of workingmen, into channels of race hatred against blacks. In every one of these centers what happened in East St. Louis has been attempted, with more or less success. Yet the American Negroes stand today as the greatest strategic group in the world. Their services are indispensable, their temper and character are fine, and their souls have seen a vision more beautiful than any other mass of workers. They may win back culture to the world if their strength can be used with the forces of the world that make for justice and not against the hidden hates that fight for barbarism. For fight they must and fight they will! Rising on wings we cross again the rivers of St. Louis, winding and threading between the towers of industry that threaten and drown the towers of God. Far, far beyond, we sight the green of fields and hills; but ever below lies the river, blue,--brownish-gray, touched with the hint of hidden gold. Drifting through half-flooded lowlands, with shanties and crops and stunted trees, past struggling corn and straggling village, we rush toward the Battle of the Marne and the West, from this dread Battle of the East. Westward, dear God, the fire of Thy Mad World crimsons our Heaven. Our answering Hell rolls eastward from St. Louis. * * * * * Here, in microcosm, is the sort of economic snarl that arose continually for me and my pupils to solve. We could bring to its unraveling little of the scholarly aloofness and academic calm of most white universities. To us this thing was Life and Hope and Death! How should we think such a problem through, not simply as Negroes, but as men and women of a new century, helping to build a new world? And first of all, here is no simple question of race antagonism. There are no races, in the sense of great, separate, pure breeds of men, differing in attainment, development, and capacity. There are great groups,--now with common history, now with common interests, now with common ancestry; more and more common experience and present interest drive back the common blood and the world today consists, not of races, but of the imperial commercial group of master capitalists, international and predominantly white; the national middle classes of the several nations, white, yellow, and brown, with strong blood bonds, common languages, and common history; the international laboring class of all colors; the backward, oppressed groups of nature-folk, predominantly yellow, brown, and black. Two questions arise from the work and relations of these groups: how to furnish goods and services for the wants of men and how equitably and sufficiently to satisfy these wants. There can be no doubt that we have passed in our day from a world that could hardly satisfy the physical wants of the mass of men, by the greatest effort, to a world whose technique supplies enough for all, if all can claim their right. Our great ethical question today is, therefore, how may we justly distribute the world's goods to satisfy the necessary wants of the mass of men. What hinders the answer to this question? Dislikes, jealousies, hatreds,--undoubtedly like the race hatred in East St. Louis; the jealousy of English and German; the dislike of the Jew and the Gentile. But these are, after all, surface disturbances, sprung from ancient habit more than from present reason. They persist and are encouraged because of deeper, mightier currents. If the white workingmen of East St. Louis felt sure that Negro workers would not and could not take the bread and cake from their mouths, their race hatred would never have been translated into murder. If the black workingmen of the South could earn a decent living under decent circumstances at home, they would not be compelled to underbid their white fellows. Thus the shadow of hunger, in a world which never needs to be hungry, drives us to war and murder and hate. But why does hunger shadow so vast a mass of men? Manifestly because in the great organizing of men for work a few of the participants come out with more wealth than they can possibly use, while a vast number emerge with less than can decently support life. In earlier economic stages we defended this as the reward of Thrift and Sacrifice, and as the punishment of Ignorance and Crime. To this the answer is sharp: Sacrifice calls for no such reward and Ignorance deserves no such punishment. The chief meaning of our present thinking is that the disproportion between wealth and poverty today cannot be adequately accounted for by the thrift and ignorance of the rich and the poor. Yesterday we righted one great mistake when we realized that the ownership of the laborer did not tend to increase production. The world at large had learned this long since, but black slavery arose again in America as an inexplicable anachronism, a wilful crime. The freeing of the black slaves freed America. Today we are challenging another ownership,-the ownership of materials which go to make the goods we need. Private ownership of land, tools, and raw materials may at one stage of economic development be a method of stimulating production and one which does not greatly interfere with equitable distribution. When, however, the intricacy and length of technical production increased, the ownership of these things becomes a monopoly, which easily makes the rich richer and the poor poorer. Today, therefore, we are challenging this ownership; we are demanding general consent as to what materials shall be privately owned and as to how materials shall be used. We are rapidly approaching the day when we shall repudiate all private property in raw materials and tools and demand that distribution hinge, not on the power of those who monopolize the materials, but on the needs of the mass of men. Can we do this and still make sufficient goods, justly gauge the needs of men, and rightly decide who are to be considered "men"? How do we arrange to accomplish these things today? Somebody decides whose wants should be satisfied. Somebody organizes industry so as to satisfy these wants. What is to hinder the same ability and foresight from being used in the future as in the past? The amount and kind of human ability necessary need not be decreased,--it may even be vastly increased, with proper encouragement and rewards. Are we today evoking the necessary ability? On the contrary, it is not the Inventor, the Manager, and the Thinker who today are reaping the great rewards of industry, but rather the Gambler and the Highwayman. Rightly-organized industry might easily save the Gambler's Profit and the Monopolist's Interest and by paying a more discriminating reward in wealth and honor bring to the service of the state more ability and sacrifice than we can today command. If we do away with interest and profit, consider the savings that could be made; but above all, think how great the revolution would be when we ask the mysterious Somebody to decide in the light of public opinion whose wants should be satisfied. This is the great and real revolution that is coming in future industry. But this is not the need of the revolution nor indeed, perhaps, its real beginning. What we must decide sometime is who are to be considered "men." Today, at the beginning of this industrial change, we are admitting that economic classes must give way. The laborers' hire must increase, the employers' profit must be curbed. But how far shall this change go? Must it apply to all human beings and to all work throughout the world? Certainly not. We seek to apply it slowly and with some reluctance to white men and more slowly and with greater reserve to white women, but black folk and brown and for the most part yellow folk we have widely determined shall not be among those whose needs must justly be heard and whose wants must be ministered to in the great organization of world industry. In the teaching of my classes I was not willing to stop with showing that this was unfair,--indeed I did not have to do this. They knew through bitter experience its rank injustice, because they were black. What I had to show was that no real reorganization of industry could be permanently made with the majority of mankind left out. These disinherited darker peoples must either share in the future industrial democracy or overturn the world. Of course, the foundation of such a system must be a high, ethical ideal. We must really envisage the wants of humanity. We must want the wants of all men. We must get rid of the fascination for exclusiveness. Here, in a world full of folk, men are lonely. The rich are lonely. We are all frantic for fellow-souls, yet we shut souls out and bar the ways and bolster up the fiction of the Elect and the Superior when the great mass of men is capable of producing larger and larger numbers for every human height of attainment. To be sure, there are differences between men and groups and there will ever be, but they will be differences of beauty and genius and of interest and not necessarily of ugliness, imbecility, and hatred. The meaning of America is the beginning of the discovery of the Crowd. The crowd is not so well-trained as a Versailles garden party of Louis XIV, but it is far better trained than the Sans-culottes and it has infinite possibilities. What a world this will be when human possibilities are freed, when we discover each other, when the stranger is no longer the potential criminal and the certain inferior! What hinders our approach to the ideals outlined above? Our profit from degradation, our colonial exploitation, our American attitude toward the Negro. Think again of East St. Louis! Think back of that to slavery and Reconstruction! Do we want the wants of American Negroes satisfied? Most certainly not, and that negative is the greatest hindrance today to the reorganization of work and redistribution of wealth, not only in America, but in the world. All humanity must share in the future industrial democracy of the world. For this it must be trained in intelligence and in appreciation of the good and the beautiful. Present Big Business,--that Science of Human Wants--must be perfected by eliminating the price paid for waste, which is Interest, and for Chance, which is Profit, and making all income a personal wage for service rendered by the recipient; by recognizing no possible human service as great enough to enable a person to designate another as an idler or as a worker at work which he cannot do. Above all, industry must minister to the wants of the many and not to the few, and the Negro, the Indian, the Mongolian, and the South Sea Islander must be among the many as well as Germans, Frenchmen, and Englishmen. In this coming socialization of industry we must guard against that same tyranny of the majority that has marked democracy in the making of laws. There must, for instance, persist in this future economics a certain minimum of machine-like work and prompt obedience and submission. This necessity is a simple corollary from the hard facts of the physical world. It must be accepted with the comforting thought that its routine need not demand twelve hours a day or even eight. With Work for All and All at Work probably from three to six hours would suffice, and leave abundant time for leisure, exercise, study, and avocations. But what shall we say of work where spiritual values and social distinctions enter? Who shall be Artists and who shall be Servants in the world to come? Or shall we all be artists and all serve? _The Second Coming_ Three bishops sat in San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York, peering gloomily into three flickering fires, which cast and recast shuddering shadows on book-lined walls. Three letters lay in their laps, which said: "And thou, Valdosta, in the land of Georgia, art not least among the princes of America, for out of thee shall come a governor who shall rule my people." The white bishop of New York scowled and impatiently threw the letter into the fire. "Valdosta?" he thought,--"That's where I go to the governor's wedding of little Marguerite, my white flower,--" Then he forgot the writing in his musing, but the paper flared red in the fireplace. "Valdosta?" said the black bishop of New Orleans, turning uneasily in his chair. "I must go down there. Those colored folk are acting strangely. I don't know where all this unrest and moving will lead to. Then, there's poor Lucy--" And he threw the letter into the fire, but eyed it suspiciously as it flamed green. "Stranger things than that have happened," he said slowly, "'and ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars ... for nation shall rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom.'" In San Francisco the priest of Japan, abroad to study strange lands, sat in his lacquer chair, with face like soft-yellow and wrinkled parchment. Slowly he wrote in a great and golden book: "I have been strangely bidden to the Val d' Osta, where one of those religious cults that swarm here will welcome a prophet. I shall go and report to Kioto." So in the dim waning of the day before Christmas three bishops met in Valdosta and saw its mills and storehouses, its wide-throated and sandy streets, in the mellow glow of a crimson sun. The governor glared anxiously up the street as he helped the bishop of New York into his car and welcomed him graciously. "I am troubled," said the governor, "about the niggers. They are acting queerly. I'm not certain but Fleming is back of it." "Fleming?" "Yes! He's running against me next term for governor; he's a firebrand; wants niggers to vote and all that--pardon me a moment, there's a darky I know--" and he hurried to the black bishop, who had just descended from the "Jim-Crow" car, and clasped his hand cordially. They talked in whispers. "Search diligently," said the governor in parting, "and bring me word again." Then returning to his guest, "You will excuse me, won't you?" he asked, "but I am sorely troubled! I never saw niggers act so. They're leaving by the hundreds and those who stay are getting impudent! They seem to be expecting something. What's the crowd, Jim?" The chauffeur said that there was some sort of Chinese official in town and everybody wanted to glimpse him. He drove around another way. It all happened very suddenly. The bishop of New York, in full canonicals for the early wedding, stepped out on the rear balcony of his mansion, just as the dying sun lit crimson clouds of glory in the East and burned the West. "Fire!" yelled a wag in the surging crowd that was gathering to celebrate a southern Christmas-eve; all laughed and ran. The bishop of New York did not understand. He peered around. Was it that dark, little house in the far backyard that flamed? Forgetful of his robes he hurried down,--a brave, white figure in the sunset. He found himself before an old, black, rickety stable. He could hear the mules stamping within. No. It was not fire. It was the sunset glowing through the cracks. Behind the hut its glory rose toward God like flaming wings of cherubim. He paused until he heard the faint wail of a child. Hastily he entered. A white girl crouched before him, down by the very mules' feet, with a baby in her arms,-a little mite of a baby that wailed weakly. Behind mother and child stood a shadow. The bishop of New York turned to the right, inquiringly, and saw a black man in bishop's robes that faintly re-echoed his own. He turned away to the left and saw a golden Japanese in golden garb. Then he heard the black man mutter behind him: "But He was to come the second time in clouds of glory, with the nations gathered around Him and angels--" at the word a shaft of glorious light fell full upon the child, while without came the tramping of unnumbered feet and the whirring of wings. The bishop of New York bent quickly over the baby. It was black! He stepped back with a gesture of disgust, hardly listening to and yet hearing the black bishop, who spoke almost as if in apology: "She's not really white; I know Lucy--you see, her mother worked for the governor--" The white bishop turned on his heel and nearly trod on the yellow priest, who knelt with bowed head before the pale mother and offered incense and a gift of gold. Out into the night rushed the bishop of New York. The wings of the cherubim were folded black against the stars. As he hastened down the front staircase the governor came rushing up the street steps. "We are late!" he cried nervously. "The bride awaits!" He hurried the bishop to the waiting limousine, asking him anxiously: "Did you hear anything? Do you hear that noise? The crowd is growing strangely on the streets and there seems to be a fire over toward the East. I never saw so many people here--I fear violence--a mob--a lynching--I fear--hark!" What was that which he, too, heard beneath the rhythm of unnumbered feet? Deep in his heart a wonder grew. What was it? Ah, he knew! It was music,--some strong and mighty chord. It rose higher as the brilliantly-lighted church split the night, and swept radiantly toward them. So high and clear that music flew, it seemed above, around, behind them. The governor, ashen-faced, crouched in the car; but the bishop said softly as the ecstasy pulsed in his heart: "Such music, such wedding music! What choir is it?" V "THE SERVANT IN THE HOUSE" The lady looked at me severely; I glanced away. I had addressed the little audience at some length on the disfranchisement of my people in society, politics, and industry and had studiously avoided the while her cold, green eye. I finished and shook weary hands, while she lay in wait. I knew what was coming and braced my soul. "Do you know where I can get a good colored cook?" she asked. I disclaimed all guilty concupiscence. She came nearer and spitefully shook a finger in my face. "Why--won't--Negroes--work!" she panted. "I have given money for years to Hampton and Tuskegee and yet I can't get decent servants. They won't try. They're lazy! They're unreliable! They're impudent and they leave without notice. They all want to be lawyers and doctors and" (she spat the word in venom) "ladies!" "God forbid!" I answered solemnly, and then being of gentle birth, and unminded to strike a defenseless female of uncertain years, I ran; I ran home and wrote a chapter in my book and this is it. * * * * * I speak and speak bitterly as a servant and a servant's son, for my mother spent five or more years of her life as a menial; my father's family escaped, although grandfather as a boat steward had to fight hard to be a man and not a lackey. He fought and won. My mother's folk, however, during my childhood, sat poised on that thin edge between the farmer and the menial. The surrounding Irish had two chances, the factory and the kitchen, and most of them took the factory, with all its dirt and noise and low wage. The factory was closed to us. Our little lands were too small to feed most of us. A few clung almost sullenly to the old homes, low and red things crouching on a wide level; but the children stirred restlessly and walked often to town and saw its wonders. Slowly they dribbled off,--a waiter here, a cook there, help for a few weeks in Mrs. Blank's kitchen when she had summer boarders. Instinctively I hated such work from my birth. I loathed it and shrank from it. Why? I could not have said. Had I been born in Carolina instead of Massachusetts I should hardly have escaped the taint of "service." Its temptations in wage and comfort would soon have answered my scruples; and yet I am sure I would have fought long even in Carolina, for I knew in my heart that thither lay Hell. I mowed lawns on contract, did "chores" that left me my own man, sold papers, and peddled tea--anything to escape the shadow of the awful thing that lurked to grip my soul. Once, and once only, I felt the sting of its talons. I was twenty and had graduated from Fisk with a scholarship for Harvard; I needed, however, travel money and clothes and a bit to live on until the scholarship was due. Fortson was a fellow-student in winter and a waiter in summer. He proposed that the Glee Club Quartet of Fisk spend the summer at the hotel in Minnesota where he worked and that I go along as "Business Manager" to arrange for engagements on the journey back. We were all eager, but we knew nothing of table-waiting. "Never mind," said Fortson, "you can stand around the dining-room during meals and carry out the big wooden trays of dirty dishes. Thus you can pick up knowledge of waiting and earn good tips and get free board." I listened askance, but I went. I entered that broad and blatant hotel at Lake Minnetonka with distinct forebodings. The flamboyant architecture, the great verandas, rich furniture, and richer dresses awed us mightily. The long loft reserved for us, with its clean little cots, was reassuring; the work was not difficult,--but the meals! There were no meals. At first, before the guests ate, a dirty table in the kitchen was hastily strewn with uneatable scraps. We novices were the only ones who came to eat, while the guests' dining-room, with its savors and sights, set our appetites on edge! After a while even the pretense of meals for us was dropped. We were sure we were going to starve when Dug, one of us, made a startling discovery: the waiters stole their food and they stole the best. We gulped and hesitated. Then we stole, too, (or, at least, they stole and I shared) and we all fattened, for the dainties were marvelous. You slipped a bit here and hid it there; you cut off extra portions and gave false orders; you dashed off into darkness and hid in corners and ate and ate! It was nasty business. I hated it. I was too cowardly to steal much myself, and not coward enough to refuse what others stole. Our work was easy, but insipid. We stood about and watched overdressed people gorge. For the most part we were treated like furniture and were supposed to act the wooden part. I watched the waiters even more than the guests. I saw that it paid to amuse and to cringe. One particular black man set me crazy. He was intelligent and deft, but one day I caught sight of his face as he served a crowd of men; he was playing the clown,--crouching, grinning, assuming a broad dialect when he usually spoke good English--ah! it was a heartbreaking sight, and he made more money than any waiter in the dining-room. I did not mind the actual work or the kind of work, but it was the dishonesty and deception, the flattery and cajolery, the unnatural assumption that worker and diner had no common humanity. It was uncanny. It was inherently and fundamentally wrong. I stood staring and thinking, while the other boys hustled about. Then I noticed one fat hog, feeding at a heavily gilded trough, who could not find his waiter. He beckoned me. It was not his voice, for his mouth was too full. It was his way, his air, his assumption. Thus Caesar ordered his legionaries or Cleopatra her slaves. Dogs recognized the gesture. I did not. He may be beckoning yet for all I know, for something froze within me. I did not look his way again. Then and there I disowned menial service for me and my people. I would work my hands off for an honest wage, but for "tips" and "hand-me-outs," never! Fortson was a pious, honest fellow, who regarded "tips" as in the nature of things, being to the manner born; but the hotel that summer in other respects rather astonished even him. He came to us much flurried one night and got us to help him with a memorial to the absentee proprietor, telling of the wild and gay doings of midnights in the rooms and corridors among "tired" business men and their prostitutes. We listened wide-eyed and eager and wrote the filth out manfully. The proprietor did not thank Fortson. He did not even answer the letter. When I finally walked out of that hotel and out of menial service forever, I felt as though, in a field of flowers, my nose had been held unpleasantly long to the worms and manure at their roots. * * * * * "Cursed be Canaan!" cried the Hebrew priests. "A servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren." With what characteristic complacency did the slaveholders assume that Canaanites were Negroes and their "brethren" white? Are not Negroes servants? _Ergo_! Upon such spiritual myths was the anachronism of American slavery built, and this was the degradation that once made menial servants the aristocrats among colored folk. House servants secured some decencies of food and clothing and shelter; they could more easily reach their master's ear; their personal abilities of character became known and bonds grew between slave and master which strengthened from friendship to love, from mutual service to mutual blood. Naturally out of this the West Indian servant climbed out of slavery into citizenship, for few West Indian masters--fewer Spanish or Dutch--were callous enough to sell their own children into slavery. Not so with English and Americans. With a harshness and indecency seldom paralleled in the civilized world white masters on the mainland sold their mulatto children, half-brothers and half-sisters, and their own wives in all but name, into life-slavery by the hundreds and thousands. They originated a special branch of slave-trading for this trade and the white aristocrats of Virginia and the Carolinas made more money by this business during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries than in any other way. The clang of the door of opportunity thus knelled in the ears of the colored house servant whirled the whole face of Negro advancement as on some great pivot. The movement was slow, but vast. When emancipation came, before and after 1863, the house servant still held advantages. He had whatever education the race possessed and his white father, no longer able to sell him, often helped him with land and protection. Notwithstanding this the lure of house service for the Negro was gone. The path of salvation for the emancipated host of black folk lay no longer through the kitchen door, with its wide hall and pillared veranda and flowered yard beyond. It lay, as every Negro soon knew and knows, in escape from menial serfdom. In 1860, 98 per cent of the Negroes were servants and serfs. In 1880, 30 per cent were servants and 65 per cent were serfs. The percentage of servants then rose slightly and fell again until 21 per cent were in service in 1910 and, doubtless, much less than 20 per cent today. This is the measure of our rise, but the Negro will not approach freedom until this hateful badge of slavery and mediaevalism has been reduced to less than 10 per cent. Not only are less than a fifth of our workers servants today, but the character of their service has been changed. The million menial workers among us include 300,000 upper servants,--skilled men and women of character, like hotel waiters, Pullman porters, janitors, and cooks, who, had they been white, could have called on the great labor movement to lift their work out of slavery, to standardize their hours, to define their duties, and to substitute a living, regular wage for personal largess in the shape of tips, old clothes, and cold leavings of food. But the labor movement turned their backs on those black men when the white world dinned in their ears. _Negroes are servants; servants are Negroes._ They shut the door of escape to factory and trade in their fellows' faces and battened down the hatches, lest the 300,000 should be workers equal in pay and consideration with white men. But, if the upper servants could not escape to modern, industrial conditions, how much the more did they press down on the bodies and souls of 700,000 washerwomen and household drudges,--ignorant, unskilled offal of a millionaire industrial system. Their pay was the lowest and their hours the longest of all workers. The personal degradation of their work is so great that any white man of decency would rather cut his daughter's throat than let her grow up to such a destiny. There is throughout the world and in all races no greater source of prostitution than this grade of menial service, and the Negro race in America has largely escaped this destiny simply because its innate decency leads black women to choose irregular and temporary sexual relations with men they like rather than to sell themselves to strangers. To such sexual morals is added (in the nature of self-defense) that revolt against unjust labor conditions which expresses itself in "soldiering," sullenness, petty pilfering, unreliability, and fast and fruitless changes of masters. Indeed, here among American Negroes we have exemplified the last and worst refuge of industrial caste. Menial service is an anachronism,--the refuse of mediaeval barbarism. Whey, then, does it linger? Why are we silent about it? Why in the minds of so many decent and up-seeing folks does the whole Negro problem resolve itself into the matter of their getting a cook or a maid? No one knows better than I the capabilities of a system of domestic service at its best. I have seen children who were spiritual sons and daughters of their masters, girls who were friends of their mistresses, and old servants honored and revered. But in every such case the Servant had transcended the Menial, the Service had been exalted above the Wage. Now to accomplish this permanently and universally, calls for the same revolution in household help as in factory help and public service. While organized industry has been slowly making its help into self-respecting, well-paid men, and while public service is beginning to call for the highest types of educated and efficient thinkers, domestic service lags behind and insists upon seeking to evolve the best types of men from the worst conditions. The cause of this perversity, to my mind, is twofold. First, the ancient high estate of Service, now pitifully fallen, yet gasping for breath; secondly, the present low estate of the outcasts of the world, peering with blood-shot eyes at the gates of the industrial heaven. The Master spoke no greater word than that which said: "Whosoever will be great among you, let him be your servant!" What is greater than Personal Service! Surely no social service, no wholesale helping of masses of men can exist which does not find its effectiveness and beauty in the personal aid of man to man. It is the purest and holiest of duties. Some mighty glimmer of this truth survived in those who made the First Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, the Keepers of the Robes, and the Knights of the Bath, the highest nobility that hedged an anointed king. Nor does it differ today in what the mother does for the child or the daughter for the mother, in all the personal attentions in the old-fashioned home; this is Service! Think of what Friend has meant, not simply in spiritual sympathies, but in physical helpfulness. In the world today what calls for more of love, sympathy, learning, sacrifice, and long-suffering than the care of children, the preparation of food, the cleansing and ordering of the home, personal attendance and companionship, the care of bodies and their raiment--what greater, more intimate, more holy Services are there than these? And yet we are degrading these services and loathing them and scoffing at them and spitting upon them, first, by turning them over to the lowest and least competent and worst trained classes in the world, and then by yelling like spoiled children if our babies are neglected, our biscuits sodden, our homes dirty, and our baths unpoured. Let one suggest that the only cure for such deeds is in the uplift of the doer and our rage is even worse and less explicable. We will call them by their first names, thus blaspheming a holy intimacy; we will confine them to back doors; we will insist that their meals be no gracious ceremony nor even a restful sprawl, but usually a hasty, heckled gulp amid garbage; we exact, not a natural, but a purchased deference, and we leave them naked to insult by our children and by our husbands. I remember a girl,--how pretty she was, with the crimson flooding the old ivory of her cheeks and her gracious plumpness! She had come to the valley during the summer to "do housework." I met and walked home with her, in the thrilling shadows, to an old village home I knew well; then as I turned to leave I learned that she was there alone in that house for a week-end with only one young white man to represent the family. Oh, he was doubtless a "gentleman" and all that, but for the first time in my life I saw what a snare the fowler was spreading at the feet of the daughters of my people, baited by church and state. Not alone is the hurt thus offered to the lowly,--Society and Science suffer. The unit which we seek to make the center of society,--the Home--is deprived of the help of scientific invention and suggestion. It is only slowly and by the utmost effort that some small foothold has been gained for the vacuum cleaner, the washing-machine, the power tool, and the chemical reagent. In our frantic effort to preserve the last vestiges of slavery and mediaevalism we not only set out faces against such improvements, but we seek to use education and the power of the state to train the servants who do not naturally appear. Meantime the wild rush from house service, on the part of all who can scramble or run, continues. The rules of the labor union are designed, not simply to raise wages, but to guard against any likeness between artisan and servant. There is no essential difference in ability and training between a subway guard and a Pullman porter, but between their union cards lies a whole world. Yet we are silent. Menial service is not a "social problem." It is not really discussed. There is no scientific program for its "reform." There is but one panacea: Escape! Get yourselves and your sons and daughters out of the shadow of this awful thing! Hire servants, but never be one. Indeed, subtly but surely the ability to hire at least "a maid" is still civilization's patent to respectability, while "a man" is the first word of aristocracy. All this is because we still consciously and unconsciously hold to the "manure" theory of social organization. We believe that at the bottom of organized human life there are necessary duties and services which no real human being ought to be compelled to do. We push below this mudsill the derelicts and half-men, whom we hate and despise, and seek to build above it--Democracy! On such foundations is reared a Theory of Exclusiveness, a feeling that the world progresses by a process of excluding from the benefits of culture the majority of men, so that a gifted minority may blossom. Through this door the modern democrat arrives to the place where he is willing to allot two able-bodied men and two fine horses to the task of helping one wizened beldam to take the morning air. Here the absurdity ends. Here all honest minds turn back and ask: Is menial service permanent or necessary? Can we not transfer cooking from the home to the scientific laboratory, along with the laundry? Cannot machinery, in the hands of self-respecting and well-paid artisans, do our cleaning, sewing, moving, and decorating? Cannot the training of children become an even greater profession than the attending of the sick? And cannot personal service and companionship be coupled with friendship and love where it belongs and whence it can never be divorced without degradation and pain? In fine, can we not, black and white, rich and poor, look forward to a world of Service without Servants? A miracle! you say? True. And only to be performed by the Immortal Child. _Jesus Christ in Texas_ It was in Waco, Texas. The convict guard laughed. "I don't know," he said, "I hadn't thought of that." He hesitated and looked at the stranger curiously. In the solemn twilight he got an impression of unusual height and soft, dark eyes. "Curious sort of acquaintance for the colonel," he thought; then he continued aloud: "But that nigger there is bad, a born thief, and ought to be sent up for life; got ten years last time--" Here the voice of the promoter, talking within, broke in; he was bending over his figures, sitting by the colonel. He was slight, with a sharp nose. "The convicts," he said, "would cost us $96 a year and board. Well, we can squeeze this so that it won't be over $125 apiece. Now if these fellows are driven, they can build this line within twelve months. It will be running by next April. Freights will fall fifty per cent. Why, man, you'll be a millionaire in less than ten years." The colonel started. He was a thick, short man, with a clean-shaven face and a certain air of breeding about the lines of his countenance; the word millionaire sounded well to his ears. He thought--he thought a great deal; he almost heard the puff of the fearfully costly automobile that was coming up the road, and he said: "I suppose we might as well hire them." "Of course," answered the promoter. The voice of the tall stranger in the corner broke in here: "It will be a good thing for them?" he said, half in question. The colonel moved. "The guard makes strange friends," he thought to himself. "What's this man doing here, anyway?" He looked at him, or rather looked at his eyes, and then somehow he felt a warming toward him. He said: "Well, at least, it can't harm them; they're beyond that." "It will do them good, then," said the stranger again. The promoter shrugged his shoulders. "It will do us good," he said. But the colonel shook his head impatiently. He felt a desire to justify himself before those eyes, and he answered: "Yes, it will do them good; or at any rate it won't make them any worse than they are." Then he started to say something else, but here sure enough the sound of the automobile breathing at the gate stopped him and they all arose. "It is settled, then," said the promoter. "Yes," said the colonel, turning toward the stranger again. "Are you going into town?" he asked with the Southern courtesy of white men to white men in a country town. The stranger said he was. "Then come along in my machine. I want to talk with you about this." They went out to the car. The stranger as he went turned again to look back at the convict. He was a tall, powerfully built black fellow. His face was sullen, with a low forehead, thick, hanging lips, and bitter eyes. There was revolt written about his mouth despite the hang-dog expression. He stood bending over his pile of stones, pounding listlessly. Beside him stood a boy of twelve,--yellow, with a hunted, crafty look. The convict raised his eyes and they met the eyes of the stranger. The hammer fell from his hands. The stranger turned slowly toward the automobile and the colonel introduced him. He had not exactly caught his name, but he mumbled something as he presented him to his wife and little girl, who were waiting. As they whirled away the colonel started to talk, but the stranger had taken the little girl into his lap and together they conversed in low tones all the way home. In some way, they did not exactly know how, they got the impression that the man was a teacher and, of course, he must be a foreigner. The long, cloak-like coat told this. They rode in the twilight through the lighted town and at last drew up before the colonel's mansion, with its ghost-like pillars. The lady in the back seat was thinking of the guests she had invited to dinner and was wondering if she ought not to ask this man to stay. He seemed cultured and she supposed he was some acquaintance of the colonel's. It would be rather interesting to have him there, with the judge's wife and daughter and the rector. She spoke almost before she thought: "You will enter and rest awhile?" The colonel and the little girl insisted. For a moment the stranger seemed about to refuse. He said he had some business for his father, about town. Then for the child's sake he consented. Up the steps they went and into the dark parlor where they sat and talked a long time. It was a curious conversation. Afterwards they did not remember exactly what was said and yet they all remembered a certain strange satisfaction in that long, low talk. Finally the nurse came for the reluctant child and the hostess bethought herself: "We will have a cup of tea; you will be dry and tired." She rang and switched on a blaze of light. With one accord they all looked at the stranger, for they had hardly seen him well in the glooming twilight. The woman started in amazement and the colonel half rose in anger. Why, the man was a mulatto, surely; even if he did not own the Negro blood, their practised eyes knew it. He was tall and straight and the coat looked like a Jewish gabardine. His hair hung in close curls far down the sides of his face and his face was olive, even yellow. A peremptory order rose to the colonel's lips and froze there as he caught the stranger's eyes. Those eyes,--where had he seen those eyes before? He remembered them long years ago. The soft, tear-filled eyes of a brown girl. He remembered many things, and his face grew drawn and white. Those eyes kept burning into him, even when they were turned half away toward the staircase, where the white figure of the child hovered with her nurse and waved good-night. The lady sank into her chair and thought: "What will the judge's wife say? How did the colonel come to invite this man here? How shall we be rid of him?" She looked at the colonel in reproachful consternation. Just then the door opened and the old butler came in. He was an ancient black man, with tufted white hair, and he held before him a large, silver tray filled with a china tea service. The stranger rose slowly and stretched forth his hands as if to bless the viands. The old man paused in bewilderment, tottered, and then with sudden gladness in his eyes dropped to his knees, and the tray crashed to the floor. "My Lord and my God!" he whispered; but the woman screamed: "Mother's china!" The doorbell rang. "Heavens! here is the dinner party!" exclaimed the lady. She turned toward the door, but there in the hall, clad in her night clothes, was the little girl. She had stolen down the stairs to see the stranger again, and the nurse above was calling in vain. The woman felt hysterical and scolded at the nurse, but the stranger had stretched out his arms and with a glad cry the child nestled in them. They caught some words about the "Kingdom of Heaven" as he slowly mounted the stairs with his little, white burden. The mother was glad of anything to get rid of the interloper, even for a moment. The bell rang again and she hastened toward the door, which the loitering black maid was just opening. She did not notice the shadow of the stranger as he came slowly down the stairs and paused by the newel post, dark and silent. The judge's wife came in. She was an old woman, frilled and powdered into a semblance of youth, and gorgeously gowned. She came forward, smiling with extended hands, but when she was opposite the stranger, somewhere a chill seemed to strike her and she shuddered and cried: "What a draft!" as she drew a silken shawl about her and shook hands cordially; she forgot to ask who the stranger was. The judge strode in unseeing, thinking of a puzzling case of theft. "Eh? What? Oh--er--yes,--good evening," he said, "good evening." Behind them came a young woman in the glory of youth, and daintily silked, beautiful in face and form, with diamonds around her fair neck. She came in lightly, but stopped with a little gasp; then she laughed gaily and said: "Why, I beg your pardon. Was it not curious? I thought I saw there behind your man"--she hesitated, but he must be a servant, she argued--"the shadow of great, white wings. It was but the light on the drapery. What a turn it gave me." And she smiled again. With her came a tall, handsome, young naval officer. Hearing his lady refer to the servant, he hardly looked at him, but held his gilded cap carelessly toward him, and the stranger placed it carefully on the rack. Last came the rector, a man of forty, and well-clothed. He started to pass the stranger, stopped, and looked at him inquiringly. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I beg your pardon,--I think I have met you?" The stranger made no answer, and the hostess nervously hurried the guests on. But the rector lingered and looked perplexed. "Surely, I know you. I have met you somewhere," he said, putting his hand vaguely to his head. "You--you remember me, do you not?" The stranger quietly swept his cloak aside, and to the hostess' unspeakable relief passed out of the door. "I never knew you," he said in low tones as he went. The lady murmured some vain excuse about intruders, but the rector stood with annoyance written on his face. "I beg a thousand pardons," he said to the hostess absently. "It is a great pleasure to be here,--somehow I thought I knew that man. I am sure I knew him once." The stranger had passed down the steps, and as he passed, the nurse, lingering at the top of the staircase, flew down after him, caught his cloak, trembled, hesitated, and then kneeled in the dust. He touched her lightly with his hand and said: "Go, and sin no more!" With a glad cry the maid left the house, with its open door, and turned north, running. The stranger turned eastward into the night. As they parted a long, low howl rose tremulously and reverberated through the night. The colonel's wife within shuddered. "The bloodhounds!" she said. The rector answered carelessly: "Another one of those convicts escaped, I suppose. Really, they need severer measures." Then he stopped. He was trying to remember that stranger's name. The judge's wife looked about for the draft and arranged her shawl. The girl glanced at the white drapery in the hall, but the young officer was bending over her and the fires of life burned in her veins. Howl after howl rose in the night, swelled, and died away. The stranger strode rapidly along the highway and out into the deep forest. There he paused and stood waiting, tall and still. A mile up the road behind a man was running, tall and powerful and black, with crime-stained face and convicts' stripes upon him, and shackles on his legs. He ran and jumped, in little, short steps, and his chains rang. He fell and rose again, while the howl of the hounds rang louder behind him. Into the forest he leapt and crept and jumped and ran, streaming with sweat; seeing the tall form rise before him, he stopped suddenly, dropped his hands in sullen impotence, and sank panting to the earth. A greyhound shot out of the woods behind him, howled, whined, and fawned before the stranger's feet. Hound after hound bayed, leapt, and lay there; then silently, one by one, and with bowed heads, they crept backward toward the town. The stranger made a cup of his hands and gave the man water to drink, bathed his hot head, and gently took the chains and irons from his feet. By and by the convict stood up. Day was dawning above the treetops. He looked into the stranger's face, and for a moment a gladness swept over the stains of his face. "Why, you are a nigger, too," he said. Then the convict seemed anxious to justify himself. "I never had no chance," he said furtively. "Thou shalt not steal," said the stranger. The man bridled. "But how about them? Can they steal? Didn't they steal a whole year's work, and then when I stole to keep from starving--" He glanced at the stranger. "No, I didn't steal just to keep from starving. I stole to be stealing. I can't seem to keep from stealing. Seems like when I see things, I just must--but, yes, I'll try!" The convict looked down at his striped clothes, but the stranger had taken off his long coat; he had put it around him and the stripes disappeared. In the opening morning the black man started toward the low, log farmhouse in the distance, while the stranger stood watching him. There was a new glory in the day. The black man's face cleared up, and the farmer was glad to get him. All day the black man worked as he had never worked before. The farmer gave him some cold food. "You can sleep in the barn," he said, and turned away. "How much do I git a day?" asked the black man. The farmer scowled. "Now see here," said he. "If you'll sign a contract for the season, I'll give you ten dollars a month." "I won't sign no contract," said the black man doggedly. "Yes, you will," said the farmer, threateningly, "or I'll call the convict guard." And he grinned. The convict shrank and slouched to the barn. As night fell he looked out and saw the farmer leave the place. Slowly he crept out and sneaked toward the house. He looked through the kitchen door. No one was there, but the supper was spread as if the mistress had laid it and gone out. He ate ravenously. Then he looked into the front room and listened. He could hear low voices on the porch. On the table lay a gold watch. He gazed at it, and in a moment he was beside it,--his hands were on it! Quickly he slipped out of the house and slouched toward the field. He saw his employer coming along the highway. He fled back in tenor and around to the front of the house, when suddenly he stopped. He felt the great, dark eyes of the stranger and saw the same dark, cloak-like coat where the stranger sat on the doorstep talking with the mistress of the house. Slowly, guiltily, he turned back, entered the kitchen, and laid the watch stealthily where he had found it; then he rushed wildly back toward the stranger, with arms outstretched. The woman had laid supper for her husband, and going down from the house had walked out toward a neighbor's. She was gone but a little while, and when she came back she started to see a dark figure on the doorsteps under the tall, red oak. She thought it was the new Negro until he said in a soft voice: "Will you give me bread?" Reassured at the voice of a white man, she answered quickly in her soft, Southern tones: "Why, certainly." She was a little woman, and once had been pretty; but now her face was drawn with work and care. She was nervous and always thinking, wishing, wanting for something. She went in and got him some cornbread and a glass of cool, rich buttermilk; then she came out and sat down beside him. She began, quite unconsciously, to tell him about herself,--the things she had done and had not done and the things she had wished for. She told him of her husband and this new farm they were trying to buy. She said it was hard to get niggers to work. She said they ought all to be in the chain-gang and made to work. Even then some ran away. Only yesterday one had escaped, and another the day before. At last she gossiped of her neighbors, how good they were and how bad. "And do you like them all?" asked the stranger. She hesitated. "Most of them," she said; and then, looking up into his face and putting her hand into his, as though he were her father, she said: "There are none I hate; no, none at all." He looked away, holding her hand in his, and said dreamily: "You love your neighbor as yourself?" She hesitated. "I try--" she began, and then looked the way he was looking; down under the hill where lay a little, half-ruined cabin. "They are niggers," she said briefly. He looked at her. Suddenly a confusion came over her and she insisted, she knew not why. "But they are niggers!" With a sudden impulse she arose and hurriedly lighted the lamp that stood just within the door, and held it above her head. She saw his dark face and curly hair. She shrieked in angry terror and rushed down the path, and just as she rushed down, the black convict came running up with hands outstretched. They met in mid-path, and before he could stop he had run against her and she fell heavily to earth and lay white and still. Her husband came rushing around the house with a cry and an oath. "I knew it," he said. "It's that runaway nigger." He held the black man struggling to the earth and raised his voice to a yell. Down the highway came the convict guard, with hound and mob and gun. They paused across the fields. The farmer motioned to them. "He--attacked--my wife," he gasped. The mob snarled and worked silently. Right to the limb of the red oak they hoisted the struggling, writhing black man, while others lifted the dazed woman. Right and left, as she tottered to the house, she searched for the stranger with a yearning, but the stranger was gone. And she told none of her guests. "No--no, I want nothing," she insisted, until they left her, as they thought, asleep. For a time she lay still, listening to the departure of the mob. Then she rose. She shuddered as she heard the creaking of the limb where the body hung. But resolutely she crawled to the window and peered out into the moonlight; she saw the dead man writhe. He stretched his arms out like a cross, looking upward. She gasped and clung to the window sill. Behind the swaying body, and down where the little, half-ruined cabin lay, a single flame flashed up amid the far-off shout and cry of the mob. A fierce joy sobbed up through the terror in her soul and then sank abashed as she watched the flame rise. Suddenly whirling into one great crimson column it shot to the top of the sky and threw great arms athwart the gloom until above the world and behind the roped and swaying form below hung quivering and burning a great crimson cross. She hid her dizzy, aching head in an agony of tears, and dared not look, for she knew. Her dry lips moved: "Despised and rejected of men." She knew, and the very horror of it lifted her dull and shrinking eyelids. There, heaven-tall, earth-wide, hung the stranger on the crimson cross, riven and blood-stained, with thorn-crowned head and pierced hands. She stretched her arms and shrieked. He did not hear. He did not see. His calm dark eyes, all sorrowful, were fastened on the writhing, twisting body of the thief, and a voice came out of the winds of the night, saying: "This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise!" VI OF THE RULING OF MEN The ruling of men is the effort to direct the individual actions of many persons toward some end. This end theoretically should be the greatest good of all, but no human group has ever reached this ideal because of ignorance and selfishness. The simplest object would be rule for the Pleasure of One, namely the Ruler; or of the Few--his favorites; or of many--the Rich, the Privileged, the Powerful. Democratic movements inside groups and nations are always taking place and they are the efforts to increase the number of beneficiaries of the ruling. In 18th century Europe, the effort became so broad and sweeping that an attempt was made at universal expression and the philosophy of the movement said that if All ruled they would rule for All and thus Universal Good was sought through Universal Suffrage. The unrealized difficulty of this program lay in the widespread ignorance. The mass of men, even of the more intelligent men, not only knew little about each other but less about the action of men in groups and the technique of industry in general. They could only apply universal suffrage, therefore, to the things they knew or knew partially: they knew personal and menial service, individual craftsmanship, agriculture and barter, taxes or the taking of private property for public ends and the rent of land. With these matters then they attempted to deal. Under the cry of "Freedom" they greatly relaxed the grip of selfish interests by restricting menial service, securing the right of property in handiwork and regulating public taxes; distributing land ownership and freeing trade and barter. While they were doing this against stubborn resistance, a whole new organization of work suddenly appeared. The suddenness of this "Industrial Revolution" of the 19th century was partly fortuitous--in the case of Watt's teakettle--partly a natural development, as in the matter of spinning, but largely the determination of powerful and intelligent individuals to secure the benefits of privileged persons, as in the case of foreign slave trade. The result was on the one hand a vast and unexampled development of industry. Life and civilization in the late 19th and early 20th century were Industry in its whole conception, language, and accomplishment: the object of life was to make goods. Now before this giant aspect of things, the new democracy stood aghast and impotent. It could not rule because it did not understand: an invincible kingdom of trade, business, and commerce ruled the world, and before its threshold stood the Freedom of 18th century philosophy warding the way. Some of the very ones who were freed from the tyranny of the Middle Age became the tyrants of the industrial age. There came a reaction. Men sneered at "democracy" and politics, and brought forth Fate and Philanthropy to rule the world--Fate which gave divine right to rule to the Captains of Industry and their created Millionaires; Philanthropy which organized vast schemes of relief to stop at least the flow of blood in the vaster wounds which industry was making. It was at this time that the lowest laborers, who worked hardest, got least and suffered most, began to mutter and rebel, and among these were the American Negroes. Lions have no historians, and therefore lion hunts are thrilling and satisfactory human reading. Negroes had no bards, and therefore it has been widely told how American philanthropy freed the slave. In truth the Negro revolted by armed rebellion, by sullen refusal to work, by poison and murder, by running away to the North and Canada, by giving point and powerful example to the agitation of the abolitionists and by furnishing 200,000 soldiers and many times as many civilian helpers in the Civil War. This war was not a war for Negro freedom, but a duel between two industrial systems, one of which was bound to fail because it was an anachronism, and the other bound to succeed because of the Industrial Revolution. When now the Negro was freed the Philanthropists sought to apply to his situation the Philosophy of Democracy handed down from the 18th century. There was a chance here to try democratic rule in a new way, that is, against the new industrial oppression with a mass of workers who were not yet in its control. With plenty of land widely distributed, staple products like cotton, rice, and sugar cane, and a thorough system of education, there was a unique chance to realize a new modern democracy in industry in the southern United States which would point the way to the world. This, too, if done by black folk, would have tended to a new unity of human beings and an obliteration of human hatreds festering along the color line. Efforts were begun. The 14th and 15th amendments gave the right to vote to white and black laborers, and they immediately established a public school system and began to attack the land question. The United States government was seriously considering the distribution of land and capital--"40 acres and a mule"--and the price of cotton opened an easy way to economic independence. Co-operative movements began on a large scale. But alas! Not only were the former slave-owners solidly arrayed against this experiment, but the owners of the industrial North saw disaster in any such beginnings of industrial democracy. The opposition based its objections on the color line, and Reconstruction became in history a great movement for the self-assertion of the white race against the impudent ambition of degraded blacks, instead of, in truth, the rise of a mass of black and white laborers. The result was the disfranchisement of the blacks of the South and a world-wide attempt to restrict democratic development to white races and to distract them with race hatred against the darker races. This program, however, although it undoubtedly helped raise the scale of white labor, in much greater proportion put wealth and power in the hands of the great European Captains of Industry and made modern industrial imperialism possible. This led to renewed efforts on the part of white European workers to understand and apply their political power to its reform through democratic control. Whether known as Communism or Socialism or what not, these efforts are neither new nor strange nor terrible, but world-old and seeking an absolutely justifiable human ideal--the only ideal that can be sought: the direction of individual action in industry so as to secure the greatest good of all. Marxism was one method of accomplishing this, and its panacea was the doing away with private property in machines and materials. Two mighty attacks were made on this proposal. One was an attack on the fundamental democratic foundation: modern European white industry does not even theoretically seek the good of all, but simply of all Europeans. This attack was virtually unanswered--indeed some Socialists openly excluded Negroes and Asiatics from their scheme. From this it was easy to drift into that form of syndicalism which asks socialism for the skilled laborer only and leaves the common laborer in his bonds. This throws us back on fundamentals. It compels us again to examine the roots of democracy. Who may be excluded from a share in the ruling of men? Time and time again the world has answered: The Ignorant The Inexperienced The Guarded The Unwilling That is, we have assumed that only the intelligent should vote, or those who know how to rule men, or those who are not under benevolent guardianship, or those who ardently desire the right. These restrictions are not arguments for the wide distribution of the ballot--they are rather reasons for restriction addressed to the self-interest of the present real rulers. We say easily, for instance, "The ignorant ought not to vote." We would say, "No civilized state should have citizens too ignorant to participate in government," and this statement is but a step to the fact: that no state is civilized which has citizens too ignorant to help rule it. Or, in other words, education is not a prerequisite to political control--political control is the cause of popular education. Again, to make experience a qualification for the franchise is absurd: it would stop the spread of democracy and make political power hereditary, a prerequisite of a class, caste, race, or sex. It has of course been soberly argued that only white folk or Englishmen, or men, are really capable of exercising sovereign power in a modern state. The statement proves too much: only yesterday it was Englishmen of high descent, or men of "blood," or sovereigns "by divine right" who could rule. Today the civilized world is being ruled by the descendants of persons who a century ago were pronounced incapable of ever developing a self-ruling people. In every modern state there must come to the polls every generation, and indeed every year, men who are inexperienced in the solutions of the political problems that confront them and who must experiment in methods of ruling men. Thus and thus only will civilization grow. Again, what is this theory of benevolent guardianship for women, for the masses, for Negroes--for "lesser breeds without the law"? It is simply the old cry of privilege, the old assumption that there are those in the world who know better what is best for others than those others know themselves, and who can be trusted to do this best. In fact no one knows himself but that self's own soul. The vast and wonderful knowledge of this marvelous universe is locked in the bosoms of its individual souls. To tap this mighty reservoir of experience, knowledge, beauty, love, and deed we must appeal not to the few, not to some souls, but to all. The narrower the appeal, the poorer the culture; the wider the appeal the more magnificent are the possibilities. Infinite is human nature. We make it finite by choking back the mass of men, by attempting to speak for others, to interpret and act for them, and we end by acting for ourselves and using the world as our private property. If this were all, it were crime enough--but it is not all: by our ignorance we make the creation of the greater world impossible; we beat back a world built of the playing of dogs and laughter of children, the song of Black Folk and worship of Yellow, the love of women and strength of men, and try to express by a group of doddering ancients the Will of the World. There are people who insist upon regarding the franchise, not as a necessity for the many, but as a privilege for the few. They say of persons and classes: "They do not need the ballot." This is often said of women. It is argued that everything which women with the ballot might do for themselves can be done for them; that they have influence and friends "at court," and that their enfranchisement would simply double the number of ballots. So, too, we are told that American Negroes can have done for them by other voters all that they could possibly do for themselves with the ballot and much more because the white voters are more intelligent. Further than this, it is argued that many of the disfranchised people recognize these facts. "Women do not want the ballot" has been a very effective counter war-cry, so much so that many men have taken refuge in the declaration: "When they want to vote, why, then--" So, too, we are continually told that the "best" Negroes stay out of politics. Such arguments show so curious a misapprehension of the foundation of the argument for democracy that the argument must be continually restated and emphasized. We must remember that if the theory of democracy is correct, the right to vote is not merely a privilege, not simply a method of meeting the needs of a particular group, and least of all a matter of recognized want or desire. Democracy is a method of realizing the broadest measure of justice to all human beings. The world has, in the past, attempted various methods of attaining this end, most of which can be summed up in three categories: The method of the benevolent tyrant. The method of the select few. The method of the excluded groups. The method of intrusting the government of a people to a strong ruler has great advantages when the ruler combines strength with ability, unselfish devotion to the public good, and knowledge of what that good calls for. Such a combination is, however, rare and the selection of the right ruler is very difficult. To leave the selection to force is to put a premium on physical strength, chance, and intrigue; to make the selection a matter of birth simply transfers the real power from sovereign to minister. Inevitably the choice of rulers must fall on electors. Then comes the problem, who shall elect. The earlier answer was: a select few, such as the wise, the best born, the able. Many people assume that it was corruption that made such aristocracies fail. By no means. The best and most effective aristocracy, like the best monarchy, suffered from lack of knowledge. The rulers did not know or understand the needs of the people and they could not find out, for in the last analysis only the man himself, however humble, knows his own condition. He may not know how to remedy it, he may not realize just what is the matter; but he knows when something hurts and he alone knows how that hurt feels. Or if sunk below feeling or comprehension or complaint, he does not even know that he is hurt, God help his country, for it not only lacks knowledge, but has destroyed the sources of knowledge. So soon as a nation discovers that it holds in the heads and hearts of its individual citizens the vast mine of knowledge, out of which it may build a just government, then more and more it calls those citizens to select their rulers and to judge the justice of their acts. Even here, however, the temptation is to ask only for the wisdom of citizens of a certain grade or those of recognized worth. Continually some classes are tacitly or expressly excluded. Thus women have been excluded from modern democracy because of the persistent theory of female subjection and because it was argued that their husbands or other male folks would look to their interests. Now, manifestly, most husbands, fathers, and brothers will, so far as they know how or as they realize women's needs, look after them. But remember the foundation of the argument,--that in the last analysis only the sufferer knows his sufferings and that no state can be strong which excludes from its expressed wisdom the knowledge possessed by mothers, wives, and daughters. We have but to view the unsatisfactory relations of the sexes the world over and the problem of children to realize how desperately we need this excluded wisdom. The same arguments apply to other excluded groups: if a race, like the Negro race, is excluded, then so far as that race is a part of the economic and social organization of the land, the feeling and the experience of that race are absolutely necessary to the realization of the broadest justice for all citizens. Or if the "submerged tenth" be excluded, then again, there is lost from the world an experience of untold value, and they must be raised rapidly to a place where they can speak for themselves. In the same way and for the same reason children must be educated, insanity prevented, and only those put under the guardianship of others who can in no way be trained to speak for themselves. The real argument for democracy is, then, that in the people we have the source of that endless life and unbounded wisdom which the rulers of men must have. A given people today may not be intelligent, but through a democratic government that recognizes, not only the worth of the individual to himself, but the worth of his feelings and experiences to all, they can educate, not only the individual unit, but generation after generation, until they accumulate vast stores of wisdom. Democracy alone is the method of showing the whole experience of the race for the benefit of the future and if democracy tries to exclude women or Negroes or the poor or any class because of innate characteristics which do not interfere with intelligence, then that democracy cripples itself and belies its name. From this point of view we can easily see the weakness and strength of current criticism of extension of the ballot. It is the business of a modern government to see to it, first, that the number of ignorant within its bounds is reduced to the very smallest number. Again, it is the duty of every such government to extend as quickly as possible the number of persons of mature age who can vote. Such possible voters must be regarded, not as sharers of a limited treasure, but as sources of new national wisdom and strength. The addition of the new wisdom, the new points of view, and the new interests must, of course, be from time to time bewildering and confusing. Today those who have a voice in the body politic have expressed their wishes and sufferings. The result has been a smaller or greater balancing of their conflicting interests. The appearance of new interests and complaints means disarrangement and confusion to the older equilibrium. It is, of course, the inevitable preliminary step to that larger equilibrium in which the interests of no human soul will be neglected. These interests will not, surely, be all fully realized, but they will be recognized and given as full weight as the conflicting interests will allow. The problem of government thereafter would be to reduce the necessary conflict of human interests to the minimum. From such a point of view one easily sees the strength of the demand for the ballot on the part of certain disfranchised classes. When women ask for the ballot, they are asking, not for a privilege, but for a necessity. You may not see the necessity, you may easily argue that women do not need to vote. Indeed, the women themselves in considerable numbers may agree with you. Nevertheless, women do need the ballot. They need it to right the balance of a world sadly awry because of its brutal neglect of the rights of women and children. With the best will and knowledge, no man can know women's wants as well as women themselves. To disfranchise women is deliberately to turn from knowledge and grope in ignorance. So, too, with American Negroes: the South continually insists that a benevolent guardianship of whites over blacks is the ideal thing. They assume that white people not only know better what Negroes need than Negroes themselves, but that they are anxious to supply these needs. As a result they grope in ignorance and helplessness. They cannot "understand" the Negro; they cannot protect him from cheating and lynching; and, in general, instead of loving guardianship we see anarchy and exploitation. If the Negro could speak for himself in the South instead of being spoken for, if he could defend himself instead of having to depend on the chance sympathy of white citizens, how much healthier a growth of democracy the South would have. So, too, with the darker races of the world. No federation of the world, no true inter-nation--can exclude the black and brown and yellow races from its counsels. They must equally and according to number act and be heard at the world's council. It is not, for a moment, to be assumed that enfranchising women will not cost something. It will for many years confuse our politics. It may even change the present status of family life. It will admit to the ballot thousands of inexperienced persons, unable to vote intelligently. Above all, it will interfere with some of the present prerogatives of men and probably for some time to come annoy them considerably. So, too, Negro enfranchisement meant reconstruction, with its theft and bribery and incompetency as well as its public schools and enlightened, social legislation. It would mean today that black men in the South would have to be treated with consideration, have their wishes respected and their manhood rights recognized. Every white Southerner, who wants peons beneath him, who believes in hereditary menials and a privileged aristocracy, or who hates certain races because of their characteristics, would resent this. Notwithstanding this, if America is ever to become a government built on the broadest justice to every citizen, then every citizen must be enfranchised. There may be temporary exclusions, until the ignorant and their children are taught, or to avoid too sudden an influx of inexperienced voters. But such exclusions can be but temporary if justice is to prevail. The principle of basing all government on the consent of the governed is undenied and undeniable. Moreover, the method of modern democracy has placed within reach of the modern state larger reserves of efficiency, ability, and even genius than the ancient or mediaeval state dreamed of. That this great work of the past can be carried further among all races and nations no one can reasonably doubt. Great as are our human differences and capabilities there is not the slightest scientific reason for assuming that a given human being of any race or sex cannot reach normal, human development if he is granted a reasonable chance. This is, of course, denied. It is denied so volubly and so frequently and with such positive conviction that the majority of unthinking people seem to assume that most human beings are not human and have no right to human treatment or human opportunity. All this goes to prove that human beings are, and must be, woefully ignorant of each other. It always startles us to find folks thinking like ourselves. We do not really associate with each other, we associate with our ideas of each other, and few people have either the ability or courage to question their own ideas. None have more persistently and dogmatically insisted upon the inherent inferiority of women than the men with whom they come in closest contact. It is the husbands, brothers, and sons of women whom it has been most difficult to induce to consider women seriously or to acknowledge that women have rights which men are bound to respect. So, too, it is those people who live in closest contact with black folk who have most unhesitatingly asserted the utter impossibility of living beside Negroes who are not industrial or political slaves or social pariahs. All this proves that none are so blind as those nearest the thing seen, while, on the other hand, the history of the world is the history of the discovery of the common humanity of human beings among steadily-increasing circles of men. If the foundations of democracy are thus seen to be sound, how are we going to make democracy effective where it now fails to function--particularly in industry? The Marxists assert that industrial democracy will automatically follow public ownership of machines and materials. Their opponents object that nationalization of machines and materials would not suffice because the mass of people do not understand the industrial process. They do not know: What to do How to do it Who could do it best or How to apportion the resulting goods. There can be no doubt but that monopoly of machines and materials is a chief source of the power of industrial tyrants over the common worker and that monopoly today is due as much to chance and cheating as to thrift and intelligence. So far as it is due to chance and cheating, the argument for public ownership of capital is incontrovertible even though it involves some interference with long vested rights and inheritance. This is being widely recognized in the whole civilized world. But how about the accumulation of goods due to thrift and intelligence--would democracy in industry interfere here to such an extent as to discourage enterprise and make impossible the intelligent direction of the mighty and intricate industrial process of modern times? The knowledge of what to do in industry and how to do it in order to attain the resulting goods rests in the hands and brains of the workers and managers, and the judges of the result are the public. Consequently it is not so much a question as to whether the world will admit democratic control here as how can such control be long avoided when the people once understand the fundamentals of industry. How can civilization persist in letting one person or a group of persons, by secret inherent power, determine what goods shall be made--whether bread or champagne, overcoats or silk socks? Can so vast a power be kept from the people? But it may be opportunely asked: has our experience in electing public officials led us to think that we could run railways, cotton mills, and department stores by popular vote? The answer is clear: no, it has not, and the reason has been lack of interest in politics and the tyranny of the Majority. Politics have not touched the matters of daily life which are nearest the interests of the people--namely, work and wages; or if they have, they have touched it obscurely and indirectly. When voting touches the vital, everyday interests of all, nominations and elections will call for more intelligent activity. Consider too the vast unused and misused power of public rewards to obtain ability and genius for the service of the state. If millionaires can buy science and art, cannot the Democratic state outbid them not only with money but with the vast ideal of the common weal? There still remains, however, the problem of the Majority. What is the cause of the undoubted reaction and alarm that the citizens of democracy continually feel? It is, I am sure, the failure to feel the full significance of the change of rule from a privileged minority to that of an omnipotent majority, and the assumption that mere majority rule is the last word of government; that majorities have no responsibilities, that they rule by the grace of God. Granted that government should be based on the consent of the governed, does the consent of a majority at any particular time adequately express the consent of all? Has the minority, even though a small and unpopular and unfashionable minority, no right to respectful consideration? I remember that excellent little high school text book, "Nordhoff's Politics," where I first read of government, saying this sentence at the beginning of its most important chapter: "The first duty of a minority is to become a majority." This is a statement which has its underlying truth, but it also has its dangerous falsehood; viz., any minority which cannot become a majority is not worthy of any consideration. But suppose that the out-voted minority is necessarily always a minority? Women, for instance, can seldom expect to be a majority; artists must always be the few; ability is always rare, and black folk in this land are but a tenth. Yet to tyrannize over such minorities, to browbeat and insult them, to call that government a democracy which makes majority votes an excuse for crushing ideas and individuality and self-development, is manifestly a peculiarly dangerous perversion of the real democratic ideal. It is right here, in its method and not in its object, that democracy in America and elsewhere has so often failed. We have attempted to enthrone any chance majority and make it rule by divine right. We have kicked and cursed minorities as upstarts and usurpers when their sole offense lay in not having ideas or hair like ours. Efficiency, ability, and genius found often no abiding place in such a soil as this. Small wonder that revolt has come and high-handed methods are rife, of pretending that policies which we favor or persons that we like have the anointment of a purely imaginary majority vote. Are the methods of such a revolt wise, howsoever great the provocation and evil may be? If the absolute monarchy of majorities is galling and inefficient, is it any more inefficient than the absolute monarchy of individuals or privileged classes have been found to be in the past? Is the appeal from a numerous-minded despot to a smaller, privileged group or to one man likely to remedy matters permanently? Shall we step backward a thousand years because our present problem is baffling? Surely not and surely, too, the remedy for absolutism lies in calling these same minorities to council. As the king-in-council succeeded the king by the grace of God, so in future democracies the toleration and encouragement of minorities and the willingness to consider as "men" the crankiest, humblest and poorest and blackest peoples, must be the real key to the consent of the governed. Peoples and governments will not in the future assume that because they have the brute power to enforce momentarily dominant ideas, it is best to do so without thoughtful conference with the ideas of smaller groups and individuals. Proportionate representation in physical and spiritual form must come. That this method is virtually coming in vogue we can see by the minority groups of modern legislatures. Instead of the artificial attempts to divide all possible ideas and plans between two great parties, modern legislatures in advanced nations tend to develop smaller and smaller minority groups, while government is carried on by temporary coalitions. For a time we inveighed against this and sought to consider it a perversion of the only possible method of practical democracy. Today we are gradually coming to realize that government by temporary coalition of small and diverse groups may easily become the most efficient method of expressing the will of man and of setting the human soul free. The only hindrance to the faster development of this government by allied minorities is the fear of external war which is used again and again to melt these living, human, thinking groups into inhuman, thoughtless, and murdering machines. The persons, then, who come forward in the dawn of the 20th century to help in the ruling of men must come with the firm conviction that no nation, race, or sex, has a monopoly of ability or ideas; that no human group is so small as to deserve to be ignored as a part, and as an integral and respected part, of the mass of men; that, above all, no group of twelve million black folk, even though they are at the physical mercy of a hundred million white majority, can be deprived of a voice in their government and of the right to self-development without a blow at the very foundations of all democracy and all human uplift; that the very criticism aimed today at universal suffrage is in reality a demand for power on the part of consciously efficient minorities,--but these minorities face a fatal blunder when they assume that less democracy will give them and their kind greater efficiency. However desperate the temptation, no modern nation can shut the gates of opportunity in the face of its women, its peasants, its laborers, or its socially damned. How astounded the future world-citizen will be to know that as late as 1918 great and civilized nations were making desperate endeavor to confine the development of ability and individuality to one sex,--that is, to one-half of the nation; and he will probably learn that similar effort to confine humanity to one race lasted a hundred years longer. The doctrine of the divine right of majorities leads to almost humorous insistence on a dead level of mediocrity. It demands that all people be alike or that they be ostracized. At the same time its greatest accusation against rebels is this same desire to be alike: the suffragette is accused of wanting to be a man, the socialist is accused of envy of the rich, and the black man is accused of wanting to be white. That any one of these should simply want to be himself is to the average worshiper of the majority inconceivable, and yet of all worlds, may the good Lord deliver us from a world where everybody looks like his neighbor and thinks like his neighbor and is like his neighbor. The world has long since awakened to a realization of the evil which a privileged few may exercise over the majority of a nation. So vividly has this truth been brought home to us that we have lightly assumed that a privileged and enfranchised majority cannot equally harm a nation. Insane, wicked, and wasteful as the tyranny of the few over the many may be, it is not more dangerous than the tyranny of the many over the few. Brutal physical revolution can, and usually does, end the tyranny of the few. But the spiritual losses from suppressed minorities may be vast and fatal and yet all unknown and unrealized because idea and dream and ability are paralyzed by brute force. If, now, we have a democracy with no excluded groups, with all men and women enfranchised, what is such a democracy to do? How will it function? What will be its field of work? The paradox which faces the civilized world today is that democratic control is everywhere limited in its control of human interests. Mankind is engaged in planting, forestry, and mining, preparing food and shelter, making clothes and machines, transporting goods and folk, disseminating news, distributing products, doing public and private personal service, teaching, advancing science, and creating art. In this intricate whirl of activities, the theory of government has been hitherto to lay down only very general rules of conduct, marking the limits of extreme anti-social acts, like fraud, theft, and murder. The theory was that within these bounds was Freedom--the Liberty to think and do and move as one wished. The real realm of freedom was found in experience to be much narrower than this in one direction and much broader in another. In matters of Truth and Faith and Beauty, the Ancient Law was inexcusably strait and modern law unforgivably stupid. It is here that the future and mighty fight for Freedom must and will be made. Here in the heavens and on the mountaintops, the air of Freedom is wide, almost limitless, for here, in the highest stretches, individual freedom harms no man, and, therefore, no man has the right to limit it. On the other hand, in the valleys of the hard, unyielding laws of matter and the social necessities of time production, and human intercourse, the limits on our freedom are stern and unbending if we would exist and thrive. This does not say that everything here is governed by incontrovertible "natural" law which needs no human decision as to raw materials, machinery, prices, wages, news-dissemination, education of children, etc. ; but it does mean that decisions here must be limited by brute facts and based on science and human wants. Today the scientific and ethical boundaries of our industrial activities are not in the hands of scientists, teachers, and thinkers; nor is the intervening opportunity for decision left in the control of the public whose welfare such decisions guide. On the contrary, the control of industry is largely in the hands of a powerful few, who decide for their own good and regardless of the good of others. The making of the rules of Industry, then, is not in the hands of All, but in the hands of the Few. The Few who govern industry envisage, not the wants of mankind, but their own wants. They work quietly, often secretly, opposing Law, on the one hand, as interfering with the "freedom of industry"; opposing, on the other hand, free discussion and open determination of the rules of work and wealth and wages, on the ground that harsh natural law brooks no interference by Democracy. These things today, then, are not matters of free discussion and determination. They are strictly controlled. Who controls them? Who makes these inner, but powerful, rules? Few people know. Others assert and believe these rules are "natural"--a part of our inescapable physical environment. Some of them doubtless are; but most of them are just as clearly the dictates of self-interest laid down by the powerful private persons who today control industry. Just here it is that modern men demand that Democracy supplant skilfully concealed, but all too evident, Monarchy. In industry, monarchy and the aristocracy rule, and there are those who, calling themselves democratic, believe that democracy can never enter here. Industry, they maintain, is a matter of technical knowledge and ability, and, therefore, is the eternal heritage of the few. They point to the failure of attempts at democratic control in industry, just as we used to point to Spanish-American governments, and they expose, not simply the failures of Russian Soviets,--they fly to arms to prevent that greatest experiment in industrial democracy which the world has yet seen. These are the ones who say: We must control labor or civilization will fail; we must control white labor in Europe and America; above all, we must control yellow labor in Asia and black labor in Africa and the South, else we shall have no tea, or rubber, or cotton. And yet,--and yet is it so easy to give up the dream of democracy? Must industry rule men or may men rule even industry? And unless men rule industry, can they ever hope really to make laws or educate children or create beauty? That the problem of the democratization of industry is tremendous, let no man deny. We must spread that sympathy and intelligence which tolerates the widest individual freedom despite the necessary public control; we must learn to select for public office ability rather than mere affability. We must stand ready to defer to knowledge and science and judge by result rather than by method; and finally we must face the fact that the final distribution of goods--the question of wages and income is an ethical and not a mere mechanical problem and calls for grave public human judgment and not secrecy and closed doors. All this means time and development. It comes not complete by instant revolution of a day, nor yet by the deferred evolution of a thousand years--it comes daily, bit by bit and step by step, as men and women learn and grow and as children are trained in Truth. These steps are in many cases clear: the careful, steady increase of public democratic ownership of industry, beginning with the simplest type of public utilities and monopolies, and extending gradually as we learn the way; the use of taxation to limit inheritance and to take the unearned increment for public use beginning (but not ending) with a "single tax" on monopolized land values; the training of the public in business technique by co-operation in buying and selling, and in industrial technique by the shop committee and manufacturing guild. But beyond all this must come the Spirit--the Will to Human Brotherhood of all Colors, Races, and Creeds; the Wanting of the Wants of All. Perhaps the finest contribution of current Socialism to the world is neither its light nor its dogma, but the idea back of its one mighty word--Comrade! The Call In the Land of the Heavy Laden came once a dreary day. And the King, who sat upon the Great White Throne, raised his eyes and saw afar off how the hills around were hot with hostile feet and the sound of the mocking of his enemies struck anxiously on the King's ears, for the King loved his enemies. So the King lifted up his hand in the glittering silence and spake softly, saying: "Call the Servants of the King." Then the herald stepped before the armpost of the throne, and cried: "Thus saith the High and Mighty One, who inhabiteth Eternity, whose name is Holy,--the Servants of the King!" Now, of the servants of the king there were a hundred and forty-four thousand,--tried men and brave, brawny of arm and quick of wit; aye, too, and women of wisdom and women marvelous in beauty and grace. And yet on this drear day when the King called, their ears were thick with the dust of the enemy, their eyes were blinded with the flashing of his spears, and they hid their faces in dread silence and moved not, even at the King's behest. So the herald called again. And the servants cowered in very shame, but none came forth. But the third blast of the herald struck upon a woman's heart, afar. And the woman straightway left her baking and sweeping and the rattle of pans; and the woman straightway left her chatting and gossiping and the sewing of garments, and the woman stood before the King, saying: "The servant of thy servants, O Lord." Then the King smiled,--smiled wondrously, so that the setting sun burst through the clouds, and the hearts of the King's men dried hard within them. And the low-voiced King said, so low that even they that listened heard not well: "Go, smite me mine enemies, that they cease to do evil in my sight." And the woman quailed and trembled. Three times she lifted her eyes unto the hills and saw the heathen whirling onward in their rage. And seeing, she shrank--three times she shrank and crept to the King's feet. "O King," she cried, "I am but a woman." And the King answered: "Go, then, Mother of Men." And the woman said, "Nay, King, but I am still a maid." Whereat the King cried: "O maid, made Man, thou shalt be Bride of God." And yet the third time the woman shrank at the thunder in her ears, and whispered: "Dear God, I am black!" The King spake not, but swept the veiling of his face aside and lifted up the light of his countenance upon her and lo! it was black. So the woman went forth on the hills of God to do battle for the King, on that drear day in the land of the Heavy Laden, when the heathen raged and imagined a vain thing. VII THE DAMNATION OF WOMEN I remember four women of my boyhood: my mother, cousin Inez, Emma, and Ide Fuller. They represented the problem of the widow, the wife, the maiden, and the outcast. They were, in color, brown and light-brown, yellow with brown freckles, and white. They existed not for themselves, but for men; they were named after the men to whom they were related and not after the fashion of their own souls. They were not beings, they were relations and these relations were enfilmed with mystery and secrecy. We did not know the truth or believe it when we heard it. Motherhood! What was it? We did not know or greatly care. My mother and I were good chums. I liked her. After she was dead I loved her with a fierce sense of personal loss. Inez was a pretty, brown cousin who married. What was marriage? We did not know, neither did she, poor thing! It came to mean for her a litter of children, poverty, a drunken, cruel companion, sickness, and death. Why? There was no sweeter sight than Emma,--slim, straight, and dainty, darkly flushed with the passion of youth; but her life was a wild, awful struggle to crush her natural, fierce joy of love. She crushed it and became a cold, calculating mockery. Last there was that awful outcast of the town, the white woman, Ide Fuller. What she was, we did not know. She stood to us as embodied filth and wrong,--but whose filth, whose wrong? Grown up I see the problem of these women transfused; I hear all about me the unanswered call of youthful love, none the less glorious because of its clean, honest, physical passion. Why unanswered? Because the youth are too poor to marry or if they marry, too poor to have children. They turn aside, then, in three directions: to marry for support, to what men call shame, or to that which is more evil than nothing. It is an unendurable paradox; it must be changed or the bases of culture will totter and fall. The world wants healthy babies and intelligent workers. Today we refuse to allow the combination and force thousands of intelligent workers to go childless at a horrible expenditure of moral force, or we damn them if they break our idiotic conventions. Only at the sacrifice of intelligence and the chance to do their best work can the majority of modern women bear children. This is the damnation of women. All womanhood is hampered today because the world on which it is emerging is a world that tries to worship both virgins and mothers and in the end despises motherhood and despoils virgins. The future woman must have a life work and economic independence. She must have knowledge. She must have the right of motherhood at her own discretion. The present mincing horror at free womanhood must pass if we are ever to be rid of the bestiality of free manhood; not by guarding the weak in weakness do we gain strength, but by making weakness free and strong. The world must choose the free woman or the white wraith of the prostitute. Today it wavers between the prostitute and the nun. Civilization must show two things: the glory and beauty of creating life and the need and duty of power and intelligence. This and this only will make the perfect marriage of love and work. God is Love, Love is God; There is no God but Love And Work is His Prophet! All this of woman,--but what of black women? The world that wills to worship womankind studiously forgets its darker sisters. They seem in a sense to typify that veiled Melancholy: "Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And, therefore, to our weaker view O'er-laid with black." Yet the world must heed these daughters of sorrow, from the primal black All-Mother of men down through the ghostly throng of mighty womanhood, who walked in the mysterious dawn of Asia and Africa; from Neith, the primal mother of all, whose feet rest on hell, and whose almighty hands uphold the heavens; all religion, from beauty to beast, lies on her eager breasts; her body bears the stars, while her shoulders are necklaced by the dragon; from black Neith down to "That starr'd Ethiop queen who strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea-nymphs," through dusky Cleopatras, dark Candaces, and darker, fiercer Zinghas, to our own day and our own land,--in gentle Phillis; Harriet, the crude Moses; the sybil, Sojourner Truth; and the martyr, Louise De Mortie. The father and his worship is Asia; Europe is the precocious, self-centered, forward-striving child; but the land of the mother is and was Africa. In subtle and mysterious way, despite her curious history, her slavery, polygamy, and toil, the spell of the African mother pervades her land. Isis, the mother, is still titular goddess, in thought if not in name, of the dark continent. Nor does this all seem to be solely a survival of the historic matriarchate through which all nations pass,--it appears to be more than this,--as if the great black race in passing up the steps of human culture gave the world, not only the Iron Age, the cultivation of the soil, and the domestication of animals, but also, in peculiar emphasis, the mother-idea. "No mother can love more tenderly and none is more tenderly loved than the Negro mother," writes Schneider. Robin tells of the slave who bought his mother's freedom instead of his own. Mungo Park writes: "Everywhere in Africa, I have noticed that no greater affront can be offered a Negro than insulting his mother. 'Strike me,' cries a Mandingo to his enemy, 'but revile not my mother!'" And the Krus and Fantis say the same. The peoples on the Zambezi and the great lakes cry in sudden fear or joy: "O, my mother!" And the Herero swears (endless oath) "By my mother's tears!" "As the mist in the swamps," cries the Angola Negro, "so lives the love of father and mother." A student of the present Gold Coast life describes the work of the village headman, and adds: "It is a difficult task that he is set to, but in this matter he has all-powerful helpers in the female members of the family, who will be either the aunts or the sisters or the cousins or the nieces of the headman, and as their interests are identical with his in every particular, the good women spontaneously train up their children to implicit obedience to the headman, whose rule in the family thus becomes a simple and an easy matter. 'The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.' What a power for good in the native state system would the mothers of the Gold Coast and Ashanti become by judicious training upon native lines!" Schweinfurth declares of one tribe: "A bond between mother and child which lasts for life is the measure of affection shown among the Dyoor" and Ratzel adds: "Agreeable to the natural relation the mother stands first among the chief influences affecting the children. From the Zulus to the Waganda, we find the mother the most influential counsellor at the court of ferocious sovereigns, like Chaka or Mtesa; sometimes sisters take her place. Thus even with chiefs who possess wives by hundreds the bonds of blood are the strongest and that the woman, though often heavily burdened, is in herself held in no small esteem among the Negroes is clear from the numerous Negro queens, from the medicine women, from the participation in public meetings permitted to women by many Negro peoples." As I remember through memories of others, backward among my own family, it is the mother I ever recall,--the little, far-off mother of my grandmothers, who sobbed her life away in song, longing for her lost palm-trees and scented waters; the tall and bronzen grandmother, with beaked nose and shrewish eyes, who loved and scolded her black and laughing husband as he smoked lazily in his high oak chair; above all, my own mother, with all her soft brownness,--the brown velvet of her skin, the sorrowful black-brown of her eyes, and the tiny brown-capped waves of her midnight hair as it lay new parted on her forehead. All the way back in these dim distances it is mothers and mothers of mothers who seem to count, while fathers are shadowy memories. Upon this African mother-idea, the westward slave trade and American slavery struck like doom. In the cruel exigencies of the traffic in men and in the sudden, unprepared emancipation the great pendulum of social equilibrium swung from a time, in 1800,--when America had but eight or less black women to every ten black men,--all too swiftly to a day, in 1870,--when there were nearly eleven women to ten men in our Negro population. This was but the outward numerical fact of social dislocation; within lay polygamy, polyandry, concubinage, and moral degradation. They fought against all this desperately, did these black slaves in the West Indies, especially among the half-free artisans; they set up their ancient household gods, and when Toussaint and Cristophe founded their kingdom in Haiti, it was based on old African tribal ties and beneath it was the mother-idea. The crushing weight of slavery fell on black women. Under it there was no legal marriage, no legal family, no legal control over children. To be sure, custom and religion replaced here and there what the law denied, yet one has but to read advertisements like the following to see the hell beneath the system: "One hundred dollars reward will be given for my two fellows, Abram and Frank. Abram has a wife at Colonel Stewart's, in Liberty County, and a mother at Thunderbolt, and a sister in Savannah. "WILLIAM ROBERTS." "Fifty dollars reward--Ran away from the subscriber a Negro girl named Maria. She is of a copper color, between thirteen and fourteen years of age--bareheaded and barefooted. She is small for her age--very sprightly and very likely. She stated she was going to see her mother at Maysville. "SANFORD THOMSON." "Fifty dollars reward--Ran away from the subscriber his Negro man Pauladore, commonly called Paul. I understand General R.Y. Hayne has purchased his wife and children from H.L. Pinckney, Esq., and has them now on his plantation at Goose Creek, where, no doubt, the fellow is frequently lurking. "T. DAVIS." The Presbyterian synod of Kentucky said to the churches under its care in 1835: "Brothers and sisters, parents and children, husbands and wives, are torn asunder and permitted to see each other no more. These acts are daily occurring in the midst of us. The shrieks and agony often witnessed on such occasions proclaim, with a trumpet tongue, the iniquity of our system. There is not a neighborhood where these heartrending scenes are not displayed. There is not a village or road that does not behold the sad procession of manacled outcasts whose mournful countenances tell that they are exiled by force from all that their hearts hold dear." A sister of a president of the United States declared: "We Southern ladies are complimented with the names of wives, but we are only the mistresses of seraglios." Out of this, what sort of black women could be born into the world of today? There are those who hasten to answer this query in scathing terms and who say lightly and repeatedly that out of black slavery came nothing decent in womanhood; that adultery and uncleanness were their heritage and are their continued portion. Fortunately so exaggerated a charge is humanly impossible of truth. The half-million women of Negro descent who lived at the beginning of the 19th century had become the mothers of two and one-fourth million daughters at the time of the Civil War and five million grand-daughters in 1910. Can all these women be vile and the hunted race continue to grow in wealth and character? Impossible. Yet to save from the past the shreds and vestiges of self-respect has been a terrible task. I most sincerely doubt if any other race of women could have brought its fineness up through so devilish a fire. Alexander Crummell once said of his sister in the blood: "In her girlhood all the delicate tenderness of her sex has been rudely outraged. In the field, in the rude cabin, in the press-room, in the factory she was thrown into the companionship of coarse and ignorant men. No chance was given her for delicate reserve or tender modesty. From her childhood she was the doomed victim of the grossest passion. All the virtues of her sex were utterly ignored. If the instinct of chastity asserted itself, then she had to fight like a tiger for the ownership and possession of her own person and ofttimes had to suffer pain and lacerations for her virtuous self-assertion. When she reached maturity, all the tender instincts of her womanhood were ruthlessly violated. At the age of marriage,--always prematurely anticipated under slavery--she was mated as the stock of the plantation were mated, not to be the companion of a loved and chosen husband, but to be the breeder of human cattle for the field or the auction block." Down in such mire has the black motherhood of this race struggled,--starving its own wailing offspring to nurse to the world their swaggering masters; welding for its children chains which affronted even the moral sense of an unmoral world. Many a man and woman in the South have lived in wedlock as holy as Adam and Eve and brought forth their brown and golden children, but because the darker woman was helpless, her chivalrous and whiter mate could cast her off at his pleasure and publicly sneer at the body he had privately blasphemed. I shall forgive the white South much in its final judgment day: I shall forgive its slavery, for slavery is a world-old habit; I shall forgive its fighting for a well-lost cause, and for remembering that struggle with tender tears; I shall forgive its so-called "pride of race," the passion of its hot blood, and even its dear, old, laughable strutting and posing; but one thing I shall never forgive, neither in this world nor the world to come: its wanton and continued and persistent insulting of the black womanhood which it sought and seeks to prostitute to its lust. I cannot forget that it is such Southern gentlemen into whose hands smug Northern hypocrites of today are seeking to place our women's eternal destiny,--men who insist upon withholding from my mother and wife and daughter those signs and appellations of courtesy and respect which elsewhere he withholds only from bawds and courtesans. The result of this history of insult and degradation has been both fearful and glorious. It has birthed the haunting prostitute, the brawler, and the beast of burden; but it has also given the world an efficient womanhood, whose strength lies in its freedom and whose chastity was won in the teeth of temptation and not in prison and swaddling clothes. To no modern race does its women mean so much as to the Negro nor come so near to the fulfilment of its meaning. As one of our women writes: "Only the black woman can say 'when and where I enter, in the quiet, undisputed dignity of my womanhood, without violence and without suing or special patronage, then and there the whole Negro race enters with me.'" They came first, in earlier days, like foam flashing on dark, silent waters,--bits of stern, dark womanhood here and there tossed almost carelessly aloft to the world's notice. First and naturally they assumed the panoply of the ancient African mother of men, strong and black, whose very nature beat back the wilderness of oppression and contempt. Such a one was that cousin of my grandmother, whom western Massachusetts remembers as "Mum Bett." Scarred for life by a blow received in defense of a sister, she ran away to Great Barrington and was the first slave, or one of the first, to be declared free under the Bill of Rights of 1780. The son of the judge who freed her, writes: "Even in her humble station, she had, when occasion required it, an air of command which conferred a degree of dignity and gave her an ascendancy over those of her rank, which is very unusual in persons of any rank or color. Her determined and resolute character, which enabled her to limit the ravages of Shay's mob, was manifested in her conduct and deportment during her whole life. She claimed no distinction, but it was yielded to her from her superior experience, energy, skill, and sagacity. Having known this woman as familiarly as I knew either of my parents, I cannot believe in the moral or physical inferiority of the race to which she belonged. The degradation of the African must have been otherwise caused than by natural inferiority." It was such strong women that laid the foundations of the great Negro church of today, with its five million members and ninety millions of dollars in property. One of the early mothers of the church, Mary Still, writes thus quaintly, in the forties: "When we were as castouts and spurned from the large churches, driven from our knees, pointed at by the proud, neglected by the careless, without a place of worship, Allen, faithful to the heavenly calling, came forward and laid the foundation of this connection. The women, like the women at the sepulcher, were early to aid in laying the foundation of the temple and in helping to carry up the noble structure and in the name of their God set up their banner; most of our aged mothers are gone from this to a better state of things. Yet some linger still on their staves, watching with intense interest the ark as it moves over the tempestuous waves of opposition and ignorance.... "But the labors of these women stopped not here, for they knew well that they were subject to affliction and death. For the purpose of mutual aid, they banded themselves together in society capacity, that they might be better able to administer to each others' sufferings and to soften their own pillows. So we find the females in the early history of the church abounding in good works and in acts of true benevolence." From such spiritual ancestry came two striking figures of war-time,--Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth. For eight or ten years previous to the breaking out of the Civil War, Harriet Tubman was a constant attendant at anti-slavery conventions, lectures, and other meetings; she was a black woman of medium size, smiling countenance, with her upper front teeth gone, attired in coarse but neat clothes, and carrying always an old-fashioned reticule at her side. Usually as soon as she sat down she would drop off in sound sleep. She was born a slave in Maryland, in 1820, bore the marks of the lash on her flesh; and had been made partially deaf, and perhaps to some degree mentally unbalanced by a blow on the head in childhood. Yet she was one of the most important agents of the Underground Railroad and a leader of fugitive slaves. She ran away in 1849 and went to Boston in 1854, where she was welcomed into the homes of the leading abolitionists and where every one listened with tense interest to her strange stories. She was absolutely illiterate, with no knowledge of geography, and yet year after year she penetrated the slave states and personally led North over three hundred fugitives without losing a single one. A standing reward of $10,000 was offered for her, but as she said: "The whites cannot catch us, for I was born with the charm, and the Lord has given me the power." She was one of John Brown's closest advisers and only severe sickness prevented her presence at Harper's Ferry. When the war cloud broke, she hastened to the front, flitting down along her own mysterious paths, haunting the armies in the field, and serving as guide and nurse and spy. She followed Sherman in his great march to the sea and was with Grant at Petersburg, and always in the camps the Union officers silently saluted her. The other woman belonged to a different type,--a tall, gaunt, black, unsmiling sybil, weighted with the woe of the world. She ran away from slavery and giving up her own name took the name of Sojourner Truth. She says: "I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!'" Her determination was founded on unwavering faith in ultimate good. Wendell Phillips says that he was once in Faneuil Hall, when Frederick Douglass was one of the chief speakers. Douglass had been describing the wrongs of the Negro race and as he proceeded he grew more and more excited and finally ended by saying that they had no hope of justice from the whites, no possible hope except in their own right arms. It must come to blood! They must fight for themselves. Sojourner Truth was sitting, tall and dark, on the very front seat facing the platform, and in the hush of feeling when Douglass sat down she spoke out in her deep, peculiar voice, heard all over the hall: "Frederick, is God dead?" Such strong, primitive types of Negro womanhood in America seem to some to exhaust its capabilities. They know less of a not more worthy, but a finer type of black woman wherein trembles all of that delicate sense of beauty and striving for self-realization, which is as characteristic of the Negro soul as is its quaint strength and sweet laughter. George Washington wrote in grave and gentle courtesy to a Negro woman, in 1776, that he would "be happy to see" at his headquarters at any time, a person "to whom nature has been so liberal and beneficial in her dispensations." This child, Phillis Wheatley, sang her trite and halting strain to a world that wondered and could not produce her like. Measured today her muse was slight and yet, feeling her striving spirit, we call to her still in her own words: "Through thickest glooms look back, immortal shade." Perhaps even higher than strength and art loom human sympathy and sacrifice as characteristic of Negro womanhood. Long years ago, before the Declaration of Independence, Kate Ferguson was born in New York. Freed, widowed, and bereaved of her children before she was twenty, she took the children of the streets of New York, white and black, to her empty arms, taught them, found them homes, and with Dr. Mason of Murray Street Church established the first modern Sunday School in Manhattan. Sixty years later came Mary Shadd up out of Delaware. She was tall and slim, of that ravishing dream-born beauty,--that twilight of the races which we call mulatto. Well-educated, vivacious, with determination shining from her sharp eyes, she threw herself singlehanded into the great Canadian pilgrimage when thousands of hunted black men hurried northward and crept beneath the protection of the lion's paw. She became teacher, editor, and lecturer; tramping afoot through winter snows, pushing without blot or blemish through crowd and turmoil to conventions and meetings, and finally becoming recruiting agent for the United States government in gathering Negro soldiers in the West. After the war the sacrifice of Negro women for freedom and uplift is one of the finest chapters in their history. Let one life typify all: Louise De Mortie, a free-born Virginia girl, had lived most of her life in Boston. Her high forehead, swelling lips, and dark eyes marked her for a woman of feeling and intellect. She began a successful career as a public reader. Then came the War and the Call. She went to the orphaned colored children of New Orleans,--out of freedom into insult and oppression and into the teeth of the yellow fever. She toiled and dreamed. In 1887 she had raised money and built an orphan home and that same year, in the thirty-fourth year of her young life, she died, saying simply: "I belong to God." As I look about me today in this veiled world of mine, despite the noisier and more spectacular advance of my brothers, I instinctively feel and know that it is the five million women of my race who really count. Black women (and women whose grandmothers were black) are today furnishing our teachers; they are the main pillars of those social settlements which we call churches; and they have with small doubt raised three-fourths of our church property. If we have today, as seems likely, over a billion dollars of accumulated goods, who shall say how much of it has been wrung from the hearts of servant girls and washerwomen and women toilers in the fields? As makers of two million homes these women are today seeking in marvelous ways to show forth our strength and beauty and our conception of the truth. In the United States in 1910 there were 4,931,882 women of Negro descent; over twelve hundred thousand of these were children, another million were girls and young women under twenty, and two and a half-million were adults. As a mass these women were unlettered,--a fourth of those from fifteen to twenty-five years of age were unable to write. These women are passing through, not only a moral, but an economic revolution. Their grandmothers married at twelve and fifteen, but twenty-seven per cent of these women today who have passed fifteen are still single. Yet these black women toil and toil hard. There were in 1910 two and a half million Negro homes in the United States. Out of these homes walked daily to work two million women and girls over ten years of age,--over half of the colored female population as against a fifth in the case of white women. These, then, are a group of workers, fighting for their daily bread like men; independent and approaching economic freedom! They furnished a million farm laborers, 80,000 farmers, 22,000 teachers, 600,000 servants and washerwomen, and 50,000 in trades and merchandizing. The family group, however, which is the ideal of the culture with which these folk have been born, is not based on the idea of an economically independent working mother. Rather its ideal harks back to the sheltered harem with the mother emerging at first as nurse and homemaker, while the man remains the sole breadwinner. What is the inevitable result of the clash of such ideals and such facts in the colored group? Broken families. Among native white women one in ten is separated from her husband by death, divorce, or desertion. Among Negroes the ratio is one in seven. Is the cause racial? No, it is economic, because there is the same high ratio among the white foreign-born. The breaking up of the present family is the result of modern working and sex conditions and it hits the laborers with terrible force. The Negroes are put in a peculiarly difficult position, because the wage of the male breadwinner is below the standard, while the openings for colored women in certain lines of domestic work, and now in industries, are many. Thus while toil holds the father and brother in country and town at low wages, the sisters and mothers are called to the city. As a result the Negro women outnumber the men nine or ten to eight in many cities, making what Charlotte Gilman bluntly calls "cheap women." What shall we say to this new economic equality in a great laboring class? Some people within and without the race deplore it. "Back to the homes with the women," they cry, "and higher wage for the men." But how impossible this is has been shown by war conditions. Cessation of foreign migration has raised Negro men's wages, to be sure--but it has not only raised Negro women's wages, it has opened to them a score of new avenues of earning a living. Indeed, here, in microcosm and with differences emphasizing sex equality, is the industrial history of labor in the 19th and 20th centuries. We cannot abolish the new economic freedom of women. We cannot imprison women again in a home or require them all on pain of death to be nurses and housekeepers. What is today the message of these black women to America and to the world? The uplift of women is, next to the problem of the color line and the peace movement, our greatest modern cause. When, now, two of these movements--woman and color--combine in one, the combination has deep meaning. In other years women's way was clear: to be beautiful, to be petted, to bear children. Such has been their theoretic destiny and if perchance they have been ugly, hurt, and barren, that has been forgotten with studied silence. In partial compensation for this narrowed destiny the white world has lavished its politeness on its womankind,--its chivalry and bows, its uncoverings and courtesies--all the accumulated homage disused for courts and kings and craving exercise. The revolt of white women against this preordained destiny has in these latter days reached splendid proportions, but it is the revolt of an aristocracy of brains and ability,--the middle class and rank and file still plod on in the appointed path, paid by the homage, the almost mocking homage, of men. From black women of America, however, (and from some others, too, but chiefly from black women and their daughters' daughters) this gauze has been withheld and without semblance of such apology they have been frankly trodden under the feet of men. They are and have been objected to, apparently for reasons peculiarly exasperating to reasoning human beings. When in this world a man comes forward with a thought, a deed, a vision, we ask not, how does he look,--but what is his message? It is of but passing interest whether or not the messenger is beautiful or ugly,--the _message_ is the thing. This, which is axiomatic among men, has been in past ages but partially true if the messenger was a woman. The world still wants to ask that a woman primarily be pretty and if she is not, the mob pouts and asks querulously, "What else are women for?" Beauty "is its own excuse for being," but there are other excuses, as most men know, and when the white world objects to black women because it does not consider them beautiful, the black world of right asks two questions: "What is beauty?" and, "Suppose you think them ugly, what then? If ugliness and unconventionality and eccentricity of face and deed do not hinder men from doing the world's work and reaping the world's reward, why should it hinder women?" Other things being equal, all of us, black and white, would prefer to be beautiful in face and form and suitably clothed; but most of us are not so, and one of the mightiest revolts of the century is against the devilish decree that no woman is a woman who is not by present standards a beautiful woman. This decree the black women of America have in large measure escaped from the first. Not being expected to be merely ornamental, they have girded themselves for work, instead of adorning their bodies only for play. Their sturdier minds have concluded that if a woman be clean, healthy, and educated, she is as pleasing as God wills and far more useful than most of her sisters. If in addition to this she is pink and white and straight-haired, and some of her fellow-men prefer this, well and good; but if she is black or brown and crowned in curled mists (and this to us is the most beautiful thing on earth), this is surely the flimsiest excuse for spiritual incarceration or banishment. The very attempt to do this in the case of Negro Americans has strangely over-reached itself. By so much as the defective eyesight of the white world rejects black women as beauties, by so much the more it needs them as human beings,--an enviable alternative, as many a white woman knows. Consequently, for black women alone, as a group, "handsome is that handsome does" and they are asked to be no more beautiful than God made them, but they are asked to be efficient, to be strong, fertile, muscled, and able to work. If they marry, they must as independent workers be able to help support their children, for their men are paid on a scale which makes sole support of the family often impossible. On the whole, colored working women are paid as well as white working women for similar work, save in some higher grades, while colored men get from one-fourth to three-fourths less than white men. The result is curious and three-fold: the economic independence of black women is increased, the breaking up of Negro families must be more frequent, and the number of illegitimate children is decreased more slowly among them than other evidences of culture are increased, just as was once true in Scotland and Bavaria. What does this mean? It forecasts a mighty dilemma which the whole world of civilization, despite its will, must one time frankly face: the unhusbanded mother or the childless wife. God send us a world with woman's freedom and married motherhood inextricably wed, but until He sends it, I see more of future promise in the betrayed girl-mothers of the black belt than in the childless wives of the white North, and I have more respect for the colored servant who yields to her frank longing for motherhood than for her white sister who offers up children for clothes. Out of a sex freedom that today makes us shudder will come in time a day when we will no longer pay men for work they do not do, for the sake of their harem; we will pay women what they earn and insist on their working and earning it; we will allow those persons to vote who know enough to vote, whether they be black or female, white or male; and we will ward race suicide, not by further burdening the over-burdened, but by honoring motherhood, even when the sneaking father shirks his duty. * * * * * "Wait till the lady passes," said a Nashville white boy. "She's no lady; she's a nigger," answered another. So some few women are born free, and some amid insult and scarlet letters achieve freedom; but our women in black had freedom thrust contemptuously upon them. With that freedom they are buying an untrammeled independence and dear as is the price they pay for it, it will in the end be worth every taunt and groan. Today the dreams of the mothers are coming true. We have still our poverty and degradation, our lewdness and our cruel toil; but we have, too, a vast group of women of Negro blood who for strength of character, cleanness of soul, and unselfish devotion of purpose, is today easily the peer of any group of women in the civilized world. And more than that, in the great rank and file of our five million women we have the up-working of new revolutionary ideals, which must in time have vast influence on the thought and action of this land. For this, their promise, and for their hard past, I honor the women of my race. Their beauty,--their dark and mysterious beauty of midnight eyes, crumpled hair, and soft, full-featured faces--is perhaps more to me than to you, because I was born to its warm and subtle spell; but their worth is yours as well as mine. No other women on earth could have emerged from the hell of force and temptation which once engulfed and still surrounds black women in America with half the modesty and womanliness that they retain. I have always felt like bowing myself before them in all abasement, searching to bring some tribute to these long-suffering victims, these burdened sisters of mine, whom the world, the wise, white world, loves to affront and ridicule and wantonly to insult. I have known the women of many lands and nations,--I have known and seen and lived beside them, but none have I known more sweetly feminine, more unswervingly loyal, more desperately earnest, and more instinctively pure in body and in soul than the daughters of my black mothers. This, then,--a little thing--to their memory and inspiration. _Children of the Moon_ I am dead; Yet somehow, somewhere, In Time's weird contradiction, I May tell of that dread deed, wherewith I brought to Children of the Moon Freedom and vast salvation. I was a woman born, And trod the streaming street, That ebbs and flows from Harlem's hills, Through caves and caons limned in light, Down to the twisting sea. That night of nights, I stood alone and at the End, Until the sudden highway to the moon, Golden in splendor, Became too real to doubt. Dimly I set foot upon the air, I fled, I flew, through the thrills of light, With all about, above, below, the whirring Of almighty wings. I found a twilight land, Where, hardly hid, the sun Sent softly-saddened rays of Red and brown to burn the iron soil And bathe the snow-white peaks In mighty splendor. Black were the men, Hard-haired and silent-slow, Moving as shadows, Bending with face of fear to earthward; And women there were none. "Woman, woman, woman!" I cried in mounting terror. "Woman and Child!" And the cry sang back Through heaven, with the Whirring of almighty wings. Wings, wings, endless wings,-- Heaven and earth are wings; Wings that flutter, furl, and fold, Always folding and unfolding, Ever folding yet again; Wings, veiling some vast And veild face, In blazing blackness, Behind the folding and unfolding, The rolling and unrolling of Almighty wings! I saw the black men huddle, Fumed in fear, falling face downward; Vainly I clutched and clawed, Dumbly they cringed and cowered, Moaning in mournful monotone: O Freedom, O Freedom, O Freedom over me; Before I'll be a slave, I'll be buried in my grave, And go home to my God, And be free. It was angel-music From the dead, And ever, as they sang, Some wingd thing of wings, filling all heaven, Folding and unfolding, and folding yet again, Tore out their blood and entrails, 'Til I screamed in utter terror; And a silence came-- A silence and the wailing of a babe. Then, at last, I saw and shamed; I knew how these dumb, dark, and dusky things Had given blood and life, To fend the caves of underground, The great black caves of utter night, Where earth lay full of mothers And their babes. Little children sobbing in darkness, Little children crying in silent pain, Little mothers rocking and groping and struggling, Digging and delving and groveling, Amid the dying-dead and dead-in-life And drip and dripping of warm, wet blood, Far, far beneath the wings,-- The folding and unfolding of almighty wings. I bent with tears and pitying hands, Above these dusky star-eyed children,-- Crinkly-haired, with sweet-sad baby voices, Pleading low for light and love and living-- And I crooned: "Little children weeping there, God shall find your faces fair; Guerdon for your deep distress, He shall send His tenderness; For the tripping of your feet Make a mystic music sweet In the darkness of your hair; Light and laughter in the air-- Little children weeping there, God shall find your faces fair!" I strode above the stricken, bleeding men, The rampart 'ranged against the skies, And shouted: "Up, I say, build and slay; Fight face foremost, force a way, Unloose, unfetter, and unbind; Be men and free!" Dumbly they shrank, Muttering they pointed toward that peak, Than vastness vaster, Whereon a darkness brooded, "Who shall look and live," they sighed; And I sensed The folding and unfolding of almighty wings. Yet did we build of iron, bricks, and blood; We built a day, a year, a thousand years, Blood was the mortar,--blood and tears, And, ah, the Thing, the Thing of wings, The wingd, folding Wing of Things Did furnish much mad mortar For that tower. Slow and ever slower rose the towering task, And with it rose the sun, Until at last on one wild day, Wind-whirled, cloud-swept and terrible I stood beneath the burning shadow Of the peak, Beneath the whirring of almighty wings, While downward from my feet Streamed the long line of dusky faces And the wail of little children sobbing under earth. Alone, aloft, I saw through firmaments on high The drama of Almighty God, With all its flaming suns and stars. "Freedom!" I cried. "Freedom!" cried heaven, earth, and stars; And a Voice near-far, Amid the folding and unfolding of almighty wings, Answered, "I am Freedom-- Who sees my face is free-- He and his." I dared not look; Downward I glanced on deep-bowed heads and closed eyes, Outward I gazed on flecked and flaming blue-- But ever onward, upward flew The sobbing of small voices,-- Down, down, far down into the night. Slowly I lifted livid limbs aloft; Upward I strove: the face! the face! Onward I reeled: the face! the face! To beauty wonderful as sudden death, Or horror horrible as endless life-- Up! Up! the blood-built way; (Shadow grow vaster! Terror come faster!) Up! Up! to the blazing blackness Of one veild face. And endless folding and unfolding, Rolling and unrolling of almighty wings. The last step stood! The last dim cry of pain Fluttered across the stars, And then-- Wings, wings, triumphant wings, Lifting and lowering, waxing and waning, Swinging and swaying, twirling and whirling, Whispering and screaming, streaming and gleaming, Spreading and sweeping and shading and flaming-- Wings, wings, eternal wings, 'Til the hot, red blood, Flood fleeing flood, Thundered through heaven and mine ears, While all across a purple sky, The last vast pinion. Trembled to unfold. I rose upon the Mountain of the Moon,-- I felt the blazing glory of the Sun; I heard the Song of Children crying, "Free!" I saw the face of Freedom-- And I died. VIII THE IMMORTAL CHILD If a man die shall he live again? We do not know. But this we do know, that our children's children live forever and grow and develop toward perfection as they are trained. All human problems, then, center in the Immortal Child and his education is the problem of problems. And first for illustration of what I would say may I not take for example, out of many millions, the life of one dark child. * * * * * It is now nineteen years since I first saw Coleridge-Taylor. We were in London in some somber hall where there were many meeting, men and women called chiefly to the beautiful World's Fair at Paris; and then a few slipping over to London to meet Pan-Africa. We were there from Cape Colony and Liberia, from Haiti and the States, and from the Islands of the Sea. I remember the stiff, young officer who came with credentials from Menelik of Abyssinia; I remember the bitter, black American who whispered how an army of the Soudan might some day cross the Alps; I remember Englishmen, like the Colensos, who sat and counseled with us; but above all, I remember Coleridge-Taylor. He was a little man and nervous, with dark-golden face and hair that bushed and strayed. His fingers were always nervously seeking hidden keys and he was quick with enthusiasm,--instinct with life. His bride of a year or more,--dark, too, in her whiter way,--was of the calm and quiet type. Her soft contralto voice thrilled us often as she sang, while her silences were full of understanding. Several times we met in public gatherings and then they bade me to their home,--a nest of a cottage, with gate and garden, hidden in London's endless rings of suburbs. I dimly recall through these years a room in cozy disorder, strewn with music--music on the floor and music on the chairs, music in the air as the master rushed to the piano now and again to make some memory melodious--some allusion real. And then at last, for it was the last, I saw Coleridge-Taylor in a mighty throng of people crowding the Crystal Palace. We came in facing the stage and scarcely dared look around. On the stage were a full orchestra, a chorus of eight hundred voices, and some of the world's famous soloists. He left his wife sitting beside me, and she was very silent as he went forward to lift the conductor's baton. It was one of the earliest renditions of "Hiawatha's Wedding Feast." We sat at rapt attention and when the last, weird music died, the great chorus and orchestra rose as a man to acclaim the master; he turned toward the audience and then we turning for the first time saw that sea of faces behind,--the misty thousands whose voices rose to one strong shout of joy! It was a moment such as one does not often live. It seemed, and was, prophetic. This young man who stepped forth as one of the most notable of modern English composers had a simple and uneventful career. His father was a black surgeon of Sierra Leone who came to London for study. While there he met an English girl and this son was born, in London, in 1875. Then came a series of chances. His father failed to succeed and disappeared back to Africa leaving the support of the child to the poor working mother. The child showed evidences of musical talent and a friendly workingman gave him a little violin. A musician glancing from his window saw a little dark boy playing marbles on the street with a tiny violin in one hand; he gave him lessons. He happened to gain entrance into a charity school with a master of understanding mind who recognized genius when he saw it; and finally his beautiful child's treble brought him to the notice of the choirmaster of St. George's, Croyden. So by happy accident his way was clear. Within his soul was no hesitation. He was one of those fortunate beings who are not called to _Wander-Jahre_, but are born with sails set and seas charted. Already the baby of four little years was a musician, and as choir-boy and violinist he walked unhesitatingly and surely to his life work. He was graduated with honors from the Royal Academy of Music in 1894, and married soon after the daughter of one of his professors. Then his life began, and whatever it lacked of physical adventure in the conventional round of a modern world-city, it more than gained in the almost tempestuous outpouring of his spiritual nature. Life to him was neither meat nor drink,--it was creative flame; ideas, plans, melodies glowed within him. To create, to do, to accomplish; to know the white glory of mighty midnights and the pale Amen of dawns was his day of days. Songs, pianoforte and violin pieces, trios and quintets for strings, incidental music, symphony, orchestral, and choral works rushed from his fingers. Nor were they laboriously contrived or light, thin things made to meet sudden popularity. Rather they were the flaming bits that must be said and sung,--that could not wait the slower birth of years, so hurried to the world as though their young creator knew that God gave him but a day. His whole active life was scarcely more than a decade and a half, and yet in that time, without wealth, friends, or influence, in the face of perhaps the most critical and skeptical and least imaginative civilization of the modern world, he wrote his name so high as a creative artist that it cannot soon be forgotten. And this was but one side of the man. On the other was the sweet-tempered, sympathetic comrade, always willing to help, never knowing how to refuse, generous with every nerve and fiber of his being. Think of a young musician, father of a family, who at the time of his death held positions as Associate of the Royal College of Music, Professor in Trinity College and Crystal Palace, Conductor of the Handel Choral Society and the Rochester Choral Society, Principal of the Guildhall School of Music, where he had charge of the choral choir, the orchestra, and the opera. He was repeatedly the leader of music festivals all over Great Britain and a judge of contests. And with all this his house was open in cheering hospitality to friends and his hand ever ready with sympathy and help. When such a man dies, it must bring pause to a reasoning world. We may call his death-sickness pneumonia, but we all know that it was sheer overwork,--the using of a delicately-tuned instrument too commonly and continuously and carelessly to let it last its normal life. We may well talk of the waste of wood and water, of food and fire, but the real and unforgivable waste of modern civilization is the waste of ability and genius,--the killing of useful, indispensable men who have no right to die; who deserve, not for themselves, but for the world, leisure, freedom from distraction, expert medical advice, and intelligent sympathy. Coleridge-Taylor's life work was not finished,--it was but well begun. He lived only his first period of creative genius, when melody and harmony flashed and fluttered in subtle, compelling, and more than promising profusion. He did not live to do the organized, constructive work in the full, calm power of noonday,--the reflective finishing of evening. In the annals of the future his name must always stand high, but with the priceless gift of years, who can say where it might not have stood. Why should he have worked so breathlessly, almost furiously? It was, we may be sure, because with unflinching determination and with no thought of surrender he faced the great alternative,--the choice which the cynical, thoughtless, busy, modern world spreads grimly before its greater souls--food or beauty, bread and butter, or ideals. And continually we see worthier men turning to the pettier, cheaper thing--the popular portrait, the sensational novel, the jingling song. The choice is not always between the least and the greatest, the high and the empty, but only too often it is between starvation and something. When, therefore, we see a man, working desperately to earn a living and still stooping to no paltry dickering and to no unworthy work, handing away a "Hiawatha" for less than a song, pausing for glimpses of the stars when a world full of charcoal glowed far more warmly and comfortably, we know that such a man is a hero in a sense never approached by the swashbuckling soldier or the lying patriot. Deep as was the primal tragedy in the life of Coleridge-Taylor, there lay another still deeper. He smiled at it lightly, as we all do,--we who live within the veil,--to hide the deeper hurt. He had, with us, that divine and African gift of laughter, that echo of a thousand centuries of suns. I mind me how once he told of the bishop, the well-groomed English bishop, who eyed the artist gravely, with his eye-glass--hair and color and figure,--and said quite audibly to his friends, "Quite interesting--looks intelligent,--yes--yes!" Fortunate was Coleridge-Taylor to be born in Europe and to speak a universal tongue. In America he could hardly have had his career. His genius was, to be sure, recognized (with some palpitation and consternation) when it came full-grown across the seas with an English imprint; but born here, it might never have been permitted to grow. We know in America how to discourage, choke, and murder ability when it so far forgets itself as to choose a dark skin. England, thank God, is slightly more civilized than her colonies; but even there the path of this young man was no way of roses and just a shade thornier than that of whiter men. He did not complain at it,--he did not "Wince and cry aloud." Rather the hint here and there of color discrimination in England aroused in him deeper and more poignant sympathy with his people throughout the world. He was one with that great company of mixed-blooded men: Pushkin and Dumas, Hamilton and Douglass, Browning and many others; but he more than most of these men knew the call of the blood when it came and listened and answered. He came to America with strange enthusiasm. He took with quite simple and unconscious grace the conventional congratulations of the musical world. He was used to that. But to his own people--to the sad sweetness of their voices, their inborn sense of music, their broken, half-articulate voices,--he leapt with new enthusiasm. From the fainter shadowings of his own life, he sensed instinctively the vaster tragedy of theirs. His soul yearned to give voice and being to this human thing. He early turned to the sorrow songs. He sat at the faltering feet of Paul Laurence Dunbar and he asked (as we sadly shook our heads) for some masterpiece of this world-tragedy that his soul could set to music. And then, so characteristically, he rushed back to England, composed a half-dozen exquisite harmonies haunted by slave-songs, led the Welsh in their singing, listened to the Scotch, ordered great music festivals in all England, wrote for Beerbohm Tree, took on another music professorship, promised a trip to Germany, and at last, staggering home one night, on his way to his wife and little boy and girl, fell in his tracks and in four days was dead, at the age of thirty-seven. They say that in his death-throe he arose and facing some great, ghostly choir raised his last baton, while all around the massive silence rang with the last mist-music of his dying ears. He was buried from St. Michael's on September 5, 1912, with the acclaim of kings and music masters and little children and to the majestic melody of his own music. The tributes that followed him to his grave were unusually hearty and sincere. The head of the Royal College calls the first production of "Hiawatha" one of the most remarkable events in modern English musical history and the trilogy one of the most universally-beloved works of modern English music. One critic calls Taylor's a name "which with that of Elgar represented the nation's most individual output" and calls his "Atonement" "perhaps the finest passion music of modern times." Another critic speaks of his originality: "Though surrounded by the influences that are at work in Europe today, he retained his individuality to the end, developing his style, however, and evincing new ideas in each succeeding work. His untimely death at the age of thirty-seven, a short life--like those of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Hugo Wolf--has robbed the world of one of its noblest singers, one of those few men of modern times who found expression in the language of musical song, a lyricist of power and worth." But the tributes did not rest with the artist; with peculiar unanimity they sought his "sterling character," "the good husband and father," the "staunch and loyal friend." And perhaps I cannot better end these hesitating words than with that tribute from one who called this master, friend, and whose lament cried in the night with more of depth and passion than Alfred Noyes is wont in his self-repression to voice: "Through him, his race, a moment, lifted up Forests of hands to beauty, as in prayer, Touched through his lips the sacramental cup And then sank back, benumbed in our bleak air." Yet, consider: to many millions of people this man was all wrong. _First_, he ought never to have been born, for he was the mulatto son of a white woman. _Secondly_, he should never have been educated as a musician,--he should have been trained, for his "place" in the world and to make him satisfied therewith. _Thirdly_, he should not have married the woman he loved and who loved him, for she was white and the niece of an Oxford professor. _Fourthly_, the children of such a union--but why proceed? You know it all by heart. If he had been black, like Paul Laurence Dunbar, would the argument have been different? No. He should never have been born, for he is a "problem." He should never be educated, for he cannot be educated. He should never marry, for that means children and there is no place for black children in this world. * * * * * In the treatment of the child the world foreshadows its own future and faith. All words and all thinking lead to the child,--to that vast immortality and the wide sweep of infinite possibility which the child represents. Such thought as this it was that made the Master say of old as He saw baby faces: "And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and he were cast into the sea." And yet the mothers and fathers and the men and women of my race must often pause and ask: Is it worth while? Ought children be born to us? Have we any right to make human souls face what we face today? The answer is clear: If the great battle of human right against poverty, against disease, against color prejudice is to be won, it must be won, not in our day, but in the day of our children's children. Ours is the blood and dust of battle; theirs the rewards of victory. If, then, they are not there because we have not brought them into the world, we have been the guiltiest factor in conquering ourselves. It is our duty, then, to accomplish the immortality of black blood, in order that the day may come in this dark world when poverty shall be abolished, privilege be based on individual desert, and the color of a man's skin be no bar to the outlook of his soul. If it is our duty as honest colored men and women, battling for a great principle, to bring not aimless rafts of children to the world, but as many as, with reasonable sacrifice, we can train to largest manhood, what in its inner essence shall that training be, particularly in its beginning? The first temptation is to shield the child,--to hedge it about that it may not know and will not dream of the color line. Then when we can no longer wholly shield, to indulge and pamper and coddle, as though in this dumb way to compensate. From this attitude comes the multitude of our spoiled, wayward, disappointed children. And must we not blame ourselves? For while the motive was pure and the outer menace undoubted, is shielding and indulgence the way to meet it? Some Negro parents, realizing this, leave their children to sink or swim in this sea of race prejudice. They neither shield nor explain, but thrust them forth grimly into school or street and let them learn as they may from brutal fact. Out of this may come strength, poise, self-dependence, and out of it, too, may come bewilderment, cringing deception, and self-distrust. It is, all said, a brutal, unfair method, and in its way it is as bad as shielding and indulgence. Why not, rather, face the facts and tell the truth? Your child is wiser than you think. The truth lies ever between extremes. It is wrong to introduce the child to race consciousness prematurely; it is dangerous to let that consciousness grow spontaneously without intelligent guidance. With every step of dawning intelligence, explanation--frank, free, guiding explanation--must come. The day will dawn when mother must explain gently but clearly why the little girls next door do not want to play with "niggers"; what the real cause is of the teacher's unsympathetic attitude; and how people may ride in the backs of street cars and the smoker end of trains and still be people, honest high-minded souls. Remember, too, that in such frank explanation you are speaking in nine cases out of ten to a good deal clearer understanding than you think and that the child-mind has what your tired soul may have lost faith in,--the Power and the Glory. Out of little, unspoiled souls rise up wonderful resources and healing balm. Once the colored child understands the white world's attitude and the shameful wrong of it, you have furnished it with a great life motive,--a power and impulse toward good which is the mightiest thing man has. How many white folk would give their own souls if they might graft into their children's souls a great, moving, guiding ideal! With this Power there comes, in the transfiguring soul of childhood, the Glory: the vision of accomplishment, the lofty ideal. Once let the strength of the motive work, and it becomes the life task of the parent to guide and to shape the ideal; to raise it from resentment and revenge to dignity and self-respect, to breadth and accomplishment, to human service; to beat back every thought of cringing and surrender. Here, at last, we can speak with no hesitation, with no lack of faith. For we know that as the world grows better there will be realized in our children's lives that for which we fight unfalteringly, but vainly now. So much for the problem of the home and our own dark children. Now let us look beyond the pale upon the children of the wide world. What is the real lesson of the life of Coleridge-Taylor? It is this: humanly speaking it was sheer accident that this boy developed his genius. We have a right to assume that hundreds and thousands of boys and girls today are missing the chance of developing unusual talents because the chances have been against them; and that indeed the majority of the children of the world are not being systematically fitted for their life work and for life itself. Why? Many seek the reason in the content of the school program. They feverishly argue the relative values of Greek, mathematics, and manual training, but fail with singular unanimity in pointing out the fundamental cause of our failure in human education: That failure is due to the fact that we aim not at the full development of the child, but that the world regards and always has regarded education first as a means of buttressing the established order of things rather than improving it. And this is the real reason why strife, war, and revolution have marked the onward march of humanity instead of reason and sound reform. Instead of seeking to push the coming generation ahead of our pitiful accomplishment, we insist that it march behind. We say, morally, that high character is conformity to present public opinion; we say industrially that the present order is best and that children must be trained to perpetuate it. But, it is objected, what else can we do? Can we teach Revolution to the inexperienced in hope that they may discern progress? No, but we may teach frankly that this world is not perfection, but development: that the object of education is manhood and womanhood, clear reason, individual talent and genius and the spirit of service and sacrifice, and not simply a frantic effort to avoid change in present institutions; that industry is for man and not man for industry and that while we must have workers to work, the prime object of our training is not the work but the worker--not the maintenance of present industrial caste but the development of human intelligence by which drudgery may be lessened and beauty widened. Back of our present educational system is the philosophy that sneers at the foolish Fathers who believed it self-evident, "that all men were created free and equal." Surely the overwhelming evidence is today that men are slaves and unequal. But is it not education that is the creator of this freedom and equality? Most men today cannot conceive of a freedom that does not involve somebody's slavery. They do not want equality because the thrill of their happiness comes from having things that others have not. But may not human education fix the fine ideal of an equal maximum of freedom for every human soul combined with that minimum of slavery for each soul which the inexorable physical facts of the world impose--rather than complete freedom for some and complete slavery for others; and, again, is not the equality toward which the world moves an equality of honor in the assigned human task itself rather than equal facility in doing different tasks? Human equality is not lack of difference, nor do the infinite human differences argue relative superiority and inferiority. And, again, how new an aspect human differences may assume when all men are educated. Today we think of apes, semi-apes, and human beings; tomorrow we may think of Keir Hardies, Roosevelts, and Beethovens--not equals but men. Today we are forcing men into educational slavery in order that others may enjoy life, and excuse ourselves by saying that the world's work must be done. We are degrading some sorts of work by honoring others, and then expressing surprise that most people object to having their children trained solely to take up their father's tasks. Given as the ideal the utmost possible freedom for every human soul, with slavery for none, and equal honor for all necessary human tasks, then our problem of education is greatly simplified: we aim to develop human souls; to make all intelligent; to discover special talents and genius. With this course of training beginning in early childhood and never ceasing must go the technical training for the present world's work according to carefully studied individual gifts and wishes. On the other hand, if we arrange our system of education to develop workmen who will not strike and Negroes satisfied with their present place in the world, we have set ourselves a baffling task. We find ourselves compelled to keep the masses ignorant and to curb our own thought and expression so as not to inflame the ignorant. We force moderate reformers and men with new and valuable ideas to become red radicals and revolutionists, since that happens to be the only way to make the world listen to reason. Consider our race problem in the South: the South has invested in Negro ignorance; some Northerners proposed limited education, not, they explained, to better the Negro, but merely to make the investment more profitable to the present beneficiaries. They thus gained wide Southern support for schools like Hampton and Tuskegee. But could this program be expected long to satisfy colored folk? And was this shifty dodging of the real issue the wisest statesmanship? No! The real question in the South is the question of the permanency of present color caste. The problem, then, of the formal training of our colored children has been strangely complicated by the strong feeling of certain persons as to their future in America and the world. And the reaction toward this caste education has strengthened the idea of caste education throughout the world. Let us then return to fundamental ideals. Children must be trained in a knowledge of what the world is and what it knows and how it does its daily work. These things cannot be separated: we cannot teach pure knowledge apart from actual facts, or separate truth from the human mind. Above all we must not forget that the object of all education is the child itself and not what it does or makes. It is here that a great movement in America has grievously sinned against the light. There has arisen among us a movement to make the Public School primarily the hand-maiden of production. America is conceived of as existing for the sake of its mines, fields and factories, and not those factories, fields and mines as existing for America. Consequently, the public schools are for training the mass of men as servants and laborers and mechanics to increase the land's industrial efficiency. Those who oppose this program, especially if they are black, are accused of despising common toil and humble service. In fact, we Negroes are but facing in our own children a world problem: how can we, while maintaining a proper output of goods and furnishing needed services, increase the knowledge of experience of common men and conserve genius for the common weal? Without wider, deeper intelligence among the masses Democracy cannot accomplish its greater ends. Without a more careful conservation of human ability and talent the world cannot secure the services which its greater needs call for. Yet today who goes to college, the Talented or the Rich? Who goes to high school, the Bright or the Well-to-Do? Who does the physical work of the world, those whose muscles need the exercise or those whose souls and minds are stupefied with manual toil? How is the drudgery of the world distributed, by thoughtful justice or the lash of Slavery? We cannot base the education of future citizens on the present inexcusable inequality of wealth nor on physical differences of race. We must seek not to make men carpenters but to make carpenters men. Colored Americans must then with deep determination educate their children in the broadest, highest way. They must fill the colleges with the talented and fill the fields and shops with the intelligent. Wisdom is the principal thing. Therefore, get wisdom. But why am I talking simply of "colored" children? Is not the problem of their education simply an intensification of the problem of educating all children? Look at our plight in the United States, nearly 150 years after the establishment of a government based on human intelligence. If we take the figures of the Thirteenth Census, we find that there were five and one-half million illiterate Americans of whom 3,184,633 were white. Remembering that illiteracy is a crude and extreme test of ignorance, we may assume that there are in the United States ten million people over ten years of age who are too ignorant either to perform their civic duties or to teach industrial efficiency. Moreover, it does not seem that this illiteracy is disappearing rapidly. For instance, nine percent of American children between ten and nineteen years of age cannot read and write. Moreover, there are millions of children who, judging by the figures for the school year 1909-10, are not going to learn to read and write, for of the Americans six to fourteen years of age there were 3,125,392 who were not in school a single day during that year. If we take the eleven million youths fifteen to twenty years of age for whom vocational training is particularly adapted, we find that nearly five per cent of these, or 448,414, are absolutely illiterate; it is not too much to assume that a million of them have not acquired enough of the ordinary tools of intelligence to make the most of efficient vocational training. Confining ourselves to the white people, over fifteen per cent of the white children six to fourteen years of age, or 2,253,198, did not attend school during the school year 1909-10. Of the native white children of native parents ten to fourteen years of age nearly a tenth were not in school during that year; 121,878 native white children of native parents, fifteen to nineteen years of age, were illiterate. If we continue our attention to the colored children, the case is, of course, much worse. We cannot hope to make intelligent workmen and intelligent citizens of a group of people, over forty per cent of whose children six to fourteen years of age were not in school a single day during 1909-10; for the other sixty per cent the school term in the majority of cases was probably less than five months. Of the Negro children ten to fourteen years of age 18.9 per cent were illiterate; of those fifteen to nineteen years of age 20.3 per cent were illiterate; of those ten to fourteen years of age 31.4 per cent did not go to school a single day in 1909-10. What is the trouble? It is simple. We are spending one dollar for education where we should spend ten dollars. If tomorrow we multiplied our effort to educate the next generation ten-fold, we should but begin our bounden duty. The heaven that lies about our infancy is but the ideals come true which every generation of children is capable of bringing; but we, selfish in our own ignorance and incapacity, are making of education a series of miserable compromises: How ignorant can we let a child grow to be in order to make him the best cotton mill operative? What is the least sum that will keep the average youth out of jail? How many months saved on a high school course will make the largest export of wheat? If we realized that children are the future, that immortality is the present child, that no education which educates can possibly be too costly, then we know that the menace of Kaiserism which called for the expenditure of more than 332 thousand millions of dollars was not a whit more pressing than the menace of ignorance, and that no nation tomorrow will call itself civilized which does not give every single human being college and vocational training free and under the best teaching force procurable for love or money. This world has never taken the education of children seriously. Misled by selfish dreamings of personal life forever, we have neglected the true and practical immortality through the endless life of children's children. Seeking counsels of our own souls' perfection, we have despised and rejected the possible increasing perfection of unending generations. Or if we are thrown back in pessimistic despair from making living folk decent, we leap to idle speculations of a thousand years hereafter instead of working steadily and persistently for the next generation. All our problems center in the child. All our hopes, our dreams are for our children. Has our own life failed? Let its lesson save the children's lives from similar failure. Is democracy a failure? Train up citizens that will make it succeed. Is wealth too crude, too foolish in form, and too easily stolen? Train up workers with honor and consciences and brains. Have we degraded service with menials? Abolish the mean spirit and implant sacrifice. Do we despise women? Train them as workers and thinkers and not as playthings, lest future generations ape our worst mistake. Do we despise darker races? Teach the children its fatal cost in spiritual degradation and murder, teach them that to hate "niggers" or "chinks" is to crucify souls like their own. Is there anything we would accomplish with human beings? Do it with the immortal child, with a stretch of endless time for doing it and with infinite possibilities to work on. Is this our attitude toward education? It is not--neither in England nor America--in France nor Germany--with black nor white nor yellow folk. Education to the modern world is a burden which we are driven to carry. We shirk and complain. We do just as little as possible and only threat or catastrophe induces us to do more than a minimum. If the ignorant mass, panting to know, revolts, we dole them gingerly enough knowledge to pacify them temporarily. If, as in the Great War, we discover soldiers too ignorant to use our machines of murder and destruction, we train them--to use machines of murder and destruction. If mounting wealth calls for intelligent workmen, we rush tumultuously to train workers--in order to increase our wealth. But of great, broad plans to train all men for all things--to make a universe intelligent, busy, good, creative and beautiful--where in this wide world is such an educational program? To announce it is to invite gasps or Brobdingnagian laughter. It cannot be done. It will cost too much. What has been done with man can be done with men, if the world tries long enough and hard enough. And as to the cost--all the wealth of the world, save that necessary for sheer decent existence and for the maintenance of past civilization, is, and of right ought to be, the property of the children for their education. I mean it. In one year, 1917, we spent $96,700,000,000 for war. We blew it away to murder, maim, and destroy! Why? Because the blind, brutal crime of powerful and selfish interests made this path through hell the only visible way to heaven. We did it. We had to do it, and we are glad the putrid horror is over. But, now, are we prepared to spend less to make a world in which the resurgence of such devilish power will be impossible? Do we really want war to cease? Then educate the children of this generation at a cost no whit less and if necessary a hundred times as great as the cost of the Great War. Last year, 1917, education cost us $915,000,000. Next year it ought to cost us at least two thousand million dollars. We should spend enough money to hire the best teaching force possible--the best organizing and directing ability in the land, even if we have to strip the railroads and meat trust. We should dot city and country with the most efficient, sanitary, and beautiful school-houses the world knows and we should give every American child common school, high school, and college training and then vocational guidance in earning a living. Is this a dream? Can we afford less? Consider our so-called educational "problems"; "How may we keep pupils in the high school?" Feed and clothe them. "Shall we teach Latin, Greek, and mathematics to the 'masses'?" If they are worth teaching to anybody, the masses need them most. "Who shall go to college?" Everybody. "When shall culture training give place to technical education for work?" Never. These questions are not "problems." They are simply "excuses" for spending less time and money on the next generation. Given ten millions of dollars a year, what can we best do with the education of a million children? The real answer is--kill nine hundred and ninety thousand of them quickly and not gradually, and make thoroughly-trained men and women of the other ten thousand. But who set the limit of ten million dollars? Who says it shall not be ten thousand millions, as it ought to be? You and I say it, and in saying it we sin against the Holy Ghost. We sin because in our befuddled brains we have linked money and education inextricably. We assume that only the wealthy have a real right to education when, in fact, being born is being given a right to college training. Our wealth today is, we all know, distributed mainly by chance inheritance and personal favor and yet we attempt to base the right to education on this foundation. The result is grotesque! We bury genius; we send it to jail; we ridicule and mock it, while we send mediocrity and idiocy to college, gilded and crowned. For three hundred years we have denied black Americans an education and now we exploit them before a gaping world: See how ignorant and degraded they are! All they are fit for is education for cotton-picking and dish-washing. When Dunbar and Taylor happen along, we are torn between something like shamefaced anger or impatient amazement. A world guilty of this last and mightiest war has no right to enjoy or create until it has made the future safe from another Arkansas or Rheims. To this there is but one patent way, proved and inescapable, Education, and that not for me or for you but for the Immortal Child. And that child is of all races and all colors. All children are the children of all and not of individuals and families and races. The whole generation must be trained and guided and out of it as out of a huge reservoir must be lifted all genius, talent, and intelligence to serve all the world. Almighty Death Softly, quite softly-- For I hear, above the murmur of the sea, Faint and far-fallen footsteps, as of One Who comes from out beyond the endless ends of Time, With voice that downward looms thro' singing stars; Its subtle sound I see thro' these long-darkened eyes, I hear the Light He bringeth on His hands-- Almighty Death! Softly, oh, softly, lest He pass me by, And that unquivering Light toward which my longing soul And tortured body through these years have writhed, Fade to the dun darkness of my days. Softly, full softly, let me rise and greet The strong, low luting of that long-awaited call; Swiftly be all my good and going gone, And this vast veiled and vanquished vigor of my soul Seek somehow otherwhere its rest and goal, Where endless spaces stretch, Where endless time doth moan, Where endless light doth pour Thro' the black kingdoms of eternal death. Then haply I may see what things I have not seen, Then I may know what things I have not known; Then may I do my dreams. Farewell! No sound of idle mourning let there be To shudder this full silence--save the voice Of children--little children, white and black, Whispering the deeds I tried to do for them; While I at last unguided and alone Pass softly, full softly. IX OF BEAUTY AND DEATH For long years we of the world gone wild have looked into the face of death and smiled. Through all our bitter tears we knew how beautiful it was to die for that which our souls called sufficient. Like all true beauty this thing of dying was so simple, so matter-of-fact. The boy clothed in his splendid youth stood before us and laughed in his own jolly way,--went and was gone. Suddenly the world was full of the fragrance of sacrifice. We left our digging and burden-bearing; we turned from our scraping and twisting of things and words; we paused from our hurrying hither and thither and walking up and down, and asked in half-whisper: this Death--is this Life? And is its beauty real or false? And of this heart-questioning I am writing. * * * * * My friend, who is pale and positive, said to me yesterday, as the tired sun was nodding: "You are too sensitive." I admit, I am--sensitive. I am artificial. I cringe or am bumptious or immobile. I am intellectually dishonest, art-blind, and I lack humor. "Why don't you stop all this?" she retorts triumphantly. You will not let us. "There you go, again. You know that I--" Wait! I answer. Wait! I arise at seven. The milkman has neglected me. He pays little attention to colored districts. My white neighbor glares elaborately. I walk softly, lest I disturb him. The children jeer as I pass to work. The women in the street car withdraw their skirts or prefer to stand. The policeman is truculent. The elevator man hates to serve Negroes. My job is insecure because the white union wants it and does not want me. I try to lunch, but no place near will serve me. I go forty blocks to Marshall's, but the Committee of Fourteen closes Marshall's; they say white women frequent it. "Do all eating places discriminate?" No, but how shall I know which do not--except-- I hurry home through crowds. They mutter or get angry. I go to a mass-meeting. They stare. I go to a church. "We don't admit niggers!" Or perhaps I leave the beaten track. I seek new work. "Our employees would not work with you; our customers would object." I ask to help in social uplift. "Why--er--we will write you." I enter the free field of science. Every laboratory door is closed and no endowments are available. I seek the universal mistress, Art; the studio door is locked. I write literature. "We cannot publish stories of colored folks of that type." It's the only type I know. This is my life. It makes me idiotic. It gives me artificial problems. I hesitate, I rush, I waver. In fine,--I am sensitive! My pale friend looks at me with disbelief and curling tongue. "Do you mean to sit there and tell me that this is what happens to you each day?" Certainly not, I answer low. "Then you only fear it will happen?" I fear! "Well, haven't you the courage to rise above a--almost a craven fear?" Quite--quite craven is my fear, I admit; but the terrible thing is--these things do happen! "But you just said--" They do happen. Not all each day,--surely not. But now and then--now seldom, now, sudden; now after a week, now in a chain of awful minutes; not everywhere, but anywhere--in Boston, in Atlanta. That's the hell of it. Imagine spending your life looking for insults or for hiding places from them--shrinking (instinctively and despite desperate bolsterings of courage) from blows that are not always but ever; not each day, but each week, each month, each year. Just, perhaps, as you have choked back the craven fear and cried, "I am and will be the master of my--" "No more tickets downstairs; here's one to the smoking gallery." You hesitate. You beat back your suspicions. After all, a cigarette with Charlie Chaplin--then a white man pushes by-- "Three in the orchestra." "Yes, sir." And in he goes. Suddenly your heart chills. You turn yourself away toward the golden twinkle of the purple night and hesitate again. What's the use? Why not always yield--always take what's offered,--always bow to force, whether of cannon or dislike? Then the great fear surges in your soul, the real fear--the fear beside which other fears are vain imaginings; the fear lest right there and then you are losing your own soul; that you are losing your own soul and the soul of a people; that millions of unborn children, black and gold and mauve, are being there and then despoiled by you because you are a coward and dare not fight! Suddenly that silly orchestra seat and the cavorting of a comedian with funny feet become matters of life, death, and immortality; you grasp the pillars of the universe and strain as you sway back to that befrilled ticket girl. You grip your soul for riot and murder. You choke and sputter, and she seeing that you are about to make a "fuss" obeys her orders and throws the tickets at you in contempt. Then you slink to your seat and crouch in the darkness before the film, with every tissue burning! The miserable wave of reaction engulfs you. To think of compelling puppies to take your hard-earned money; fattening hogs to hate you and yours; forcing your way among cheap and tawdry idiots--God! What a night of pleasure! * * * * * Here, then, is beauty and ugliness, a wide vision of world-sacrifice, a fierce gleam of world-hate. Which is life and what is death and how shall we face so tantalizing a contradiction? Any explanation must necessarily be subtle and involved. No pert and easy word of encouragement, no merely dark despair, can lay hold of the roots of these things. And first and before all, we cannot forget that this world is beautiful. Grant all its ugliness and sin--the petty, horrible snarl of its putrid threads, which few have seen more near or more often than I--notwithstanding all this, the beauty of this world is not to be denied. Casting my eyes about I dare not let them rest on the beauty of Love and Friend, for even if my tongue were cunning enough to sing this, the revelation of reality here is too sacred and the fancy too untrue. Of one world-beauty alone may we at once be brutally frank and that is the glory of physical nature; this, though the last of beauties, is divine! And so, too, there are depths of human degradation which it is not fair for us to probe. With all their horrible prevalence, we cannot call them natural. But may we not compare the least of the world's beauty with the least of its ugliness--not murder, starvation, and rapine, with love and friendship and creation--but the glory of sea and sky and city, with the little hatefulnesses and thoughtfulnesses of race prejudice, that out of such juxtaposition we may, perhaps, deduce some rule of beauty and life--or death? * * * * * There mountains hurl themselves against the stars and at their feet lie black and leaden seas. Above float clouds--white, gray, and inken, while the clear, impalpable air springs and sparkles like new wine. Last night we floated on the calm bosom of the sea in the southernmost haven of Mount Desert. The water flamed and sparkled. The sun had gone, but above the crooked back of cumulus clouds, dark and pink with radiance, and on the other sky aloft to the eastward piled the gorgeous-curtained mists of evening. The radiance faded and a shadowy velvet veiled the mountains, a humid depth of gloom behind which lurked all the mysteries of life and death, while above, the clouds hung ashen and dull; lights twinkled and flashed along the shore, boats glided in the twilight, and the little puffing of motors droned away. Then was the hour to talk of life and the meaning of life, while above gleamed silently, suddenly, star on star. Bar Harbor lies beneath a mighty mountain, a great, bare, black mountain that sleeps above the town; but as you leave, it rises suddenly, threateningly, until far away on Frenchman's Bay it looms above the town in withering vastness, as if to call all that little world petty save itself. Beneath the cool, wide stare of that great mountain, men cannot live as giddily as in some lesser summer's playground. Before the unveiled face of nature, as it lies naked on the Maine coast, rises a certain human awe. God molded his world largely and mightily off this marvelous coast and meant that in the tired days of life men should come and worship here and renew their spirit. This I have done and turning I go to work again. As we go, ever the mountains of Mount Desert rise and greet us on our going--somber, rock-ribbed and silent, looking unmoved on the moving world, yet conscious of their everlasting strength. About us beats the sea--the sail-flecked, restless sea, humming its tune about our flying keel, unmindful of the voices of men. The land sinks to meadows, black pine forests, with here and there a blue and wistful mountain. Then there are islands--bold rocks above the sea, curled meadows; through and about them roll ships, weather-beaten and patched of sail, strong-hulled and smoking, light gray and shining. All the colors of the sea lie about us--gray and yellowing greens and doubtful blues, blacks not quite black, tinted silvers and golds and dreaming whites. Long tongues of dark and golden land lick far out into the tossing waters, and the white gulls sail and scream above them. It is a mighty coast--ground out and pounded, scarred, crushed, and carven in massive, frightful lineaments. Everywhere stand the pines--the little dark and steadfast pines that smile not, neither weep, but wait and wait. Near us lie isles of flesh and blood, white cottages, tiled and meadowed. Afar lie shadow-lands, high mist-hidden hills, mountains boldly limned, yet shading to the sky, faint and unreal. We skirt the pine-clad shores, chary of men, and know how bitterly winter kisses these lonely shores to fill yon row of beaked ice houses that creep up the hills. We are sailing due westward and the sun, yet two hours high, is blazoning a fiery glory on the sea that spreads and gleams like some broad, jeweled trail, to where the blue and distant shadow-land lifts its carven front aloft, leaving, as it gropes, shades of shadows beyond. * * * * * Why do not those who are scarred in the world's battle and hurt by its hardness travel to these places of beauty and drown themselves in the utter joy of life? I asked this once sitting in a Southern home. Outside the spring of a Georgia February was luring gold to the bushes and languor to the soft air. Around me sat color in human flesh--brown that crimsoned readily; dim soft-yellow that escaped description; cream-like duskiness that shadowed to rich tints of autumn leaves. And yet a suggested journey in the world brought no response. "I should think you would like to travel," said the white one. But no, the thought of a journey seemed to depress them. Did you ever see a "Jim-Crow" waiting-room? There are always exceptions, as at Greensboro--but usually there is no heat in winter and no air in summer; with undisturbed loafers and train hands and broken, disreputable settees; to buy a ticket is torture; you stand and stand and wait and wait until every white person at the "other window" is waited on. Then the tired agent yells across, because all the tickets and money are over there-- "What d'ye want? What? Where?" The agent browbeats and contradicts you, hurries and confuses the ignorant, gives many persons the wrong change, compels some to purchase their tickets on the train at a higher price, and sends you and me out on the platform, burning with indignation and hatred! The "Jim-Crow" car is up next the baggage car and engine. It stops out beyond the covering in the rain or sun or dust. Usually there is no step to help you climb on and often the car is a smoker cut in two and you must pass through the white smokers or else they pass through your part, with swagger and noise and stares. Your compartment is a half or a quarter or an eighth of the oldest car in service on the road. Unless it happens to be a thorough express, the plush is caked with dirt, the floor is grimy, and the windows dirty. An impertinent white newsboy occupies two seats at the end of the car and importunes you to the point of rage to buy cheap candy, Coco-Cola, and worthless, if not vulgar, books. He yells and swaggers, while a continued stream of white men saunters back and forth from the smoker to buy and hear. The white train crew from the baggage car uses the "Jim-Crow" to lounge in and perform their toilet. The conductor appropriates two seats for himself and his papers and yells gruffly for your tickets before the train has scarcely started. It is best not to ask him for information even in the gentlest tones. His information is for white persons chiefly. It is difficult to get lunch or clean water. Lunch rooms either don't serve niggers or serve them at some dirty and ill-attended hole in the wall. As for toilet rooms,--don't! If you have to change cars, be wary of junctions which are usually without accommodation and filled with quarrelsome white persons who hate a "darky dressed up." You are apt to have the company of a sheriff and a couple of meek or sullen black prisoners on part of your way and dirty colored section hands will pour in toward night and drive you to the smallest corner. "No," said the little lady in the corner (she looked like an ivory cameo and her dress flowed on her like a caress), "we don't travel much." * * * * * Pessimism is cowardice. The man who cannot frankly acknowledge the "Jim-Crow" car as a fact and yet live and hope is simply afraid either of himself or of the world. There is not in the world a more disgraceful denial of human brotherhood than the "Jim-Crow" car of the southern United States; but, too, just as true, there is nothing more beautiful in the universe than sunset and moonlight on Montego Bay in far Jamaica. And both things are true and both belong to this our world, and neither can be denied. * * * * * The sun, prepared to cross that awful border which men call Night and Death, marshals his hosts. I seem to see the spears of mighty horsemen flash golden in the light; empurpled banners flame afar, and the low thunder of marching hosts thrills with the thunder of the sea. Athwart his own path, screening a face of fire, he throws cloud masses, masking his trained guns. And then the miracle is done. The host passes with roar too vast for human ear and the sun is set, leaving the frightened moon and blinded stars. In the dusk the green-gold palms turn their star-like faces and stretch their fan-like fingers, lifting themselves proudly, lest any lordly leaf should know the taint of earth. Out from the isle the serpent hill thrusts its great length around the bay, shouldering back the waters and the shadows. Ghost rains sweep down, smearing his rugged sides, yet on he writhes, undulant with pine and palm, gleaming until his low, sharp head and lambent tongue, grown gray and pale and silver in the dying day, kisses the molten gold of the golden sea. Then comes the moon. Like fireflies nesting in the hand of God gleams the city, dim-swathed by fairy palms. A long, thin thumb, mist-mighty, points shadowy to the Spanish Main, while through the fingers foam the Seven Seas. Above the calm and gold-green moon, beneath the wind-wet earth; and here, alone, my soul enchained, enchanted! * * * * * From such heights of holiness men turn to master the world. All the pettiness of life drops away and it becomes a great battle before the Lord. His trumpet,--where does it sound and whither? I go. I saw Montego Bay at the beginning of the World War. The cry for service as high as heaven, as wide as human feeling, seemed filling the earth. What were petty slights, silly insults, paltry problems, beside this call to do and dare and die? We black folk offered our services to fight. What happened? Most Americans have forgotten the extraordinary series of events which worked the feelings of black America to fever heat. First was the refusal to accept Negro volunteers for the army, except in the four black regiments already established. While the nation was combing the country for volunteers for the regular army, it would not let the American Negro furnish even his proportionate quota of regular soldiers. This led to some grim bantering among Negroes: "Why do you want to volunteer?" asked many. "Why should you fight for this country?" Before we had chance to reply to this, there came the army draft bill and the proposal by Vardaman and his ilk to except Negroes. We protested to Washington in various ways, and while we were insisting that colored men should be drafted just as other citizens, the bill went through with two little "jokers." First, it provided that Negroes should be drafted, but trained in "separate" units; and, secondly, it somewhat ambiguously permitted men to be drafted for "labor." A wave of fear and unrest spread among Negroes and while we were looking at both these provisions askance, suddenly we received the draft registration blank. It directed persons "of African descent" to "tear off the corner!" Probably never before in the history of the United States has a portion of the citizens been so openly and crassly discriminated against by action of the general government. It was disheartening, and on top of it came the celebrated "German plots." It was alleged in various parts of the country with singular unanimity that Germans were working among the Negroes, and it was further intimated that this would make the Negroes too dangerous an element to trust with guns. To us, of course, it looked as though the discovery and the proposition came from the same thinly-veiled sources. Considering carefully this series of happenings the American Negro sensed an approaching crisis and faced a puzzling dilemma. Here was evidently preparing fertile ground for the spread of disloyalty and resentment among the black masses, as they were forced to choose apparently between forced labor or a "Jim-Crow" draft. Manifestly when a minority group is thus segregated and forced out of the nation, they can in reason do but one thing--take advantage of the disadvantage. In this case we demanded colored officers for the colored troops. General Wood was early approached and asked to admit suitable candidates to Plattsburg. He refused. We thereupon pressed the government for a "separate" camp for the training of Negro officers. Not only did the War Department hesitate at this request, but strong opposition arose among colored people themselves. They said we were going too far. "We will obey the law, but to ask for voluntary segregation is to insult ourselves." But strong, sober second thought came to our rescue. We said to our protesting brothers: "We face a condition, not a theory. There is not the slightest chance of our being admitted to white camps; therefore, it is either a case of a 'Jim-Crow' officers' training camp or no colored officers. Of the two things no colored officers would be the greater calamity." Thus we gradually made up our minds. But the War Department still hesitated. It was besieged, and when it presented its final argument, "We have no place for such a camp," the trustees of Howard University said: "Take our campus." Eventually twelve hundred colored cadets were assembled at Fort Des Moines for officers' training. The city of Des Moines promptly protested, but it finally changed its mind. Des Moines never before had seen such a class of colored men. They rapidly became popular with all classes and many encomiums were passed upon their conduct. Their commanding colonel pronounced their work first class and declared that they presented excellent material for officers. Meantime, with one accord, the thought of the colored people turned toward Colonel Young, their highest officer in the regular army. Charles Young is a heroic figure. He is the typical soldier,--silent, uncomplaining, brave, and efficient! From his days at West Point throughout his thirty years of service he has taken whatever task was assigned him and performed it efficiently; and there is no doubt but that the army has been almost merciless in the requirements which it has put upon this splendid officer. He came through all with flying colors. In Haiti, in Liberia, in western camps, in the Sequoia Forests of California, and finally with Pershing in Mexico,--in every case he triumphed. Just at the time we were looking to the United States government to call him to head the colored officers' training at Des Moines, he was retired from the army, because of "high blood pressure!" There is no disputing army surgeons and their judgment in this case may be justified, but coming at the time it did, nearly every Negro in the United States believed that the "high blood pressure" that retired Colonel Young was in the prejudiced heads of the Southern oligarchy who were determined that no American Negro should ever wear the stars of a General. To say that Negroes of the United States were disheartened at the retirement of Colonel Young is to put it mildly,--but there was more trouble. The provision that Negroes must be trained separately looked simple and was simple in places where there were large Negro contingents, but in the North with solitary Negroes drafted here and there we had some extraordinary developments. Regiments appeared with one Negro where the Negro had to be separated like a pest and put into a house or even a village by himself while the commander frantically telegraphed to Washington. Small wonder that one poor fellow in Ohio solved the problem by cutting his throat. The whole process of drafting Negroes had to be held up until the government could find methods and places for assembling them. Then came Houston. In a moment the nation forgot the whole record of one of the most celebrated regiments in the United States Army and its splendid service in the Indian Wars and in the Philippines. It was the first regiment mobilized in the Spanish-American War and it was the regiment that volunteered to a man to clean up the yellow fever camps when others hesitated. It was one of the regiments to which Pershing said in December: "Men, I am authorized by Congress to tell you all that our people back in the States are mightily glad and proud at the way the soldiers have conducted themselves while in Mexico, and I, General Pershing, can say with pride that a finer body of men never stood under the flag of our nation than we find here tonight." The nation, also, forgot the deep resentment mixed with the pale ghost of fear which Negro soldiers call up in the breasts of the white South. It is not so much that they fear that the Negro will strike if he gets a chance, but rather that they assume with curious unanimity that he has _reason_ to strike, that any other persons in his circumstances or treated as he is would rebel. Instead of seeking to relieve the cause of such a possible feeling, most of them strain every effort to bottle up the black man's resentment. Is it inconceivable that now and then it bursts all bounds, as at Brownsville and Houston? So in the midst of this mental turmoil came Houston and East St. Louis. At Houston black soldiers, goaded and insulted, suddenly went wild and "shot up" the town. At East St. Louis white strikers on war work killed and mobbed Negro workingmen, and as a result 19 colored soldiers were hanged and 51 imprisoned for life for killing 17 whites at Houston, while for killing 125 Negroes in East St. Louis, 20 white men were imprisoned, none for more than 15 years, and 10 colored men with them. * * * * * Once upon a time I took a great journey in this land to three of the ends of our world and over seven thousand mighty miles. I saw the grim desert and the high ramparts of the Rocky Mountains. Three days I flew from the silver beauty of Seattle to the somber whirl of Kansas City. Three days I flew from the brute might of Chicago to the air of the Angels in California, scented with golden flowers, where the homes of men crouch low and loving on the good, broad earth, as though they were kissing her blossoms. Three days I flew through the empire of Texas, but all these shall be tales untold, for in all this journey I saw but one thing that lived and will live eternal in my soul,--the Grand Caon. It is a sudden void in the bosom of the earth, down to its entrails--a wound where the dull titanic knife has turned and twisted in the hole, leaving its edges livid, scarred, jagged, and pulsing over the white, and red, and purple of its mighty flesh, while down below--down, down below, in black and severed vein, boils the dull and sullen flood of the Colorado. It is awful. There can be nothing like it. It is the earth and sky gone stark and raving mad. The mountains up-twirled, disbodied and inverted, stand on their peaks and throw their bowels to the sky. Their earth is air; their ether blood-red rock engreened. You stand upon their roots and fall into their pinnacles, a mighty mile. Behold this mauve and purple mocking of time and space! See yonder peak! No human foot has trod it. Into that blue shadow only the eye of God has looked. Listen to the accents of that gorge which mutters: "Before Abraham was, I am." Is yonder wall a hedge of black or is it the rampart between heaven and hell? I see greens,--is it moss or giant pines? I see specks that may be boulders. Ever the winds sigh and drop into those sun-swept silences. Ever the gorge lies motionless, unmoved, until I fear. It is a grim thing, unholy, terrible! It is human--some mighty drama unseen, unheard, is playing there its tragedies or mocking comedy, and the laugh of endless years is shrieking onward from peak to peak, unheard, unechoed, and unknown. One throws a rock into the abyss. It gives back no sound. It falls on silence--the voice of its thunders cannot reach so far. It is not--it cannot be a mere, inert, unfeeling, brute fact--its grandeur is too serene--its beauty too divine! It is not red, and blue, and green, but, ah! the shadows and the shades of all the world, glad colorings touched with a hesitant spiritual delicacy. What does it mean--what does it mean? Tell me, black and boiling water! It is not real. It is but shadows. The shading of eternity. Last night yonder tesselated palace was gloom--dark, brooding thought and sin, while hither rose the mountains of the sun, golden, blazing, ensanguined. It was a dream. This blue and brilliant morning shows all those burning peaks alight, while here, shapeless, mistful, brood the shadowed towers. I have been down into the entrails of earth--down, down by straight and staring cliffs--down by sounding waters and sun-strewn meadows; down by green pastures and still waters, by great, steep chasms--down by the gnarled and twisted fists of God to the deep, sad moan of the yellow river that did this thing of wonder,--a little winding river with death in its depth and a crown of glory in its flying hair. I have seen what eye of man was never meant to see. I have profaned the sanctuary. I have looked upon the dread disrobing of the Night, and yet I live. Ere I hid my head she was standing in her cavern halls, glowing coldly westward--her feet were blackness: her robes, empurpled, flowed mistily from shoulder down in formless folds of folds; her head, pine-crowned, was set with jeweled stars. I turned away and dreamed--the caon,--the awful, its depths called; its heights shuddered. Then suddenly I arose and looked. Her robes were falling. At dim-dawn they hung purplish-green and black. Slowly she stripped them from her gaunt and shapely limbs--her cold, gray garments shot with shadows stood revealed. Down dropped the black-blue robes, gray-pearled and slipped, leaving a filmy, silken, misty thing, and underneath I glimpsed her limbs of utter light. * * * * * My God! For what am I thankful this night? For nothing. For nothing but the most commonplace of commonplaces; a table of gentlewomen and gentlemen--soft-spoken, sweet-tempered, full of human sympathy, who made me, a stranger, one of them. Ours was a fellowship of common books, common knowledge, mighty aims. We could laugh and joke and think as friends--and the Thing--the hateful, murderous, dirty Thing which in American we call "Nigger-hatred" was not only not there--it could not even be understood. It was a curious monstrosity at which civilized folk laughed or looked puzzled. There was no elegant and elaborate condescension of--"We once had a colored servant"--"My father was an Abolitionist"--"I've always been interested in _your people_"--there was only the community of kindred souls, the delicate reverence for the Thought that led, the quick deference to the guest. You left in quiet regret, knowing that they were not discussing you behind your back with lies and license. God! It was simply human decency and I had to be thankful for it because I am an American Negro, and white America, with saving exceptions, is cruel to everything that has black blood--and this was Paris, in the years of salvation, 1919. Fellow blacks, we must join the democracy of Europe. * * * * * Toul! Dim through the deepening dark of early afternoon, I saw its towers gloom dusky toward the murk of heaven. We wound in misty roads and dropped upon the city through the great throats of its walled bastions. There lay France--a strange, unknown, unfamiliar France. The city was dispossessed. Through its streets--its narrow, winding streets, old and low and dark, carven and quaint,--poured thousands upon thousands of strange feet of khaki-clad foreigners, and the echoes threw back awkward syllables that were never French. Here was France beaten to her knees yet fighting as never nation fought before, calling in her death agony across the seas till her help came and with all its strut and careless braggadocio saved the worthiest nation of the world from the wickedest fate ever plotted by Fools. * * * * * Tim Brimm was playing by the town-pump. Tim Brimm and the bugles of Harlem blared in the little streets of Maron in far Lorraine. The tiny streets were seas of mud. Dank mist and rain sifted through the cold air above the blue Moselle. Soldiers--soldiers everywhere--black soldiers, boys of Washington, Alabama, Philadelphia, Mississippi. Wild and sweet and wooing leapt the strains upon the air. French children gazed in wonder--women left their washing. Up in the window stood a black Major, a Captain, a Teacher, and I--with tears behind our smiling eyes. The audience was framed in smoke. It rose ghost-like out of memories--bitter memories of the officer near dead of pneumonia whose pain was lighted up by the nurses waiting to know whether he must be "Jim-Crowed" with privates or not. Memories of that great last morning when the thunders of hell called the Ninety-second to its last drive. Memories of bitter humiliations, determined triumphs, great victories, and bugle-calls that sounded from earth to heaven. Like memories framed in the breath of God, my audience peered in upon me--good, brown faces with great, kind, beautiful eyes--black soldiers of America rescuing beloved France--and the words came in praise and benediction there in the "Y," with its little stock of cigarettes and candies and its rusty wood stove. "_Alors_," said Madame, "_quatre sont morts_"--four dead--four tall, strong sons dead for France--sons like the sweet and blue-eyed daughter who was hiding her brave smile in the dusk. It was a tiny stone house whose front window lipped the passing sidewalk where ever tramped the feet of black soldiers marching home. There was a cavernous wardrobe, a great fireplace invaded by a new and jaunty iron stove. Vast, thick piles of bedding rose in yonder corner. Without was the crowded kitchen and up a half-stair was our bedroom that gave upon a tiny court with arched stone staircase and one green tree. We were a touching family party held together by a great sorrow and a great joy. How we laughed over the salad that got brandy instead of vinegar--how we ate the golden pile of fried potatoes and how we pored over the post-card from the Lieutenant of the Senegalese--dear little vale of crushed and risen France, in the day when Negroes went "over the top" at Pont--Mousson. * * * * * Paris, Paris by purple faade of the opera, the crowd on the Boulevard des Italiens and the great swing of the Champs Elyses. But not the Paris the world knows. Paris with its soul cut to the core--feverish, crowded, nervous, hurried; full of uniforms and mourning bands, with cafs closed at 9:30--no sugar, scarce bread, and tears so interwined with joy that there is scant difference. Paris has been dreaming a nightmare, and though she awakes, the grim terror is upon her--it lies on the sand-closed art treasures of the Louvre. Only the flowers are there, always the flowers, the Roses of England and the Lilies of France. Behind the Liberty that faces free France rise the white cliffs of Manhattan, tier on tier, with a curving pinnacle, towers square and twin, a giant inkwell daintily stoppered, an ancient pyramid enthroned; beneath, low ramparts wide and mighty; while above, faint-limned against the turbulent sky, looms the vast grace of that Cathedral of the Purchased and Purchasing Poor, topping the world and pointing higher. Yonder the gray cobwebs of the Brooklyn bridges leap the sea, and here creep the argosies from all earth's ends. We move to this swift home on dun and swelling waters and hear as we come the heartbeats of the new world. * * * * * New York and night from the Brooklyn Bridge: The bees and fireflies flit and twinkle in their vast hives; curved clouds like the breath of gods hover between the towers and the moon. One hears the hiss of lightnings, the deep thunder of human things, and a fevered breathing as of some attendant and invincible Powers. The glow of burning millions melts outward into dim and fairy outlines until afar the liquid music born of rushing crowds drips like a benediction on the sea. * * * * * New York and morning: the sun is kissing the timid dew in Central Park, and from the Fountain of Plenty one looks along that world street, Fifth Avenue, and walks toward town. The earth life and curves graciously down from the older mansions of princes to the newer shops of luxury. Egypt and Abyssinia, Paris and Damascus, London and India caress you by the way; churches stand aloof while the shops swell to emporiums. But all this is nothing. Everything is mankind. Humanity stands and flies and walks and rolls about--the poor, the priceless, the world-known and the forgotten; child and grandfather, king and leman--the pageant of the world goes by, set in a frame of stone and jewels, clothed in scarlet and rags. Princes Street and the Elysian Fields, the Strand and the Ringstrasse--these are the Ways of the World today. * * * * * New York and twilight, there where the Sixth Avenue "L" rises and leaps above the tenements into the free air at 110th Street. It circles like a bird with heaven and St. John's above and earth and the sweet green and gold of the Park beneath. Beyond lie all the blue mists and mysteries of distance; beneath, the city rushes and crawls. Behind echo all the roar and war and care and maze of the wide city set in its sullen darkening walls, flashing weird and crimson farewells. Out at the sides the stars twinkle. * * * * * Again New York and Night and Harlem. A dark city of fifty thousand rises like magic from the earth. Gone is the white world, the pale lips, the lank hair; gone is the West and North--the East and South is here triumphant. The street is crowd and leisure and laughter. Everywhere black eyes, black and brown, and frizzled hair curled and sleek, and skins that riot with luscious color and deep, burning blood. Humanity is packed dense in high piles of close-knit homes that lie in layers above gray shops of food and clothes and drink, with here and there a moving-picture show. Orators declaim on the corners, lovers lark in the streets, gamblers glide by the saloons, workers lounge wearily home. Children scream and run and frolic, and all is good and human and beautiful and ugly and evil, even as Life is elsewhere. * * * * * And then--the Veil. It drops as drops the night on southern seas--vast, sudden, unanswering. There is Hate behind it, and Cruelty and Tears. As one peers through its intricate, unfathomable pattern of ancient, old, old design, one sees blood and guilt and misunderstanding. And yet it hangs there, this Veil, between Then and Now, between Pale and Colored and Black and White--between You and Me. Surely it is a thought-thing, tenuous, intangible; yet just as surely is it true and terrible and not in our little day may you and I lift it. We may feverishly unravel its edges and even climb slow with giant shears to where its ringed and gilded top nestles close to the throne of God. But as we work and climb we shall see through streaming eyes and hear with aching ears, lynching and murder, cheating and despising, degrading and lying, so flashed and fleshed through this vast hanging darkness that the Doer never sees the Deed and the Victim knows not the Victor and Each hates All in wild and bitter ignorance. Listen, O Isles, to these Voices from within the Veil, for they portray the most human hurt of the Twentieth Cycle of that poor Jesus who was called the Christ! * * * * * There is something in the nature of Beauty that demands an end. Ugliness may be indefinite. It may trail off into gray endlessness. But Beauty must be complete--whether it be a field of poppies or a great life,--it must end, and the End is part and triumph of the Beauty. I know there are those who envisage a beauty eternal. But I cannot. I can dream of great and never-ending processions of beautiful things and visions and acts. But each must be complete or it cannot for me exist. On the other hand, Ugliness to me is eternal, not in the essence but in its incompleteness; but its eternity does not daunt me, for its eternal unfulfilment is a cause of joy. There is in it nothing new or unexpected; it is the old evil stretching out and ever seeking the end it cannot find; it may coil and writhe and recur in endless battle to days without end, but it is the same human ill and bitter hurt. But Beauty is fulfilment. It satisfies. It is always new and strange. It is the reasonable thing. Its end is Death--the sweet silence of perfection, the calm and balance of utter music. Therein is the triumph of Beauty. So strong is the spell of beauty that there are those who, contradicting their own knowledge and experience, try to say that all is beauty. They are called optimists, and they lie. All is not beauty. Ugliness and hate and ill are here with all their contradiction and illogic; they will always be here--perhaps, God send, with lessened volume and force, but here and eternal, while beauty triumphs in its great completion--Death. We cannot conjure the end of all ugliness in eternal beauty, for beauty by its very being and definition has in each definition its ends and limits; but while beauty lies implicit and revealed in its end, ugliness writhes on in darkness forever. So the ugliness of continual birth fulfils itself and conquers gloriously only in the beautiful end, Death. * * * * * At last to us all comes happiness, there in the Court of Peace, where the dead lie so still and calm and good. If we were not dead we would lie and listen to the flowers grow. We would hear the birds sing and see how the rain rises and blushes and burns and pales and dies in beauty. We would see spring, summer, and the red riot of autumn, and then in winter, beneath the soft white snow, sleep and dream of dreams. But we know that being dead, our Happiness is a fine and finished thing and that ten, a hundred, and a thousand years, we shall lie at rest, unhurt in the Court of Peace. _The Prayers of God_ Name of God's Name! Red murder reigns; All hell is loose; On gold autumnal air Walk grinning devils, barbed and hoofed; While high on hills of hate, Black-blossomed, crimson-sky'd, Thou sittest, dumb. Father Almighty! This earth is mad! Palsied, our cunning hands; Rotten, our gold; Our argosies reel and stagger Over empty seas; All the long aisles Of Thy Great Temples, God, Stink with the entrails Of our souls. And Thou art dumb. Above the thunder of Thy Thunders, Lord, Lightening Thy Lightnings, Rings and roars The dark damnation Of this hell of war. Red piles the pulp of hearts and heads And little children's hands. Allah! Elohim! Very God of God! Death is here! Dead are the living; deep--dead the dead. Dying are earth's unborn-- The babes' wide eyes of genius and of joy, Poems and prayers, sun-glows and earth-songs, Great-pictured dreams, Enmarbled phantasies, High hymning heavens--all In this dread night Writhe and shriek and choke and die This long ghost-night-- While Thou art dumb. Have mercy! Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners! Stand forth, unveil Thy Face, Pour down the light That seethes above Thy Throne, And blaze this devil's dance to darkness! Hear! Speak! In Christ's Great Name-- I hear! Forgive me, God! Above the thunder I hearkened; Beneath the silence, now,-- I hear! (Wait, God, a little space. It is so strange to talk with Thee-- Alone!) This gold? I took it. Is it Thine? Forgive; I did not know. Blood? Is it wet with blood? 'Tis from my brother's hands. (I know; his hands are mine.) It flowed for Thee, O Lord. War? Not so; not war-- Dominion, Lord, and over black, not white; Black, brown, and fawn, And not Thy Chosen Brood, O God, We murdered. To build Thy Kingdom, To drape our wives and little ones, And set their souls a-glitter-- For this we killed these lesser breeds And civilized their dead, Raping red rubber, diamonds, cocoa, gold! For this, too, once, and in Thy Name, I lynched a Nigger-- (He raved and writhed, I heard him cry, I felt the life-light leap and lie, I saw him crackle there, on high, I watched him wither!) _Thou?_ _Thee?_ _I lynched Thee?_ Awake me, God! I sleep! What was that awful word Thou saidst? That black and riven thing--was it Thee? That gasp--was it Thine? This pain--is it Thine? Are, then, these bullets piercing Thee? Have all the wars of all the world, Down all dim time, drawn blood from Thee? Have all the lies and thefts and hates-- Is this Thy Crucifixion, God, And not that funny, little cross, With vinegar and thorns? Is this Thy kingdom here, not there, This stone and stucco drift of dreams? Help! I sense that low and awful cry-- Who cries? Who weeps? With silent sob that rends and tears-- Can God sob? Who prays? I hear strong prayers throng by, Like mighty winds on dusky moors-- Can God pray? Prayest Thou, Lord, and to me? _Thou_ needest me? Thou _needest_ me? Thou needest _me_? Poor, wounded soul! Of this I never dreamed. I thought-- _Courage, God, I come!_ X THE COMET He stood a moment on the steps of the bank, watching the human river that swirled down Broadway. Few noticed him. Few ever noticed him save in a way that stung. He was outside the world--"nothing!" as he said bitterly. Bits of the words of the walkers came to him. "The comet?" "The comet----" Everybody was talking of it. Even the president, as he entered, smiled patronizingly at him, and asked: "Well, Jim, are you scared?" "No," said the messenger shortly. "I thought we'd journeyed through the comet's tail once," broke in the junior clerk affably. "Oh, that was Halley's," said the president; "this is a new comet, quite a stranger, they say--wonderful, wonderful! I saw it last night. Oh, by the way, Jim," turning again to the messenger, "I want you to go down into the lower vaults today." The messenger followed the president silently. Of course, they wanted _him_ to go down to the lower vaults. It was too dangerous for more valuable men. He smiled grimly and listened. "Everything of value has been moved out since the water began to seep in," said the president; "but we miss two volumes of old records. Suppose you nose around down there,--it isn't very pleasant, I suppose." "Not very," said the messenger, as he walked out. "Well, Jim, the tail of the new comet hits us at noon this time," said the vault clerk, as he passed over the keys; but the messenger passed silently down the stairs. Down he went beneath Broadway, where the dim light filtered through the feet of hurrying men; down to the dark basement beneath; down into the blackness and silence beneath that lowest cavern. Here with his dark lantern he groped in the bowels of the earth, under the world. He drew a long breath as he threw back the last great iron door and stepped into the fetid slime within. Here at last was peace, and he groped moodily forward. A great rat leaped past him and cobwebs crept across his face. He felt carefully around the room, shelf by shelf, on the muddied floor, and in crevice and corner. Nothing. Then he went back to the far end, where somehow the wall felt different. He sounded and pushed and pried. Nothing. He started away. Then something brought him back. He was sounding and working again when suddenly the whole black wall swung as on mighty hinges, and blackness yawned beyond. He peered in; it was evidently a secret vault--some hiding place of the old bank unknown in newer times. He entered hesitatingly. It was a long, narrow room with shelves, and at the far end, an old iron chest. On a high shelf lay the two missing volumes of records, and others. He put them carefully aside and stepped to the chest. It was old, strong, and rusty. He looked at the vast and old-fashioned lock and flashed his light on the hinges. They were deeply incrusted with rust. Looking about, he found a bit of iron and began to pry. The rust had eaten a hundred years, and it had gone deep. Slowly, wearily, the old lid lifted, and with a last, low groan lay bare its treasure--and he saw the dull sheen of gold! "Boom!" A low, grinding, reverberating crash struck upon his ear. He started up and looked about. All was black and still. He groped for his light and swung it about him. Then he knew! The great stone door had swung to. He forgot the gold and looked death squarely in the face. Then with a sigh he went methodically to work. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; but he searched, pounded, pushed, and worked until after what seemed endless hours his hand struck a cold bit of metal and the great door swung again harshly on its hinges, and then, striking against something soft and heavy, stopped. He had just room to squeeze through. There lay the body of the vault clerk, cold and stiff. He stared at it, and then felt sick and nauseated. The air seemed unaccountably foul, with a strong, peculiar odor. He stepped forward, clutched at the air, and fell fainting across the corpse. He awoke with a sense of horror, leaped from the body, and groped up the stairs, calling to the guard. The watchman sat as if asleep, with the gate swinging free. With one glance at him the messenger hurried up to the sub-vault. In vain he called to the guards. His voice echoed and re-echoed weirdly. Up into the great basement he rushed. Here another guard lay prostrate on his face, cold and still. A fear arose in the messenger's heart. He dashed up to the cellar floor, up into the bank. The stillness of death lay everywhere and everywhere bowed, bent, and stretched the silent forms of men. The messenger paused and glanced about. He was not a man easily moved; but the sight was appalling! "Robbery and murder," he whispered slowly to himself as he saw the twisted, oozing mouth of the president where he lay half-buried on his desk. Then a new thought seized him: If they found him here alone--with all this money and all these dead men--what would his life be worth? He glanced about, tiptoed cautiously to a side door, and again looked behind. Quietly he turned the latch and stepped out into Wall Street. How silent the street was! Not a soul was stirring, and yet it was high-noon--Wall Street? Broadway? He glanced almost wildly up and down, then across the street, and as he looked, a sickening horror froze in his limbs. With a choking cry of utter fright he lunged, leaned giddily against the cold building, and stared helplessly at the sight. In the great stone doorway a hundred men and women and children lay crushed and twisted and jammed, forced into that great, gaping doorway like refuse in a can--as if in one wild, frantic rush to safety, they had rushed and ground themselves to death. Slowly the messenger crept along the walls, wetting his parched mouth and trying to comprehend, stilling the tremor in his limbs and the rising terror in his heart. He met a business man, silk-hatted and frock-coated, who had crept, too, along that smooth wall and stood now stone dead with wonder written on his lips. The messenger turned his eyes hastily away and sought the curb. A woman leaned wearily against the signpost, her head bowed motionless on her lace and silken bosom. Before her stood a street car, silent, and within--but the messenger but glanced and hurried on. A grimy newsboy sat in the gutter with the "last edition" in his uplifted hand: "Danger!" screamed its black headlines. "Warnings wired around the world. The Comet's tail sweeps past us at noon. Deadly gases expected. Close doors and windows. Seek the cellar." The messenger read and staggered on. Far out from a window above, a girl lay with gasping face and sleevelets on her arms. On a store step sat a little, sweet-faced girl looking upward toward the skies, and in the carriage by her lay--but the messenger looked no longer. The cords gave way--the terror burst in his veins, and with one great, gasping cry he sprang desperately forward and ran,--ran as only the frightened run, shrieking and fighting the air until with one last wail of pain he sank on the grass of Madison Square and lay prone and still. When he rose, he gave no glance at the still and silent forms on the benches, but, going to a fountain, bathed his face; then hiding himself in a corner away from the drama of death, he quietly gripped himself and thought the thing through: The comet had swept the earth and this was the end. Was everybody dead? He must search and see. He knew that he must steady himself and keep calm, or he would go insane. First he must go to a restaurant. He walked up Fifth Avenue to a famous hostelry and entered its gorgeous, ghost-haunted halls. He beat back the nausea, and, seizing a tray from dead hands, hurried into the street and ate ravenously, hiding to keep out the sights. "Yesterday, they would not have served me," he whispered, as he forced the food down. Then he started up the street,--looking, peering, telephoning, ringing alarms; silent, silent all. Was nobody--nobody--he dared not think the thought and hurried on. Suddenly he stopped still. He had forgotten. My God! How could he have forgotten? He must rush to the subway--then he almost laughed. No--a car; if he could find a Ford. He saw one. Gently he lifted off its burden, and took his place on the seat. He tested the throttle. There was gas. He glided off, shivering, and drove up the street. Everywhere stood, leaned, lounged, and lay the dead, in grim and awful silence. On he ran past an automobile, wrecked and overturned; past another, filled with a gay party whose smiles yet lingered on their death-struck lips; on past crowds and groups of cars, pausing by dead policemen; at 42nd Street he had to detour to Park Avenue to avoid the dead congestion. He came back on Fifth Avenue at 57th and flew past the Plaza and by the park with its hushed babies and silent throng, until as he was rushing past 72nd Street he heard a sharp cry, and saw a living form leaning wildly out an upper window. He gasped. The human voice sounded in his ears like the voice of God. "Hello--hello--help, in God's name!" wailed the woman. "There's a dead girl in here and a man and--and see yonder dead men lying in the street and dead horses--for the love of God go and bring the officers----" And the words trailed off into hysterical tears. He wheeled the car in a sudden circle, running over the still body of a child and leaping on the curb. Then he rushed up the steps and tried the door and rang violently. There was a long pause, but at last the heavy door swung back. They stared a moment in silence. She had not noticed before that he was a Negro. He had not thought of her as white. She was a woman of perhaps twenty-five--rarely beautiful and richly gowned, with darkly-golden hair, and jewels. Yesterday, he thought with bitterness, she would scarcely have looked at him twice. He would have been dirt beneath her silken feet. She stared at him. Of all the sorts of men she had pictured as coming to her rescue she had not dreamed of one like him. Not that he was not human, but he dwelt in a world so far from hers, so infinitely far, that he seldom even entered her thought. Yet as she looked at him curiously he seemed quite commonplace and usual. He was a tall, dark workingman of the better class, with a sensitive face trained to stolidity and a poor man's clothes and hands. His face was soft and slow and his manner at once cold and nervous, like fires long banked, but not out. So a moment each paused and gauged the other; then the thought of the dead world without rushed in and they started toward each other. "What has happened?" she cried. "Tell me! Nothing stirs. All is silence! I see the dead strewn before my window as winnowed by the breath of God,--and see----" She dragged him through great, silken hangings to where, beneath the sheen of mahogany and silver, a little French maid lay stretched in quiet, everlasting sleep, and near her a butler lay prone in his livery. The tears streamed down the woman's cheeks and she clung to his arm until the perfume of her breath swept his face and he felt the tremors racing through her body. "I had been shut up in my dark room developing pictures of the comet which I took last night; when I came out--I saw the dead! she cried again. He answered slowly: "Something--comet or devil--swept across the earth this morning and--many are dead!" "Many? Very many?" "I have searched and I have seen no other living soul but you." She gasped and they stared at each other. "My--father!" she whispered. "Where is he?" "He started for the office." "Where is it?" "In the Metropolitan Tower." "Leave a note for him here and come." Then he stopped. "No," he said firmly--"first, we must go--to Harlem." "Harlem!" she cried. Then she understood. She tapped her foot at first impatiently. She looked back and shuddered. Then she came resolutely down the steps. "There's a swifter car in the garage in the court," she said. "I don't know how to drive it," he said. "I do," she answered. In ten minutes they were flying to Harlem on the wind. The Stutz rose and raced like an airplane. They took the turn at 110th Street on two wheels and slipped with a shriek into 135th. He was gone but a moment. Then he returned, and his face was gray. She did not look, but said: "You have lost--somebody?" "I have lost--everybody," he said, simply--"unless----" He ran back and was gone several minutes--hours they seemed to her. "Everybody," he said, and he walked slowly back with something film-like in his hand which he stuffed into his pocket. "I'm afraid I was selfish," he said. But already the car was moving toward the park among the dark and lined dead of Harlem--the brown, still faces, the knotted hands, the homely garments, and the silence--the wild and haunting silence. Out of the park, and down Fifth Avenue they whirled. In and out among the dead they slipped and quivered, needing no sound of bell or horn, until the great, square Metropolitan Tower hove in sight. Gently he laid the dead elevator boy aside; the car shot upward. The door of the office stood open. On the threshold lay the stenographer, and, staring at her, sat the dead clerk. The inner office was empty, but a note lay on the desk, folded and addressed but unsent: Dear Daughter: I've gone for a hundred mile spin in Fred's new Mercedes. Shall not be back before dinner. I'll bring Fred with me. J.B.H. "Come," she cried nervously. "We must search the city." Up and down, over and across, back again--on went that ghostly search. Everywhere was silence and death--death and silence! They hunted from Madison Square to Spuyten Duyvel; they rushed across the Williamsburg Bridge; they swept over Brooklyn; from the Battery and Morningside Heights they scanned the river. Silence, silence everywhere, and no human sign. Haggard and bedraggled they puffed a third time slowly down Broadway, under the broiling sun, and at last stopped. He sniffed the air. An odor--a smell--and with the shifting breeze a sickening stench filled their nostrils and brought its awful warning. The girl settled back helplessly in her seat. "What can we do?" she cried. It was his turn now to take the lead, and he did it quickly. "The long distance telephone--the telegraph and the cable--night rockets and then--flight!" She looked at him now with strength and confidence. He did not look like men, as she had always pictured men; but he acted like one and she was content. In fifteen minutes they were at the central telephone exchange. As they came to the door he stepped quickly before her and pressed her gently back as he closed it. She heard him moving to and fro, and knew his burdens--the poor, little burdens he bore. When she entered, he was alone in the room. The grim switchboard flashed its metallic face in cryptic, sphinx-like immobility. She seated herself on a stool and donned the bright earpiece. She looked at the mouthpiece. She had never looked at one so closely before. It was wide and black, pimpled with usage; inert; dead; almost sarcastic in its unfeeling curves. It looked--she beat back the thought--but it looked,--it persisted in looking like--she turned her head and found herself alone. One moment she was terrified; then she thanked him silently for his delicacy and turned resolutely, with a quick intaking of breath. "Hello!" she called in low tones. She was calling to the world. The world _must_ answer. Would the world _answer_? Was the world---- Silence! She had spoken too low. "Hello!" she cried, full-voiced. She listened. Silence! Her heart beat quickly. She cried in clear, distinct, loud tones: "Hello--hello--hello!" What was that whirring? Surely--no--was it the click of a receiver? She bent close, she moved the pegs in the holes, and called and called, until her voice rose almost to a shriek, and her heart hammered. It was as if she had heard the last flicker of creation, and the evil was silence. Her voice dropped to a sob. She sat stupidly staring into the black and sarcastic mouthpiece, and the thought came again. Hope lay dead within her. Yes, the cable and the rockets remained; but the world--she could not frame the thought or say the word. It was too mighty--too terrible! She turned toward the door with a new fear in her heart. For the first time she seemed to realize that she was alone in the world with a stranger, with something more than a stranger,--with a man alien in blood and culture--unknown, perhaps unknowable. It was awful! She must escape--she must fly; he must not see her again. Who knew what awful thoughts-- She gathered her silken skirts deftly about her young, smooth limbs--listened, and glided into a sidehall. A moment she shrank back: the hall lay filled with dead women; then she leaped to the door and tore at it, with bleeding fingers, until it swung wide. She looked out. He was standing at the top of the alley,--silhouetted, tall and black, motionless. Was he looking at her or away? She did not know--she did not care. She simply leaped and ran--ran until she found herself alone amid the dead and the tall ramparts of towering buildings. She stopped. She was alone. Alone! Alone on the streets--alone in the city--perhaps alone in the world! There crept in upon her the sense of deception--of creeping hands behind her back--of silent, moving things she could not see,--of voices hushed in fearsome conspiracy. She looked behind and sideways, started at strange sounds and heard still stranger, until every nerve within her stood sharp and quivering, stretched to scream at the barest touch. She whirled and flew back, whimpering like a child, until she found that narrow alley again and the dark, silent figure silhouetted at the top. She stopped and rested; then she walked silently toward him, looked at him timidly; but he said nothing as he handed her into the car. Her voice caught as she whispered: "Not--that." And he answered slowly: "No--not that!" They climbed into the car. She bent forward on the wheel and sobbed, with great, dry, quivering sobs, as they flew toward the cable office on the east side, leaving the world of wealth and prosperity for the world of poverty and work. In the world behind them were death and silence, grave and grim, almost cynical, but always decent; here it was hideous. It clothed itself in every ghastly form of terror, struggle, hate, and suffering. It lay wreathed in crime and squalor, greed and lust. Only in its dread and awful silence was it like to death everywhere. Yet as the two, flying and alone, looked upon the horror of the world, slowly, gradually, the sense of all-enveloping death deserted them. They seemed to move in a world silent and asleep,--not dead. They moved in quiet reverence, lest somehow they wake these sleeping forms who had, at last, found peace. They moved in some solemn, world-wide _Friedhof_, above which some mighty arm had waved its magic wand. All nature slept until--until, and quick with the same startling thought, they looked into each other's eyes--he, ashen, and she, crimson, with unspoken thought. To both, the vision of a mighty beauty--of vast, unspoken things, swelled in their souls; but they put it away. Great, dark coils of wire came up from the earth and down from the sun and entered this low lair of witchery. The gathered lightnings of the world centered here, binding with beams of light the ends of the earth. The doors gaped on the gloom within. He paused on the threshold. "Do you know the code?" she asked. "I know the call for help--we used it formerly at the bank." She hardly heard. She heard the lapping of the waters far below,--the dark and restless waters--the cold and luring waters, as they called. He stepped within. Slowly she walked to the wall, where the water called below, and stood and waited. Long she waited, and he did not come. Then with a start she saw him, too, standing beside the black waters. Slowly he removed his coat and stood there silently. She walked quickly to him and laid her hand on his arm. He did not start or look. The waters lapped on in luring, deadly rhythm. He pointed down to the waters, and said quietly: "The world lies beneath the waters now--may I go?" She looked into his stricken, tired face, and a great pity surged within her heart. She answered in a voice clear and calm, "No." Upward they turned toward life again, and he seized the wheel. The world was darkening to twilight, and a great, gray pall was falling mercifully and gently on the sleeping dead. The ghastly glare of reality seemed replaced with the dream of some vast romance. The girl lay silently back, as the motor whizzed along, and looked half-consciously for the elf-queen to wave life into this dead world again. She forgot to wonder at the quickness with which he had learned to drive her car. It seemed natural. And then as they whirled and swung into Madison Square and at the door of the Metropolitan Tower she gave a low cry, and her eyes were great! Perhaps she had seen the elf-queen? The man led her to the elevator of the tower and deftly they ascended. In her father's office they gathered rugs and chairs, and he wrote a note and laid it on the desk; then they ascended to the roof and he made her comfortable. For a while she rested and sank to dreamy somnolence, watching the worlds above and wondering. Below lay the dark shadows of the city and afar was the shining of the sea. She glanced at him timidly as he set food before her and took a shawl and wound her in it, touching her reverently, yet tenderly. She looked up at him with thankfulness in her eyes, eating what he served. He watched the city. She watched him. He seemed very human,--very near now. "Have you had to work hard?" she asked softly. "Always," he said. "I have always been idle," she said. "I was rich." "I was poor," he almost echoed. "The rich and the poor are met together," she began, and he finished: "The Lord is the Maker of them all." "Yes," she said slowly; "and how foolish our human distinctions seem--now," looking down to the great dead city stretched below, swimming in unlightened shadows. "Yes--I was not--human, yesterday," he said. She looked at him. "And your people were not my people," she said; "but today----" She paused. He was a man,--no more; but he was in some larger sense a gentleman,--sensitive, kindly, chivalrous, everything save his hands and--his face. Yet yesterday---- "Death, the leveler!" he muttered. "And the revealer," she whispered gently, rising to her feet with great eyes. He turned away, and after fumbling a moment sent a rocket into the darkening air. It arose, shrieked, and flew up, a slim path of light, and scattering its stars abroad, dropped on the city below. She scarcely noticed it. A vision of the world had risen before her. Slowly the mighty prophecy of her destiny overwhelmed her. Above the dead past hovered the Angel of Annunciation. She was no mere woman. She was neither high nor low, white nor black, rich nor poor. She was primal woman; mighty mother of all men to come and Bride of Life. She looked upon the man beside her and forgot all else but his manhood, his strong, vigorous manhood--his sorrow and sacrifice. She saw him glorified. He was no longer a thing apart, a creature below, a strange outcast of another clime and blood, but her Brother Humanity incarnate, Son of God and great All-Father of the race to be. He did not glimpse the glory in her eyes, but stood looking outward toward the sea and sending rocket after rocket into the unanswering darkness. Dark-purple clouds lay banked and billowed in the west. Behind them and all around, the heavens glowed in dim, weird radiance that suffused the darkening world and made almost a minor music. Suddenly, as though gathered back in some vast hand, the great cloud-curtain fell away. Low on the horizon lay a long, white star--mystic, wonderful! And from it fled upward to the pole, like some wan bridal veil, a pale, wide sheet of flame that lighted all the world and dimmed the stars. In fascinated silence the man gazed at the heavens and dropped his rockets to the floor. Memories of memories stirred to life in the dead recesses of his mind. The shackles seemed to rattle and fall from his soul. Up from the crass and crushing and cringing of his caste leaped the lone majesty of kings long dead. He arose within the shadows, tall, straight, and stern, with power in his eyes and ghostly scepters hovering to his grasp. It was as though some mighty Pharaoh lived again, or curled Assyrian lord. He turned and looked upon the lady, and found her gazing straight at him. Silently, immovably, they saw each other face to face--eye to eye. Their souls lay naked to the night. It was not lust; it was not love--it was some vaster, mightier thing that needed neither touch of body nor thrill of soul. It was a thought divine, splendid. Slowly, noiselessly, they moved toward each other--the heavens above, the seas around, the city grim and dead below. He loomed from out the velvet shadows vast and dark. Pearl-white and slender, she shone beneath the stars. She stretched her jeweled hands abroad. He lifted up his mighty arms, and they cried each to the other, almost with one voice, "The world is dead." "Long live the----" "Honk! Honk!" Hoarse and sharp the cry of a motor drifted clearly up from the silence below. They started backward with a cry and gazed upon each other with eyes that faltered and fell, with blood that boiled. "Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!" came the mad cry again, and almost from their feet a rocket blazed into the air and scattered its stars upon them. She covered her eyes with her hands, and her shoulders heaved. He dropped and bowed, groped blindly on his knees about the floor. A blue flame spluttered lazily after an age, and she heard the scream of an answering rocket as it flew. Then they stood still as death, looking to opposite ends of the earth. "Clang--crash--clang!" The roar and ring of swift elevators shooting upward from below made the great tower tremble. A murmur and babel of voices swept in upon the night. All over the once dead city the lights blinked, flickered, and flamed; and then with a sudden clanging of doors the entrance to the platform was filled with men, and one with white and flying hair rushed to the girl and lifted her to his breast. "My daughter!" he sobbed. Behind him hurried a younger, comelier man, carefully clad in motor costume, who bent above the girl with passionate solicitude and gazed into her staring eyes until they narrowed and dropped and her face flushed deeper and deeper crimson. "Julia," he whispered; "my darling, I thought you were gone forever." She looked up at him with strange, searching eyes. "Fred," she murmured, almost vaguely, "is the world--gone?" "Only New York," he answered; "it is terrible--awful! You know,--but you, how did you escape--how have you endured this horror? Are you well? Unharmed?" "Unharmed!" she said. "And this man here?" he asked, encircling her drooping form with one arm and turning toward the Negro. Suddenly he stiffened and his hand flew to his hip. "Why!" he snarled. "It's--a--nigger--Julia! Has he--has he dared----" She lifted her head and looked at her late companion curiously and then dropped her eyes with a sigh. "He has dared--all, to rescue me," she said quietly, "and I--thank him--much." But she did not look at him again. As the couple turned away, the father drew a roll of bills from his pockets. "Here, my good fellow," he said, thrusting the money into the man's hands, "take that,--what's your name?" "Jim Davis," came the answer, hollow-voiced. "Well, Jim, I thank you. I've always liked your people. If you ever want a job, call on me." And they were gone. The crowd poured up and out of the elevators, talking and whispering. "Who was it?" "Are they alive?" "How many?" "Two!" "Who was saved?" "A white girl and a nigger--there she goes." "A nigger? Where is he? Let's lynch the damned----" "Shut up--he's all right-he saved her." "Saved hell! He had no business----" "Here he comes." Into the glare of the electric lights the colored man moved slowly, with the eyes of those that walk and sleep. "Well, what do you think of that?" cried a bystander; "of all New York, just a white girl and a nigger!" The colored man heard nothing. He stood silently beneath the glare of the light, gazing at the money in his hand and shrinking as he gazed; slowly he put his other hand into his pocket and brought out a baby's filmy cap, and gazed again. A woman mounted to the platform and looked about, shading her eyes. She was brown, small, and toil-worn, and in one arm lay the corpse of a dark baby. The crowd parted and her eyes fell on the colored man; with a cry she tottered toward him. "Jim!" He whirled and, with a sob of joy, caught her in his arms. _A Hymn to the Peoples_ O Truce of God! And primal meeting of the Sons of Man, Foreshadowing the union of the World! From all the ends of earth we come! Old Night, the elder sister of the Day, Mother of Dawn in the golden East, Meets in the misty twilight with her brood, Pale and black, tawny, red and brown, The mighty human rainbow of the world, Spanning its wilderness of storm. Softly in sympathy the sunlight falls, Rare is the radiance of the moon; And on the darkest midnight blaze the stars-- The far-flown shadows of whose brilliance Drop like a dream on the dim shores of Time, Forecasting Days that are to these As day to night. So sit we all as one. So, gloomed in tall and stone-swathed groves, The Buddha walks with Christ! And Al-Koran and Bible both be holy! Almighty Word! In this Thine awful sanctuary, First and flame-haunted City of the Widened World, Assoil us, Lord of Lands and Seas! We are but weak and wayward men, Distraught alike with hatred and vainglory; Prone to despise the Soul that breathes within-- High visioned hordes that lie and steal and kill, Sinning the sin each separate heart disclaims, Clambering upon our riven, writhing selves, Besieging Heaven by trampling men to Hell! We be blood-guilty! Lo, our hands be red! Not one may blame the other in this sin! But here--here in the white Silence of the Dawn, Before the Womb of Time, With bowed hearts all flame and shame, We face the birth-pangs of a world: We hear the stifled cry of Nations all but born-- The wail of women ravished of their stunted brood! We see the nakedness of Toil, the poverty of Wealth, We know the Anarchy of Empire, and doleful Death of Life! And hearing, seeing, knowing all, we cry: Save us, World-Spirit, from our lesser selves! Grant us that war and hatred cease, Reveal our souls in every race and hue! Help us, O Human God, in this Thy Truce, To make Humanity divine! 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2. Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will remain freely available for generations to come. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
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included with this eBook or online at 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. Recollections & Experiences online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at THE STRUGGLE FOR IMPERIAL UNITY MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTO THE STRUGGLE FOR IMPERIAL UNITY RECOLLECTIONS & EXPERIENCES BY COLONEL GEORGE T. DENISON _President of the British Empire League in Canada Author of "Modern Cavalry," "A History of Cavalry," "Soldiering in Canada," &c._ MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD., TORONTO THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, NEW YORK 1909 RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. PREFACE Some fifteen years ago the late Dr. James Bain, Librarian of the Toronto Public Library, urged me to write my reminiscences. He knew that, as one of the founders of the Canada First party, as Chairman of the Organising Committee of the Imperial Federation League in Canada, then President of it, and after its reorganisation, under the name of the British Empire League in Canada, still President, I had much private information, in connection with the struggle for Imperial Unity, that would be of interest to the public. He was therefore continually urging me to put down my recollections in order that they should be preserved. I put the matter off until the year 1899, when I was retired from the command of my regiment on reaching the age limit. I then wrote my military recollections under the title _Soldiering in Canada_. This was so well received by the Press and by the public that, being still urged to prepare my political reminiscences, I began some years ago to write them, and soon had them finished. In the early part of 1908 Dr. Bain read the manuscript, and then asked me not to delay, as I had intended, but to publish at once. Shortly before his death last spring, he again expressed this wish. I have consulted several of my friends, and in view of their advice now publish this book. I have not attempted to write a history of the Imperial Unity movement, but only my personal recollections of the work which I have been doing in connection with it for so many years. I still feel, as I did when I was writing my military recollections, that I should follow the view laid down by the critic who said that reminiscences should be written just in the style in which a man would relate them to an old friend while smoking a pipe in front of a fire. I have tried to write the following pages in that spirit, and if the personal pronoun appears too often, it will be because, being recollections of work done, it can hardly be avoided. GEORGE T. DENISON. HEYDON VILLA, TORONTO, _January, 1909_. CONTENTS CHAPTER I CONDITION OF AFFAIRS IN CANADA BEFORE CONFEDERATION 7 CHAPTER II CANADA FIRST PARTY AND HUDSON'S BAY TERRITORY 10 CHAPTER III THE RED RIVER REBELLION 17 CHAPTER IV THE RED RIVER EXPEDITION 33 CHAPTER V NATIONAL SENTIMENT 49 CHAPTER VI ABORTIVE POLITICAL MOVEMENT 56 CHAPTER VII THE INDEPENDENCE FLURRY 62 CHAPTER VIII THE O'BRIEN EPISODE 69 CHAPTER IX THE IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE 77 CHAPTER X COMMERCIAL UNION 81 CHAPTER XI IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE IN CANADA 85 CHAPTER XII COMMERCIAL UNION A TREASONABLE CONSPIRACY 98 CHAPTER XIII THE YEARS 1888 AND 1889, WORK OF THE IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE 117 CHAPTER XIV THE YEAR 1890 130 CHAPTER XV VISIT TO ENGLAND, 1890 138 CHAPTER XVI THE GREAT ELECTION OF 1891 155 CHAPTER XVII CONTEST WITH GOLDWIN SMITH 168 CHAPTER XVIII DISSOLUTION OF THE IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE IN ENGLAND 194 CHAPTER XIX ORGANISATION OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE LEAGUE 206 CHAPTER XX MISSION TO ENGLAND, 1897 225 CHAPTER XXI THE WEST INDIAN PREFERENCE 242 CHAPTER XXII 1899: ESTABLISHMENT OF EMPIRE DAY 248 CHAPTER XXIII THE SOUTH AFRICAN WAR 258 CHAPTER XXIV 1900: BRITISH EMPIRE LEAGUE BANQUET IN LONDON 271 CHAPTER XXV WORK IN CANADA IN 1901 285 CHAPTER XXVI MISSION TO ENGLAND IN 1902 291 CHAPTER XXVII CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. CHAMBERLAIN 338 CHAPTER XXVIII CONGRESS OF CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE OF THE EMPIRE, 1906 356 APPENDIX _A_ SPEECH IN REPLY TO SIR C. DILKE 371 APPENDIX _B_ LECTURE ON "NATIONAL SPIRIT" 377 INDEX 405 COLONEL GEORGE T. DENISON _Frontispiece_ FACSIMILE LETTERS _facing p._ 114 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER A UNITED EMPIRE The idea of a great United British Empire seems to have originated on the North American Continent. When Canada was conquered and the power of France disappeared from North America, Great Britain then possessed the thirteen States or Colonies, as well as the Provinces of Quebec and Nova Scotia. The thirteen colonies had increased in population and wealth, and the British statesmen burdened with the heavy expenses of the French wars, which had been waged mainly for the protection of the American States, felt it only just that these Colonies should contribute something towards defraying the cost incurred in defending them. This raised the whole question of taxation without representation, and for ten years the discussion was waged vigorously between the Mother Country and the Colonists. A large number of the Colonists felt the justice of the claim of the Mother Country for some assistance, but foresaw the danger of violent and arbitrary action in enforcing taxation without the taxed having any voice in the matter. These men, the Loyalists, were afterwards known by the name United Empire Loyalists, because they advocated and struggled for the organisation of a consolidated Empire banded together for the common interest. Thomas Hutchinson, the last loyalist Governor of Massachusetts, and one of the ablest of the loyalist leaders, believed in the magnificent dream of a great Empire, to be realised by the process of natural and legal development, in full peace and amity with the Motherland, in short, by evolution. Joseph Galloway, who shared with Thomas Hutchinson the supreme place among the American statesmen opposed to the Revolution, worked incessantly in the cause of a United Empire, and has been characterised as "The giant corypheus of the pamphleteers." He was a member of the first continental Congress and introduced into that body, on the 28th September, 1774, his famous "Plan of a proposed union between Great Britain and the Colonies." In introducing this plan Galloway made some most interesting remarks, which bear their lesson through all the years to the present day. He said: I am as much a friend of liberty as exists. We want the aid and assistance and protection of the arm of our Mother Country. Protection and allegiance are reciprocal duties. Can we lay claim to the money and protection of Great Britain upon any principles of honour and conscience? Can we wish to become aliens to the Mother State? We must come upon terms with Great Britain. Is it not necessary that the trade of the Empire should be regulated by some power or other? Can the Empire hold together without it? No. Who shall regulate it? Galloway's scheme was very nearly adopted. In the final trial it was lost by a vote of only six colonies to five. This rejection led Galloway to decline an election to the second Congress, and to appeal to the higher tribunal of public opinion. The Loyalists followed this lead, and the struggle went on for seven years, between those who fought for separation and independence and those who fought for the unity of the Empire. The Revolution succeeded through the mismanagement of the British forces by the general in command, followed by the intervention of three great European nations, who were able to secure temporary command of the sea. The United Empire Loyalists were driven out of the old colonies, and many found new homes in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Canada; some also went to England and the West Indies, carrying with them the cherished ideas of maintaining their allegiance to their Sovereign, of preserving their heritage as British subjects, and still endeavouring to realise the dream of a United British Empire. For this cause they had made great sacrifices, and, despoiled of all their possessions, had been driven into exile, in what was then a wilderness. Men do not make such extraordinary sacrifices except under the influence of some overpowering sentiment, and in their case the moving sentiment was the Unity of the Empire. The greater the hardships they encountered, the greater the privations and sufferings they endured for the cause, the dearer it grew to their hearts, for men value those things most that have been obtained at the highest cost. In the war of 1812-'14 the intense spirit of loyalty in the old exiles and their sons caused the Canadian Provinces to be retained under the British flag, and when afterwards, in 1837, rebellion broke out, fomented by strangers and new settlers, the United Empire Loyalist element put it down with a promptitude and vigour that forms one of the brightest pages in our history. In Nova Scotia the agitation for responsible government was headed by Joseph Howe, a son of one of the exiled Loyalists. Suggestions of rebellion to him were impossible of consideration, and he held his province true to the Empire, and succeeded by peaceful and loyal measures in securing all he wanted. Then Great Britain repealed her corn laws instead of amending them, and introduced free trade instead of rearranging and reducing her tariff. She deprived Canada of a small advantage which her products up to that time enjoyed in the British markets, and which was rapidly assisting in the development of what was then a poor and weak colony. This act was a severe blow to Canada, because it meant that Great Britain had embarked on the unwise and dangerous policy of treating foreign and even hostile countries as favourably as her own peoples and her own possessions. This caused a great deal of dissatisfaction in some quarters, and in the year 1849 some hundreds of the leading business men in Montreal signed a manifesto advocating annexation to the United States. This aroused strong opposition among the United Empire Loyalist element in Upper Canada; the feeling soon manifested itself in a way which proved that no pecuniary losses could shake the deep-seated loyalty of the Canadian people. The annexation movement withered at once. Seeing how severely the action of the Mother Country had borne upon Canada, Lord Elgin, then Governor-General of Canada, was instructed to endeavour to arrange for a reciprocity treaty with the United States, or in other words to ask a foreign country to give Canada trade advantages which would recompense her for what Great Britain had taken away from her. The United States Government, either influenced by the blandishments of Lord Elgin, or by a politic desire of turning Canada's trade in their own direction, and making her dependent for her business and the prosperity of her people upon a treaty which the United States would have the power of terminating in twelve years, consented to make the treaty. It was concluded in 1854, and for twelve years during a most critical period, when railways and railway systems were beginning to be established, the great bulk of the trade of Canada was diverted to the United States, the lines of transportation naturally developed mainly from north to south, and the foreign handling of our products was left very much to the United States. The Crimean war broke out in 1854 and lasted till 1856, raising the price of farm produce two-fold, and adding largely to the prosperity of the Canadian people. The large railway expenditure during the same period also aided to produce an era of inflation, while during the last five years of the existence of the treaty the Civil War in the United States created an extraordinary demand, at war prices, for almost everything the Canadian people had to sell. The result was that, from reasons quite disconnected from the reciprocity treaty, during a great part of its existence the Canadian people enjoyed a most remarkable development and prosperity. The United States Government, although the treaty is said to have been of more real value to them than to Canada, at the earliest possible moment gave the two years' notice to abrogate it, and they did so evidently in the hope that the financial distress and loss that its discontinuance would bring upon the people of Canada would create at once a demand for annexation. In a sense they were right; talk in favour of annexation was soon heard from a few, but the old sentiment of loyalty to the Empire was too strong, and the people turned to the idea of the confederation of the Provinces and the opening up of trade with the West Indies and other countries. The Confederation of Canada was the result, and the Dominion was established on the 1st of July, 1867. My object in writing the following pages is to describe more particularly from my own recollection, and my own knowledge of the facts, the movement in favour of the Unity of the Empire which has been going on during the last forty years. CHAPTER I CONDITION OF AFFAIRS IN CANADA BEFORE CONFEDERATION The extraordinary change that has taken place in Canada, in every way, in the last fifty years cannot be appreciated except by those who are old enough to remember the condition of affairs about the middle of last century. The ideas, sentiments, aspirations, and hopes of the people have since then been revolutionised. At that time the North American Provinces were poor, sparsely settled, scattered communities, with no large towns, no wealthy classes, without a literature, with scarcely any manufactures, and with a population almost entirely composed of struggling farmers and the few traders depending upon them. The population was less than 3,500,000. The total exports and imports in 1868 were $131,027,532. The small Provincial Governments found their duties confined to narrow local limits. All the important questions were entirely in the hands of the Home Government. The defence was paid for by them. British troops occupied all the important points, and foreign affairs were left without question entirely in the hands of the British statesmen. The Provinces had no power whatever in diplomacy, and were interested only in a few disputes with the United States in reference to boundary difficulties, which were generally settled without consultation with the Colonial Governments, and with very little thought for the interests or the future needs of the little British communities scattered about in North America. The settlements were comparatively so recent that men called themselves either English, Irish, or Scotch, according to the nationality of their parents or grandparents. The national societies, St. George's, St. Andrew's and St. Patrick's, may have helped to continue this feeling, so that in reference to the various Provinces there was not, and could not be, any national spirit. Another cause that led to the absence of national spirit or self-confidence was that Great Britain not only held the power of peace and war in her own hands, but, as a consequence, took upon herself the responsibility for the defence of the Provinces. British troops, as has been said, garrisoned all the important points, and all the expenses were borne by the Imperial Government. Canada had no militia except upon paper, no arms, no uniforms, no military stores or equipment of any kind. She depended solely upon the Mother Country; even the Post Office System was a branch of the English Post Office Service. One can readily imagine the lack of local national spirit. Of course the loyalty to the Mother Country and the Sovereign and the Empire was always strong, but it was not closely allied to the spirit of nationality as attached to the soil. When the Crimean war broke out, the British troops were required for it, and Canada was called upon to raise a militia force for her own needs. This she did. Ten thousand men were organised, armed, uniformed, and equipped at her expense. They were called the Active Militia, and were drilled ten days in each year. The assumption of responsibility had an effect upon the country, and when the Trent difficulty arose the force was increased by the spontaneous action of the people to about thirty-eight thousand men. Four years later the Fenian raids took place upon our frontier, and were repulsed, largely by the efforts of the Canadian Militia. All this appealed to the imagination of our youth, and as confederation was proclaimed the following year the ground was fallow for sowing seeds of a national spirit. The effect of confederation on the Canadians was very remarkable. The small Provinces were all merged into a great Dominion. The Provincial idea was gone. Canada was now a country with immense resources and great possibilities. The idea of expansion had seized upon the people, and at once steps were taken looking to the absorption of the Hudson's Bay Territory and union with British Columbia. With this came visions of a great and powerful country stretching from ocean to ocean, and destined to be one of the dominant powers of the world. CHAPTER II CANADA FIRST PARTY AND HUDSON BAY TERRITORY It was at the period when these conditions existed that business took me to Ottawa from the 15th April until the 20th May, 1868. Wm. A. Foster of Toronto, a barrister, afterwards a leading Queen's Counsel, was there at the same time, and through our friend, Henry J. Morgan, we were introduced to Charles Mair, of Lanark, Ontario, and Robert J. Haliburton, of Halifax, eldest son of the celebrated author of "Sam Slick." We were five young men of about twenty-eight years of age, except Haliburton, who was four or five years older. We very soon became warm friends, and spent most of our evenings together in Morgan's quarters. We must have been congenial spirits, for our friendship has been close and firm all our lives. Foster and Haliburton have passed away, but their work lives. The seed they sowed has sprung at last, And grows and blossoms through the land. Those meetings were the origin of the "Canada First" party. Nothing could show more clearly the hold that confederation had taken of the imagination of young Canadians than the fact that, night after night, five young men should give up their time and their thoughts to discussing the higher interests of their country, and it ended in our making a solemn pledge to each other that we would do all we could to advance the interests of our native land; that we would put our country first, before all personal, or political, or party considerations; that we would change our party affiliations as often as the true interests of Canada required it. Some years afterwards we adopted, as I will explain, the name "Canada First," meaning that the true interest of Canada was to be first in our minds on every occasion. Forty years have elapsed and I feel that every one of the five held true to the promise we then made to each other. One point that we discussed constantly was the necessity, now that we had a great country, of encouraging in every possible way the growth of a strong national spirit. Ontario knew little of Nova Scotia or New Brunswick and they knew little of us. The name Canadian was at first bitterly objected to by the Nova Scotians, while the New Brunswickers were indifferent. This was natural, for old Canada had been an almost unknown Province to the men who lived by the sea, and whose trade relations had been mainly with the United States, the West Indies, and foreign countries. It was apparent that until there should grow, not only a feeling of unity, but also a national pride and devotion to Canada as a Dominion, no real progress could be made towards building up a strong and powerful community. We therefore considered it to be our first duty to work in that direction and do everything possible to encourage national sentiment. History had taught us that every nation that had become great, and had exercised an important influence upon the world, had invariably been noted for a strong patriotic spirit, and we believed in the sentiment of putting the country above all other considerations--the same feeling that existed in Rome When none was for a party When all were for the State. This idea we were to preach in season and out of season whenever opportunity offered. The next point that attracted our attention was the necessity of securing for the new Dominion the Hudson's Bay Territory and the adhesion of British Columbia. At this time the Maritime Provinces were not keenly interested in either of these projects, while the province of Quebec was secretly opposed to the acquisition of the Territory, fearing that it would cost money to acquire and govern it, but principally because many of the French Canadians dreaded the growing strength in the Dominion of English speaking people, and the consequent relative diminution of their proportionate influence on the administration of affairs. The Hudson's Bay Company were also dissatisfied at the prospect of the loss of the great monopoly they had enjoyed for nearly two hundred years. They continued the policy they had early adopted, of doing all possible to create the belief that the territory was a barren, inhospitable, frozen region, unfit for habitation, and only suitable to form a great preserve for fur-bearing animals. This general belief as to the uselessness of the country, and its remoteness and inaccessibility, which prevented any full information being gained as to its real capabilities, also had the effect of making many people doubtful as to its value and careless as to its acquisition. As an illustration of the ignorance and false impressions of the value of the country, it is interesting to recall that when, in 1857, an agitation was set on foot looking to the absorption of the North-West Territories, very strong opposition came from a large portion of the Canadian Press. Some wrote simply in the interests of the Hudson's Bay Company. Some wrote what they really believed to be true. Now that Manitoba No. 1 hard wheat has a fame all over the world, as the best and most valuable wheat that is grown, it is interesting to read the opinion of the Montreal Transcript in 1857 that the climate of the North-West "is altogether unfavourable to the growth of grain" and that the summer is so short as to make it difficult to "mature even a small potato or a cabbage." The Government, under the far-seeing leadership of Sir John Macdonald, were negotiating in 1868 for the purchase of the Hudson's Bay Company's rights, and they sent Sir George Cartier and the Hon. Wm. Macdougall to England to carry on the negotiations. Mr. Macdougall was a man of great force of character, an able debater and a keen Canadian. We knew he would do all that man could do to secure the territory for Canada, and as far as the arrangements in the old country were concerned he was successful. In anticipation of the incorporation of the territory in the Dominion, and partly to assist the Red River Settlement by giving employment to the people, the Canadian Government sent up some officials and began building a road from Fort Garry, now Winnipeg, to the north-west angle of the Lake of the Woods. This was in the autumn of 1868. Mr. Macdougall appointed Charles Mair to the position of paymaster of this party, and at once we saw the opportunity of doing some good work towards helping on the acquisition of the territory. We felt that the country was misunderstood, and it was arranged, through the Hon. George Brown, the proprietor and editor of the Toronto _Globe_, who had for many years been strongly in favour of securing the North-West, that Mair was to write letters to the _Globe_ on every available opportunity, giving a true account of the capabilities of the territory as to the soil, products, climate, and suitability for settlement. Mair soon formed a most favourable opinion, and became convinced that a populous agricultural community could be maintained, and that in time to come a large and productive addition would be made to the farming resources of Canada. He pictured the country in glowing terms, and practically preached that a crusade of Ontario men should move out and open up and cultivate its magnificent prairies. His letters attracted a great deal of attention, and were copied very extensively in the Press of Upper Canada and the Maritime Provinces. They were filled with the Canadian national spirit, and had a great effect in awakening the minds of the people to the importance of the acquisition of the country. Reports of his letters got back to Fort Garry, and caused much hostile feeling in the minds of the Hudson's Bay officials, and the French half-breeds and their clergy. The feeling on one occasion almost led to actual violence. Six years before this, in 1862, John C. Schultz (afterwards Sir John Schultz, K.C.M.G., Lieutenant-Governor of Manitoba) had arrived in Fort Garry. He was then a young doctor only twenty-two years of age. He at once engaged in the practice of his profession, as well as in the business of buying and selling furs, and trading with the Indians and inhabitants. He was born at Amherstburg, and had grown up and been educated in the country where Brock and Tecumseh had performed their greatest exploit in defence of Canada. He was a loyal and patriotic Canadian. He had been persecuted by Hudson's Bay officials. Once he was put in prison by them, but was soon taken out by a mob of the inhabitants. Mair soon became attached to Schultz. They were about the same age, and possessed in common a keen love for the land of their birth. Mair told him of the work of our little party, and he expressed his sympathy and desire to assist. In March, 1869, Schultz came down to Montreal on business, and when passing through Toronto brought me a letter of introduction from Mair, who had written to me once or twice before, speaking in the highest terms of Schultz, and predicting (truthfully) that in the future he would be the leading man in the North-West, and he advised that he should be enrolled in our little organisation. Haliburton happened to be in Toronto at the time and I introduced Schultz to him and to W. A. Foster, and we warmly welcomed him into our ranks. He was the sixth member. Soon afterwards we began quietly making recruits, considering very carefully each name as suggested. Schultz went back to Fort Garry. The negotiations for the acquisition of the Hudson's Bay Territory were brought to a successful termination, and it was arranged that it should be taken over on the 1st December, 1869. Mr. Macdougall was appointed Lieutenant-Governor of the Territory, and with a small staff of officials he started for Fort Garry. During this time Haliburton had been lecturing in Ontario and Quebec on the question of "interprovincial trade," showing that it should be strongly encouraged, and would be a most efficient means for creating a feeling of unity among the various provinces. He also delivered a very able lecture on "The Men of the North," showing their power and influence on history, and pointing out that the Canadians would be the "Northmen of the New World," and in this way he endeavoured to arouse the pride of Canadians in their country, and to create a feeling of confidence in its future. This was all in the line of our common desire to foster a national spirit, which formerly, in the Canadian sense, had not existed. CHAPTER III THE RED RIVER REBELLION During this year, 1869, when the negotiations in England had been agreed upon, the Canadian Government had sent out a surveying expedition under Lieut.-Colonel Dennis. This officer had taken a prominent part in the affair of the Fenian Raid at Fort Erie three years before, with no advantage to the country and considerable discredit to himself. His party began surveying the land where a hardy population of half-breeds had their farms and homes, and where they had been settled for generations. Naturally great alarm and indignation were aroused. The road that was being built from Winnipeg to the Lake of the Woods also added considerably to their anxiety. The Hudson's Bay officials were mainly covertly hostile. The French priests also viewed an irruption of strangers with strong aversion, and everything tended to incite an uprising against the establishment of the new Government. When Lieut.-Governor Macdougall arrived at Pembina and crossed the boundary line, he was stopped by an armed force of French half breeds, and turned back out of the country. He waited till the 1st December, when his commission was to have come into force, and then appointed Lieut.-Colonel Dennis as Lieutenant and Conservator of the Peace, and sent him to Fort Garry to endeavour to organise a sufficient force among the loyal population to put down the rebellion, and re-establish the Queen's authority. When Lieut.-Colonel Dennis reached Fort Garry, he went straight to Dr. Schultz' house where Mair was staying at the time, and showed them his commission. Schultz, who was an able man of great courage and strength of character, as well as sound judgment, said at once that the commission was all that was wanted, and that he would organise a force of the surveyors, Canadian roadmen, etc., who were principally Ontario men, and that they could easily seize the Fort that night by surprise, as there were only a few of the insurgents in it, and those not anticipating the slightest difficulty. This was the wisest and best course, for had the Fort been seized, it would have dominated the settlement and established a rallying point for the loyal, who formed fifty per cent. of the population. Colonel Dennis would not agree to this. On the contrary he advised Dr. Schultz to organise all the men he could at the Fort Garry Settlement, while he himself would go down to the Stone Fort, and raise the loyal Scotch half breeds of the lower Settlements. This decision at once shut off all possibility of success. Riel, the rebel leader, had ample opportunity not only to fill Fort Garry with French half breeds, but it enabled him to cut off and besiege Dr. Schultz and the Canadians who had gathered at his house for protection. When matters had got to this point Colonel Dennis lost heart, abandoned his levies at the Stone Fort in the night, leaving an order for them to disperse and return to their homes. He escaped to the United States by making a wide _dtour_. Schultz and his party had to surrender and were put into prison. Mair, Dr. Lynch, and Thomas Scott were among these prisoners. When the news of these doings came to Ontario there was a good deal of dissatisfaction, but the distance was so great, and the news so scanty, and so lacking in details, that the public generally were not at first much interested. The Canada First group were of course keenly aroused by the imprisonment and dangerous position of Mair and Schultz, and at that time matters looked very serious to those of us who were so keenly anxious for the acquisition of the Hudson's Bay Territory. Lieut.-Governor Macdougall had been driven out, his deputy had disappeared after his futile and ill-managed attempt to put down the insurrection, Mair and Schultz and the loyal men were in prison, Riel had established his government firmly, and had a large armed force and the possession of the most important stronghold in the country. An unbroken wilderness of hundreds of miles separated the district from Canada, and made a military expedition a difficult and tedious operation. These difficulties, however, we knew were not the most dangerous. There were many influences working against the true interests of Canada, and it is hard for the present generation to appreciate the gravity of the situation. In the first place the people of Ontario were indifferent, they did not at first seem to feel or understand the great importance of the question, and this indifference was the greatest source of anxiety to us in the councils of our party. By this time Foster and I had gained a number of recruits. Dr. Canniff, J. D. Edgar, Richard Grahame, Hugh Scott, Thomas Walmsley, George Kingsmill, Joseph E. McDougall, and George M. Rae had all joined the executive committee, and we had a number of other adherents ready and willing to assist. Foster and I were constantly conferring and discussing the difficulties, and meetings of the committee were often called to decide upon the best action to adopt. Governor Macdougall had returned humiliated and baffled, blaming the Hon. Joseph Howe for having fed the dissatisfaction at Fort Garry. This charge has not been supported by any evidence, and such evidence as there is conveys a very different impression. Governor McTavish of the Hudson's Bay Company was believed to be in collusion with Riel, and willing to thwart the aims of Canada. Mr. Macdougall states in his pamphlet of _Letters to Joseph Howe_, that in September 1868 every member of the Government, except Mr. Tilley and himself, was either indifferent or hostile to the acquisition of the Territories. He also charges the French Catholic priests as being very hostile to Canada, and says that from the moment he was met with armed resistance, until his return to Canada, the policy of the Government was consistent in one direction, namely, to abandon the country. Dr. George Bryce in his _Remarkable History of the Hudson's Bay Company_ points out the serious condition of affairs at this time. The Company's Governor, McTavish, was ill, the government by the Company moribund, and the action of the Canadian authorities in sending up an irritating expedition of surveyors and roadmakers was most impolitic. The influence of mercantile interests in St. Paul was also keenly against Canada, and a number of settlers from the United States helped to foment trouble and encourage a change of allegiance. Dr. Bryce states that there was a large sum of money "available in St. Paul for the purpose of securing a hold by the Americans on the fertile plains of Rupert's Land." Dr. Bryce sums up the dangers as follows: "Can a more terrible combination be imagined than this? A decrepit Government with the executive officer sick; a rebellious and chronically dissatisfied Metis element; a government at Ottawa far removed by distance, committing with unvarying regularity blunder after blunder; a greedy and foreign cabal planning to seize the country; and a secret Jesuitical plot to keep the Governor from action and to incite the fiery Metis to revolt." The Canada First organisation was at this time a strictly secret one, its strength, its aims, even its existence being unknown outside of the ranks of the members. The committee were fully aware of all these difficulties, and felt that the people generally were not impressed with the importance of the issues and were ignorant of the facts. The idea had been quietly circulated through the Government organs that the troubles had been caused mainly through the indiscreet and aggressive spirit shown by the Canadians at Fort Garry, and much aggravated through the ill-advised and hasty conduct of Lieut.-Governor Macdougall. The result was that there was little or no sympathy with any of those who had been cast into prison, except among the ranks of the little Canada First group, who understood the question better, and had been directly affected through the imprisonment of two of their leading members. The news came down in the early spring of 1870 that Schultz and Mair had escaped, and soon afterwards came the information that Thomas Scott, a loyal Ontario man, an Orangeman, had been cruelly put to death by the Rebel Government. Up to this time it had been found difficult to excite any interest in Ontario in the fact that a number of Canadians had been thrown into prison. Foster and I, who had been consulting almost daily, were much depressed at the apathy of the public, but when we heard that Schultz and Mair, as well as Dr. Lynch, were all on the way to Ontario, and that Scott had been murdered, it was seen at once that there was an opportunity, by giving a public reception to the loyal refugees, to draw attention to the matter, and by denouncing the murder of Scott, to arouse the indignation of the people, and foment a public opinion that would force the Government to send up an armed expedition to restore order. George Kingsmill, the editor of the Toronto _Daily Telegraph_, at that time was one of our committee, and on Foster's suggestion the paper was printed in mourning with "turned rules" as a mark of respect to the memory of the murdered Scott, and Foster, who had already contributed able articles to the _Westminster Review_ in April and October 1865, began a series of articles which were published by Kingsmill as editorials, which at once attracted attention. It was like putting a match to tinder. Foster was accustomed to discuss these articles with me, and to read them to me in manuscript, and I was delighted with the vigour and intense national spirit which breathed in them all. He met the arguments of the official Press with vehement appeals to the patriotism of his fellow countrymen. The Government organs were endeavouring to quiet public opinion, and suggestions were freely made that the loyal Canadians who had taken up arms on behalf of the Queen's authority in obedience to Governor Macdougall's proclamation had been indiscreet, and had brought upon themselves the imprisonment and hardships they had suffered. Mair and Schultz had escaped from prison about the same time. Schultz went to the Lower Red River which was settled by loyal English-speaking half breeds, and Mair to Portage la Prairie, where there was also a loyal settlement. They each began to organise an armed force to attack Fort Garry and release their comrades, who were still in prison there. They made a junction at Headingly, and had scaling ladders and other preparations for attacking Fort Garry. Schultz brought up about six hundred men, and Mair with the Portage la Prairie contingent, under command of Major Charles Boulton, had about sixty men. Riel became alarmed, opened a parley with the loyalists, and agreed to deliver up the prisoners, and pledge himself to leave the loyalist settlements alone if he was not attacked. The prisoners were released and Mair went back to Portage la Prairie, and Schultz to the Selkirk settlement. Almost immediately Schultz left for Canada with Joseph Monkman, by way of Rainy River to Duluth, while Mair, accompanied by J. J. Setter, started on the long march on snow shoes with dog sleighs over four hundred miles of the then uninhabited waste of Minnesota to St. Paul. This was in the winter, and the journey in both cases was made on snow shoes and with dog sleighs. Mair arrived in St. Paul a few days before Schultz. We heard of their arrival at St. Paul by telegraph, and our committee called a meeting to consider the question of a reception to the refugees. This meeting was not called by advertisement, so much did we dread the indifference of the public and the danger of our efforts being a failure. It was decided that we should invite a number to come privately, being careful to choose only those whom we considered would be sympathetic. This private meeting took place on the 2nd April, 1870. I was delayed, and did not arrive at the meeting until two or three speeches had been made. The late John Macnab, the County Attorney, was speaking when I came in; to my astonishment he was averse to taking any action whatever until further information had been obtained. His argument was that very little information had been received from Fort Garry, and that it would be wiser to wait until the refugees had gone to Ottawa, and had laid their case before the Government, and the Government had expressed their views on the matter, that these men might have been indiscreet, &c. Not knowing that previous speakers had spoken on the same line I sat listening to this, getting more angry every minute. When he sat down I was thoroughly aroused. I knew such a policy as that meant handing over the loyal men to the mercies of a hostile element. I jumped up at once, and in vehement tones denounced the speaker. I said that these refugees had risked their lives in obedience to a proclamation in the Queen's name, calling upon them to take up arms on her behalf; that there were only a few Ontario men, seventy in number, in that remote and inaccessible region, surrounded by half savages, besieged until supplies gave out. When abandoned by the officer who had appealed to them to take up arms, they were obliged to surrender, and suffered for long months in prison. I said these Canadians did this for Canada, and were we at home to be critical as to their method of proving their devotion to our country? I went on to say that they had escaped and were coming to their own province to tell of their wrongs, to ask assistance to relieve the intolerable condition of their comrades in the Red River Settlement, and I asked, Is there any Ontario man who will not hold out a hand of welcome to these men? Any man who hesitates is no true Canadian. I repudiate him as a countryman of mine. Are we to talk about indiscretion when men have risked their lives? We have too little of that indiscretion nowadays and should hail it with enthusiasm. I soon had the whole meeting with me. When I sat down James D. Edgar, afterwards Sir J. D. Edgar, moved that we should ask the Mayor to call a public meeting. This was at once agreed to, and a requisition made out and signed, and the Mayor was waited upon, and asked to call a meeting for the 6th. This was agreed to, Mr. Macnab coming to me and saying I was right, and that he would do all he could to help, which he loyally did. From the 2nd until the 6th we were busily engaged in asking our friends to attend the meeting. The Mayor and Corporation were requested to make the refugees the guests of the City during their stay in Toronto, and quarters were taken for them at the Queen's Hotel. Foster's articles in the _Telegraph_ were beginning to have their influence, and when Schultz, Lynch, Monkman, and Dreever arrived at the station on the evening of the 6th April, a crowd of about one thousand people met them and escorted them to the Queen's. The meeting was to be held in the St. Lawrence Hall that evening, but when we arrived there with the party, we found the hall crowded and nearly ten thousand people outside. The meeting was therefore adjourned to the Market Square, and the speakers stood on the roof of the porch of the old City Hall. The resolutions carried covered three points. Firstly, a welcome to the refugees, and an endorsation of their action in fearlessly, and at the sacrifice of their liberty and property, resisting the usurpation of power by the murderer Riel; secondly, advocating the adoption of decisive measures to suppress the revolt, and to afford speedy protection to the loyal subjects in the North-West, and thirdly, declaring that "It would be a gross injustice to the loyal inhabitants of Red River, humiliating to our national honour, and contrary to all British traditions for our Government to receive, negotiate, or treat with the emissaries of those who have robbed, imprisoned, and murdered loyal Canadians, whose only fault was zeal for British institutions, whose only crime was devotion to the old flag." This last resolution, which was carried with great enthusiasm, was moved by Capt. James Bennett and seconded by myself. Foster and I had long conferences with Schultz, Mair, and Lynch that evening and next day, and it was decided that I should go to Ottawa with the party, to assist them in furthering their views before the Government. In the meantime Dr. Canniff and other members of the party had sent word to friends at Cobourg, Belleville, Prescott, etc., to organise demonstrations of welcome to the loyalists at the different points. A large number of our friends and sympathisers gathered at the Union Station to see the party off to Ottawa, and received them with loud cheers. Mr. Andrew Fleming then moved, seconded by Mr. T. H. O'Neil, the following resolution, written by Foster, which was unanimously carried: That we, the citizens of Toronto, in parting with our Red River guests, beg to reiterate our full recognition of their devotion to, and sufferings in, the cause of Canada, to emphatically endorse their manly conduct through troubles sufficient to try the stoutest heart, and to assure the loyal people of Canada that no minion of the murderer Riel, no representative of a conspiracy which concentrates in itself everything a Briton detests, shall be allowed to pass this platform (should he get so far) to lay insulting proposals at the foot of a throne which knows how to protect its subjects, and has the means and never lacks for will to do it. At Cobourg, where the train stopped for twenty minutes, we were met by the municipal authorities of the town, and a great crowd of citizens, who received the party with warm enthusiasm, and with the heartiest expressions of approval. This occurred about one o'clock in the morning. The same thing was repeated at Belleville about three or four a.m., and it was considered advisable for Mr. Mair and Mr. Setter to stay over there to address a great public meeting to be held the next day. At Prescott, also, the warmest welcome was given by the citizens. Public feeling was aroused, and we then knew that we would have Ontario at our backs. On our arrival in Ottawa we found that the Government were not at all friendly to the loyal men, and were not desirous of doing anything that we had been advocating. The first urgent matter was the expected arrival of Richot and Scott, the rebel emissaries, who were on the way down from St. Paul. I went to see Sir John A. Macdonald at the earliest moment. I had been one of his supporters, and had worked hard for him and the party for the previous eight or nine years--in fact since I had been old enough to take an active part in politics; and he knew me well. I asked him at once if he intended to receive Richot and Scott, in view of the fact that since Sir John had invited Riel to send down representatives, Thomas Scott had been murdered. To my astonishment he said he would have to receive them. I urged him vehemently not to do so, to send someone to meet them and to advise them to return. I told him he had a copy of their Bill of Rights and knew exactly what they wanted, and I said he could make a most liberal settlement of the difficulties and give them everything that was reasonable, and so weaken Riel by taking away the grievances that gave him his strength. That then a relief expedition could be sent up, and the leading rebels finding their followers leaving them, would decamp, and the trouble would be over. I pointed out to him that the meetings being held all over Ontario should strengthen his hands, and those of the British section of the Cabinet, and that the French Canadians should be satisfied if full justice was done to the half-breeds, and should not humiliate our national honour. Sir John did not seem able to answer my arguments, and only repeated that he could not help himself, and that the British Government were favourable to their reception. I think Sir Stafford Northcote was at the time in Ottawa representing the Home Government, or the Hudson's Bay Company. Finding that Sir John was determined to receive them I said, "Well, Sir John, I have always supported you, but from the day that you receive Richot and Scott, you must look upon me as a strong and vigorous opponent." He patted me on the shoulder and said, "Oh, no, you will not oppose me, you must never do that." I replied, "I am very sorry, Sir John. I never thought for a moment that you would humiliate us. I thought when I helped to get up that great meeting in Toronto, and carefully arranged that no hostile resolutions should be brought up against you, that I was doing the best possible work for you; but I seconded a very strong resolution and made a very decided speech before ten thousand of my fellow citizens, and now I am committed, and will have to take my stand." Feeling much disheartened I left him, and worked against him, and did not support him again, until many years afterwards, when the leaders of the party I had been attached to foolishly began to coquette with commercial union, and some even with veiled treason, while Sir John came out boldly for the Empire, and on the side of loyalty, under the well-known cry, "A British subject I was born, a British subject I will die." After reporting to Schultz and Lynch we considered carefully the situation, and as Lynch had been especially requested by his fellow prisoners in Fort Garry to represent their views in Ontario, it was decided that he, on behalf of the loyal element of Fort Garry, should put their case before his Excellency the Governor-General himself, and ask for redress and protection. After careful discussion, I drafted a formal protest, which Lynch wrote out and signed, and we went together to the Government House and delivered it there to one of his Excellency's staff. Copies of this were given to the Press, and attracted considerable attention. This protest was as follows: RUSSELL'S HOTEL, OTTAWA _12th April, 1870_. MAY IT PLEASE YOUR EXCELLENCY, Representing the loyal inhabitants of Red River both natives and Canadians, and having heard with feelings of profound regret that your Excellency's Government have it in consideration to receive and hear the so-called delegates from Red River, I beg most humbly to approach Your Excellency in order to lay before Your Excellency a statement of the circumstances under which these men were appointed in order that they may not be received or recognised as the true representatives of the people of Red River. These so-called delegates, Father Richot and Mr. Scott, were both among the first organisers and promoters of the outbreak, and have been supporters and associates of Mr. Riel and his faction from that time to the present. When the delegates were appointed at the convention the undersigned, as well as some fifty others of the loyal people, were in prison on account of having obeyed the Queen's proclamation issued by Governor Macdougall. Riel had possession of the Fort, and most of the arms, and a reign of terror existed throughout the whole settlement. When the question came up in the convention, Riel took upon himself to nominate Father Richot and Mr. Scott, and the convention, unable to resist, overawed by an armed force, tacitly acquiesced. Some time after their nomination a rising took place to release the prisoners, and seven hundred men gathered in opposition to Riel's government, and, having obtained the release of their prisoners, and declared that they would not recognise Riel's authority, they separated. In the name and on behalf of the loyal people of Red River, comprising about two-thirds of the whole population, I most humbly but firmly enter the strongest protest against the reception of Father Richot and Mr. Scott, as representing the inhabitants of Red River, as they are simply the delegates of an armed minority. I have also the honour to request that Your Excellency will be pleased to direct that, in the event of an audience being granted to these so-called delegates, that I may be confronted with them and given an opportunity of refuting any false representations, and of expressing at the same time the views and wishes of the loyal portion of the inhabitants. I have also the honour of informing Your Excellency that Thomas Scott, one of our loyal subjects, has been cruelly murdered by Mr. Riel and his associates, and that these so-called delegates were present at the time of the murder, and are now here as the representatives before Your Excellency of the council which confirmed the sentence. I have also the honour to inform Your Excellency, that should Your Excellency deem it advisable, I am prepared to provide the most ample evidence to confirm the accuracy and truth of all the statements I have here made. I have the honour to be Your Excellency's most humble and obedient servant, JAMES LYNCH. I believe this was cabled by his Excellency to the Home Government. In the meantime Foster and our friends in Toronto were active in the endeavour to prevent the reception of Richot and Scott. A brother of the murdered Scott happened to be in Toronto, and on his application a warrant was issued by Alexander Macnabb, the Police Magistrate of Toronto, for the arrest of the two delegates, on the charge of aiding and abetting in the murder. This warrant was sent to the Chief of Police of Ottawa, with a request to have it executed, and the prisoners sent to Toronto. Foster wrote to me and asked me to see the Chief of Police and press the matter. When I saw the Chief he denied having received it. I took him with me to the Post Office, and we asked for the letter containing it. The officials denied having it. I said at once that there was some underhand work, and that we would give the information to the Press, and that it would arouse great indignation. I was requested to be patient until further search could be made. It was soon found, and I went before the Ottawa Police Magistrate, and proved the warrant, as I knew Mr. Macnabb's signature. Then the men were arrested. We discovered afterwards that the warrant had been taken immediately on its arrival to Sir John A. Macdonald, and by him handed to John Hillyard Cameron, Q.C., then a member of the House of Commons, and a very prominent barrister, in order that he should devise some method of meeting it. This was the cause of the Chief of Police denying that he had received it. Mr. Scott, the complainant, came down to Ottawa, and as we feared Mr. McNabb had no jurisdiction in the case, a new information was sworn out in Ottawa before the Police Magistrate of that City. Richot and Scott were discharged on the Toronto warrant, and then arrested on the new warrant. The case was adjourned for some days, but it was impossible to get any definite evidence, as the loyal refugees had been in prison, and knew nothing of what had happened except from the popular report. Richot and Scott were therefore discharged, and were received by the Government, and many concessions granted to the rebels. CHAPTER IV THE RED RIVER EXPEDITION During the spring of 1870 there had been an agitation in favour of sending an expedition of troops to the Red River Settlement, to restore the Queen's authority, to protect the loyal people still there, and to give security to the exiles who desired to return to their homes. The Canada First group had taken an active part in this agitation, and had urged strongly that Colonel Wolseley (now Field-Marshal Viscount Wolseley) should be sent in command. We knew that under his directions the expedition would be successfully conducted, and that not only would he have no sympathy with the enemy, but that he would not be a party to any dishonest methods or underhand plotting. He had commanded the camp of cadets at La Prairie in 1865, and had gained the confidence of them all; afterwards at the camp at Thorold in August and September, 1866, he had nearly all the Ontario battalions of militia pass under his command, so that there was no man in Canada who stood out more prominently in the eyes of the people. Popular opinion fixed upon Colonel Wolseley with unanimity for the command, and the Government, although very anxious to send Colonel Robertson Ross, Adjutant-General, could not stem the tide, particularly as the Mother Country was sending a third of the expedition and paying a share of the cost, and General Lindsay, who commanded the Imperial forces in Canada, was fully aware of Colonel Wolseley's high qualifications and fitness for the position. The expedition was soon organised under Colonel Wolseley's skilful leadership, and he started for Port Arthur from Toronto on the 21st May, 1870. The Hon. George Brown had asked me to go up with the expedition as correspondent for the _Globe_, and Colonel Wolseley had urged me strongly to accept the offer and go with him. I should have liked immensely to have taken part in the expedition, but we were doubtful of the good faith of the Government, on account of the great influence of Sir George Cartier and the French Canadian party, and the decided feeling which they had shown in favour of the rebels. We feared very much that there would be intrigues to betray or delay the expedition. I was confident that Colonel Wolseley's real difficulty would be in his rear, and not in front of him, and therefore I was determined to remain at home to guard the rear. From Port Arthur, the first stage of the journey was to Lake Shebandowan, some forty odd miles. This was the most difficult part of the work. The Government Road was not finished as had been expected, and Colonel Wolseley was delayed from the end of May until the 16th July, before he was able to despatch any of the troops from McNeill's Bay on Lake Shebandowan. It will be seen that the expedition was delayed nearly two months in getting over the first fifty miles of the six hundred and fifty by water which lay between Prince Arthur's Landing and Fort Garry. This was caused by the fact that the first fifty miles was uphill all the way, while the remainder of the journey was mainly downhill. Sir John A. Macdonald was taken with a very severe and dangerous illness, so that during this important period the control of affairs passed into the hands of Sir George Cartier and the French Canadian party. This caused great anxiety in Ontario, for we could not tell what might happen. Our committee were very watchful, and from rumours we heard, we thought it well to be prepared, and on the 13th July, Foster, Grahame and I prepared a requisition to the Mayor to call a public meeting, to protest against any amnesty being granted to the rebels; and getting it well signed by a number of the foremost men in the city, we held it over, to be ready to have the meeting called on the first sign of treachery. About the 18th July, 1870, Haliburton was at Niagara Falls and by chance saw Lord Lisgar, the Governor-General, and in conversation with him he learned that Sir George Cartier, Bishop Tach, and Mr. Archibald (who had been chosen as Lieutenant-Governor of the new province) were to meet him there in a few days. Haliburton suspected some plot and telegraphed warning Dr. Schultz at London, Ontario, who sent word to me, and on the 19th we had a meeting of our committee, and arranged at once for the public meeting to be held on the 22nd. In the Government organ, the _Leader_, of the 19th July was a despatch from Ottawa dated the 18th in the following words: Bishop Tach will arrive here this evening from Montreal. The Privy Council held a special meeting on Saturday. It is stated on good authority that Sir George Cartier will proceed with Lieutenant-Governor Archibald to Niagara Falls next Wednesday to induce His Excellency to go to the North-West via Pembina with Lieutenant-Governor Archibald and Bishop Tach. On their arrival, Riel is to deliver up the Government to them, and the expeditionary troops will be withdrawn. On the next day the same paper had an article which, appearing in the official organ of the Government, was most significant. It concluded in the following words: So far as the expedition is concerned we have no knowledge that there is any intention to recall it, but we would not be in the least surprised if the physical difficulties to be encountered should of itself make its withdrawal a necessity. How much better than incurring any expense in this way would it be for Sir John Young (Lord Lisgar) to pay a visit to the new Province, there to assume the reins of the Government on behalf of the Queen, see it passed over properly to Mr. Archibald, who is so much respected there, and then establish a local force, instead of endeavouring to forward foot and artillery through the almost impassable swamps of the long stretch of country lying between Fort William and Fort Garry. Should the Government entertain such an idea as this and successfully carry it out, the time would be short indeed within which the public would learn to be grateful for the adoption of so wise a policy. This gave us the opportunity to take decisive action. We had already been dreading some such plot which, if successful, would have been disastrous to our hopes of opening up the North-West. If the expedition had been withdrawn, what security would the loyalist leaders have had as to their safety, after the murder of Scott, and the recognition and endorsation of the murderers? It was essential that the expedition should go on. On the first suspicion of difficulty, I had written to Colonel Wolseley and warned him of the danger, and urged him to push on, and not encourage any messages from the rear. Letters were written to officers on the expedition to impede and delay any messengers who might be sent up, and in case the troops were ordered home, the idea was conveyed to the Ontario men to let the regulars go back, but for them to take their boats and provisions and go on at all hazards. Hearing on the 19th that Cartier and Tach were coming through Toronto the next night on their way to Niagara, our committee planned a hostile demonstration and were arranging to burn Cartier's effigy at the station. Something of this leaked out and Lieutenant-Colonel Durie, District Adjutant-General commanding in Toronto, attempted to arrange for a guard of honour to meet Cartier, who was Minister of Militia, in order to protect him. Lt.-Colonel Boxall, of the 10th Royals, who was spoken to on the subject, said he had an engagement for that evening near the station, of a nature that would make it impossible for him to appear in uniform. The information was brought to me. I was at that time out of the force, but I went to Lt.-Colonel Durie, who was the Deputy-Adjutant-General, and told him I had heard of the guard of honour business, and asked him if he thought he could intimidate us and I told him if we heard any more of it, we would take possession of the armoury that night, and that we would have ten men to his one, and if anyone in Toronto wanted to fight it out, we were ready to fight it out on the streets. He told me I was threatening revolution. I said, "Yes, I know I am, and we can make it one. A half continent is at stake, and it is a stake worth fighting for." Lt.-Colonel Durie telegraphed to Sir George Cartier not to come to Toronto by railway, and he and Bishop Tach got off the train at Kingston. Tach went to the Falls by way of the States. Cartier took the steamer for Toronto, arrived at the wharf in the morning, transferred to the Niagara boat, and crossed to the Falls. This secrecy was all we wanted. About the same time another formal protest was prepared and Dr. Lynch presented it to his Excellency the Governor-General:-- _To His Excellency_ SIR JOHN YOUNG, Bart., K.C.B., _&c., &c., Governor-General, &c., &c._ MAY IT PLEASE YOUR EXCELLENCY I have on several occasions had the honour of addressing Your Excellency on behalf of the loyal portion of the inhabitants of the Red River Settlement, and having heard that there is a possibility of the Government favouring the granting of an amnesty for all offences to the rebels of Red River, including Louis Riel, O'Donohue, Lepine and others of their leaders, I feel it to be my duty on behalf of the loyal people of the territory to protest most strongly against an act that would be unjust to them, and at the same time to place on record the reasons which we consider render such clemency not only unfair and cruel, but also injudicious, impolitic, and dangerous. I therefore beg most humbly and respectfully to lay before Your Excellency, on behalf of those whom I represent, the reasons which lead us to protest against the leaders of the rebellion being included in an amnesty and for which we claim that they should be excluded from its effects. (1) A general amnesty would be a serious reflection on the loyal people of the Red River Settlement who throughout this whole affair have shown a true spirit of loyalty and devotion to their Sovereign and to British institutions. Months before Mr. Macdougall left Canada it was announced that he had been appointed Governor. He had resigned his seat in the Cabinet, and had addressed his constituents prior to his departure. The people of the Settlement had read these announcements, and on the publication of his proclamation in the Queen's name with the royal arms at its head, they had every reason to consider that the Queen herself called for their services. Those services were cheerfully given, they were enrolled in the Queen's name to put down a rising that was a rebellion--that was trampling under foot all law and order, and preventing British subjects from entering or passing through British territory. For this they were imprisoned for months; for this they were robbed of all they possessed; and for this, the crime of obeying the call of his Sovereign, one true-hearted loyal Canadian was cruelly and foully murdered. An amnesty to the perpetrators of these outrages by our Government we hold to be a serious reflection on the conduct of the loyal inhabitants and a condemnation of their loyalty. (2) It is an encouragement of rebellion. Riel was guilty of treason. When he refused permission to Mr. Macdougall, a British subject, to enter a British territory, and drove him away by force of arms, he set law at defiance and committed an open act of rebellion. He also knew that Mr. Macdougall had been nominated Governor, knew that he had resigned his seat in the Cabinet, knew he had bid farewell to his constituents; yet he drove him out by force of arms, and when the Queen's proclamation was issued--for all he knew by the Queen's authority--he tore it up, scattered the type used in printing it, defied it, and imprisoned, robbed and murdered those whose only crime in his eyes was that they had obeyed it. It may be said that Riel knew that Mr. Macdougall had no authority to issue a proclamation in the Queen's name; a statement of this kind would lead to the inference that it was the result of secret information and of a conspiracy among some in high positions. This had sometimes been suspected by many, but hitherto has never been believed. An amnesty to Riel and other leaders would be an endorsation of their acts of treason, robbery, and murder, and therefore an encouragement to rebellion. (3) An amnesty is injudicious, impolitic and dangerous, if it includes the leaders. Some of those who have been robbed and imprisoned, who have seen their comrade and fellow prisoner led out and butchered in cold blood, seeing the law powerless to protect the innocent and punish the guilty, might in that wild spirit of justice, called vengeance, take the life of Riel or some other of the leaders. Should this unfortunately happen the attempt by means of law to punish the avenger would be attended with serious difficulty, and would not receive the support of the loyal people of the Territory, of the Canadian emigrants who will be pouring in, or of the people of the older Provinces. Trouble would arise and further disturbance break out in the Settlement. It would be argued with much force that Riel had murdered a loyal man for no crime but his loyalty and that he was pardoned, and that when a loyal man taking the law into his own hands executed a rebel and a murderer in vengeance for a murder, he would be still more entitled to a pardon, and the result would be that the law could not be carried out. When the enforcement of the law would be an outrage to the sense of justice of the community, the law would be treated with contempt. A full amnesty will produce this result, and bitter feuds and a legacy of internal dissension entailed upon that country for years to come. (4) It will destroy all confidence in the administration of law and maintenance of order. There could be no feeling of security for life, liberty, or property in a country where treason, murder, robbery and other crimes had been openly perpetrated, and afterwards condoned and pardoned sweepingly by the higher authorities. (5) The proceedings of the insurgent leaders, previous to the attempt of Mr. Macdougall to enter the Territory, as well as afterwards, led many to suspect that Riel and his associates were in collusion with certain persons holding high official positions. Although suspected, it could not be believed. An amnesty granted now, including everyone, would confirm these suspicions, preclude the possibility of dissipating them, and leave a lasting distrust in the honour and good faith of the Canadian Government. In respectfully submitting these arguments for Your Excellency's most favourable consideration, I wish Your Excellency to understand that it is not the object of this protest to stand in the way of an amnesty to the great mass of the rebels, but to provide against the pardon of the ringleaders, those designing men who have inaugurated and kept alive the difficulties and disturbances in the Red River Settlement, and who have led on their innocent dupes from one step to another in the commission of crime by false statements and by appealing to their prejudices and passions. I have the honour to be, Your Excellency's most obe't humble Serv't, JAMES LYNCH. QUEEN'S HOTEL, TORONTO, _29th June_. This was also given to the Press and widely published. The meeting for which, as has been said, a requisition had been prepared, was called for the 22nd July, and in addition to the formal posters issued by the acting Mayor on our requisition, Foster and I had prepared a series of inflammatory placards in big type on large sheets, which were posted on the fences and bill boards all over the city. There were a large number of these placards; some of them read, "Is Manitoba to be reached through British Territory? Then let our volunteers find a road or make one." "Shall French rebels rule our Dominion?" "Orangemen! is Brother Scott forgotten already?" "Shall our Queen's Representative go a thousand miles through a foreign country, to demean himself to a thief and a murderer?" "Will the volunteers accept defeat at the hands of the Minister of Militia?" "Men of Ontario! Shall Scott's blood cry in vain for vengeance?" The public meeting was most enthusiastic, and St. Lawrence Hall was crowded to its utmost limit. The Hon. Wm. Macdougall moved the first resolution in a vigorous and eloquent speech; it was as follows: Resolved, that the proposal to recall at the request of the Rebel Government the military expedition, now on its way to Fort Garry to establish law and order, would be an act of supreme folly, an abdication of authority, destructive of all confidence in the protection afforded to loyal subjects by a constitutional Government--a death-blow to our national honour, and calls for a prompt and indignant condemnation by the people of this Dominion. Mr. Macdougall in supporting this said that: There were many of our own countrymen there who had been ill-treated and robbed of their property, and whose lives had been endangered. Were we to leave these persons--Whites and Indians--without support? Was this the way that our Government was to maintain its respect? How could we expect in that or any other part of the Dominion, that men would expose themselves to loss of property, imperil their lives, or incur any hazard whatever, to support a Government that makes peace with those assailing its authority, and deserts those who have defended it. Ex-Mayor F. H. Medcalf seconded this resolution which was unanimously carried. The second resolution called for the prompt punishment of the rebels. It was moved by James D. Edgar (afterwards Sir James D. Edgar, K.C.M.G.) and seconded by Capt. James Bennett, both members of the Canada First group. The third resolution read: Resolved, in view of the proposed amnesty to Riel and withdrawal of the expedition, this meeting declares: That the Dominion must and shall have the North-West Territory in fact as well as in name, and if our Government, through weakness or treachery, cannot or will not protect our citizens in it, and recalls our Volunteers, it will then become the duty of the people of Ontario to organise a scheme of armed emigration in order that those Canadians who have been driven from their homes may be reinstated, and that, with the many who desire to settle in new fields, they may have a sure guarantee against the repetition of such outrages as have disgraced our country in the past; that the majesty of the law may be vindicated against all criminals, no matter by whom instigated or by whom protected; and that we may never again see the flag of our ancestors trampled in the dust or a foreign emblem flaunting itself in any part of our broad Dominion. In moving this resolution, I said, as reported in the Toronto _Telegraph_: The indignation meeting held three months since has shown the Government the sentiments of Ontario. The expedition has been sent because of these grand and patriotic outbreaks of indignation. Bishop Tach had offered to place the Governor-General in possession of British territory. Was our Governor-General to receive possession of the North-West Territory from him? No! there were young men from Ontario under that splendid officer Colonel Wolseley who would place the Queen's Representative in power in that country in spite of Bishop Tach and without his assistance (loud cheers). We will have that territory in spite of traitors in the Cabinet, and in spite of a rebel Minister of Militia (applause). He had said there were traitors in the Cabinet. Cartier was a traitor in 1837. He was often called a loyal man, but we could buy all their loyalty at the same price of putting our necks under their heels and petting them continually. Why when he was offered only a C.B. his rebel spirit showed out again; he whined, and protested, and threatened and talked of the slight to a million Frenchmen, and the Government yielded to the threat, gave him a baronetcy, patted him on the back, and now he is loyal again for a spell (laughter and cheers). I also pointed out how, if the expedition were recalled, we could, by grants from municipalities, &c., and by public subscription, easily organise a body of armed emigrants who could soon put down the rebels. This resolution was seconded by Mr. Andrew Fleming and carried with enthusiasm. Mr. Kenneth McKenzie, Q.C., afterwards Judge of the County Court, moved, and W. A. Foster seconded, the last resolution: Resolved that it is the duty of our Government to recognise the importance of the obligation cast upon us as a people; to strive in the infancy of our confederation to build up by every possible means a national sentiment such as will give a common end and aim to our actions; to make Canadians feel that they have a country which can avenge those of her sons who suffer and die for her, and to let our fellow Britons know that a Canadian shall not without protest be branded before the world as the only subject whose allegiance brings with it no protection, whose patriotism wins no praise. The result of this meeting, with the comments of the Ontario Press, had their influence, and Sir George Cartier was obliged to change his policy. The Governor-General, it was said, took the ground that the expedition was composed partly of Imperial troops, and was under the command of an Imperial officer, and could not be withdrawn without the consent of the Home Government. Sir George Cartier then planned another scheme by which he hoped to condone the crime which Riel had committed, and protect him and his accomplices from the punishment they deserved. This plan, of course, we knew nothing of at the time, but it was arranged that Mr. Archibald was to follow the Red River expedition over the route they had taken, for the purpose apparently of going to Fort Garry along with the troops. It was also planned that, when Mr. Archibald arrived opposite the north-west angle of the Lake of the Woods, he was to turn aside, and land at the point where the Snow Road (so called after Mr. Snow, the engineer in charge of the work) was to strike the lake, and proceed by land to Fort Garry. Riel was to send men and horses to meet Mr. Archibald at that point, and he was to be brought into Fort Garry under the auspices of the Rebel Government, and take over the control from them before the expedition could arrive. This is all clearly shown by two letters from Bishop Tach to Riel, which were found among Riel's papers in Fort Garry after his hurried flight. They are as follows: _Letter No. 1._--BISHOP TACH _to_ PRESIDENT RIEL. MONSIEUR L. RIEL, PRESIDENT, I had an interview yesterday with the Governor-General at Niagara: he told me the Council could not revoke its settled decision to send Mr. Archibald by way of the British Possessions, and for the best of reasons, which he explained to me, and which I shall communicate to you later. We cannot therefore arrive together, as I had expected. I shall not be alone, because I shall have with me people who come to aid us. Mr. Archibald regrets he cannot come by way of Pembina; he wishes, notwithstanding, to arrive among us, and before the troops. Therefore he will be glad to have a road found for him either by the Point des Chenes or the Lac de Roseaux. I pray you to make enquiry in this respect, in order to obtain the result that we have proposed. It is necessary that he should arrive among and through our people. I am well content with this Mr. Archibald. I have observed that he is really the man that is needed by us. Already he seems to understand the situation and the condition of our dear Red River, and he seems to love our people. Have faith then that the good God has blessed us, notwithstanding our unworthiness. Be not uneasy; time and faith will bring us all we desire, and more, which it is impossible to mention, notwithstanding the expectations of certain Ontarians. We have some sincere, devoted and powerful friends. I think of leaving Montreal on the 8th of August, in which case it is probable I shall arrive towards the 22nd of the same month. The letter which I brought has been sent to England, as well as those which I have written myself, and which I have read to you. The people of Toronto wished to make a demonstration against me, and, in spite of the exaggerated statements of the newspapers, they have never dared to give the number of the persons present (?). Some persons here at Hamilton wished to speak, but the newspapers discouraged their zealous efforts. I am here by chance, and remain, as this is Sunday. Salute for me Mr. O. and others at the Fort. Pray much for me. I do not forget you. Your Bishop, who signs himself your best friend, A. G. DE ST. BONIFACE. _Letter No. 2._--BISHOP TACH _to_ PRESIDENT RIEL. BOURVILLE, _5th August_. M. LE PRSIDENT, I well know how important it is for you to have positive news--I have something good and cheering to tell you. I had already something wherewith to console us when the papers published news dear and precious to all our friends, and they are many. I shall leave on Monday, and with the companions whom I mentioned to Rev. P. Lestang. Governor Archibald leaves at the same time, but by another road. He will arrive before the troops, and I have promised him a good reception if he comes by the Snow Road. Governor McTavish's house will suit him, and we will try to get it for him. Mother salutes you affectionately, as also my uncle. Mlle. Masson and a crowd of others send kind remembrances to your good mother and sisters. Forget not Mr. O. and others at the Fort. We have to congratulate you on the happy result. The _Globe_ and others are furious at it. Let them howl leisurely--they excite but the pity and contempt of some of their friends. Excuse me--it is late, and I am fatigued, and to-morrow I have to do a hard day's work. Yours devotedly, A. G. DE ST. BONIFACE. These letters prove the plot and the object of it. There was also a most compromising letter from Sir George Cartier, which was taken away while Colonel Wolseley was a few minutes out of his room, attending to some urgent business. The suspicion was that it was taken by John H. McTavish, of the Hudson's Bay Company. It is possible that the word that had been sent to keep back any messages from the rear may have delayed and impeded Mr. Archibald's progress, but whether that be so or not the fact remains that Mr. Archibald lost two days trying to find the point where he was to meet Riel's emissaries, and failing to make the junction he was obliged to follow the circuitous route taken by the troops down the Winnipeg River to Lake Winnipeg, and therefore he did not arrive "among and through the people" of Bishop Tach. When he reached Fort Garry the Rebels had been driven out, Colonel Wolseley was established in possession, the British flag had been raised over the Fort, and Colonel Wolseley was able to hand over the government of the country to the Queen's representative without the assistance of Riel or his accomplices. The successful arrival of the expedition, the flight of the rebel leaders, and the confidence that further disorders could not be successfully started, caused numbers of new settlers from Ontario to move into the country, and the progress and development of the whole Territory have since been most remarkable. Looking at the condition of affairs now, it is hard to realise that a little indifference and carelessness thirty-eight years ago might have delayed the opening up of that great country for two or three generations, and it might easily have happened that it would have been absorbed by the United States. CHAPTER V NATIONAL SENTIMENT Sir John A. Macdonald was very ill during this crisis, and was unable to take any part in public affairs, but the action of Sir George Cartier injured the Government, and in the general election of 1872 Sir George himself was beaten by a large majority in Montreal and the Government much weakened. The discovery of the Pacific Scandal followed in the summer of 1873. This gave the public the information that the Government had promised to Sir Hugh Allan and a few capitalists the contract for building the Pacific Railway, in consideration of a large contribution of between $300,000 and $400,000 towards the campaign expenses of the Conservative or Government party in the late election. After a bitter fight over it in the House of Commons, Sir John A. Macdonald, seeing that his Government would be defeated, resigned his position, and Mr. Alexander McKenzie and the Liberals came into power. At the general election which took place in February, 1874, Mr. McKenzie secured a large majority in the House of Commons. During the stirring times in the summer of 1870, while the expedition was on its way to Fort Garry, our committee were constantly meeting to discuss matters and often met in my office. At one meeting it was suggested that we should have a name for our party--the committee had for some time been called jocularly the "Twelve Apostles." Several names were mentioned, and someone said that Edgar had made a suggestion. I walked across the hall into Edgar's office, and asked him what he had suggested. He seemed to have forgotten the exact words, but said, "Canada before all, or Canada First of all." I said, "That will do: Canada First," and went back to my room and proposed it to the others, and after some discussion it was unanimously decided that we should call ourselves the "Canada First" Party, meaning that we should put Canada first, before every other consideration. To keep our party free from politics, and to cover our work, we decided to have an organisation, called the North-West Emigration Aid Society, which we could use to give out statements to the public, and to arrange for meetings, &c., to push on our work. In the autumn of 1870, following the lead given by Haliburton in his lectures, I prepared a lecture on "The Duty of Canadians to Canada," and in 1871 I delivered it at Weston, Belleville, Orillia, Bradford, New Market, Strathroy, Richmond Hill, London, Toronto, Brampton, Halifax (Nova Scotia), Niagara, Wellandport, Dunnville, Chippawa, and in 1872 at Niagara again. This lecture was a direct appeal in favour of a Canadian National Spirit. It began by showing that the history of the world was the chronicle of the rise and fall of great nations and empires, of the wars and invasions in which the lust of conquest on the part of rising Powers, and the expiring struggles of waning empires, had been left to the arbitrament of the sword, the nations rising and falling with the changeability of a kaleidoscope. I pointed out that all the great nations possessed a strong national spirit, and lost their position and power as soon as that spirit left them, and urged all Canadians to think first of their country--to put it before party or personal considerations--pointing out that this sentiment, in all dominant races, exhibited itself in the same way, in the patriotic feeling in the individual, causing him to put the interest of the country above all selfish considerations, and "to be willing to undergo hardships, privations, and want, and to risk life and even to lay down life on behalf of the State." After showing a number of ways in which Canadians in ordinary life could help Canada, I went on to say: If our young men habituate themselves to thinking of the country and its interests in everyday life, it will become in time part of their nature, and when great trials come upon us, the individual citizens will more readily be inclined to make the greatest sacrifices for the State. Haliburton, in his lecture on "The Men of the North," made use of a paragraph which I quoted. It shows the spirit which animated the Canada First Party: Whenever we lower those we love into the grave, we entrust them to the bosom of our country as sacred pledges that the soil that is thus consecrated by their dust shall never be violated by a foreign flag or the foot of a foe, and whenever the voice of disloyalty whispers in our ear, or passing discontent tempts us to forget those who are to come after us, or those who have gone before us, the leal, the true, and the good, who cleared our forests, and made the land they loved a heritage of plenty and peace to us and to our children, a stern voice comes echoing on through thirty centuries; a voice from the old sleepers of the pyramids; a voice from a mighty nation of the past that long ages has slumbered on the banks of the Nile: "Accursed be he who holds not the ashes of his fathers sacred, and forgets what is due from the living to the dead." I urged a confidence in our future as another great necessity: We have everything in a material point of view to make Canada a great country--unlimited territory fertile and rich, an increasing hardy and intelligent population, immense fisheries, minerals of every description, ships and sailors; all we further require is a moral power, pride in our country and confidence in its future, confidence in ourselves and in each other. It has been sometimes said by those who knew little of the aspirations of our party that there was a feeling in favour of independence among us. The extract quoted from Haliburton's lecture shows how true he was to the cause of a United Empire. I shall quote the concluding paragraphs of my lecture, which are very definite upon the point: It must not be supposed that the growth of a national sentiment will have any tendency to weaken the connection between this country and Great Britain. On the other hand, it will strengthen and confirm the bond of union. Unfortunately England has reached that phase when her manufacturing and commercial community have attained such wealth and affluence, have become so wrapped up in the success of their business, and have acquired such a pounds, shillings, and pence basis in considering everything, that national sentiment is much weakened, in fact sentiment of any kind is sneered at and scoffed at as being behind the age. This school of politicians, fearing the expense of maintaining a war to defend Canada, calculating that in a monetary point of view we are not a source of revenue to them, speak slightingly of us, and treat the sentiment of affection that we bear to the Mother land with contempt. Nothing could be more irritating to a high-spirited people. We have the gratifying reflection, however, that the more we rise in the scale of nations, the more will this class desire to keep us, until at length every effort will be made to retain our affection and secure our fealty. It is our duty therefore to push our way onwards and upwards, to show England that soon the benefits of the connection in a material as well as a moral point of view will be all in her favour. I hope the day will come when the British Empire will be united into one great power or confederation of great nations, a confederation for the purpose of consolidating power as to foreign countries, and on all international questions; and rest assured, if we Canadians are only true to ourselves, the day will come when Canada will be not only the largest, but the most populous, the most warlike, and the most powerful of all the members of that confederation, if not the most powerful nation in the world. I delivered this lecture, with a few slight changes, in Halifax, Nova Scotia, on the 29th April, 1871, and the feeling then in that Province against Canada and the name Canadian was so strong, that I changed the title to that of "The Duty of our Young Men to the State." Haliburton was then living in Halifax, and he had interested the late Principal George M. Grant, of Queen's University, in our movement. Grant was then a young minister in charge of a Presbyterian Church in Halifax. He took an active part in getting up the meeting, which was largely attended, and my lecture was favourably received. That was my first meeting with Grant, and afterwards we were often closely associated in the movement in favour of Imperial Unity, and were warm friends as long as he lived. I shall often have to refer to him in the following pages. Mair had been doing good work, delivering a splendid lecture in Belleville in 1870. Haliburton had been delivering his lectures, and I mine; but I felt that Foster, who had done such splendid work in the editorial columns of the _Telegraph_, should also prepare a lecture. I kept urging him until at last he began to write one. He used to bring two or three pages at a time down and read them to me in my office. By this time we had got thirty or forty members together and had formed, as I have said, the North-West Emigration Aid Society, of which Joseph Macdougall, son of the Hon. Wm. Macdougall, was secretary. The Hon. Wm. Macdougall was then one of our members. On one occasion, when the Society had issued a paper for publication, Mr. Macdougall had induced his son to put in additional matter that had not come before the Society. This did not please Foster, who asked six members of the Society to sign a requisition calling a general meeting to consider the matter. It was then decided that any publications issued by the Society were to be brought before them first for approval. It was not many weeks after this incident that Foster brought in the concluding pages of his lecture and read them to me. I do not believe any of the others knew anything about it. When he had read it all to me, I said to him, "What are you going to call it?" He said, "I think our motto, 'Canada First.'" I thought that a good idea, and he wrote "Canada First" at the head of it. I then asked him where he was going to deliver it. He was a very shy fellow and he replied, "I am not going to deliver it." I said, "Oh yes, you must. We will call a meeting." I knew we could get up a large public meeting, and I wanted him to agree to read it, but he positively refused. I then said, "You can read it here before our Society, and then we can have it published in the papers"; and I wrote on the top of it in pencil the words "Delivered before the North-West Emigration Aid Society by Mr. W. A. Foster," and I showed it to him and said, "That will look very well, and I am sure Mr. Brown will publish it." Foster hesitated, but at last said, "Will you go and show it to Mr. Brown, and ask him, if I read it before the Society, whether he will publish it?" I agreed to do this. I went to see the Hon. George Brown and explained the matter thoroughly, and told him we were to get the MS. back, and have it read before our Society, and then it would be given to him to be published. Whether Mr. Brown forgot, or whether he thought he had some good matter for his paper and wished to publish it before any other paper got wind of it or not, or whether he thought the chronological order of events was a matter of no moment, I cannot say. The result was, however, that the second or third morning after, Foster came into my office early, in a great state of excitement, and told me that the lecture was published in full in the _Globe_ that morning, and that it had copied in large type the pencil memo, which I had written at the top, "Delivered before the North-West Emigration Aid Society by Mr. W. A. Foster." Foster was very much troubled about it after his action about Macdougall, but our friends were so pleased with it that no one complained. This lecture was soon after published in pamphlet form and had a very wide circulation throughout Canada. It was printed in the Memorial Volume to W. A. Foster which was published soon after his death. CHAPTER VI ABORTIVE POLITICAL MOVEMENT Shortly after these events some of our committee were anxious to make a forward movement, to organise a political party to carry out our views, and to start openly a propaganda to advocate them. I opposed this strenuously, saying that the instant we did so the newspapers on both sides of politics would attack us, and that they would have something tangible to attack. The late Daniel Spry urged me very strongly that we should come out openly. I opposed the idea and refused to take any part in it, fearing that it would at the time injure the influence we were beginning to exert. Foster and I discussed the matter at great length, and my suggestion was that we should go on as we had been going, and that if we ever wished to hold public meetings Dr. Canniff, one of the "Twelve Apostles," and the oldest of them, the author of "The Early Settlement of Upper Canada," would always make an excellent chairman, and not being a party man would not arouse hostility. I said, "If we organise a party and appoint a particular man to lead, we shall be responsible for everything he says," and repeated that the party Press would attack him bitterly and injure the cause, which was all we cared for. Foster supported my views, and during 1872 and 1873 we kept quiet, watching for any good opportunities of doing service to the country. In the general election of 1872 I was requested by the Hon. George Brown and Alexander McKenzie to go up to Algoma, and either get some candidate to run or run myself in the Reform interest against Lt.-Col. Fred C. Cumberland, the sitting member for the House of Commons. I arrived at Bruce Mines on the same steamer with Col. Cumberland, and he called a meeting of the electors the same evening and asked me to attend. I did not know anyone in the place, but Mr. Brown had given me a letter to Mr. Peter Nicholson, which I presented to him and told him I was going to the meeting. He urged me not to go, but I insisted. He then said he would get a few friends, so that I would not be alone. Col. Cumberland spoke for about an hour, and then called upon me to speak, he well knowing I had come up to work against him. I asked him to introduce me to the meeting, as I did not know anyone; this he did in a very satirical manner. I then spoke for an hour, and attacked the Government very vehemently for their Red River policy and on other points. Very soon the whole meeting was with me, and after it was over the people nearly all came over to Mr. Nicholson's store and insisted that I should contest the constituency, and, finding I could not get anyone else to run, I consented. Col. Cumberland withdrew the next day from the contest, and the Hon. John B. Robinson was brought out in his place. After a hard struggle I was defeated by a majority of eighty votes. I fully expected to be beaten; in fact, I was surprised the majority was not much greater. There was a very large amount of money spent against me; so large that there was an inquiry in the House afterwards, and something like $6,000, spent by the Northern Railway Company against me, was, I believe, refunded to the company by the directors or the Conservative party. This was my only attempt to enter Parliament. In November, 1873, I left for England and did not return until the 2nd February, 1874. Shortly after leaving an election came on, and the late Chief Justice Thomas Moss was contesting West Toronto for the House of Commons. Foster thought it would be good policy, as Moss was sympathetic with our views, to organise the "Canada First" party as a political organisation and as such to support Moss. He at once took steps to organise it, and with the old organisation and a large number of others the National Association was established. This was on the 6th January, 1874. Of our old group there were W. A. Foster, Dr. Canniff, Hugh Scott, Joseph E. Macdougall, C. E. English, G. M. Rae, Richard Grahame, James R. Roaf, Thomas Walmsley, George R. Kingsmill; and besides these a number of new associates--W. H. Howland, R. W. Elliott, J. M. Trout, Wm. Badenach, W. G. McWilliams, James Michie, Nicol Kingsmill, Hugh Blain, Jos. A. Donovan, W. B. McMurrich, G. W. Badgerow, C. W. R. Biggar, W. H. Fraser, J. G. Ridout, W. E. Cornell, W. G. Mutton, C. W. Dedrickson, J. Crickmore, Wm. Hessin, J. Ritchie, Jr., R. G. Trotter, A. S. Irving, A. Howell, R. H. Gray, and Dr. Roseburgh. Foster did most of the work, and I have no doubt drafted the constitution and the platform. He remembered what I had said, and provided that the movement should be guided by an Executive Committee of twelve, without any president or vice-president. The platform was adopted as follows: (1) British Connection, Consolidation of the Empire, and in the meantime a voice in treaties affecting Canada. (2) Closer trade relations with the British West India Islands, with a view to ultimate political connection. (3) Income Franchise. (4) The Ballot, with the addition of compulsory voting. (5) A Scheme for the Representation of Minorities. (6) Encouragement of Immigration, and Free Homesteads in the Public Domain. (7) The imposition of duties for Revenue, so adjusted as to afford every possible encouragement to Native Industry. (8) An improved Militia System, under the command of trained Dominion Officers. (9) No Property Qualifications in Members of the House of Commons. (10) The Reorganisation of the Senate. (11) Pure and Economic Administration of Public Affairs. It will be noticed that the very first plank in the platform was "British Connection, Consolidation of the Empire, and in the meantime a voice in treaties affecting Canada." This certainly was not favouring either Independence or Annexation, and of the other ten items nearly every point has since been carried into practice. At the first public meeting, held on 6th December, 1873, Mr. W. H. Howland was in the chair. He knew very little of our objects or aspirations. He was the son of Sir Wm. P. Howland, who had been a citizen of the United States, and had only settled in Canada some fourteen years before W. H. Howland was born. Sir Wm. Howland was a most useful and patriotic citizen, and during a very long life did great service to Canada in various capacities, but neither he nor his son had the inherited traditions of loyalty to the Empire which animated the older Canadians, and the result was that at this first meeting the chairman's remarks struck a discordant note in the minds of the majority of the members of the National Association. "He held that there was too much toadyism to English aristocratic usages in this country. There was too much toadyism to titles. We would have no aristocracy in this country but the aristocracy of merit, no order but the order of merit, and the sooner the English Government recognised the fact that the adornment of a man in this country with the feelings they entertained was rather an insult than an honour to our people, the sooner would they appreciate our real sentiment. Many Canadians who had gone home had, he held, brought us into contempt by their toadying." The result of this speech was most unfortunate. I believe he did not speak for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, but in that time he had practically killed the movement as a political organisation. The committee were dissatisfied and disheartened; the political Press seized at once on the weak points, and attacked the organisation for advocating Independence, and charged it with being disloyal in its objects. Mr. Goldwin Smith then joined it and hoped to use it for the purpose of advocating the disruption of the tie which bound Canada to the Empire. The National Club was founded by this organisation at this time. I returned to Canada shortly after the movement had been launched and was at once appealed to by my old comrades to join and help to redeem the party from the taint of Independence which it had acquired through the unfortunate speech of W. H. Howland in introducing it to public notice. I declined positively, telling them that it was too late, and it would have to die a natural death. As a political party it lost strength and soon died, its demise being hastened by the fact that it gave encouragement to a few young men to come out openly in favour of Canadian Independence, supported as they were by the great social and literary status of Mr. Goldwin Smith, who has always been willing to assist any movement likely to injure the unity of the British Empire. CHAPTER VII THE INDEPENDENCE FLURRY The National Club soon ceased to be a political club and the National Association gradually disappeared from public view. I joined it about a year after its foundation, and was President of it in the years 1883 and 1884, and during the existence of the Club it has been the centre of the sentiment "Canada First within the Empire," which has been the dominant sentiment of the Canadian people for the last twenty years. Mr. Goldwin Smith in the early years of the Club inaugurated a series of dinners among the members where fifteen or twenty of us would dine together and then discuss some public question of interest. These dinners were popular, and Foster and I were generally present. On one occasion Mr. Goldwin Smith gave out as the subject for discussion the question as to whether "Annexation or Independence would be the best future for Canada." Mr. Smith was in the chair at one end of the long table, at which about twenty or perhaps more were seated, and he opened the discussion by pointing out some arguments for and against each alternative, leaving it for the members to discuss as to which would be the best. I was in the vice-chair at the other end of the table, and the speaking began on one side of Mr. Smith, and came down that side of the table one after the other to me. I was struck with the bad effect such a discussion would have, in encouraging Canadians to argue in favour of either Independence or Annexation, and when it came to my turn I simply said that I could not argue in favour of either Independence or Annexation, that I was vehemently opposed to both, and that if ever the time came that either should have to be seriously discussed, I would only argue it in one way, and that was on horseback with my sword. As I then commanded the cavalry in Toronto and had sworn to bear true allegiance to her Majesty, it was the natural way for me to put it. I sat down the moment I had made this statement and the discussion went on. My remarks were received as if I had spoken jocularly, but I think many of those present sympathised with my way of looking at it. Mr. Goldwin Smith saw that I had punctured the scheme, and referred to my remarks in the next issue of his _Bystander_ for October, 1880, in the following terms, which are in his best style: In Canada we have some curious remnants of the idea, dominant everywhere in days gone by, and still dominant in Islam, that intolerance on certain questions is a duty and virtue. The good St. Louis of France used to say that he would never argue with a heretic who doubted Papal doctrine, but give him six inches of cold steel; and we have lately been told that among ourselves there are questions which are to be debated only sword in hand. There are some special factors in our political composition, such as United Empire Loyalism, Orangeism, and the surviving sentiment of Anglican Establishmentarianism, which may explain the phenomenon without disparagement to our intellectual civilisation. In a speech at a dinner of my regiment not long after, I spoke clearly to them on the subject--and on the same lines. My views were received with great enthusiasm. For several years matters progressed slowly, a few young men advocating Independence, among whom were E. E. Sheppard and Charles G. D. Roberts. Mr. Norris and others were writing on the same line. Sheppard, who then edited the _Evening News_ in Toronto, was the ablest of these advocates, and carried on his campaign with great vigour and ability. He designed a new flag and hoisted it over the _News_ office. In 1884 the Independence agitation was probably more in evidence than at any period before or since. That year was the centennial of the arrival of the United Empire Loyalists in Upper Canada, and it was decided to hold a series of celebrations at Adolphustown, Toronto, and Niagara in commemoration of the foundation of the Province. 1884 was also the 50th Anniversary of the establishment of Toronto as a city, and the celebration of the two events was combined in meetings and festivities which lasted several days. On Dominion Day there was a great review of the Active Militia with regiments from various parts of the Province, and one from Montreal. This large force paraded through the principal streets to the Queen's Park, where they were reviewed, and then they marched to the Exhibition Buildings, where the officers and men were entertained at dinner. At the officers' dinner, Mayor Boswell, Lieut.-Governor John B. Robinson, and I made the principal speeches. The Toronto _Mail_ of the 3rd July, 1884, contained the following article: NUTS FOR THE INDEPENDENCE MONKEY. We offer the Cartwright party and their organ the following nuts to crack, taken from the report of the military banquet on Tuesday, to which we referred in our last issue. Mayor Boswell was next honoured. In responding, his Worship referred to the attempt which was being made in some quarters to introduce the question of independence or annexation into Canadian politics. He regretted this very much, but he was certain that no member of the Militia force would ever entertain such a proposal. Lieut.-Colonel G. T. Denison, in proposing the toast of the visiting corps, also referred to the same matter. He said that the Militia of Canada would remain true to its Queen and country. Before independence or annexation could be brought about, he said, "Many of us will have to be placed under the sod." His remarks were received with enthusiastic cheers, again and again renewed. The Lieutenant-Governor, in proposing the toast of Lieut.-Colonel Robert B. Denison, Deputy-Adjutant-General, also touched on the absurdity of the independence or annexation question. He felt satisfied that if it became a political issue, there would not be a constituency in Canada that would return a man in favour of it. The United Empire Loyalist Centennial celebration took place in the Pavilion, Toronto, on the 3rd July--the same day that the above article appeared. It was a very successful meeting, there being representative loyalists from all over Ontario. "Dr. Wm. Canniff was in the chair. The speakers were the Hon. Senator G. W. Allan, Chief Green (a Mohawk Indian, of Tyendinaga), Lieut.-Colonel George T. Denison, and Bishop Fuller, of Niagara." My speech was mainly directed against the Independence movement. I showed how Canadians had always stood by British connection, and went on to say: From whom comes this cry for independence? Not from the real Canadians, but from a few hangers-on of the newspaper Press--a few wanderers and Bohemians--men who have lived indifferently in Canada and the States, and have never been satisfied anywhere--men without an atom of stake in the country. And do you think that the people of Canada are going to submit themselves to the guidance of such men? Never. The Independence party in Canada can almost be counted on one's fingers and toes. The movement did not amount to anything, and the moment it did the real feeling of the country would manifest itself. I was attacked very bitterly by the few Independence papers on account of this speech, and the attacks continued for nearly six weeks. I was invited to address the United Empire Loyalist Centennial celebration at Niagara, which took place on the 14th August, 1884, and then replied to some of the arguments used by them. On the question of national sentiment I said: Sometimes it is said by strangers and aliens amongst us that we Canadians have no national sentiment, that if we were independent we would have more of it, and it is the fashion to speak loudly of the national spirit of the citizens of the United States. I take issue on this point, and on behalf of our people I say that the pride of the native Canadian in his country is quite equal to the pride of the Yankee in his, while the willingness to defend it in case of need is far greater in the Canadian. The strongest national sentiment that has yet been exhibited in the States was shown by the Southern people in their gallant struggle to destroy the Union. The national spirit shown by the Northerners where the bounties rose to about $1,800 a man, where patriotism consisted in hiring a man to go and fight while the citizen took a contract to supply the soldiers, as has been well said by their celebrated divine, Dr. Talmage, "With rice that was worm-eaten, with biscuits that were mouldy, with garments that were shoddy, with meat that was rank, with horses that stumbled in the charge, and with tents that sifted the rain into the faces of the exhausted." The patriotism shown by three thousand Yankee Militia almost in sight of this spot in 1812, when they refused to cross at Queenston to aid their comrades, whom our volunteers shortly afterwards cut to pieces under their eyes, was very different from the patriotism of the Canadians who crossed the river and captured Detroit, or those who fought at Chrysler's Farm, or those who drove back Hampton at Chateauguay. Can we call to mind the Canadians who came back to Canada from every State in the Union to aid in defending her from the Fenians without feeling that we have in our people a strong national sentiment? Wanderers and Bohemians, strangers and tramps may, because we are not traitors to our Government and our country, say that we have no national sentiment; they may not see or feel or appreciate the patriotic feeling of the Canadians, but we Canadians know that it is there. The Militia force is one proof of it, a finger-post to point out to all, that we intend to be a free people on this continent, and that, our liberties can only be taken from us after a desperate struggle. These wanderers and Bohemians, with the charming impudence of the three tailors of Tooley Street, speak of themselves as the people of Canada. It is the fashion of men of their type always to talk loudly of the people, as if they were the people. But who are the people? The people of this country are the farmers who own the soil, who have cleared the fields, who till them, and who produce the food that feeds us. The people of Canada are the workers who work in her factories, who carry on her trade, who sail her ships and spread her commerce, the citizens who build her cities and work in them. These are the people of Canada, not the few agitators who serve no good purpose, and whose absence would be a relief if they went back to the neighbouring Republic from which many of them have drifted in to us. The result of these demonstrations so directly appealing to the sentiments and feelings of the loyal element, which formed the vast majority of the people, discouraged the disloyal element, and for a year matters were rather quiet. In March, 1885, the whole country was aroused over the outbreak of the North-West Rebellion, and troops from all over Canada were sent to aid in putting down the rebellion and re-establishing the Queen's authority. One regiment came from Nova Scotia. The result of the affair was to consolidate the Provinces into a Dominion, in a way that was never felt before. This put the Independence movement quite out of sight, and during 1886, and until May, 1887, matters remained dormant. Particulars of the causes of this outbreak and some of the details of the operations will be found in my "Soldiering in Canada," chapters XX. to XXV. CHAPTER VIII THE O'BRIEN EPISODE In the early part of 1887 the Irish party in Ireland had been endeavouring to secure sympathy and assistance in the United States and Canada, in favour of their demand for Home Rule. There was a very large Irish population in Canada, and through their representatives in our House of Commons and in the local legislatures they pressed for resolutions in favour of the policy of Home Rule. The people of Canada were not generally favourable to the movement, but the politicians on both sides, who were anxious to obtain the Irish vote, did not hesitate to support the Home Rule resolutions; little caring for the interests of the Mother Country or the Empire, so long as their political opponents did not obtain any advantage in the matter. The resolutions were carried with remarkable unanimity. I was much annoyed, and wrote to Lord Salisbury telling him to pay no attention to the addresses of our politicians. I assured him that the silent masses of the Canadian people were on his side on that subject, but unfortunately there was no way in which the silent masses could make their views known. The apparent unanimity of feeling in Canada, as shown by the action of Governments and Parliaments, deceived the Irish Nationalists, and to emphasise their power in Canada, Mr. Wm. O'Brien, M.P., announced that he was going to Canada to drive Lord Lansdowne, our Governor-General, out of Canada, amid the hoots and execrations of the Canadian people. This was because he was an Irish landlord and had evicted some of his tenants. This was cabled across, and a day or two after I met Colonel Gzowski (afterwards Sir Casimir Gzowski) on the street, and he told me that Lord Lansdowne was coming to Toronto in a few days, and as O'Brien was coming out, he thought we in Toronto should see that Lord Lansdowne got a friendly reception. I saw the opportunity at once. I felt the silent masses might have a chance to speak out, and said, "Leave that to me: we will give him a great reception." Among other things it was feared that the few disaffected might resort to violence against the Governor-General. A few days later, on the 26th April, 1887, I attended the St. George's Society Annual Banquet, where I responded to the toast of the Army, Navy, and Volunteers. The presidents of most of the benevolent and patriotic societies of the city were guests at the dinner. The Premier, Sir Oliver Mowat, sat next to me; the Mayor was present also, and a very large number of prominent citizens. I saw what an opening there was to start a movement in favour of the Governor-General, and spoke in short as follows: I was speaking on behalf of the Army, Navy and Volunteers, and drew attention to the fact that a great deal depended upon the Volunteers--that only a few years before we had to turn out, and go to the Niagara frontier to defend our country against an invasion of Fenians from the United States. I said that the Irish of that country had subscribed large sums of money, Irish servant girls giving liberally out of their savings, to provide funds to organise armed forces, to buy rifles and bayonets and swords and ammunition, to be used in attacking a peaceful and inoffensive country in order to devastate our fields, to shoot down our people, and rob us of our property. I pointed out that I and my command had been sent to Fort Erie, and that some of my comrades in the Queen's Own and other Volunteer corps had been shot down, and many wounded, before we drove the enemy out of the country. I thanked them for proposing the toast of the "Volunteers," but went on to say, there was one thing, however, that was very annoying and humiliating to us. The Fenians, having failed to defeat us, were still carrying on their campaign against our Empire. Money was being collected as usual in the United States in large quantities, but instead of being used in the purchase of arms and munitions of war, it was being expended in sending traitors into the British House of Commons, and in maintaining them there to destroy the Union, and make the first rift in our Empire. "Fancy, gentlemen, the feelings of those of us who went to the front, who risked our lives, who had our comrades killed in opposing these men, when we see our politicians in our Houses of Parliament, for wretched party purposes, clasping hands with the enemies of our Empire, and passing resolutions of sympathy and support to them in their efforts to injure our nation. These resolutions are an insult to our Volunteers, and a shame and disgrace to our country," and I sat down. This was received with uproarious applause. The people jumped to their feet and cheered and waved their table napkins, many even got upon their chairs, and shouted themselves hoarse. Sir Oliver Mowat (then Mr. Mowat), who had supported one of these resolutions in the local House shortly before, and was Premier, said to me when the cheering subsided and I could hear him, "That was a very powerful speech you made." I replied, "Do you think so?" He said, "It was a very strong speech." I answered, "Was it? I tried so hard to be moderate." He laughed and said, "You did, did you?" He never had any more such resolutions in his House. When the dinner was over and the guests were leaving, I stood near the door and was surrounded by men approving of my speech. I picked out the men I wanted--the Mayor, the presidents of societies, colonels of regiments, &c.--and asked them to wait as I wished to speak to them. When the group had gathered I said to them, "I did not speak as I did for nothing. Lord Lansdowne is coming here very soon. Wm. O'Brien is coming from Ireland to drive him out of Canada. We must arrange for such a reception to Lord Lansdowne as no Governor-General ever had in Toronto, and I want you all to agree to serve on a committee to organise it; and I hope the Mayor will take the chair, and send out notices for the meeting." All at once agreed heartily. When the meeting was held to arrange the plan for the reception, a number of those present wished a great procession to be organised of societies and the city regiments in uniform, &c. I knew that the object of the Irish Nationalists was to create the belief that the people of Canada, with the exception of the official classes, &c., were not on the side of the Governor-General, and that he would have to be guarded by police and soldiers, and insisted that not one man in uniform should be seen--that the people, as the people, should take the matter into their own hands, and escort the Governor-General. It was a most difficult task to carry the committee with me, but I was determinedly persistent and at last carried my point. A small committee was appointed to arrange details, and the reception was organised with the greatest care. The Volunteer regiments were pledged to turn out in plain clothes, with walking-sticks; the societies also agreed to be out, the Orangemen did their part, the lawyers were canvassed to be in the streets, and all were asked to act as private detectives, and watch carefully any attempt to throw stones by any disaffected parties if there were any. The citizens illuminated their houses and shops on the route from North Toronto Station through Yonge and King Streets to Government House. Members of the Toronto Hunt Club, mounted and in plain clothes, formed an escort; but, what was not known to the public, twenty-five picked men of my corps, the Governor-General's Body Guard, in plain clothes, with Lieut.-Colonel Merritt, my adjutant, in charge, rode as members of the Hunt Club, along with them, and guarded the carriage of his Excellency. About four hundred men of the Queen's Own, all in plain clothes, marched along the street alongside the carriage. The Orange body arranged for a torchlight procession with about a thousand torches, and the police were entirely withdrawn from the streets on which the procession marched. I do not believe anyone was ever more carefully guarded, for the people as a mass took it in hand themselves. On the morning of the day on which his Excellency was to arrive, I learned that the General commanding had ordered a guard of honour to meet him at the station. I went at once to the Mayor, and we went together to see the Governor's military secretary, and urged him to ask his Excellency to countermand the order and dispense with the guard. This was done, and no man in uniform was to be seen. The reception was a remarkable success. The streets were filled with most enthusiastic crowds, and no Governor-General ever made such an entry into Toronto. The people took him to Government House, and the whole neighbourhood and the carriage drive were packed with cheering crowds. Lord Lansdowne stood up in his carriage at the door, and made a speech thanking the people, and he must have felt that he was among friends. A few days later a great meeting was held in the Queen's Park, when a number of prominent citizens made speeches condemning Mr. O'Brien's proposed visit to Toronto and resolutions were passed in that sense. The Mayor, on behalf of the citizens, sent a telegram to O'Brien requesting him not to come to Toronto. O'Brien and his people persisted, however, and called a public meeting in the Queen's Park for the 17th May. There was a very large gathering, probably ten or twelve thousand people, and O'Brien and his companion, Mr. Kilbride (one of Lord Lansdowne's evicted tenants), were carefully guarded by the police. The Irish party, who comprised probably one-tenth of the crowd, organised the meeting, and Mr. O'Brien, with several Yankee reporters around him, began to speak. The University students had planned to start singing, and the moment he began, the crowd broke out with "God Save the Queen." Cheers were then called for Lord Lansdowne, Lord Salisbury, Lord Hartington, and Joseph Chamberlain. Then the singing began again; "Rule, Britannia" was sung by the great masses. Again cheers for the four statesmen already mentioned, then alternately "God Save the Queen," cheers, and "Rule, Britannia." No one could hear a word of O'Brien's speech. This went on until he ceased to attempt to speak. Mr. Kilbride then stood up. The students led the crowd in a refrain, "Pay your rint, pay your rint, pay your rint, you thief," and the people shouted this over and over again, and he, unable to be heard, had to cease, and the meeting ended by some local man trying to say a few words. While moving through the crowd studying the temper of the people, I saw two or three incidents which showed me that there was a very dangerous and ugly spirit among the loyalists, and I become anxious lest the mob should get beyond all control. I went to the Chief of Police, who had a large force of policemen and an escort of mounted police, to guard the carriage of the visitors, and told him he would have a difficulty in getting O'Brien away without injury. Being a Police Commissioner, I advised him to get those in charge of the meeting to put up someone to speak as soon as Kilbride finished, and to take O'Brien and Kilbride quietly off the platform to the back, hurry them into the carriage, and drive off before the crowd should discover it. This was done, and they had barely got clear when the crowd, seeing they were going, chased them and endeavoured to stone them. Fortunately they had a start, and driving rapidly escaped without injury. I had told the Chief of Police not to allow O'Brien to go anywhere on the streets without a strong police guard, for, as I told him, "I do not want him hurt for one thing, and, on the other hand, I should be very sorry that the idea should get abroad that he could walk the streets of Toronto (under the circumstances) without protection." The following evening, O'Brien and his party of three or four friends, including one Yankee reporter, started from the hotel in the dusk to walk round a block, and would not wait for the police escort for which the police sergeant was sending. The party had not gone two hundred yards when the crowds began to gather and follow them. They were pelted with stones and eggs, the New York reporter being badly cut by a stone. They escaped with difficulty back to the hotel. In Hamilton, Kingston, and other places O'Brien was also mobbed and chased and was obliged to hide. He then left the country, while Lord Lansdowne, who remained, received a few days later a remarkable ovation on his return to Ottawa. I left for England the day after O'Brien's meeting (on my vacation) and a day or two after my arrival in London I was dining at Lord Salisbury's, where I met Mr. Balfour, then Chief Secretary for Ireland. They were interested in hearing the particulars. I told Lord Salisbury that the "silent masses" had spoken out, and with no uncertain sound. Both he and Mr. Balfour said that O'Brien's reception in Canada had helped the passage of the Coercion Bill through the House of Commons, for it proved that the statement of the Nationalists that every country in the world was on their side was not quite accurate. CHAPTER IX THE IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE In 1884 a movement was begun in England, and the Imperial Federation League was formed, for the purpose of securing the Federation of the whole Empire, on somewhat the same lines as the Confederation of Canada. The Right Hon. W. E. Forster was the moving spirit, and the first President of the organisation. The objects of the League are clearly laid down in the following resolutions defining its nature and objects, which were passed at an adjourned conference held in London on the 18th November, 1884: That a Society be now formed to be called "The Imperial Federation League." That the object of the League be to secure by Federation the permanent Unity of the Empire. That no scheme of Federation should interfere with the existing rights of local Parliaments as regards local affairs. That any scheme of Imperial Federation should combine, on an equitable basis, the resources of the Empire for the maintenance of common interests and adequately provide for an organised defence of common rights. That the League use every constitutional means to bring about the object for which it is formed and invite the support of men of all political parties. That the membership of the League be open to any British subject who accepts the principles of the League, and pays a yearly registration fee of not less than one shilling. That donations and subscriptions be invited for providing means for conducting the business of the League. That British subjects throughout the Empire be invited to become members, and to form and organise Branches of the League which may place their representatives on the General Committee. It will be seen that the main object of this League was to secure by Federation the permanent Unity of the Empire. The existing rights of local Parliaments as to local affairs were to be preserved, but the resources of the Empire were to be combined to maintain common interests, and to provide for an organised defence of common rights. That was the whole scheme in a nutshell, to form a Federated Parliament, which would not interfere with local affairs, but would have power to use the resources of the Empire for common defence. No other object was given to the public. It was really formed to secure colonial contributions to Imperial Defence. The Imperial Federation League in Canada was inaugurated at a meeting held in Montreal under the leadership of the late Mr. D'Alton McCarthy, M.P., on the 9th day of May, 1885. A large number of prominent men were present, and speeches were made by Jehu Matthews, Benjamin Allen, M.P., D'Alton McCarthy, Senator Plumb, G. R. R. Cockburn, Edgar Baker, M.P., Hector Cameron, M.P., A. W. Ross, M.P., Hugh McLennan, Senator Macfarlane, Alexander McNeill, M.P., Dr. Potts, Hon. George E. Foster, M.P., and Principal G. M. Grant. The first branch of the Canadian League was organised at the small town of Ingersoll in Ontario in May, 1886, principally through the exertions of Mr. J. Castell Hopkins, then a young man twenty-two years of age, and a junior clerk in the agency of the Imperial Bank of that place. Mr. M. Walsh was elected President, and Mr. Hopkins Secretary. Mr. Hopkins has ever since been an active and industrious supporter of the movement. An influential branch was inaugurated in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in December, 1886, of which his Grace Archbishop O'Brien was one of the foremost members. The next branch was established at Peterborough on the 28th April, 1887, mainly through the exertions of Mr. J. M. Long. A small branch was also started in Victoria, but in 1888 had not been affiliated to the Canadian organisation. In 1886, Lt.-Colonel Wm. Hamilton Merritt, one of the officers of my regiment, came to me and endeavoured to enlist my sympathies in the new movement. I discussed the whole subject fully with him. He had hoped to get me to accept the presidency of the branch to be formed in Toronto. I refused to take any part in the matter, feeling that Canada was getting along very well, but that she had only just expended nearly $150,000,000 in the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway, and that she required some years of steady development before she could undertake any further expenditures on a large scale for Imperial defence, for I saw this was the main object of the League in England. I did not think the time had come, nor the necessity, for pressing this point, and that public opinion would not be in favour of any such movement. It will be seen that Imperial Federation made very little progress for the first two or three years. In 1885, 1886, and 1887, only three branches, and, with the exception of Halifax, very small and uninfluential ones, had been established in all Canada. There was no branch in Toronto, the most Imperialistic and most loyal of all the cities of Canada, and up to the fall of 1887 the movement had made but little headway. In the year 1887, however, a movement arose which changed the whole features of the case, which altered all the conditions, and made it necessary for all loyal men in Canada to consider seriously the future of their country. This movement, known as Commercial Union will be dealt with in the next chapter. CHAPTER X COMMERCIAL UNION The Canadian Pacific Railway was completed at the end of 1885, and it began to prove a competitor with the railways in the United States for the through traffic across the continent. This competition affected the great financial interests of New York, for the United States railroads were subject to regulations as to the long and the short haul, while the Canadian Pacific Railway was free from them, and thereby had a very great advantage in the struggle for business. This direct present pecuniary interest, added to the belief that Canada was likely to prove a much greater factor on this continent than had ever been anticipated by the people of the United States, was the cause of the inception of the Commercial Union Movement, which attracted so much attention at the time, and has had such far-reaching influence on the affairs of the British Empire ever since. The originator of this movement, Erastus Wiman of New York, was born at Churchville, near Toronto, and was educated and lived in Toronto for a number of years in his early life. He was connected with the Press and for a time kept a small book shop on King Street. He served a year in the Toronto City Council. He became Toronto manager of R. G. Dun and Company's Commercial Agency in 1860, and afterwards went to New York and became manager of it there, and a member of the firm. He was also president of the Great North Western Telegraph Company, which controlled almost all the telegraph lines in Canada. He had not taken the oath of allegiance to the United States, and he was suited in every way to lead the insidious scheme which was started under the name of Commercial Union, but was intended to bring about peacefully the annexation of Canada to the United States. The movement was planned and launched with remarkable skill. Mr. Wiman, who was posing as a true-hearted Canadian, was, I believe, working for great financial interests in the States, headed by Jay Gould. Of course, of this there is no proof, but only the deduction that can be drawn from a close study of all the information that can be had. The first step was to establish the Canadian Club of New York, to be a home for welcoming Canadians visiting that city. The next was still more ingenious. A number of the most prominent Canadians, principally literary men, orators, &c., were invited to New York as guests of the Club, to address the members. These visitors were treated with the warmest hospitality, and no indication given that Mr. Wiman had any ulterior motives. About the same time, in 1886, Mr. Wiman gave some public baths to the citizens of Toronto, at a cost of about $6,000, as a proof of his warm feeling towards the city in which his early life had been spent. After all this preparation he came to Canada in the spring of 1887, and aided by Goldwin Smith, Valancy Fuller, Henry W. Darling, President of the Toronto Board of Trade, and a few others, he proposed in the interests of Canada a scheme of Commercial Union between Canada and the United States which he claimed would be a great boon and lasting advantage to Canada. During the whole summer of 1887 an active campaign was being conducted, meetings were held in many places, and addressed by Mr. Goldwin Smith, Mr. Wiman, Congressman Butterworth, of Ohio, and others. The members of the Canadian Parliament were furnished with circulars, articles, and reports of speeches in profusion. Mr. Wiman, as a member of the firm of Dun, Wiman and Company, had an influence over the business men of Canada that could hardly be overestimated. It would have been a serious thing for any ordinary business man in any city, town, or village in Canada, if dependent upon his credit for the profitable conduct of his business, to incur the hostility of the mercantile agency, on whose reports his credit would largely depend. The result was that at first the plausible speeches of its advocates, and the friendly assistance of some newspapers, caused the movement to acquire a considerable amount of success. It was not thoroughly understood. It had been inaugurated as in the direct interest of Canada by a friendly and successful Canadian, and was being discussed in a friendly way, and many good men at first supported the idea, not suspecting any evil, and not fearing that it might result in annexation. I was away on a visit to England from the 19th May until the 21st August, 1887, and heard very little of what was going on, and not enough to understand the details or real facts of the scheme. After my return to Canada I asked my brother, the late Lt.-Colonel Fred C. Denison, then a member of the House of Commons for West Toronto, what it all meant. He was not at all favourably impressed. He had been supplied with copies of the literature that was distributed, and I read it over, and we discussed the question very fully during some weeks. We both agreed that it was a very dangerous movement, likely to bring about the annexation of Canada to the United States, and designed for that purpose by its originators, and we considered very carefully how it could be met and defeated. I felt that, in view of the way in which it was being taken up at the time by the people, it would be hopeless to attack the scheme and endeavour to check its movement by standing in front of it and fighting it. I was afraid we might be overrun and probably beaten. I felt that the only way to defeat it was to get in front, and lead the movement in another direction. My brother agreed with me in this, and we decided to take a course of action based on those lines. CHAPTER XI IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE IN CANADA The progress the Commercial Union movement was making, and the great danger arising from it, led my brother and me to discuss it with a number of loyal men, and on all sides the opinion seemed to be that active steps should be taken at once to work against it. The principal active workers at first were officers of my regiment and a few other personal friends, and small meetings were held in my brother's office to discuss the matter, and it was decided that the best policy was to advocate a Commercial Union of the British Empire as the alternative to the proposition of a Commercial Union with the United States, and that a scheme of Imperial Federation based upon a Commercial Union of the various parts of the Empire would be the best method of advocating our views. By advocating Imperial Federation it enabled us to appeal to the old dream of the United Empire Loyalists of the Revolution. It gave the opportunity of appealing to our history, to the sacrifices of our fathers, to all the traditions of race, and the ties of blood and kindred, to the sacrifices and the victories of the war of 1812, and to the national spirit of our people, to preserve our status as a part of the British Empire. G. R. R. Cockburn, J. M. Clark, D'Alton McCarthy, John Beverley Robinson, Wm. Hamilton Merritt, Lt.-Colonel Fred C. Denison, Casimir Dickson, Commander Law, John T. Small, D. R. Wilkie, John A. Worrell, Henry Wickham, and James L. Hughes were the moving spirits in organising the Toronto Branch of the Imperial Federation League, and it was accomplished during the last two or three months of 1887 and the beginning of 1888. In October, 1887, Erastus Wiman sent a circular to the Members of the House of Commons, asking them for their views upon his scheme. Lt.-Col. F. C. Denison sent the following reply, and forwarded a copy to the newspapers: TORONTO, 12_th Oct._, 1887. SIR, I have received your circular of Sept. 17th sent to me as a member of the House of Commons, enclosing a copy of a speech delivered by you on Commercial Union and asking an opinion upon it. I must tell you that I am utterly opposed to it, as in my mind Commercial Union simply means annexation, a result to be deplored by every true Canadian, and unlikely to happen without the shedding of a lot of Canadian blood. We are now, despite what the advocates of Commercial Union say, a happy, prosperous, and contented people. I am positive no pecuniary advantage would accrue to Canada from Commercial Union, but even granting all that you say as to the increased prosperity it would bring to us, I would still be opposed to it. We do not in Canada place so high a value upon the "Almighty Dollar" as do the Yankees, and we hope always to be Canadians. Why should we sever our connection with the Mother Country, which has in the past done so much for us, for the sake of throwing in our lot with a people who produce more bank thieves and embezzlers than any other country in the world; who care so little for the sanctity of the marriage tie that one hundred divorces a day have been granted in one city? To do so would be national suicide. No pecuniary advantage can ever outweigh our national life, or our national honour. The appeals made in favour of Commercial Union are all addressed to the pocket, but I have confidence in my fellow countrymen that they will place our national honour and our independence above all pecuniary considerations. A man worthy of the name will not sell his own honour, or his wife's or his daughter's, for money. Such a proposal could not for a moment be considered from a financial standpoint, and no people worthy of the name would ever sacrifice their national honour for material advantages. There is no sentiment that produces such sacrifices as national sentiment, and you gentlemen who advocate Commercial Union, argue as if my countrymen would sell everything dear to them for money. You entirely misunderstand our people. Believe me, Yours truly, FRED C. DENISON. ERASTUS WIMAN, ESQ., _New York, U.S.A._ The late Mrs. S. A. Curzon paraphrased this letter in the following lines, which appeared in the Toronto _World_ of the 18th October, 1887: Well spoken, Denison! a heart beats there Loyal to more than selfish minds can grasp; Not gold our nation's wealth, or lavish ease, Nor sordid aim her rod of destiny. No! Canada hath ends beyond a life Fed by loose license, luxury, and pelf. She hath inherited through noble sires Of ancient blood, and lineage straight and clean, Great riches. A renown unequalled yet; A liberty hard won on many a field; A country wide and large, and fair and full; A loyalty as self-denying as a vow; An honour high as heaven and pure as light; A heroism that bleeds, but blenches not; An industry of muscle true as steel; A self-restraint that binds a world in bonds; An honesty contented with its own. Shall she sell these for gold? "What can gold give Better than she hath?--a nation's life A nation's liberty, a nation's self-respect." Brave words--my Denison--brave words and true! Take thou this tribute from a patriot heart. As thee our legislators ever be; Men whose whole aim is for the nation's weal And for safekeeping of her name intact. On the 30th December, 1887, the Toronto Board of Trade gave a banquet in honour of the Rt. Hon. Joseph Chamberlain. It was a very large and influential gathering. I then fired my first public shot against Commercial Union. Colonel Otter was put down to respond to the toast of the Army, Navy, and Active Militia, but the Chairman in proposing the toast, added my name also, without having given me any intimation whatever that I would be called upon to speak. I quote the report which appeared in the _World_ the next morning of my three minutes' speech: As belonging to the active militia of the country, I am very glad to be here to-night to do honour to so distinguished a statesman as the Rt. Hon. Joseph Chamberlain, because that gentleman, above all gentlemen in the Empire, has shown that he places the interests of a United Empire above all others (applause). There is no part of the British Empire where these words, "United Empire," convey a greater meaning to the hearts of the people than to the people of Canada (applause), and I am certain there is no part of the whole Empire where the Rt. Hon. Mr. Chamberlain is more heartily appreciated than in Toronto, the capital of the Province of Ontario--a Province which owes its origin to the desire on the part of men who, like Mr. Chamberlain, desired a United Empire, and made great sacrifices for it. There is a subject upon which I wish to say a word or two before I sit down, and that is Commercial Union. And in the presence of Mr. Chamberlain I wish to say that the active militia of this country have all been sworn to be faithful, and bear true allegiance to her Majesty, and they intend that Canada shall not be laid at the feet of any foreign country (great applause). I am a Canadian, born in this city, and I hope to live and die a Canadian, to live and die in a country where our people will govern their own affairs, where we will be able to establish our own tariff, and where it will not be fixed and established to suit a foreign people against our Mother Country. I can assure Mr. Chamberlain that when I speak in behalf of the volunteers of the country in this way, I am also voicing the feeling of all the fighting men in this country. My remarks were received with great applause, and created somewhat of a sensation, for it appeared that there had been an understanding that the subject of Commercial Union was not to be referred to, and all the speakers had been warned except myself. I have had a suspicion since that I was called upon suddenly in the belief that I would speak out plainly. The Toronto _World_ commenting on the dinner said: The main result of Mr. Chamberlain's visit to Toronto and the speeches made at the dinner on Friday night must be a heavy blow and a great discouragement to the Commercial Unionists. On Friday afternoon it was stated to the reporters, on good authority, we believe, that the management of the Board of Trade had arranged to exclude the much disputed question of Commercial Union from among the subjects of the speeches. . . . But as Burns wrote-- The best laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft agley. Colonel Denison's remarks so heavily charged with the electricity of British connection, "brought down the house," and after that all other subjects were lame and uninteresting to the company in comparison. Our distinguished visitor soon made it evident that he thought it the question of the day. . . . The event on Friday night, we repeat, must prove the worst blow that the Commercial Unionists have got since they forced their "fad" before the public. After this we fancy there will be a stampede among them to get out from a most unpleasant and ridiculous position. As early as October, 1887, the late Thomas Macfarlane, one of the ablest and most active members of the Imperial Federation League, wrote to the journal of the League in England a strong article pointing out that Commercial Union would mean annexation, and advocating a uniform rate of duty on all foreign imports in every country of the Empire over and above the ordinary tariff in force then. This was Mr. Hoffmeyer's suggestion at the Colonial Conference of 1884, one made mainly as a commercial measure which would encourage trade and give a tie of interest to the various parts of the Empire. Mr. Macfarlane had supported this view from the first. During November and December, 1887, the matter was being considered, and on the 22nd December a preliminary meeting was held in Shaftesbury Hall, and after speeches by D'Alton McCarthy, G. R. R. Cockburn and others, resolutions were passed in favour of forming a Toronto branch, and a number gave in their names for membership. Mr. McNeill's magnificent speech at Paris on the 19th January, 1888, was a most eloquent appeal in favour of Imperial Federation, and was printed and widely circulated in Ontario. He argued strongly in favour of discriminating tariffs around the Empire. On the 1st February the Toronto branch was formally organised, with the Hon. John Beverley Robinson as President, George R. R. Cockburn, M.P., John M. Clark and Col. George T. Denison as Vice-Presidents, and Wm. Hamilton Merritt as Secretary. It was then arranged that the Annual General Meeting of the Imperial Federation League in Canada should be held on the afternoon of the 24th March, 1888, for the transaction of business, and that in the evening there should be a large public meeting to inaugurate the Toronto branch, and to bring it prominently before the public. It will be remembered that with those who took the most active part in the organisation of the Toronto branch the moving idea was to agitate for a commercial union of the Empire. There was nothing in the original constitution of the Imperial Federation League that would justify such a policy being advocated. It was therefore necessary to amend or alter the constitution to that extent. Consequently, at the Annual General Meeting our Secretary, Wm. Hamilton Merritt, moved, and D. R. Wilkie seconded, the following resolution: That the Imperial Federation League in Canada make it one of the objects of their organisation to advocate a trade policy between Great Britain and her Colonies by means of which a discrimination in the exchange of natural and manufactured products will be made in favour of one another, and against foreign nations; and that our friends in Parliament are hereby called upon to move in support of the policy of this resolution at the earliest possible moment. This was unanimously carried. In the evening the public meeting was held at the Association Hall, which was crowded to its limit. Mr. Cockburn was in the chair. I moved the first resolution, which was as follows: Resolved, that this meeting hails with pleasure the establishment of a branch of the Imperial Federation League in this city, and confidently hopes that through its instrumentality the objects of the League may be advanced, and the ties which bind Canada to the Motherland be strengthened and maintained. In moving this resolution I outlined my reasons for advocating the cause, and pointed out the necessity of doing something to counteract the scheme of Commercial Union with the United States, calling on the patriotic sons of Canada in that crisis in the affairs of the country "to rally round the old flag and frustrate the evil designs of traitors." I stated that the Commercial Union movement was designed by traitors, that I wished "to be fair to those who believed that the movement would not destroy the national life and sentiment of Canada," but adhered to the position that the movement originated in treason. "There was no use mincing words in the matter. Commercial Union could only be carried out by severing the ties which bound the Canadian people to the Motherland. Not only that, but it aimed at the destruction of the national life of the country, by subjecting the people to the power and dictation of a foreign country." The report in the _Empire_ went on to say: He desired to draw the attention of the audience to a few facts in the history of the continent. Canada was a country with a comparatively small population, but an immense territory, rich in every department of mine and forest, lying alongside a country of immense population and great resources. If that country was not an aggressive country the difficulty would be minimised. He held, however, that it was an aggressive and grasping country. They wanted Florida, and they took it; Louisiana and Alaska they annexed; California and Mexico they conquered; and Texas they stole. They wanted half of the State of Maine that belonged to Canada, and they swindled the Canadian people out of it by means of a false map. The war between the North and South was as much for tariff as slavery. It was only after three years that the North decided to emancipate the slaves. They conquered the South and put them under their feet. He asked them to remember their treatment of the Canadian people in dealing with the question of Imperial Federation. In 1775 they attempted to conquer Canada, and again in 1812, but they were beaten ignominiously both times. They left no stone unturned in 1812 to conquer Canada, and gave it up as a hopeless task after a three years' effort. The population of Ontario at that time was only 100,000, as against their ten millions. They fomented discord which led to the Fenian Raid in 1866. Those benighted warriors came armed with United States muskets. They had never evinced a friendly feeling towards Canada. They sent the British Minister home during the Crimean War when they thought England had her hands full. . . . They gave a reciprocity treaty to Canada a few years ago, and allowed it to remain in force long enough to open up a volume of trade between the two countries, and then they suddenly cut it off in the hope that it would produce annexation. The Commercial Union fad had its birth in treason, he reiterated, and was designed in the hope of inducing the people of Canada to believe in the fallacy that, by tying themselves hand and foot to a foreign and hostile Power, they would get richer by it. They wanted to make Canadians believe that an extended market would benefit them. Their real desire, however, was to make Canada a slaughter market for their goods, and by crippling Canadian industries eventually drive the people of the Dominion into such a condition that they would be glad to accept annexation as an alternative of absolute ruin. They had conquered and stolen States in the South, and now they desired to betray Canada in the North. The scheme of Imperial Federation was designed to build up Canada and her industries, and absolutely to demolish the delusive theory propounded by the authors of that nefarious scheme Commercial Union. Unrestricted Reciprocity and Commercial Union were one and the same. The prime object of Imperial Federation was to complete an arrangement with the Mother Country, whereby our goods would be admitted free with a discriminating tariff against the importations of all foreign Powers. Such an arrangement he believed would not only benefit the agricultural community, but also the whole population of the Dominion. It would consolidate the Empire, and give the Canadian people greater influence amongst the nations of the world. Mr. J. M. Clark seconded the resolution in an eloquent speech and it was carried. Mr. Alex McNeill moved the next resolution. He said he had felt a great deal of doubt coming down from Ottawa that day, but when he was face to face with such a glorious meeting all his doubts passed away like mists before the light of the sun. The news of that meeting would be tidings of great joy all over the Empire, for it would proclaim in trumpet tones that the great British City of Toronto was up and doing in the glorious work of Imperial Federation. Mr. R. C. Weldon, M.P., from Nova Scotia, made an eloquent speech. The meeting was most enthusiastic and spirited. At its conclusion Mr. D'Alton McCarthy invited about fifteen or twenty of the Committee and speakers to his house to supper. I remember walking over with Mr. R. C. Weldon, whose speech had been very warmly received. He was very much astonished at the enthusiasm and vigour of the audience. He told me he had never seen such a meeting before, and asked how I could account for it. I replied, "Toronto is the most loyal and imperialistic city in the Empire." It was partly founded, as was St. John, N.B., by United Empire Loyalists, but the difference was that loyalty had come more closely home to Toronto, that since its foundation every generation of the Toronto people had seen the dead bodies of citizens who had died fighting for the cause of the Empire or the Sovereign carried through her streets for burial; that the battle of York had been fought in 1813 within the present limits of the city, the skirmish at Gallows Hill three miles north of the city in 1837; that Toronto men had fought at Detroit, Queenston Heights, and other fields in 1813-14, and at Navy Island in 1837, also in 1866 at Fort Erie; that Toronto men were the first sent from the older Provinces to the North-West Rebellion, and that all this had kept the flame of loyalty brightly burning on her altars. Four days after this meeting, on the 28th March, 1888, Mr. D'Alton McCarthy, President of the League in Canada, placed on the order paper at Ottawa the following important notice of motion: That it would be in the best interests of the Dominion that such changes should be sought for in the trade relations between the United Kingdom and Canada as would give to Canada advantages in the markets of the Mother Country not allowed to foreign States, Canada being willing for such privileges to discriminate in her markets in favour of Great Britain and Ireland, due regard being had to the policy adopted in 1879 for the purpose of fostering the various interests and industries of the Dominion, and to the financial necessities of the Dominion. This was the beginning of the great scheme of preferential tariffs around the Empire, which has since attracted so much attention throughout the British possessions. Mr. McCarthy's resolution did not carry at that time; it was not intended that it should. It was adjourned after some discussion. It was a new idea in Canadian politics, and the members had not had time to study the question in all its bearings. The _Imperial Federation Journal_, representing the League in England, was not favourable to the action of the Canadian branch, and advised the Canadians to approach the other Colonies, and not disturb the Mother Country with the proposal. Within five years this cause of difference had, I believe, much to do with the disruption of the League in Great Britain. Mr. McNeill's reference to the importance of Toronto's accession to the cause was well founded, for after that meeting the movement went on with increased impetus, and subsequent events proved the far-reaching effect upon the affairs of the Empire. During the next three years a most vigorous campaign was carried on in Ontario. Toronto became the headquarters of the League, a large branch was kept up, and efforts were made to educate the public mind and organise branches of the League in other places. An organising committee was appointed, of which I was elected chairman. The movement, which had been started in Montreal three years before, had languished, and it was not until the Commercial Union movement alarmed the people and proved the necessity for prompt action that the cause of Imperial Federation became a strong and effective influence upon the public opinion of Canada. CHAPTER XII THE COMMERCIAL UNION MOVEMENT--A TREASONABLE CONSPIRACY At the first public meeting of the Imperial Federation League in Toronto I made the charge that the Commercial Union movement was a treasonable conspiracy on the part of a few men in Canada in connection with a number of leading politicians in the United States to entrap the Canadian people into annexation with that country. It will be of interest to trace this phase of the question and its development during the three or four years in which the great struggle took place. Ralph Waldo Emerson, in conversation with William Allingham in November, 1872, said, "Americans will not take any definite step; they feel that Canada must come into the Confederation, and will of herself. American party in Canada always at work." --_Allingham's Diary_, p. 217 (Macmillan). It will be remembered that I said that the United States "were an aggressive and grasping people." "They wanted Florida and they took it, Louisiana and Alaska they acquired, California and Mexico they conquered, and Texas they stole." I went on to say that "they had conquered and stolen States in the South, and now they desired to betray Canada in the North." This speech was made on the 24th March, 1888. I was criticised by some on the ground that my remarks were extreme in their character, and was caricatured and ridiculed in the comic papers. Six months later I was vindicated in a remarkable manner. Senator Sherman, at that time one of the foremost statesmen of the United States, and chairman of the Senate Committee of Foreign Affairs, made a very significant speech before the Senate on the 18th September, 1888. He said: And now, Mr. President, taking a broader view of the question, I submit if the time has not come when the people of the United States and Canada should take a broader view of their relations to each other than has heretofore seemed practicable. Our whole history since the conquest of Canada by Great Britain in 1763 has been a continuous warning that we cannot be at peace with each other except by political as well as commercial union. The fate of Canada should have followed the fortunes of the Colonies in the American Revolution. It would have been better for all, for the Mother Country as well, if all this continent north of Mexico had participated in the formation, and shared in common the blessings and prosperity, of the American Union. So evidently our fathers thought, for among the earliest military movements by the Continental Congress was the expedition for the occupation of Canada and the capture of the British forces in Montreal and Quebec. The story of the failure of the expedition--the heroism of Arnold and Burr, the death of Montgomery, and the fearful sufferings borne by the Continental forces in the march and retreat--is familiar to every student of American history. . . . Without going into the details so familiar to the Senate, it is sufficient to say that Spain held Florida, France held all west of the Mississippi, Mexico held Texas west to the Pacific, and England held Canada. The United States held, subject to the Indian title, only the region between the Mississippi and the Atlantic. The statesmen of this Government early discerned the fact that it was impossible that Spain, France, and Mexico should hold the territory then held by them without serious detriment to the interests and prosperity of the United States, and without the danger that was always present of conflicts with the European Powers maintaining Governments in contiguous territory. It was a wise policy and a necessity to acquire these vast regions and add them to this country. They were acquired and are now held. Precisely the same considerations apply to Canada, with greater force. The commercial conditions have vastly changed within twenty-five years. Railroads have been built across the continent in our own country and in Canada. The seaboard is of such a character, and its geographical situation is such on both oceans, that perfect freedom as to transportation is absolutely essential, not only to the prosperity of the two countries, but to the entire commerce of the world: and as far as the interests of the two people are concerned, they are divided by a mere imaginary line. They live next-door neighbours to each other, and there should be a perfect freedom of intercourse between them. A denial of that intercourse, or the withholding of it from them, rests simply and wholly upon the accident that a European Power one hundred years ago was able to hold that territory against us; but her interest has practically passed away and Canada has become an independent Government to all intents and purposes, as much so as Texas was after she separated herself from Mexico. So that all the considerations that entered into the acquisition of Florida, Louisiana, and the Pacific coast, and Texas, apply to Canada, greatly strengthened by the changed condition of commercial relations and matters of transportation. These intensify, not only the propriety, but the absolute necessity of both a commercial and a political union between Canada and the United States. . . . The way to union with Canada is not by hostile legislation; not by acts of retaliation, but by friendly overtures. This union is one of the events that must inevitably come in the future; it will come by the logic of the situation, and no politician or combination of politicians can prevent it. The true policy of this Government is to tender freedom in trade and intercourse, and to make this tender in such a fraternal way that it shall be an overture to the Canadian people to become a part of this Republic. . . . The settlement of the North-West Territory, the Louisiana and Florida purchases, the annexation of Texas, and the acquisition from Mexico are examples of the adaptation of our form of government for expansion, to absorb and unite, to enrich and build up, to ingraft in our body politic adjacent countries, and while strengthening the older States, confer prosperity and development to the new States admitted into this brotherhood of Republican States. . . . With a firm conviction that this consummation most devoutly to be wished is within the womb of destiny, and believing that it is our duty to hasten its coming, I am not willing, for one, to vote for any measure not demanded by national honour that will tend to postpone the good time coming, when the American flag will be the signal and sign of the union of all the English-speaking peoples of the continent from the Rio Grande to the Arctic Ocean. I ask that the resolution be referred to the Committee on Foreign Relations. I drew attention to this speech in a letter to the Toronto _Globe_ on the 26th September, 1888. After quoting a number of extracts from it, I went on to say, "This man is honest and outspoken. He is trying to entice us by kindly methods to annexation, which would be the annihilation of Canada as a nation; but does not his whole argument prove the absolute correctness of the view I took of Commercial Union at the Imperial Federation meeting, and does it not prove that his co-worker Wiman, being a Canadian, was acting the part of a traitor, in trying to betray his native country into a course which could only end in placing it absolutely in the hands of a foreign and hostile Power?" A few days later another incident occurred showing the active interest that was being taken in the annexation movement. Senator Sherman's speech was delivered on the 18th September, 1888; on the 29th of the same month, Erastus Wiman sent the following telegram to a number of the Canadian newspapers: NEW YORK, _29th Sept._ I deem it my duty to say that information from Washington reaches me of a reliable character to the effect that the Senate Committee of Foreign Affairs has, during the past few days, in furtherance of the views of its Chairman, Senator Sherman, been discussing the question of inviting the Dominion of Canada to join the United States. So far have matters progressed that it is not at all unlikely that a resolution will be reported for concurrent action of both Houses, declaring it to be the duty of the President to open negotiations with Great Britain, looking to a political union between the English-speaking nations on this continent. The condition attending the invitation of Canada is understood to be that the United States would assume the entire public debt of the Dominion, estimated at $300,000,000. Commercial Union was urged as the basis of the proposed negotiation, on the ground that while a large majority might be secured for it, only a small minority favoured political union, but the sentiment of the Committee was so strong in favour of proposing at first Political Union, that it was impossible to contend with it. ERASTUS WIMAN. An attempt was made by Mr. Wiman to withdraw this message, but it failed, and it was published in two or three papers. The United States papers were for a year or two filled with articles discussing annexation, sometimes in friendly strains, sometimes in a most hostile spirit. President Cleveland's retaliation proclamation following closely the refusal of the United States Senate to confirm a treaty which had been agreed upon between Great Britain and the United States, was a direct threat against Canada, issued to the people of the Republic at a time likely to influence the result of the approaching Presidential election. On the 26th September, 1888, the Chicago _Tribune_ concluded a very aggressive article with these words: There are two ways in which Canada can protect herself from all possibility of a quarrel with this country about fish. One of these is by commercial union with the United States. The other is political union. If she is not ready for either, then her safety lies in not provoking the United States by unfair or unfriendly dealing, for when the provocation comes, Uncle Sam will reach out and take her in, in order to ensure quiet, and neither she nor her venerable old mother can prevent it. This paper about the same time had a cartoon depicting "The United States in 1900," showing Uncle Sam bestriding the whole North American continent. The New York _World_, in December, 1888, also published a map of North America to show what the United States would look like after Canada came in, and depicted our country divided up into twenty-eight new States and territories, and named to suit the Yankee taste. In connection with this map the _World_ published an interview with Senator Sherman, in which he advocated strenuously the annexation of Canada to the United States, saying that "the fisheries dispute and the question of the right of free transit of American goods over Canadian railroads are a type of the disputes that have vexed the two nations for a century, and will continue to disturb them as long as the present conditions exist. To get rid of these questions we must get rid of the frontier." In the descriptive article on the map everything that could help to excite the cupidity of the people of the United States was said and with great ability, and Professor Goldwin Smith was cited as declaring: It is my avowed conviction that the union of the English-speaking race upon this continent will some day come to pass. For twenty years I have watched the action of the social and economical forces which are all, as it seems to me, drawing powerfully and steadily in that direction. The map and the articles accompanying it were evidently published to accustom the minds of the people of the United States to the idea of expansion and aggression: What a majestic empire the accompanying map suggests; one unbroken line from the Arctic Ocean to the Torrid Zone. The United States is here shown as embracing nearly the whole of the North American continent. Having conquered the Western wilderness the star of Empire northward points its way. . . . There would be no more trouble about fishing treaties or retaliation measures, and peace with all nations would be assured, by making the United States absolute master of the vast Western continent. The Empire that this nation would embrace under such circumstances is so vast in extent that none other furnishes a parallel. This is only an illustration of the feeling all over the United States at this period from 1888 to 1890. The newspapers and magazines were filled with articles and cartoons all pointing in the same direction. Mr. Whitney, a member of the United States Cabinet, even went so far as to say that four armies of 25,000 men each could easily conquer Canada, indicating that the question of attacking Canada had been thought of. General Benjamin F. Butler, in the _North American Review_, one of their most respectable magazines, speaking of annexation, said, "Is not this the fate of Canada? Peacefully, we hope; forcefully, if we must," and in the truculent spirit of a freebooter he suggested that the invading army should be paid by dividing up our land among them. General J. H. Wilson, a prominent railway manager, presented a petition to the United States Senate in which he said: The best and most thoughtful citizens were coming to look upon the existence of Canada, and the allied British possessions in North America, as a continuous and growing menace to our peace and prosperity, and that they should be brought under the constitution and laws of our country as soon as possible, peacefully if it can be so arranged, but forcibly if it must. Then came the McKinley Bill especially bearing upon the articles where Canada's trade could be most seriously injured. It was believed that traitors in our own country assisted in arranging this part of the tariff so as to strike Canada as severely as possible. As another instance of the unprincipled manner in which these conspirators carried on their work, the following Press dispatch was sent to some of the United States papers: At a meeting called in Stimpson, Ontario, to hear a debate on annexation _v._ independence or continued dependence, a vote taken after the speakers had finished showed 418 for the annexation to 21 for the _status quo_. It seems almost incredible, but this meeting is a good indication of the rapid strides the annexation sentiment is making among the Canadian people. The Tories cannot keep Canada out of the Union much longer. As I have never been able to discover any place of that name in Ontario, and as there is no such post office in the official list, it is evident that the dispatch was a pure invention for the purpose of deceiving the people of the United States. Another important indication of the feeling is shown in an article in the New York _Daily Commercial Bulletin_ in November, 1888, referring to certain political considerations as between Canada and the States. It states: What these are may be inferred from the recent utterances of prominent American statesmen like Senator Sherman and Mr. Whitney, Secretary of the Navy, just previous to the recent election, with reference to which the _Bulletin_ has recently had something to say. Both are inimical to commercial union unless it be also complemented by political union; or, to phrase it more plainly, they insist that annexation of Canada to the United States can afford the only effective guarantee of satisfactory relations between the two countries, if these are to be permanent. These prominent public men, representing each of the great parties that have alternately the administration of this Government in their hands, we are persuaded, did not put forth these views at random, but that they voiced the views of other political leaders, their associates, who are aiming at making Canadian annexation the leading issue at the next Presidential election. As if speaking for the Republicans, Senator Sherman, as has already been shown, thinks the country is now ready for the question; while Secretary Whitney, as if speaking for the other political party, is not less eager to bring the country face to face with it, even at the risk of a war with England, though it is but justice to him to say that he is of the opinion that the Mother Country, if really persuaded that the Canadians themselves were in favour of separating from her, would not fire a gun nor spend a pound sterling to prevent it. . . . The whole drift is unquestionably in that direction (political union), and in the meantime we do not look for positive action on the part of Congress, on either commercial reciprocity or the fisheries, at this session or the next. These questions, in all human probability, will be purposely left open by the party managers in order to force the greater issue, which, as it seems to me, none but a blind man can fail to see is already looming up with unmistakable distinctness in the future. The _New York World_ in the early part of 1890 "instructed its correspondents in Montreal, Toronto, and Quebec to describe impartially the political situation in Canada in regard to annexation to the United States." The report charges Premier Mercier with being "a firm believer in annexation as the ultimate destiny of the Dominion of Canada," but he "is too shrewd a politician to openly preach annexation to his fellow countrymen under existing circumstances." The report also quotes the Toronto _Globe_ as saying that the Canadian people "find the Colonial yoke a galling one," and that "the time when Canadian patriotism was synonymous with loyalty to the British connection has long since gone by." The concluding paragraph of the _World's_ article is the most suggestive and insolent: Nobody who has studied the peculiar methods by which elections are won in Canada will deny the fact, that five or six million dollars, judiciously expended in this country, would secure the return to Parliament of a majority pledged to the annexation of Canada to the United States. The leading men in this conspiracy in Canada were Edward Farrer, Solomon White, Elgin Myers, E. A. Macdonald, Goldwin Smith, and John Charlton, the two latter being the only men of any prominent status or position in the movement, and after a time Charlton left it. These men were avowed annexationists, while there were a great many in favour of commercial union who did not believe that it would result in annexation, or did not care, and there were numbers who were ready to float with the stream, and quite willing to advocate annexation if they thought the movement was likely to succeed. When the Continental Union Association was formed in 1892, Goldwin Smith accepted the Honorary Presidency in Canada, for the organisation had its principal strength in New York, where a large number of prominent and wealthy men joined its ranks, Francis Wayland Glen being the Secretary. Glen became angry at the defection of some Liberal leaders after they obtained office, and gave the names of the organisers in a letter to the Ottawa _Evening Journal_ of the 13th September, 1904, as follows: Charles A. Dana, Andrew Carnegie, John Jacob Astor, Ethan Allen, Warner Miller, Edward Lauterbach, Wm. C. Whitney, Orlando B. Potter, Horace Porter, John Hay, Theodore Roosevelt, Elihu Root, Oswald Ottendorfer, Cornelius N. Bliss, John D. Long, Jno. B. Foraker, Knute Nelson, Jacob Gallinger, Roswell P. Flower, Joseph Jno. O'Donohue, Chauncey M. Depew, John P. Jones, Wm. Walter Phelps, General Butterfield, General Henry W. Slocum, General James H. Wilson, General Granville W. Dodge, Charles Francis Adams, Oliver Ames, Seth Low, Bourke Cochrane, John C. McGuire, Dennis O'Brien, Charles L. Tiffany, John Clafflin, Nathan Straus, and Samuel Spencer. In the list we received in addition to these there were others, nearly 500 in all. Afterwards, in 1893, I was able to get some further information as to the treasonable nature of the movement as far as the Canadian side of it was concerned. The intention of those interested in the United States was to endeavour to extend the power of that country to the Arctic Ocean, as it had been extended to Mexico and the Pacific. The Continental Union League in New York was in close connection with the Continental Union Association of Ontario. Mr. Goldwin Smith, as I have said, accepted the position of Honorary President, John Morrison was the President, and T. M. White Secretary. The headquarters were in Toronto. We had information at the time that Mr. Goldwin Smith subscribed $500 to the funds, and that this was intended to be an annual subscription. There were two members of our League with whom I was constantly conferring on the private matters connected with our work. Upon them, more than on any others, did I depend for advice, for consultation, and for assistance, and I can never forget the obligations I am under to them. We three accidentally saw an opportunity of getting some knowledge of the working of the Continental Union League in New York. By great good fortune we were able to perfect arrangements by which one who was in the confidence of the movement in New York was induced to send us any information that could be obtained. For a considerable time we were in receipt of most interesting information, much of which was verified by independent evidence. We often heard from our agent beforehand of what was going to take place, and every time matters came to pass just as we had been forewarned. In many instances we had independent corroborative evidence that the statements were reliable. We were informed of a written agreement, signed by a Canadian Liberal leader, to have legislation carried to handicap the Canadian Pacific Railway if the Liberal party came into power. Our agent even obtained knowledge of where and by whom it was signed, and who at the time had custody of it. We received copies of many of Glen's letters to Mercier, Fairer, Bourke Cochrane, and others. One letter to Colonel John Hay at Washington informed him that the New York League was working in conjunction with the Ontario League. A letter to Farrer told him of a meeting held in November, 1893, in the New York _Sun_ office, at which Honore Mercier, John Morrison, Tarte, and Robidoux were present, that money was asked to aid the Liberals, but Glen objected. This information we received some months after this meeting had been held. Eleven years later, in the letter already referred to, which Glen in his anger wrote to the Ottawa _Journal_ of the 13th September, 1904, I find the following paragraph: Upon the 4th November, 1893, Wilfrid Laurier held a meeting of his friends in Montreal, and that meeting sent a deputation to New York to ask funds of the National Continental Union League for the elections, which it was supposed would take place in the spring of 1894. Israel Tarte, Honore Mercier, J. E. Robidoux, Louis Joseph Papineau and Mr. Langelier, and Sir Oliver Mowat was represented by John Morison, of Toronto. These gentlemen met Mr. Dana, Mr. Carnegie, and myself in the office of _The Sun_ on November 6th. Mr. Tarte asked as a beginning for $50,000, with which to purchase _Le Monde_ newspaper, and Mr. Morison desired $50,000 to purchase a labour paper in Toronto. Mr. Carnegie asked Mr. Tarte if he was prepared to pledge the Liberal party to advocate the independence of Canada as a prelude to continental union. He replied that if we furnished them with money for the elections they would do so if they were successful in the elections. Mr. Morison agreed with Mr. Tarte. Mr. Carnegie then asked Hon. Honore Mercier if he would contest the province of Quebec in favour of the independence of Canada as a prelude to continental union. He replied, Yes. This statement cannot be taken as reliable. Glen himself was not reliable, and it is not at all probable that Sir Wilfrid Laurier had anything to do with sending these men to New York, and yet some of them may have told Glen that he had, or Glen may have assumed it. Certainly Sir Oliver Mowat never asked Mr. Morison to make any application of any kind. I do not believe he would have entrusted him with any mission, and I am sure Sir Oliver Mowat was as much opposed to these intrigues as I was. It is quite possible that Morison posed in New York as representing Sir Oliver Mowat, but it was an absurdity. The letter of Glen, however, proves that there was some foundation for the information our agent sent to us. In a letter to Mercier in February, 1894, Glen stated that John Charlton, an Ontario Liberal, had called on Dana the day before for money, and I have another letter signed by Francis W. Glen which corroborates this statement of our informant. Mr. Goldwin Smith's name appeared often in the correspondence, so did Erastus Wiman's. Myers is mentioned as going over to New York to see Dana. Glen writes to Mercier on the 3rd April, 1894, to write to Farrer in reference to Goldwin Smith. On the same day he wrote to Bourke Cochrane telling him that Goldwin Smith was anxious for a resolution in Congress. A copy of the draft of the resolution referred to, which was sent to us, reads as follows: RESOLVED: That we believe that the political union of the two great English-speaking communities who now occupy and control North America will deliver the continent from the scourge of war, and securely dedicate it to peaceful industry and progress, lessen the _per capita_ cost of government and defence, ensure the rapid development of its boundless natural resources, enlarge its domestic and foreign commerce, unite all interests in creating a systematic development of its means of internal communication with the sea-board by rail and water, protect and preserve its wealth, resources, privileges, and opportunities as the undisputed heritage of all, immensely add to its influence, prestige, and power, promote, extend, and perpetuate government by the people, and remove for ever the causes most likely to seriously disturb cordial relations and kindly intercourse with the Motherland. We therefore invite the Canadian people to cast in their lot with their own continent, and assure them that they shall have all the continent can give them. We will respect their freedom of action, and welcome them when they desire it into an equal and honourable union. I do not know whether this was introduced into Congress or not. We also had information of meetings at Carnegie's house and _The Sun_ office, and what took place at them. All our information was conveyed to Sir John Thompson, and at a meeting in Halifax he made some reference to movements that were going on in the States, which apparently attracted attention. Not long after this we heard from our informant that at a meeting where Carnegie, Dana, and Goldwin Smith were present, Goldwin Smith said they would have to be very careful, as he believed there was a leak somewhere. Among other information we obtained was a copy of the subscriptions to the fund. Some of the more important were Andrew Carnegie, $600; R. P. Flower, $500; Charles A. Dana, $460; J. J. Astor, $200; O. B. Potter, $150; W. C. Whitney, $100, &c. Outside and apart from all this information, I was shown a letter from Honore Mercier to Charles A. Dana, and a letter enclosing it to the President of the Continental Union Association of Ontario. I was able to secure photographs of these letters. I forwarded one copy of these photographs to Lord Salisbury, but kept copies from which the facsimiles here published are taken. MERCIER, GOUIN, & LEMIEUX, _Avocats_. MONTREAL, _9th August, 1893_. Hon. Honore Mercier, C.R. Lomer Gouin, L.L.B. Rodolphe Lemieux, L.L.L. To the Honorable MR. DANA, Editor of _The Sun_, New York. DEAR SIR,-- I have met General Kirwin Sunday last, and am satisfied with the general result of the interview. I asked him to see you without delay, and to tell you what took place. As the matter he placed before me concerns chiefly the American side of our common cause, I thought better to have your view first and be guided by you. General Kirwin seems to be a reliable man, as you stated in your letter, and to be much devoted to our cause. My trip in the East has been a success and will bring out a strong and very important move in favour of Canadian Independence. I will be in Chicago on the 22nd inst. to take part in the French Canadian Convention and hope to obtain there a good result. Allow me to bring your attention to my state of poverty and to ask you if our New York friends could not come to my rescue, in order that I might continue the work, in providing me with at least my travelling expenses. I make that suggestion very reluctantly but by necessity. Believe me, dear Sir, Yours very truly, HONORE MERCIER. P.S.--I would advise you to seal and register every letter you will send me. I intend to leave for Chicago on Sunday, the 13th inst., and stop at Detroit and Buffalo. H. M. "THE SUN," _New York, Aug. 12, 1893_. DEAR MR. MORISON, I have just received the enclosed letter. Its demands are moderate. You know the sum which is in my hands. How much should I send him? Please return the letter with your answer. Yours faithfully, C. A. DANA. JAMES MORISON, Esq., _Toronto, Canada_. This letter of Mercier's is very significant. I do not understand the allusion to General Kirwin. His name was Michael Kirwin, and he is not to be confused with Capt. Michael Kirwan who served in the North-West Rebellion. I knew the latter well, he was an Irish gentleman. The General Kirwin was a Fenian, and from what I heard of him at the time I gathered that he was somewhat of a soldier of fortune. Whether Mercier was intriguing for a Fenian rising or for Fenian influence in the United States in favour of annexation I do not know, but the association with such a man had a sinister look, to my mind. The letter, however, shows Mercier's strong support of Canadian Independence, and his desire to obtain money from foreign enemies of his country to enable him to carry out his intrigues. The transmission of this letter to the President of the Continental Union Association of Ontario for advice as to how much money should be paid out to Mercier shows how closely the two organisations were working together. The foregoing pages show clearly the object and aim of the Commercial Union Conspiracy, the widespread influence of the movement among the foremost men of the United States, the dangers Canada had to face, with the power of a great country active and unscrupulous against her, and embarrassed by the internal treachery of disloyal men in her own borders. My main object in the following chapters will be to describe the efforts and exertions made to warn our people, and to frustrate the designs and intrigues of our enemies at home and abroad. CHAPTER XIII THE YEARS 1888 AND 1889 THE WORK OF THE IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE After the inauguration of the Imperial Federation branch in Toronto on the 24th March, 1888, the members were much encouraged by the result of the debate in the Dominion House of Commons on Sir Richard Cartwright's motion in favour of unrestricted reciprocity with the United States. The vote was taken at half-past four on the morning of the 7th April after a discussion lasting for many days. The resolution was defeated by a majority of 57 in a house of 181 members. The Commons of Canada then sang "God Save the Queen." The _Mail_ attacked me on the 26th April, 1888, on account of my statement that the originators of commercial union were traitors, and threatened that if I did not desist from acting in that way I should be removed from the position of police magistrate. Replying the next day in a letter to the editor I repeated: that Commercial Union originated in treason, and that it emanated from a traitor in New York. This view I still hold and will express whenever and wherever I feel disposed. . . . I went on to say: I do not look upon this question as a political or party question. It is one affecting our national life. It is a foreign intrigue to betray us into the hands of a foreign people, and it behoves every Canadian who loves his country to do his utmost to save it from annihilation. I did not ask for the position of police magistrate; it was offered to me by cable when I was in England. I accepted it at Mr. Mowat's request. I feel under no obligation whatever to the country for the office. I feel I am giving good service for every dollar I receive. I did not want the office at the time I was appointed, and can live without it whenever I choose to do so, and all the traitors in the United States and Canada combined cannot make me cease to speak for my country when occasion requires . . . on questions affecting the national life, I shall always try to be in the front rank of those who stand up for Canada. On the 7th May, 1888, the Toronto branch sent a deputation to Lord Lansdowne, Governor-General, to present a memorial praying his Excellency to invite the Australian Governments, and the Government of New Zealand to join the Canadian Government in a conference to devise means for the development of reciprocal trade and commerce. _The Imperial Federation Journal_ published this memorial and Lord Lansdowne's reply, and spoke of the energy and _lan_ which the Canadian branches were displaying, and then added prophetically, "They have, if we mistake not, set a ball a-rolling that will be found ere long too big to be described in the half dozen lines of print that is all the great English newspapers have so far seen fit to devote to the subject." The organisation of new branches of the League followed rapidly the successful meeting in Toronto. On the 2nd April, 1888, a strong branch was formed at Brantford, Ontario. On the 16th April another was formed at St. Thomas, another about the same time at Port Arthur, on the 4th May another at Orillia, while a very successful meeting of the Ottawa Branch was held on the 22nd April, to carry a resolution in favour of discriminating tariffs between the Colonies and the Mother Country. On the 4th June there was a rousing meeting of the branch of the League at Halifax, Nova Scotia, at which a resolution was unanimously carried in favour of reciprocal trade between the colonies and Great Britain. At this meeting the late Archbishop O'Brien, one of the ablest and most patriotic men that Canada has produced, made a most eloquent and powerful speech against commercial union or annexation, and, speaking of the men advocating these ideas, he said: There are, however, others of this section less worthy of respect. They are men who have not courage to face great national problems, but think it wisdom to become the Cassandra of every noble undertaking. These men have for leader and mouthpiece Goldwin Smith, the peripatetic prophet of pessimism. Because, forsooth, his own life has been a dismal failure, because his overweening vanity was badly injured in its collision with Canadian common sense, because we would not take phrases void of sense for apophthegms of wisdom, he, the fossilised enemy of local autonomy and the last defender of worn-out bigotry, has put his feeble curse on Canadian nationality and assumed the leadership of the gruesome crowd of Missis Gummidges, who see no future for Canada but vassalage to the United States. Let them, if it so pleases, wring their hands in cowardly despair; but are we, the descendants of mighty races, the inheritors of a vast patrimony, the heirs of noble traditions, so poor in resources or so degenerate as to know no form of action save the tears and handwringings of dismal forebodings? It is an insult, and should be resented as such, to be told that annexation is our destiny. The promoters of Imperial Federation are called dreamers. Well, their dream is at least an ennobling one, one that appeals to all the noble sentiments of manhood. But what are we to say to the dreary prophets of evil, the decriers of their country, the traitors of their magnificent inheritance? They are not dreamers: they are the dazed victims of a hideous nightmare, to be kindly reasoned with when sincere, to be remorselessly thrust aside when acting the demagogue. The principle of Canadian nationality has taken too firm a hold on our people to permit them to merge their distinct life in that of a nation whose institutions give no warrant of permanency, as they afford no guarantee of real individual and religious liberty. This extract from the speech of the Roman Catholic Archbishop of Halifax indicates clearly how the Canadian feeling was being aroused by the attempts upon the national life of Canada. In the summer of this year the United States Senate refused to endorse the Fisheries Treaty which had been agreed upon by President Cleveland and the British authorities. This was followed by a Retaliation proclamation, or at least by a message to Congress, asking for powers to retaliate upon Canada, by cancelling the bonding privileges which we have been using for very many years. The Retaliation Act was passed after a most hostile discussion against Canada. This threat was received by our people in the most unflinching spirit, and the matter was soon dropped by the United States Government. In October, 1888, the Toronto _Globe_, evidently with the object of accustoming the minds of the Canadian people to the idea that the question of Annexation or Independence was a live issue, and one to be discussed and considered with as much freedom and propriety as tariff reform or temperance legislation or manhood suffrage, called for letters discussing the advantages or disadvantages of annexation or independence. It was the same scheme that Goldwin Smith had endeavoured to work in the National Club. On the 6th October I wrote a letter to the _Globe_ on the condition and prospects of Canada, and said: Events are crowding upon us faster than we are aware. Let us look back over the past few months. First came the Commercial Union movement, apparently originated by a Canadian in the interests of Canada, but which is now shown to have been a Yankee plot worked by a renegade with the object of producing annexation. Then came the repudiation of the Fisheries Treaty by the Republican party, followed by the Retaliation proclamation of the Democratic President; then came the almost unanimous passage of the Retaliation Act in the United States House of Representatives after a long succession of speeches by members of both political parties violently abusive and unreasonably hostile to Canada. Then came the speech of Senator Sherman exposing the hostile policy of a hundred years. Then the discussion of negotiations for annexation in the Committee of Foreign Relations, and to-day Senator Sherman's interview, in which he says, "Political union is necessary or war is inevitable." At this moment the Presidential election is being fought out on the question as to which party is most hostile to England and Canada, and unless a marked change comes over the people of the United States, it will not be many years before we shall be fighting for our existence as a free people on this continent. Senator Sherman's last warning is straight to the point, and cannot be overlooked or misunderstood. I then went on to urge that we must forget all party differences, that we should unite in the face of the common danger, that a firm and united front might save us all the horrors of war, pointing out that "at the Trent affair if there had been treason in Canada, or the least sign of division in our ranks, we would have had war." A number of letters in favour of annexation appeared in the _Globe_, and I became much alarmed, for the writers signed their names. I felt that if the discussion went on unchecked it would in time have a certain effect upon the wobblers and the unreliable. I had studied carefully the American Revolution, and was of the opinion that the whole success of that movement was due to the fact that the loyal men, and the law-abiding men, did nothing themselves, but relied upon the constituted authorities to check a movement that in the end robbed them of their property, deprived them of all their civil rights, and drove them penniless into exile. I felt that as far as I was concerned I would leave no stone unturned to prevent such a fate befalling Canada through supineness or indifference. At the annual dinner of the Caledonian Society of Toronto, on the 30th October, 1888, I responded to the toast of "The Army, Navy, and Volunteers." The _Empire_ of the 31st October reported my speech as follows: Colonel Denison launched forth a few hundred words which made the Scots fairly jump with enthusiasm, He referred in the first place to the achievements of Scotchmen in the British Army, and then spoke about the Canadian Volunteers. Canada at this moment, he said, is passing through a very critical crisis in her history. She will be called upon to preserve her national life within the next three or four years. (Someone ejaculated "Oh! Oh!") It's all very well to say "Oh! Oh!" said the Colonel. I tell you things are crowding upon us very fast. Within the past two months we have seen one thing after another showing a most bitter and hostile feeling towards this country on the part of the United States. Only this very evening came a telegram from Washington, saying that Cleveland is going to issue his retaliation proclamation immediately. Let him do it. (Cheers.) I have every faith in Canada. We have got everything on this northern half of this continent to make this a great country. We have the country and the people, and we can hold our own. All that is necessary is for us to be true to ourselves. (Cheers.) Then let us have confidence in ourselves and in our future. I am sorry to see that a few have not sufficient confidence in our future. I hope our volunteers will mark these traitors in this country, and put them in the rear when trouble comes. I do not like to see letters in our papers advocating annexation. It is nothing but rank treason. (Cheers.) There is one thing about it though, gentlemen, when these men come out, and put their names to annexation papers, they can be marked. We can put "ear marks" on them, and when trouble comes we will know who the traitors are. (Ringing cheers.) And I went on to say we were putting their names in a list. The _Globe_ was evidently much put out at my action, and not daring openly to take the opposite view, relieved its feelings in a long article heaping ridicule upon me and upon the Rev. Mr. Milligan, who had spoken sympathetically with me at the same dinner, and intimating that I was anxious for war with the United States. I wrote in reply to this: I believe the United States to be very hostile to Canada; I believe they always have been. I believe they will endeavour to destroy our national life by force or fraud whenever they can, with the object of absorbing us. This has been my view for years, and I feel that the history of the past is strong evidence of the correctness of my opinion, if the events of the last two months are not absolute proof of it. I have always warned my fellow-countrymen of this danger. I have always striven to encourage a healthy Canadian national spirit, a confidence in ourselves and in our future. I have endeavoured to give courage to the faint-hearted and the timid, and have always urged that Canadians of all classes should stand shoulder to shoulder ready to make any and every sacrifice for the State. I have felt that doubts and misgivings, the preaching and talking of annexation, were of all things the most likely to induce the Yankees to attack us. In 1812, the belief that we were divided, that the traitors were in the majority among us, and that we were ripe for annexation, had much to do with bringing on a bloody and severe war. The unanimity and courage displayed by our people at the Trent affair, the bold and unbroken front then shown by the Canadians saved us from war at that time. To-day every word that is said in Canada in favour of annexation, or that shows a want of confidence in ourselves, is being vigorously used in the United States to create a widespread belief in that country that we are ripe for annexation. This dangerous mistake will pave the way to war, and this is why I so strongly resent a line of action that is so fraught with danger to our country. Talk of my wanting war! The idea is absurd. It is the last thing I want. I hold that we have a free Government, that we have the fullest political, religious, and personal liberty. Our country is one of the most prosperous, if not the most prosperous, country in the world, and we have every hope of a great national future. If we had war it would cost the lives of thousands of our best. It would destroy our property, ruin our business interests, throw back our country twenty years in progress, burden us with an enormous debt, and if completely victorious we could not be freer, or have greater liberty or advantages, than we have to-day. We have no reason to go to war, unless we are driven to defend and preserve all we hold dear. No one appreciates this better than I do, and on that account all my efforts have been in the direction of preserving peace. If war comes you will probably be still carrying on the newspaper business on King Street, your annexation correspondents will (if at large) still be spreading fears and misgivings in the rear, if not traitorously aiding the enemy, but I will have to be on the outpost line, exposed to all the hardships and trials of war. I know enough of war to hope that the Almighty may give us peace in our time, but rather than my country should be lost, I hope when the day of trial comes that God may give me courage to make any and every sacrifice in the interests of my native land. I have been abused and attacked, threatened and ridiculed by Canadians for speaking out for Canada, but while I live nothing shall prevent me from doing what I believe to be the duty of every true Canadian. One member of the Ontario Government met me on the street about this time, and took me to task for speaking so strongly on the question of Commercial Union and Unrestricted Reciprocity. I gave him an emphatic reply that I would follow my own course in the matter. Another prominent gentleman, since a Senator, and now a preferential tariff supporter, also spoke to me on the street, and said, "Certainly people should be allowed to discuss annexation or independence as they liked." I denied this vehemently, and declared they could not have either without fighting, and I told him plainly that if he meant to secure either he had better hang me on a lamp-post, or otherwise, if it became a live issue, I would hang him. I had made up my mind that if there was to be any of the work that the "Sons of Liberty" resorted to in the United States before the Revolution, we of the loyal party would follow their example and do it ourselves. Sir Oliver Mowat, then Premier and Attorney-General, once spoke to me, advising me not to be so violent in my language. My reply was that if the matter became dangerous I would resign my Police Magistracy one day, and he would find me leading a mob the next. Sir Oliver Mowat was a thorough loyalist, and at heart I think he fully sympathised with me. Early in November, 1888, there was a large Convention of Dentists held in Syracuse, New York State, which Dr. W. George Beers, of Montreal, attended. At the banquet a toast was proposed, "Professional Annexation." Dr. Beers replied in an eloquent, loyal, and manly speech, which voiced the Canadian feeling. It was copied into many Canadian papers, and printed in pamphlet form and circulated broadcast throughout the country. He told them: "Just as you had and have your croakers and cowards we have ours, but Canada is not for sale. . . . Annexation as a serious subject has received its doom, and in spite of the intoxication of senatorial conceit on the one side, and the croaking of malcontents and tramps on the other, Canada is loyal to the Mother Country from whose stout old loins both of us sprang." And after describing the extent and resources of the British Empire, he said: "Sharers in such a realm, heirs to such vast and varied privileges, Canadians are not for sale." During December, 1888, I spoke at a large meeting at Ingersoll on the 6th with Mr. J. M. Clark, on the 11th at Lindsay with Mr. James L. Hughes, and on the 20th at a meeting of the Toronto League. In 1889 the work went on very vigorously. Dr. George R. Parkin, one of the most eloquent and able of our members, who had been lecturing in England on behalf of the parent League, made a tour through Canada, and the Imperial Federation League arranged a series of meetings which he addressed with great eloquence and power. He was then on the way to Australia, where his energy and enthusiasm helped on the spirit of Imperialism among the people of that colony and New Zealand, and gave the movement an impetus there which has not been lost. This was helped by some speeches delivered in Australia in 1888, by Principal George M. Grant, the greatest of our members, one who never lost an opportunity of doing all he could for the cause. It was an interesting fact that at one of Dr. Parkin's meetings at St. Thomas he was accompanied by Mr. E. E. Sheppard, who, it will be remembered, was one of the early advocates of Independence, and who had flown an Independence flag over his office in 1884. Mr. Sheppard had been won over by the arguments of our League to advocate Imperial Federation as a practical means of becoming independent, and had become a member of our Committee and a very powerful advocate of our cause. In Canada the League was very active this year. On the 11th January, 1889, Mr. D'Alton McCarthy and I addressed a large and enthusiastic meeting at Peterboro. On the 17th January I attended a Sons of England Banquet at St. Thomas, organised as a demonstration against Annexation and in favour of Imperial Unity, where I responded to the principal toast, and made a strong appeal against Commercial Union and in favour of Imperial Consolidation. On the 9th February, A. J. Cattanach, Commander Law, J. T. Small and I went to Hamilton in Imperial Federation interests. On the 18th February, Dr. Parkin spoke at St. Thomas. On the 29th March, 1889, J. Castell Hopkins and I addressed a large meeting at Woodstock. I spoke at the St. George's Society Banquet, Toronto, 23rd April. On the 11th May, there was a large meeting at Hamilton addressed by Principal George M. Grant. The Annual Meeting of the League took place at Hamilton the same day, and the early difficulties of the movement are well evidenced by the fact that at the Annual Meeting of the League only eleven representatives were present, viz. : D'Alton McCarthy, M.P., President, in the Chair; Thomas Macfarlane, F.R.S.C., representing Ottawa Branch; Principal G. M. Grant, President Kingston Branch; Henry Lyman, President Montreal Branch; H. H. Lyman, Treasurer; J. Castell Hopkins, one of the Hon. Secretaries; Commander Law, Secretary Toronto Branch; D. T. Symons, Lt.-Colonel George T. Denison, J. T. Small, and Senator McInnes. On the 21st May, Principal Grant delivered an address in Toronto, and another on the 16th August at Chatauqua, near Niagara-on-the-Lake, both powerful appeals in support of the cause. The Commercial Unionists made violent attacks upon the League, ridiculing it and its objects, and caricatures were often published making light of our efforts, while many Liberal newspapers, led by the _Globe_, attacked us at every available opportunity. CHAPTER XIV THE YEAR 1890 This was the most active and important year of our work for the Empire, and we began to see the result of the efforts we had made. The Commercial Union movement was as active and dangerous as ever, and the contest was carried on with great vigour all the year. On the 6th February, 1890, I wrote to Sir John Macdonald telling him that the next election would be fought on the straight issue of loyalty. At that time he hardly agreed with me, but before the year was out my forecast was verified. On the 13th January, 1890, I addressed a dinner of the Sons of England. On the 25th of the same month I had a letter in the _Globe_ pointing out the dangers of the belief obtaining ground that we were divided. I knew that Mr. Mulock proposed moving a resolution in the House of Commons to show how united our people were on the question of loyalty to the Empire, and, to aid him, went on to say: These conspirators are working now every day to pave the way for trouble. The public mind of the United States is being educated, and those in Canada working for them and with them, some consciously, some unconsciously, are sowing seed of which we will reap the bitter harvest. The Canadians advocating Independence are of two classes, one a class loyal to Canada above all, the other using Independence as a cloak, knowing that Independence just now, while making us no freer, would deprive us of the backing of the Empire, and change our present practical independence, either to an absolute dependence on the United States or to the necessity of a desperate struggle with them. Mr. Mulock will do good service if he succeeds, as I suppose he will, in getting a unanimous vote of our Parliament in favour of the existing constitution of our country. It will show that we are not a downtrodden people, waiting for our neighbours to aid us in throwing off a galling yoke, and will tend to counteract the plots of those conspirators who are intriguing for our conquest and national extinction. We must show them that we are a united people on national questions. It is our only safeguard. If we are to be weakened by internal dissensions in the face of foreign aggression, God help our country. On the 29th January, 1890, Mr. Mulock moved an address to her Majesty in the following terms: MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY, We, Your Majesty's most dutiful and loyal subjects, the Commons of Canada in Parliament assembled, desire most earnestly in our own name, and on behalf of the people whom we represent, to renew the expression of our unswerving loyalty and devotion to Your Majesty's person and Government. We have learned with feelings of entire disapproval that various public statements have been made, calling in question the loyalty of the people of Canada to the political union now happily existing between this Dominion and the British Empire, and representing it as the desire of the people of Canada to sever such connection. We desire, therefore, to assure Your Majesty that such statements are wholly incorrect representations of the sentiments and aspirations of the people of Canada, who are among Your Majesty's most loyal subjects, devotedly attached to the political union existing between Canada and the Mother Country, and earnestly desire its continuance. We feel assured that Your Majesty will not allow any such statement, emanating from any source whatever, to lessen Your Majesty's confidence in the loyalty of your Canadian subjects to Your Majesty's person and Government, and will accept our assurances of the contentment of Your Majesty's Canadian subjects with the political connection between Canada and the rest of the British Empire, and of their fixed resolve to aid in maintaining the same. We pray that the blessings of Your Majesty's reign may, for your people's sake, be long continued. Mr. Mulock's speech clearly explains the reasons for his action. He said: We are all observers of current events, we are all readers of the literature of the day, and we have had the opportunity of observing the trend of the American Press during the last few months. In that Press you find a doctrine set forth as if it were the expression of one mind, but appearing in the whole of the Press of the United States and being in that way spread far and wide. You find it asserted there that the political institutions in Canada are broken down; that we are a people divided against ourselves or amongst ourselves; that we are torn apart by internal dissensions; that race is set against race, creed against creed, Province against Province, and the Dominion against the Empire; and that this has created a feeling in favour of independence or annexation which is now only awaiting the opportunity to take practical form and shape. These statements have, no doubt, already done injury to our country. A surplus population does not seek countries which are supposed to be bordering on revolution. Capital does not seek investment in countries which are supposed not to be blessed with stable government. Therefore, for the information of the outside world, for the information of those who have not had the advantage of being born or becoming Canadian citizens, for their advantage and for our own advantage ultimately, I have asked the House to adopt this resolution. To give further colour to these statements, we find that the United States Congress appointed a Committee of the Senate, ostensibly to inquire into the relations of Canada with the United States; but if anyone investigated the proceedings of that Committee, he would find that apparently the principal anxiety of the Commission is to discover satisfactory evidence that this country is in a frame of mind to be annexed to the United States. I know of no better way of meeting their curiosity on that subject, and at the same time of settling this question, than for the people of Canada, through their representatives here assembled, to make an authoritative deliverance upon the subject. Such a deliverance will go far, I believe, to settle the question in the minds of the people of the old lands, those of England and of continental Europe, and then I hope it will result in setting once more flowing towards our shores the surplus capital and the surplus population of those old lands which are so much wanted for the development of the resources of this vast Dominion. I make this statement in no feeling of unfriendliness to the United States. We cannot blame them for casting longing eyes towards this favoured land, but we can only attribute that to Canada's worth, and, therefore, to that extent we can appreciate their advances. But that the American people seriously believe that Canada, a land so full of promise, is now prepared, in her very infancy, to commit political suicide, I cannot for a moment believe. Do the American people believe that this young country, with her illimitable resources, with a population representing the finest strains of human blood, with political institutions based upon a model that has stood the strain for ages, and has ever become stronger--do they believe that this country, possessing within her own limits all the essentials for enduring national greatness, is now prepared to abandon the work of the Confederation fathers, and pull out from the Confederation edifice the cement of British connection which holds the various parts of the edifice together? Do they, I say, believe that the people of Canada are prepared in that way to disappear from the nations of the earth, amidst the universal contempt of the world? No, Mr. Speaker, the American people are too intelligent to believe any such a thing. They have been trying to make themselves believe it, but they cannot do it. But whether they believe it or not--no matter who believes it outside of Canada--I venture to say the Canadian people do not believe it; and whatever be the destiny of Canada, I trust that such as I have indicated is not to be her destiny. The motion was carried by a vote of 161 yeas and no nays. This action of the House of Commons was of the greatest possible good, and gave great encouragement to our League. By this time the meetings of the Executive Committee of the Imperial Federation League were generally held in my office, at the old Police Court. I often occupied the chair in the absence of Mr. D'Alton McCarthy, and later of Sir Leonard Tilley, who succeeded him as President. At a meeting held on the 17th February, 1890, Mr. Henry J. Wickham read a letter which he had received from a friend in the United States, mentioning the custom of flying the Stars and Stripes over the schools in that country, and suggesting that a like custom might be advantageous in Canada. The idea was seized on at once, and it was decided to organise a representative deputation with a view to waiting on the Minister of Education, and getting him to make such a regulation that the national flag would be used in all public schools in Ontario, and hoisted on certain days of the year to commemorate events of national importance. The details of the matter were left in the hands of Mr. H. J. Wickham and myself. Mr. Wickham acted as secretary, and very soon we had organised a very influential and powerful deputation of representative men to wait upon the Hon. G. W. Ross and to ask for Government recognition and authority for the movement. On the 21st February, 1890, our deputation was received by the Minister of Education, and the objects we desired were explained to the Minister by Mr. Wickham, Mr. Somers (Chairman of the Public School Board), by myself as chairman of the deputation, and we were supported by Mayor Clarke, J. M. Clark and others. Mr. Ross said that "it was needless to say that he sympathised deeply with the deputation in their request." He said also that "he considered the display of the national emblem would be a fitting exhibition representing externally what was being done inside the schools. He would have no objection to make such a regulation, if it was not easy enough now, and legal if it was not so now, to display the national emblem in some such way as to impress upon the children the fact that we are a country and have a flag and a place in it." This was most satisfactory to us, and the movement soon became general, and now in several Provinces the practice of displaying the flag is followed. On the same night, the 21st February, I attended the annual dinner of the Sergeants' Mess of the Queen's Own Rifles, all of whom were Imperial Federationists. I found there, for the first time at a public dinner to my knowledge, as one of the principal toasts, "Imperial Federation," to which I responded. Since then, at almost all public dinners in Canada, some patriotic toast of that kind has appeared on the programme--"The United Empire," "Canada," "Canada and the Empire" "Our Country," and many variations of the idea. On the 4th March, J. M. Clark and I went to Barrie and addressed a large meeting in the interests of Imperial Federation, and received a hearty support. Our Committee about this time thought it would be well to issue a kind of manifesto that would explain our objects, and put forth the arguments in favour of our views and could be used as a kind of campaign literature to be distributed freely throughout the country. It was therefore arranged that a meeting should be held for the purpose of organising a branch of the League at Guelph, and that I should make a speech there that could be printed in separate form for general circulation. Mr. Creighton, of the _Empire_, agreed to send a reporter to take a shorthand report which was to be published in that paper. Mr. Alexander McNeill went to the meeting with me and made an excellent speech, one of many great efforts made by him for the cause. The meeting was held on the 28th March, 1890, and afterwards fully reported in the _Empire_. The meeting was large, the hall being filled, and was as unanimous and enthusiastic as the warmest advocate of Imperial Federation could have wished. The report of this meeting was reprinted and circulated in great numbers throughout the country. The following day Dr. W. George Beers delivered an eloquent and powerful lecture in Toronto in the interests of our cause, which was well received. CHAPTER XV VISIT TO ENGLAND, 1890 In December, 1889, the Council of the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce passed the following resolution unanimously: That whilst the Council approve of the objects of the Imperial Federation League as set forth in their circular of November the 13th last, they are of opinion that the primary essential condition of Imperial Federation is a customs union of the Empire. This adoption of the main point in the policy of the Canadian Branch of the League was very gratifying to us. The Annual Meeting of the League in Canada took place on the 30th January, 1890, and there was considerable discussion on the question of preferential or discriminating tariffs around the Empire, although no formal resolution was carried, as direct action at that time was thought to be premature. I moved a resolution: "That this League wishes to urge on the Government the importance of taking immediate steps to secure a universal rate of penny postage for the Empire." This was seconded by Mr. McNeill, and carried. A resolution was also carried against the German-Belgian Treaties which prevented preferential tariffs within the Empire. Lt.-Col. W. Hamilton Merritt suggested that the League should send its organisers to England, as it was there the missionary work would have to be done. Mr. McGoun supported this view, saying that "the policy of the Canadian League should be to send delegates to England to promote the gospel of commercial unity of the Empire." It will be seen that at this early period of the movement the Canadian Branch of the League felt that the real work would have to be done in England. We had discovered that there were clauses in two treaties with Germany and Belgium which positively forbade any special advantages in trade being given by Great Britain to any of her colonies, or by the colonies in favour of Great Britain or each other, that should not be given to Germany and Belgium. This as a necessary consequence would take in all nations entitled to the favoured nation clause. It was essential, as the very first step towards our policy being adopted, that these two treaties made in 1862 and 1865 should be denounced. The earliest period that either of them could be denounced was on the 1st July, 1892, provided that a year's notice had been given before the 1st July, 1891, in order to secure that result. After full discussion in our Executive Committee, I agreed to go to England with two objects in view, first to endeavour to prepare the way for the denunciation of the treaties, and, secondly, to urge the policy of preferential tariffs around the Empire. A special resolution was adopted to authorise me to represent the Canadian Branch of the League while in England. I arrived at Liverpool on the 27th April, 1890, and found a message requesting me to speak at a meeting at the People's Palace, Whitechapel, the next evening. This meeting was called by the League in order that Dr. George Parkin might deliver an address on Imperial Federation. The Duke of Cambridge was in the chair, and Lord Rosebery, Sir John Colomb, and I were the other speakers. I was requested to say nothing about preferential tariffs, and consequently was obliged to refrain. On the 13th May I happened to be at a meeting of the Royal Colonial Institute. Col. Owen read a paper on the military forces of the colonies. In the discussion which ensued Sir Charles Dilke, after complimenting other colonies, viz. : Australia, New Zealand, and Cape Colony, then proceeded to comment adversely on Canada. I answered him in a speech which will be found in the Appendix "A." On the 19th May I addressed a meeting at the Mansion House, under the auspices of the London Branch of the Imperial Federation League, in favour of Australian Federation, and once more I was requested not to touch on the question of preferential tariffs. On the 15th May I had attended the meeting of the Executive Committee of the League, and with some difficulty and considerable persistence had secured the insertion of the following clauses in the draft Annual Report: 10. As anticipated in last year's Report, a strong feeling continues to exist in Canada against the continuance in commercial treaties with foreign countries of clauses preventing the different portions of the Empire from making such internal fiscal arrangements between themselves as they may think proper. The League in Canada at its Annual Meeting, held in January last, passed a resolution condemning such stipulations. Most of the treaties obnoxious to this view terminate in 1892, and it is expected that strong efforts will be made by the League in Canada to obtain the abrogation of such clauses where they exist, and the provision under all treaties that the favoured nation clause shall not have the effect of extending to foreign countries the advantage of any preferential arrangement between different parts of the Empire. Any action in this direction taken by the Dominion Government will have the hearty support of the Council. The 13th clause of the Report contained a copy of Mr. Mulock's loyal address to the Queen from the Dominion House of Commons. The 14th clause was as follows: The significance of this action of the Dominion Parliament cannot be overrated, and the League in Canada is to be congratulated upon this most satisfactory outcome of its steady and persevering work during the past three years. When the Council Meeting was held on the 19th May to adopt the Report for presentation to the Annual Meeting, clause after clause was read and passed without question, until the 10th clause quoted above was reached, when at once an elderly gentleman rose and objected strongly to it, and moved to have it struck out. He made a speech strongly Free Trade in its tenor, and urged that nothing should be done to aid or assist in any preferential arrangements. Seeing at once that this reference to their favourite fetish appealed to the sympathies and prejudices of those present, I was sure that if not stopped other speakers would get up and endorse the view. I jumped up at once as he sat down, and made a short speech, saying, I did not know when I had heard a more illogical and inconsistent speech, that I gathered from his remarks that the gentleman was a Free Trader, that his whole speech showed that he was in favour of freedom of trade, and yet at the same time he wished to maintain treaties that were a restriction upon trade; that if we in Canada wished to give preferences to British goods, or lower our duties in her favour, or if we wished to have free trade with Great Britain, these treaties would forbid us doing so, unless Germany and Belgium and all other countries were included; that I felt Canada would give favours to Great Britain, but would positively refuse to give them to Germany, and could anything be more inconsistent than for a man declaring himself a Free Trader on principle, and yet refusing to help us in Canada who wished to move in the direction of freer trade with the Mother Country, and I begged of him to withdraw his opposition? This he did, and my clause was passed. I found out afterwards that my opponent was Sir Wm. Farrer. Years afterwards when Canada gave the preference to Great Britain in 1897, and the treaties were denounced, the Cobden Club gave to Sir Wilfrid Laurier the Cobden gold medal. The Annual Meeting of the Imperial Federation League was held three days later, on the 22nd May. I was announced in the cards calling the meeting as one of the principal speakers, and as the representative of the League in Canada, and was to second the adoption of the Annual Report. The day before the meeting, when in the offices of the League, a number of the Committee and the Secretary were present, I once more said that I wished to advocate preferential tariffs around the Empire. It will be remembered that this was one of the two points that I was commissioned to urge upon the parent League. I had been restrained at the People's Palace and at the Mansion House, but being a member of the League, a Member of the Council, and of the Executive Committee, and representing the League in Canada by special resolution, I made up my mind to carry out my instructions. The moment I suggested the idea it was at once objected to, everyone present said it would be impossible. I was persistent, and said, "Gentlemen, I have been stopped twice already, but at the Annual Meeting I certainly have the right to speak." They said that Lord Rosebery would be annoyed. I said, "What difference does that make; the more reason he should know how we feel in Canada; there was no use in my coming from Canada, learning Lord Rosebery's views, and then repeating them. I thought he could give his own views better himself." They then said "that it would be unpleasant for me, that the meeting would express disapproval." I said, "The more reason they should hear my views, and I do not care what they do if they do not throw me out of an upstairs window," finally saying, "Gentlemen, if I cannot give the message I have undertaken to deliver I shall not speak at all, and will report the whole circumstances to the League in Canada, and let them know that we are not allowed to express our views." This they would not hear of, and agreed that I could say what I liked. Lord Rosebery, who presided, made an excellent speech; among other things he said: You will look in vain in the report for any scheme of Imperial Federation. Those of our critics who say, "Tell me what Imperial Federation is, and I will tell you what I think about it," will find no scheme to criticise or discuss in any corner of our Annual Report. If there were any such scheme, I should not be here to move it, because I do not believe that it is on the report of any private society that such a scheme will ever be realised. But I will say that as regards the alternative name which Mr. Parkin--and here I cannot help stating from the Presidential Chair the deep obligations under which we lie to Mr. Parkin--has given to Imperial Federation, namely, that of National Unity, that in some respects it is a preferable term. But if I might sum up our purpose in a sentence, it would be that we seek to base our Empire upon a co-operative principle. At present the Empire is carried on, it is administered successfully owing to the energies of the governing race which rules it, but in a haphazard and inconsequential manner; but each day this society has seen pass over its head has shown the way to a better state of things. Lord Rosebery's idea of a "co-operative principle" is not very far removed from the idea of a "Kriegsverein and a Zollverein." In seconding the adoption of the Report I pointed out the many difficulties we had to face in Canada through the action of the United States, and concluded my speech in the following words: Now with reference to a scheme of Imperial Federation, I quite agree with the noble lord, our President, that we cannot go into the question of a scheme. At the same time I do not think it would be out of the way to mention here that it would be of the utmost importance to Canada that we should have some arrangement that there should be a discriminating tariff established. (Cheers.) The effect would be to open up a better state of trade than ever between the two countries. I feel that we in Canada would be willing to give for a discriminating tariff very great advantages over foreign manufacturers with whom the trade is now divided. I think if this matter is only carefully considered, it is not impossible for the English people, for the sake of keeping the English nation together, to make this little sacrifice. I have spoken to numbers of people in England, and I find a great many would be willing to have some such arrangement made if England were assured of some corresponding advantage. They seem to think it is a question which ought to be considered; but they think that England has committed herself to another policy to which she must stand. Well, I do not think that that is the case. My opinion is that it is to the interest of the Empire, and to the interest of the Mother Country, that something should be done which would knit the Empire together. I believe the English people are open to reason as much as any people in the world. That policy would be of immense interest to us considering that the United States are our competitors. Then again look at the advantages which might be offered in the way of emigration to a country under your own flag, with your own institutions, and with those law-abiding and God-fearing principles, which we are trying to spread through the northern half of the continent; and at the same time it would be adding strength to you all here at home. I must not detain you too long, but I thought I would like to mention these one or two points to you. I speak on behalf of the great masses of the Canadian people, and I think I have shown you some of the annoyances under which they have been living up to the present, and I am quite sure that if any sacrifice can be made the Canadians will be willing to meet you half-way. But it ought not to be all one way. There ought to be give and take both ways. During my speech I was loudly applauded, and felt that a large majority of the meeting was with me. When I sat down, I was just behind Lord Rosebery, and to my astonishment he turned around, shook hands with me, and whispered in my ear, "I wish I could speak out as openly." I knew then that I had neither frightened him nor the meeting. The Report was unanimously adopted. I felt that I had succeeded in my mission as far as the Imperial Federation League was concerned, but while I was on the spot I was using every effort to urge the views of my colleagues in other directions. Believing that the two strongest men in England at the time were Lord Salisbury and the Colonial Secretary, Mr. Chamberlain, I had been at the same time endeavouring to impress our views upon them. I had met Mr. Chamberlain in 1887 in Toronto, and had spoken at the same banquet which he there addressed. I wrote and asked him for an interview, and discussed the whole question of preferential trade, and the condition of affairs in Canada with him at great length. Our interview lasted nearly an hour. I then used with him many arguments which he has since used in his contest in England for Tariff Reform. After I had put my case as strongly as I could, I waited for his reply. He said, "I have listened with great interest to all the points you have brought forward, and I shall study the whole question thoroughly for myself, and if, after full consideration, I come to the conclusion that this policy will be in the interests of this country and of the Empire, I shall take it up and advocate it." I said, "That is all I want; if you look into it and study it for yourself you are sure to come to the same view," and got up to leave, but he then said to me with the greatest earnestness, "Do not tell a soul that I ever said I would think of such a thing. In the present condition of opinion in England it would never do." The result was that, though I was greatly cheered by his action, there was not one word that I could use, or that could be used, to help us in our struggle in Canada. I always felt, however, that it was only a question of time when he would be heartily with us. Lord Salisbury about this time invited me to an evening reception at 20 Arlington Street. When there I mentioned to him shortly what I had come over for, and told him I wished to have a long talk with him if he could spare the time. He said, "Certainly, we must have a talk," and he fixed the following Wednesday, the 14th May. At this time there was an acute difficulty between the United States Government and the British Government over the seizures of Canadian vessels engaged in the Behring's Sea seal fisheries. A number of Canadian vessels had been seized by United States cruisers, their crews imprisoned, and their property confiscated. The Canadian Government had complained bitterly, and, after much discussion, two Canadian Ministers, Sir Charles Hibbert Tupper and Sir John Thompson, were in Washington engaged, with the assistance of the British Ambassador, in negotiations with the Hon. James Blaine, United States Secretary of State, endeavouring to settle the Behring's Sea question, as well as several other matters which were in dispute. Having watched matters very closely in the United States, I had come to the conclusion that the Washington authorities had no serious intention to settle anything finally. We had made a treaty with them before in 1888, which had arranged the matters in dispute upon a fair basis, and when everything was agreed upon and settled, waiting only for the ratification by the United States Senate, that body threw it out promptly and left everything as it was. This action was at once followed by the retaliation message delivered by President Cleveland, which was a most unfriendly and insulting menace to Canada. I felt confident that they were determined to keep the disputes open for some future occasion, when Great Britain might be in difficulties, and a _casus belli_ might be convenient. The New York _Daily Commercial Bulletin_ openly declared in November, 1888, that the questions of the fisheries, etc., "in all human probability will be purposely left open in order to force the greater issue (viz., political union) which, as it seems to us, none but a blind man can fail to see is already looming up with unmistakable distinctness in the future." At this reception at Lord Salisbury's I was discussing the negotiations at Washington with Lord George Hamilton, then First Lord of the Admiralty, expressing my fears that they would come to nothing, and pointing out the dangers before us. He seemed somewhat impressed, and said, "I wish you would talk it over with Sir Philip Currie," then permanent Under-Secretary of Foreign Affairs, and he took me across the room and introduced me to Sir Philip, to whom I expressed my opinion that the negotiations at Washington would fail and that the United States Government would not agree to anything. While I was talking to him I was watching him closely, and I came to the conclusion, from his expression, that he was positively certain that the matter was either settled or on the very point of being settled, and I stopped suddenly and said, "I believe, Sir Philip, you think this is settled. You know all about it, and I know nothing, but I tell you now, that although you may believe it is all agreed upon, I say that it is not, and that either the Senate or the House of Representatives, or the President, or all of them put together, will at the last moment upset everything." I do not think he liked my persistence, or felt that the conversation was becoming difficult, but he laughed good-naturedly and said, "Nobody will make me believe that the Americans are not the most friendly people possible, but I must just go and speak to Lord ----" whose name I did not catch, and he left me. The next week I had my interview with Lord Salisbury and put my arguments from an Imperial point of view as powerfully as I could, told him of the dangers of the Commercial Union movement, of the desperate struggle I could see coming in the general election that was approaching in Canada, told him of our dread of a free expenditure of United States money in our elections, and pointed out to him that the real way to prevent any difficulty was to have a preferential tariff or commercial union arrangement with Great Britain, which would satisfy our people, and entirely checkmate the movement in favour of reciprocity with the States. Lord Salisbury listened attentively and at last he said, "I am fast coming to the opinion that the real way to consolidate the empire would be by means of a Zollverein and a Kriegsverein." I was delighted, "That," I said, "gives me all my case," and I urged him to say something publicly in that direction that we could use in Canada to inspire our loyal people, and put that hope and confidence in them which would carry our elections. He did not say whether he would or not, but I knew then that at heart he was with us. As a matter of fact, he did speak in a friendly tone at the Lord Mayor's Banquet at the Guildhall on the 9th November following, and afterwards followed it up with a much more direct speech at Hastings on the 18th May, 1892. I then said that nothing could be done until the German-Belgian Treaties of 1862 were denounced. He asked me why, and I told him the effect of the treaties was to bar any such arrangement. He did not know of the particular clauses and could hardly believe they existed. When told he would find I was right, he said, "That is most unfortunate, and they will have to be denounced." I thanked him for taking that view and felt that I had a strong ally on both points. From subsequent conversations and from many letters received from him during the following ten or twelve years, I always relied upon him as a true friend who would help us at the first possible opportunity. On this occasion I also spoke to him seriously as to my forebodings as to the failure of the negotiations at Washington and told him I believed he was under the impression that the matter was about settled, but warned him that at the last moment either the Senate or the President, or someone, would upset everything. I had spoken very plainly at the Canada Club not long before on the Behring's Sea business, and some of my remarks were published in several papers. On this point I said: We in Canada are for the British Connection. In years gone by when we thought that the British flag was insulted, though it was not a matter in which we were concerned and happened hundreds of miles from our shores, our blood was up, and we were ready to defend the old emblem. Can you wonder, then, that we in Canada have failed to understand how your powerful British ironclads could be idle in the harbours of our Pacific coasts while British subjects were being outraged in Behring's Sea and the old British flag insulted? No, that to us has been beyond comprehension. Before I left England my anticipations were realised, and suddenly, without any apparent reason, President Harrison broke off the negotiations just as Mr. Blaine and our representatives had come to an agreement, and he gave orders to United States vessels to proceed at once to the Behring's Sea and capture any Canadian vessels found fishing in those waters. This was about the end of May. I sailed for home from Liverpool on the 5th June. On the _Parisian_ I met as a fellow passenger the Rt. Hon. Staveley Hill, M.P., whom I had known before and who had taken a most active part in the House of Commons in favour of the Canadian view of the Behring's Sea difficulty. After we had got out to sea he said to me, "I will tell you something that you must keep strictly to yourself for the present; when we reach the other side it will probably all be out," and he went on to say that the British Government had made up their minds to fight the United States on account of President Harrison's action. I was startled, and asked him if they were going to declare war at once. He replied, "No, not yet, but they have sent a message to the United States Government saying that if they seized another Canadian vessel it would be followed and taken from them by force from any harbour to which it would be taken." I at once said, "That is all right; if that message is delivered in earnest, so that they will know that it is in earnest, it means peace and no further interference." When we arrived at Quebec, to our surprise not a word had come out, and no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that anything had happened. Some weeks elapsed and yet nothing was said, and I was under the impression that there had been some mistake, although Mr. Staveley Hill told me he had heard it directly from a Cabinet Minister. I saw in the newspapers that large additions were made to the Atlantic and Pacific fleets, the latter being more than doubled in strength. About two months after my return a member of the House of Representatives got up in the United States Congress and drew attention to these extensive preparations, to the increase of the garrison of Bermuda, to the work going on in the fortifications of the West Indies, and asked that the House should be furnished with copies of the despatches between the two Governments. These were brought down, and Lord Salisbury's ultimatum appeared in the following words: Her Britannic Majesty's Government have learned with great concern, from notices which have appeared in the Press, and the general accuracy of which has been confirmed by Mr. Blaine's statements to the undersigned, that the Government of the United States have issued instructions to their revenue cruisers about to be despatched to Behring's Sea, under which vessels of British subjects will again be exposed in the prosecution of their legitimate industry on the high seas to unlawful interference at the hands of American officers. Her Britannic Majesty's Government are anxious to co-operate to the fullest extent of their power with the Government of the United States in such measures as may be found expedient for the protection of the seal fisheries. They are at the present moment engaged in examining, in concert with the Government of the United States, the best method of arriving at an agreement on this point. But they cannot admit the right of the United States of their own sole motion to restrict for this purpose the freedom of navigation of Behring's Sea, which the United States have themselves in former years convincingly and successfully vindicated, nor to enforce their municipal legislation against British vessels on the high seas beyond the limits of their territorial jurisdiction. Her Britannic Majesty's Government is therefore unable to pass over without notice the public announcement of an intention on the part of the Government of the United States to renew the acts of interference with British vessels navigating outside the territorial waters of the United States, of which they had previously had to complain. The undersigned is in consequence instructed formally to protest against such interference, and to declare that her Britannic Majesty's Government must hold the Government of the United States responsible for the consequences that may ensue from acts which are contrary to the established principles of International law. The undersigned has the honour to renew to Mr. Blaine the assurance of his highest consideration. JULIAN PAUNCEFOTE. _14th June, 1890._ This correspondence showed me that the information given Mr. Staveley Hill had been based upon a good foundation, but this was followed in Congress a few days later by a demand for a return of a verbal message which was said to have been given by the British Ambassador to the Hon. James Blaine. The answer was that a search in the records of the State Department did not discover any reference to any such verbal message. I have no doubt but that some such message was given. About a year afterwards I was discussing matters with Sir C. Hibbert Tupper, and I asked him if when they were in Washington they were not at one time quite confident that the matter was practically settled. He said, "Yes, certainly; we had been discussing matters in a most amicable way, and had been coming nearer together, and at last we agreed to what we thought was a final settlement, when President Harrison interfered and broke off the whole negotiations." Lord Salisbury's bold and determined action had the desired effect, and soon an agreement was arrived at for an arbitration, which took place in Paris in 1893. In spite of the false translations and unreliable and false affidavits which appeared among the evidence produced on behalf of the United States claims, the decision on the point of International law was in our favour, and a large sum was awarded to our sealers for damages. Canada therefore came out of the dispute with credit to herself, owing to the firm and courageous stand of the Imperial Government under the leadership of that great Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury. My forecast to him of what he was likely to encounter in the negotiations was fully verified. CHAPTER XVI THE GREAT ELECTION OF 1891 I arrived home on the 15th June, and found that in my absence I had been vehemently abused both in a section of the Press and in the City Council, partly because I was not present to defend myself, and partly on account of the active manner in which I had been opposing the disloyal clique. Our Committee was still working earnestly in stirring up the feeling of loyalty, and from that time until the great election of March, 1891, the struggle was energetically maintained. Arrangements were made for demonstrations in the public schools on the 13th October, 1890, the anniversary of the victory of Queenston Heights, and on that day a number of prominent men visited the schools of Toronto and made patriotic addresses to the boys. I addressed the John Street Public School, and afterwards the boys of Upper Canada College. The _Globe_ attacked me on account of these celebrations in their issue on 13th October, and followed it up with another article on the 14th October. I answered both articles in a letter which appeared in the _Globe_ of the 16th October, and concluded as follows: As to your remarks that I should abstain from interfering "in the discussion of questions that have become party property," I may say that before I was appointed Police Magistrate I was a follower of Mr. Brown, Mr. Mackenzie, Mr. Blake, and Mr. Mowat. Since then I have never voted or taken part in any political meeting. Not that the law prevents it, but from my sense of what I thought right. I may say, however, on behalf of the friends with whom I used to work, that I utterly repudiate the suggestion that loyalty to Canada and her history is not equally the characteristic of both parties. There are a few, I know, who are intriguing to betray this country into annexation, but they are not the men I followed, and when the scheme is fully developed I have every confidence that Canadians of all political parties will be united on the side of Canada and the Empire. No politicians can rule Canada unless they are loyal. On any question affecting our national life I will speak out openly and fearlessly at all hazards. About the same time the _Empire_ newspaper, to help on the movement and to advertise it, offered a flag (12 feet by 6 feet in size), the Canadian red ensign with the arms of Canada in the fly, to that school in each county which could produce the finest essay on the patriotic influence of raising the flag over the school houses. Each school was to compete within itself, and the best essay was to be chosen by the headmaster and sent to the _Empire_ office. These essays from each county were carefully compared, and the finest essay secured the flag for the school from which it came. I read the essays and awarded the prizes for about thirty counties, and it was a pleasing and inspiring task. I was astonished at the depth of patriotic feeling shown, and was much impressed with the great influence the contest must have had in stirring up the latent patriotism of the people, spreading as it did into so many houses through the children. I was so much interested in what I read, and often found so much difficulty in deciding which was the best essay, that I felt that they all deserved prizes. I therefore decided to prepare a little volume of patriotic songs and poems, and to publish a large number and send a copy to the child in each school who had written the best essay, and a copy was also sent to the master of every school that had sent in an essay. I wrote to my friend Mr. E. G. Nelson, Secretary of the Branch of our League at St. John, New Brunswick, and told him what I was doing. I soon received from him a copy of a song, which he said my letter had inspired him to write. It was called "Raise the Flag." I give the first verse: Raise the flag, our glorious banner, O'er this fair Canadian land, From the stern Atlantic ocean To the far Pacific strand. _Chorus._ Raise the flag with shouts of gladness, 'Tis the banner of the free! Brightly beaming, proudly streaming, 'Tis the flag of liberty. I decided to use this as the first song and I called the little book: "RAISE THE FLAG, And other Patriotic Canadian Songs and Poems." On the front of the stiff cardboard cover a well-executed, brightly-coloured lithograph of a school-house with a fine maple tree beside it was seen, with a large number of children, boys and girls, waving their hats and handkerchiefs and acclaiming the flag which was being run up to the top of the flag-pole, the master apparently giving the signal for cheering. On the back of the cover was a pretty view of Queenston Heights, with Brock's monument the prominent object, and over this scene a trophy of crossed flags with a medallion containing Queen Victoria's portrait imposed on one, and a shield with the arms of Canada on the other. Over both was the motto "For Queen and Country." On the title page a verse of Lesperance's beautiful poem was printed just below the title. It contained in a few words all that we were fighting for, the object we were aiming at, and the spirit we wished to inspire in the children of our country: Shall we break the plight of youth And pledge us to an alien love? No! we hold our faith and truth, Trusting to the God above. Stand Canadians, firmly stand Round the flag of Fatherland. I asked a number of friends to assist me in the expense of getting out this book, and I feel bound to record their names here as loyal men who gave me cheerful assistance and joined me in supplying all the necessary funds at a time when we had many vigorous opponents and had to struggle against indifference and apathy:--George Gooderham, John T. Small, John Hoskin, J. K. Macdonald, J. Herbert Mason, Edward Gurney, Wm. K. McNaught, W. R. Brock, Allan McLean Howard, A. M. Cosby, Walter S. Lee, Hugh Scott, Thomas Walmsley, W. H. Beatty, A. B. Lee, John Leys, Jr., E. B. Osler, John I. Davidson, J. Ross Robertson, Hugh Blain, Hon. G. W. Allan, Henry Cawthra, Fred C. Denison, Oliver Macklem, G. R. R. Cockburn, James Henderson, R. N. Bethune, Sir Casimir Gzowski, C. J. Campbell and W. B. Hamilton. We published a good many thousand volumes and scattered them freely through the country before the election of 1891. I gave Lord Derby, then Governor-General of Canada, about a dozen copies, and he sent one to the Queen, and some months after he received a letter from Sir Henry Ponsonby asking him at the request of the Queen to thank me for the book. When the schools throughout the country received the flags which they had won, in many instances demonstrations were organised to raise the flag for the first time with due ceremony. I was invited to go to Chippawa to speak when their flag was first raised. There was a very large gathering of people from all over the county, and as an illustration of how the opportunity was used to stir up the patriotism of the people, I quote part of my address from the _Empire_ of the 30th December, 1890. I am pleased to come here to celebrate the raising of the flag, because Chippawa is in the very heart of the historic ground of Canada. Here was fought out in the past the freedom of Canada from foreign aggression. Here was decided the question as to whether we should be a conquered people, or free as we are to-day, with the old flag of our fathers floating over us as a portion of the greatest empire in the world. (Applause.) In sight of this spot was fought the bloody battle which is named after this village, within three miles in the other direction lies the field of Lundy's Lane, and a few miles beyond the Heights of Queenston. From Fort George to Fort Erie the whole country has been fought over. Under the windows of this room Sir Francis Bond Head in 1837 reviewed about three thousand loyal militia who rallied to drive the enemy from Navy Island. It is no wonder that here in old Chippawa the demonstration of raising the flag should be such a magnificent outburst of loyal feeling . . . There is nothing more gratifying than the extraordinary development of this feeling in the last year or two. All through the land is shown this love for Queen, flag, and country. From the complaining of some few disgruntled politicians, who have been going about the country whining like a lot of sick cats about the McKinley Bill, some have thought our people were not united; but everywhere, encompassing these men, stands the silent element that doth not change, and if the necessity arise for greater effort, and the display of greater patriotism, and the making of greater sacrifices, the people of this country will rise to the occasion. (Loud applause.) The cause of this outgrowth of patriotic feeling has been the belief that a conspiracy has been on foot to betray this country into annexation. The McKinley Bill was part of the scheme. But are you, the men of Welland, the men whose fathers abandoned everything--their homes, and lands and the graves of their dead--to come here penniless, to live under the flag of their ancestors, are you likely to sell your allegiance, your flag and your country, for a few cents a bushel on grain, or a cent or two a dozen on eggs? (Loud applause.) No! the men of this country are loyal. No leader of either party can lead any important fraction of his party into disloyalty. We may have a still greater strain put upon us. If the conspirators believe that stoppage of the bonding privileges will coerce us, the bonding privileges will be stopped. If so, we must set our teeth and stiffen our sinews to face it (applause), and the more loyal we are, the more prosperous and successful we will be. Our contemptuous treatment of the McKinley Bill had, I believe, a great influence in the defeat of the Republicans, and may cause the repeal of the Bill, and then when we get freer trade we will keep it, because our neighbours will know that we cannot be coerced into being untrue to our traditions. In whatever you do put the interest of Canada first, first before politics and everything. (Loud applause.) I addressed a number of meetings during the fall of the year and winter, all on patriotic subjects, endeavouring to arouse the people against Reciprocity or Annexation, and urging Imperial Unity as the goal for Canadians to aim at. I spoke on the 11th September, 9th October, 5th December, 29th December, 9th January, 1891, 19th January, 27th February, and the 17th March. I had written in February, 1890, as already mentioned, to Sir John A. Macdonald expressing my opinion that the next election would be fought on the question of loyalty as against disloyalty. All through the year I became more and more convinced of this, and foresaw that if the elections were postponed until 1892 it would give the Commercial Unionists and Annexationists more time to organise, and, what I dreaded most, give more time to our enemies in the United States to prepare the way for an election favourable to their views. I cannot do better to show the trend of affairs than copy from the _Empire_ of the 7th February, 1890. After referring to the disloyalty of Premier Mercier of Quebec, and quoting a statement of the Toronto _Globe_ that the Canadian people "find the colonial yoke a galling one" and that "the time when Canadian patriotism was synonymous with loyalty to British connection has long since gone by," the article copies the extract from the New York _World_ in which it states that "Nobody who has studied the peculiar methods by which elections are won in Canada will deny the fact that five or six million dollars judiciously expended in this country would secure the return to Parliament of a majority pledged to the annexation of Canada to the United States," and then goes on to say: This dastardly insult to our country is not only the work to order of a member of the staff of the New York _World_ but is adopted and emphasised by it with all the parade of display headings and of the black letter which we reproduce as in the original. So these plotters are contemplating the wholesale purchase of our country by the corruption of the electors on this gigantic scale, to return members ready to surrender Canada to a foreign Power. And for such insults as these we have mainly to thank the dastardly traitors who from our own land have by their secret information and encouragement to the foreign coveters of our country invited the insulting attack. By such baseness our enemies have been taught to believe that we will fall easy victims to their designs. Again, as so often before, we find the well deserved tribute to our Conservative statesmen that they are the bulwark of Canada against such assaults. Friends and enemies are fully in accord on this one point; that the opposition are not similarly true to their country is clearly indicated in this outspoken report, and it may also be observed that every individual or journal mentioned as favouring annexation is of the most pronounced grit stripe. It is, however, by no means true that the whole Liberal party is tainted with this treasonable virus. By thousands they are withdrawing from the leaders who are paltering with such a conspiracy, and are uniting themselves with the Conservatives to defend their country. Not the boasted six millions of United States dollars will tempt these loyal Canadians to sell their country. It is well, however, that Canada should thus be forewarned. Watching all we could learn of these movements, I became very anxious that the election should take place before another session. My brother, the member for West Toronto, agreed strongly with me on this point. Sir John Macdonald was gradually coming around to that view, but most of his colleagues differed from him. My brother happened to be in his office one day when several of the Cabinet were present, and Sir John asked him when he thought the election should come on. He replied, "As soon as possible," and urged that view strongly. Sir John turned to his colleagues and said, "There, you see, is another." This showed his difficulty. There had been some rumours of intrigues between some members of the Liberal party and the United States politicians. Sir Richard Cartwright was known to have gone down secretly to Washington to confer with Mr. Blaine, principally, it was believed, through the influence of Erastus Wiman. Honore Mercier was also believed to have been mixed up in the intrigues. In the month of November I had been able to obtain some private information in connection with these negotiations, and I went down to Ottawa on the 8th December, 1890, and had a private conference with Sir John Macdonald and gave him all the information I had gathered. I told him that Blaine and Sir Richard Cartwright had had a conference in Washington, and that Mr. Blaine had thanked Mr. Wiman for bringing Sir Richard to see him. During the autumn of 1890, Edward Farrer, then editor of the _Globe_, and one of the conspirators who were working for annexation, prepared a pamphlet of a most treacherous character, pointing out how best the United States could act to encourage and force on annexation. He had the pamphlet printed secretly with great care, only thirteen copies being printed for use among a few of the leading United States politicians. In Hunter, Rose and Co.'s printing office where it was being printed, there was a compositor who happened to know Mr. Farrer's handwriting, and who set up part of the type. He was struck with the traitorous character of the production, and gave information about it to Sir C. Hibbert Tupper, then in the Government. He reported it to Sir John Macdonald, and the latter sent Col. Sherwood, the chief of the Dominion police force, to Toronto, and told him to consult with me, and that I could administer the oath to the compositor, who swore to affidavits proving the circumstances connected with the printing of the pamphlet. The printer had proof slips of two or three pages when Col. Sherwood brought him to my office, and it was arranged that any more that he could get he was to bring to me, and I would prepare the affidavits and forward them on to Col. Sherwood. The proof sheets were watched so closely and taken back so carefully after the corrections were made, that it was impossible to get any of them, but the printer who gave us the information was able at the dinner hour to take a roller, and ink the pages of type after the printing had been finished and before the type had been distributed. The impressions were taken in the most rough and primitive way, and as he had only a few chances of doing the work without detection, he was only able to bring me about two-thirds of the pamphlet. These portions, however, contained enough to show the drift of the whole work, and gave Sir John Macdonald quite sufficient quotations to use in a public speech at Toronto in the opening of the election to prove the intrigues that were going on. The revelation had a marked influence on the election, not only in Toronto, but from one end of Canada to the other. It was a mystery to Farrer and the printers how Sir John had obtained a copy, for they assumed he had a complete copy. They were able to trace the thirteen copies, and Mr. Rose was satisfied no more had been printed. He gave me his theory shortly after, and I was amused to see how absolutely wrong he was. He had no idea that I knew anything about it. The secret was well kept. The printer who gave them to us, Col. Sherwood, Sir Hibbert Tupper, David Creighton, Sir John Macdonald, and myself, I have heard, were the only persons in the secret until the day Sir John brought it out at the great meeting in the Princess Theatre. In January, 1891, Sir John Macdonald came to Toronto. He was anxious to see me without attracting attention, and my brother Fred arranged for him to come to my office at an hour when the officials would be away for lunch, and we had a conference for about three-quarters of an hour. He was very anxious to get a letter to publish the substance of which I had known and which would have thrown much light upon the intrigues between two or three Liberal leaders and some of the United States politicians. I said I would do what I could to get the information, but I did not succeed. Before he left he asked me what I thought of bringing on the elections at once, or of waiting till the following year. I jumped up from my chair at the suggestion that he was in doubt, and said, "What, Sir John; in the face of all you know and all I know, can you hesitate an instant? You must bring the elections on at once. If you wait till your enemies are ready, and the pipes are laid to distribute the money which will in time be given from the States, you will incur great danger, and no one can tell where the trouble will end." I spoke very earnestly and Sir John listened with a smile, and got up to leave, saying to me, "Keep all your muscles braced up, and your nerves all prepared, so that if the House is suddenly dissolved in about three weeks you will not receive a nervous shock, but keep absolutely silent." He said this in a very humorous and quizzical way which was characteristic of him, and went off wagging his head from side to side as was his wont. I knew about Farrer's pamphlet and about other things which came out in this election, and I had two very warm friends in the Liberal Government of Ontario, Sir Oliver Mowat and the Hon. G. W. Ross. I did not wish them to be mixed up with any political scandal that might come out, nor did I wish them to commit themselves definitely to the party at Ottawa, who were advocating a policy which I was sure could not succeed, and the real meaning of which they could not support. I told them both I thought there would be unpleasant matters divulged, and begged of them to keep as far away from the election as they could. They both seemed to take what I said in good part, and they adjourned the session of the local Legislature till after the general election. Mr. Mowat arranged that his son Arthur Mowat was to run in West Toronto, and he spoke for him in his constituency, and also for the Honourable Alexander Mackenzie in East York. He made several speeches, all most loyal and patriotic in their tone. Mr. Ross spoke once in his own constituency. I told him after the election when it went against the Liberal party, that I had given him fair warning. He said, "Yes, but I only made one speech in my own constituency." Sir Oliver Mowat's assistance in Ontario saved the Liberal party in that Province from a most disastrous defeat, for the people had confidence in him and in his steadfast loyalty. When the election was going on, my brother said one day to me, "I think I shall defeat Mowat by four or five hundred." I replied, "Your majority will be nearer two thousand than one thousand." He said, "That is absurd; there never was such a majority in the city." I answered, "I know the feeling in Toronto," and using a cavalry simile said, "She is up on her hind legs, pawing the air, and you will see you will have nearly two thousand." The figure was one thousand seven hundred and sixty-nine, the largest majority in Ontario, I believe, in that election. The election supported the Macdonald Government with a large majority in the House and practically finished the attempt to entrap Canada into annexation through the means of tariff entanglements. Although dangerous intrigues went on for several years, they were neutralised by the loyal work of Sir Oliver Mowat and the Hon. G. W. Ross. CHAPTER XVII CONTEST WITH GOLDWIN SMITH Professor Goldwin Smith was the foremost, and most active, dangerous, and persistent advocate and leader of the movement for annexation to the United States that we have ever had in Canada. After leaving Oxford in 1868 he went to the United States, where he lectured at Cornell University for two or three years. Having taken part in a controversy in the Press over the Alabama question, in which he took the side of Great Britain, he aroused a good deal of hostility and criticism in the United States. In 1871 he removed to Toronto where he has ever since resided. He had some relatives living in Toronto in the suburb then known as Brockton. My father and I, two uncles, and a cousin then lived in that district, in which my house is situated, and we had a small social circle into which Mr. Goldwin Smith was warmly welcomed. He shortly after bought a house from my father near to his place, and we soon became close friends. In my father's lifetime Mr. Smith belonged to a small whist club consisting of my father, my uncle Richard, Major Shaw, and himself. After my father's death I took his place, and we played in each other's houses for some years, until Mr. Smith married the widow of Wm. Henry Boulton and took up his home in "The Grange." The distance at which he lived from us was then inconvenient, and in a few months we discontinued the club. In 1872 Mr. Smith was the prime mover in starting the _Canadian Monthly_ and asked me to contribute an article for the first number, and afterwards I contributed one or two more. At one time we contemplated writing a joint history of the American Civil War, in which I was to write the military part and he was to write the political. I even went to Gettysburg to examine the battlefield, and began to gather material, when we discovered that it would be a long and laborious work, and that under the copyright law at the time there would be no security as to our rights in the United States, as we were not citizens of the republic. So the project was abandoned. For many years Goldwin Smith and I were close friends, and I formed a very high opinion of him in many ways, and admired him for many estimable qualities. When the Commercial Union movement began, however, I found that I had to take a very decided stand against him, and very soon a keen controversy arose between us and it ended in my becoming one of the leaders in the movement against him and his designs. When he assumed the Honorary Presidency of the Continental Union Association, formed both in Canada and in the United States, and working in unison to bring about the annexation of the two countries, I looked upon that as rank treason, and ceased all association with him, and since then we have never spoken. I regretted much the rupture of the old ties of friendship, but felt that treason could not be handled with kid gloves. I shall now endeavour to give an account of the contest between us, because I am sure it had a distinct influence upon public opinion, and helped to arouse the latent loyalty of the Canadian people, and for the time at any rate helped to kill the annexation movement in Canada. I have already mentioned the incident of the dinner at the National Club where I said I would only discuss seriously annexation or independence with my sword. I did not think at that time that Mr. Smith was discussing the question in any other than a purely academic spirit; subsequent developments have satisfied me that even then he cherished designs that from my point of view were treasonable. In the early spring of 1887, Mr. Goldwin Smith was at Washington and went on to Old Point Comfort and became acquainted with Erastus Wiman, who was staying at the same hotel and who showed Mr. Smith some courtesy. Mr. Smith invited Wiman to pay him a visit in Toronto in the latter part of May, 1887, and shortly after it was found that the strongest supporter that Wiman had for his Commercial Union agitation was Mr. Goldwin Smith. As I have already said, during 1888-9-90, I was frequently addressing public meetings and speaking at banquets of all sorts of societies and organisations. We had also started the raising of the flags in the schools, the decoration of monuments, the singing of patriotic songs, &c., and generally we were waging a very active campaign against the Commercial Union movement. In 1891, the most dangerous crisis of the struggle, Mr. Smith commenced a series of lectures which were cleverly intended to sap the loyalty of our people and neutralise the effect of our work. The three lectures were delivered before the Young Men's Liberal Club of Toronto. The first was on "Loyalty" and was delivered on the 2nd February, 1891, and was intended to ridicule and belittle the idea of loyalty. In reply to this I prepared at once a lecture on the United Empire Loyalists which I delivered at the Normal School to a meeting of school teachers and scholars on the 27th of the same month. On the 11th May, 1891, Goldwin Smith delivered his second lecture on "Aristocracy." I saw now that there was a deliberate and treasonable design in these lectures to undermine the loyal sentiment that held Canada to the Empire, and as there was danger at any time of open trouble, I replied to this in another way. I delivered a lecture on the opening of the war of 1812 to point out clearly how much the loyal men were hampered by traitors at the opening of the war of 1812, and how they dealt with them then, how seven had been hanged at Ancaster, many imprisoned, and many driven out of the country, and I endeavoured to encourage our people with the reflection that the same line of action would help us again in the same kind of danger. On the 17th April, 1891, this lecture was delivered before the Birmingham Lodge of the Sons of England. On the 9th of the following November Goldwin Smith delivered his third lecture entitled "Jingoism." This was a direct attack on me and on what my friends and I were doing. This lecture aroused great indignation among the loyal people. I was asked by the Supreme Grand Lodge of the Sons of England to deliver a lecture in reply at a meeting to be called under their auspices, which it was intended should be a popular demonstration against Goldwin Smith, and a proof of the repudiation by the Toronto people of his views. The meeting was held in Shaftesbury Hall, then the largest room in the city for such purposes, and it was packed to the doors. My lecture was entitled "National Spirit," and was delivered on the 17th December, 1891. (_See_ Appendix B.) Referring to this lecture the _Empire_ of the 18th December, 1891, commented as follows: The fervour and appreciation of the large audience which assembled in the auditorium last evening to hear Colonel George T. Denison were undoubtedly due in great measure to the well-known ability of the lecturer and to the intrinsic qualities of the lecture--its wide range of fact, its high and patriotic purpose, the eloquence with which great historic truths were imparted--but its enthusiastic reception was due none the less to the fact that the lecturer struck a responsive note in the breasts of his hearers, and that he was expressing views which are the views of the ordinary Canadian, and which at this time are especially deserving of clear and emphatic enunciation. In marked contrast to the enthusiasm of this immense gathering was the small handful of disgruntled fledglings and annexationists who assembled lately in some obscure meeting place to hear the sentiments of Professor Goldwin Smith, though even there the respectable Liberal element was strong enough to utter a protest against the annexationist views of the Professor. For several years there has been afoot a determined attempt, promoted on its literary side by the writings and addresses of Professor Goldwin Smith, to undermine the national spirit, to disturb the national unity, and to arouse the latent impatience of an intensely practical people for any displays of the pride, the courage, and the patriotic sentiment of the country. By elaborate sneers at "loyalty," at "aristocracy," at "jingoism"; by perverting history, by appealing to the cupidity which always has temptations for a small section of every nation, this propaganda has been kept up persistently and malignantly, and it was not unfitting that Colonel Denison, who has been a foremost figure in stemming the movement by encouraging patriotic displays and honouring the memories of national heroes, should have met the enemy in the literary arena, and vindicated there, too, the righteousness and wisdom of encouraging national spirit. He has boldly met Professor Goldwin Smith's appeal to history, and triumphantly proved his case, and presents in this lecture to all thoughtful men, to all students of the past, incontrovertible evidence that the efforts being made in Canada to stimulate national patriotism and enthusiasm are in accordance with the experience of every virile and enduring race since the beginning of the world, and in thorough harmony with the experience of every young and developing community. Goldwin Smith addressed a meeting at Innerkip on the 4th October, 1892. He spoke on the question of freedom of speech, in defence of Elgin Myers, who had been dismissed from his position of Crown Attorney at Orangeville by Sir Oliver Mowat for publicly advocating annexation. I answered him in a speech at the banquet of the Kent Lodge of the Sons of England on the 11th October, 1892. On the 3rd December, 1892, the _Empire_ published the following correspondence: CANADA LIFE BUILDING, _Toronto, Nov. 30, 1892_. DEAR SIR, It is the unanimous wish of the members of the Continental Union Association of Toronto that you accept the position of honorary president of the Association. As you have for many years been an earnest advocate of the reunion of the English-speaking people on this continent, it is considered fitting that you should fill this position. I am desired to add that your acceptance would not necessarily involve your attendance at our meetings nor require you to take an active part. Yours respectfully, T. M. WHITE. GOLDWIN SMITH, ESQ., _Toronto_. TORONTO, _Dec. 2, 1892_. The Secretary of the Continental Association of Ontario. DEAR SIR, As the Continental Association does me the honour to think that my name may be of use to it, I have pleasure in accepting the presidency on the terms on which it is offered, as an honorary appointment. From active participation in any political movement I have found it necessary to retire. Your object, as I understand it, is to procure by constitutional means, and with the consent of the mother country, the submission of the question of continental union to the free suffrage of the Canadian people, and to furnish the people with the information necessary to prepare them for the vote. In this there can be nothing unlawful or disloyal. That a change must come, the returns of the census, the condition of our industries, especially of our farming industry, and the exodus of the flower of our population, too clearly show. Sentiment is not to be disregarded, but genuine sentiment is never at variance with the public good. Love of the mother country can be stronger in no heart than it is in mine; but I have satisfied myself that the interest of Great Britain and that of Canada are one. Let the debate be conducted in a spirit worthy of the subject. Respect the feelings and the traditions of those who differ from us, while you firmly insist on the right of the Canadian people to perfect freedom of thought and speech respecting the question of its own destiny. Yours faithfully, GOLDWIN SMITH. In March, 1893, an interesting episode in the struggle between the loyal people and Goldwin Smith occurred in connection with the St. George's Society, a most respectable and influential organisation of Englishmen and sons of Englishmen, formed for benevolent purposes. Mr. Goldwin Smith was a life member and a very generous contributor to the charitable funds of the Society. His open and active hostility to the Empire and to Canada's best interests, however, aroused a very bitter feeling of resentment, and in February, 1893, Mr. J. Castell Hopkins gave notice of motion of a resolution in the following words: Resolved, that in view of his advocacy of the annexation of the Dominion of Canada to the United States, his position as President of the Continental Union Association of Toronto, and the treason to his Sovereign to England and to Canada involved in these conditions, this body of loyal Englishmen request Mr. Goldwin Smith to tender his resignation as a life member of the St. George's Society, and hereby instruct the treasurer to return to Mr. Smith the fee previously paid for that privilege. This notice of motion aroused much heated discussion in the Press, numbers of letters being written strongly supporting Mr. Hopkins's resolution, one "member of the Society" writing under that name, quoted the object of the Society in its constitution "to unite Englishmen and their descendants in a social compact for the promotion of mutual and friendly intercourse," and he went on to say that there could be "no mutual and friendly intercourse between a true-hearted, honest, loyal Englishman and a traitor and enemy of England's power and position. . . . If the St. George's Society does not speak out with no uncertain sound it will be a disgrace to the Englishmen of Toronto and be a death blow to the Society. Most Englishmen would as soon join a society for friendly intercourse that contained thieves as one that contained traitors. The thief might steal one's money. The annexationist is striving to steal our birthright, our name, our place in history, and the lives of the thousands who would die in defence of their country and its institutions." A number of our Imperialists who belonged to the Society formed a committee to organise a plan of action. This committee met in my office. We were not satisfied with Mr. Hopkins's resolution, as it asked Goldwin Smith to resign, which he could easily avoid doing and so put the Society in a false position. On the afternoon of the day of the meeting our committee decided on a resolution which it was thought could be carried as a compromise. When the meeting was held after there had been considerable discussion, all upon the proper course of action, a committee was appointed to draft a resolution as a compromise, and the one we had prepared was adopted and carried unanimously. It was in the following terms: Whereas it has been brought to the attention of this Society that Mr. Goldwin Smith, one of its life members, has openly proclaimed himself in favour of severing Canada from the rest of the British Empire, and has also accepted the office of honorary president of an association having for its object the active promotion of an agitation for the union of Canada with the United States, therefore this Society desires emphatically to place on record its strong disapprobation of any such movement, and hereby expresses its extreme regret that the Society should contain in its ranks a member who is striving for an object which would cause an irreparable injury to the Dominion, would entail a loss to the motherland of a most important part of her Empire, and would deprive Canadians of their birthright as British subjects. This was soon followed by Mr. Smith's resignation from the Society. In spite of Mr. Goldwin Smith's farewells he had an article in the _Contemporary Review_ for January, 1895, on the Ottawa Conference of 1894. After reflecting on the manner in which the "delegates" were appointed, he went on to say the conference confined itself to discussing trade relations and communications, and that defence "was excluded by omission." He sneered at the French Militia who served in the North-West Rebellion, and attacked the Canadian-Pacific Railway, insinuating that it would be blocked in case of war, because part of it went through the State of Maine. He made a great deal of snow blocks also, and even said that the prediction made when the Canadian-Pacific Railway "was built, that the road would never pay for the grease on its axle wheels, though then derided as false, has, in fact, proved too true," and he absolutely stated that "as a wheat-growing speculation, the region has failed." The whole article was as inimical to Canada and the aspirations of the people as he with his literary ability and indifference as to facts could make it. This article aroused a good deal of criticism and hostility all over Canada. I received many letters from various parts of Canada, some from friends, some from strangers, asking me to reply to it. Sir Oliver Mowat urged me very strongly to answer it. I therefore prepared an article and sent it to the editor of the _Contemporary_ with a request that he should publish it. I wanted no remuneration, but claimed the right to answer many inaccuracies. I received from the editor the following letter: 11, OLD SQUARE, LINCOLN'S INN, W.C., _8th March, 1895_. DEAR SIR, I am afraid I cannot find a place for your article on Canada. But I do not think that you need fear misconstruction. We know Mr. Goldwin Smith as a man of great ability and cultivation, but he is not taken as a representative of the bulk of Canadian opinion. Believe me, Yours faithfully, PERCY WM. BUNTING. With this letter came my manuscript returned to me by same mail. I replied as follows: HEYDON VILLA, TORONTO, _23rd March, 1895_. DEAR SIR, Many thanks for sending me word so promptly about my article and for returning the manuscript which has safely arrived. I am glad to find that you do not take Goldwin Smith as a representative of the bulk of Canadian opinion, and can only express the regret of Canadians generally that his distorted and incorrect views about our country are so widely circulated in England. This is the more unfortunate when the bulk of Canadian opinion is refused a hearing. Yours, etc. I then sent the manuscript back to England to my friend Dr. George R. Parkin, and asked him to get it published in some magazine. After considerable delay, he succeeded in getting it in the _Westminster Review_ for September, 1895. It was received very well in Canada, many notices and copious extracts being printed in many of our papers. The _Week_ published the whole article in pamphlet form as a supplement. In the following January, the Press Association having invited Mr. Goldwin Smith to their annual banquet to respond with the Hon. G. W. Ross to the toast "Canada," some objection was raised by Mr. Castell Hopkins to his being endorsed to that extent. Mr. Hopkins was attacked for this in the _Globe_. I replied in his defence in the following letter, which explains why we of the Imperialist party followed Goldwin Smith so persistently and endeavoured to weaken his influence. It was not from ill-feeling but from an instinct of self-preservation as to our country: SIR, I have read an article in your issue of this morning, in reference to Mr. Goldwin Smith being asked to respond to the toast of "Canada" at the coming Press Association dinner, and censuring Mr. Hopkins for objecting to such a course. You say Mr. Hopkins's pursuit of Mr. Smith has become ridiculous, and you refer to the St. George's Society incident. As one who was present and took part in that affair, I may say that the feeling was that the fact of Mr. Smith being a member of the society gave him a recognition as an Englishman that he was not entitled to, in view of his hostility to the best interests of the empire. . . . Your editorial admits that Mr. Goldwin Smith "is a sincere advocate of political union." If so, he is a traitor to our constitution and our country. This political-union idea is no new or merely polemic discussion. It was advocated in 1775, and was crushed out by the strength of the Canadian people. It was advocated again in 1812, and again it brought war and bloodshed and misery upon our people, and by the lavish expenditure of Canadian lives our country and institutions were preserved. Again in 1837 it was advocated, and again produced bloodshed, and once more Canadian lives were lost in preventing it. Mr. Goldwin Smith knows this, or ought to, and he is the most potent element to-day in preparing the Yankee mind to take up the question of annexation. A belief in the States that we were favourable to annexation would do more than any possible cause to bring on an attempt to secure annexation by force. This belief led to the attempts in 1775 and 1812. In view of this, Goldwin Smith's conduct is treason of the worst kind. Such persistent hostility to the national life in any other country would not be tolerated for an instant. In Russia, under like circumstances, Goldwin Smith would long since have been consigned to the mines of Siberia. In Germany or Austria he would have been imprisoned. In France he would have been consigned to the same convict settlement as the traitor Dreyfus; while in the United States he would long since have been lynched. In the British Empire alone would he be safe--for he has found here in Canada the freest constitution, and the most tolerant and law-abiding people on earth, and these British institutions, under whose protection he is working against us, our people are determined to uphold at all hazards. I would not object to Mr. Smith appearing at any public function but that I feel it gives aid to him in misrepresenting and injuring our country. In 1812 we had just such men in Willcocks, Mallory, and Marcle, members of the House of Assembly, whose intrigues did much to bring war upon us. These men, as soon as the war broke out, went over to the enemy and fought against us, and Willcocks was killed in action fighting against Canada. Goldwin Smith will not follow his prototypes so far. On the first sign of danger he will escape, and settling in some comfortable retreat, probably among the orange groves on the Riviera, or perhaps in a villa on one of the Italian lakes, he will watch the struggle from afar, while "the overwhelming majority" of the opponents of political union in this country, or in other words the Canadian people, would be engaged in a fearful struggle in the defence of their native land and all that they hold dear. Those who know Mr. Smith best will readily imagine the sardonic smile with which he would read of our losses in action, of our difficulties, and the untold miseries that war always brings upon a people. I ask the Press Association if it is fair to their fellow-Canadians to allow our bitterest and most dangerous enemy to speak on behalf of our country? Is it fair to ask a loyal man like the Hon. G. W. Ross, who believes in Canada, to be coupled with a traitor? Among the other methods of arousing the patriotic feeling of our people was the erection of monuments on our great battlefields in memory of the victories gained in the struggle to preserve the freedom of our country in 1812-'14. The Lundy's Lane Historical Society, one of the patriotic organisations which sprang up over the Province, had started a movement for erecting a monument on the field of Lundy's Lane where the last important and the most hotly contested battle of the war took place in July, 1814. They had collected a number of subscriptions but not sufficient for the purpose, when Goldwin Smith offered through the late Oliver A. Howland to supply the balance required, provided that he might write the inscription so as to include both armies in the commemoration on equal terms. This offer was promptly declined by the Society, which had no desire to honour invaders who had made a most unprovoked attack upon a sparse people, who had nothing whatever to do with the assumed cause of the quarrel. Shortly after, the Canadian Government took the matter in hand, and provided the balance required for the Lundy's Lane Monument, and the full amounts required for monuments on the fields of Chateauguay and Chrysler's Farm. The Lundy's Lane Monument was finished and ready to be unveiled on the anniversary of the battle, the 25th July, 1895, and the Secretary of State, the Hon. W. H. Montague, had promised to unveil it and deliver an address. The day before Dr. Montague telegraphed to me that he could not go, and asked me to go on behalf of the Government and unveil the monument. I agreed, and he telegraphed to the President of the Society that I was coming. About two thousand people were assembled. It will be remembered that Mr. Goldwin Smith had commented severely upon the proposal to put up a monument at Lundy's Lane, in his lecture on "Jingoism" delivered in 1891. He said, "Only let it be like that monument at Quebec, a sign at once of gratitude and of reconciliation, not of the meanness of unslaked hatred." I replied to this in my lecture on "National Spirit" shortly after, and said that the Professor, "considering how he is always treating a country that has used him far better than he ever deserved, should be a first-class authority on the meanness of unslaked and unfounded hatred." At the time of the unveiling of the monument, when speaking in the presence of the officers and members of the Lundy's Lane Historical Society, I naturally felt it to be my duty to compliment them upon their work, to congratulate them on the success of their efforts, and to defend them from the only hostile criticism that I knew of being directed against them. I spoke as follows in concluding my address, as appears in the newspaper report: It was well, the speaker said, that they should commemorate the crowning victory, which meant that he could that day wear the maple leaf, could be a Canadian. He was aware of one peripatetic philosopher who had said that the noble gentlemen of Lundy's Lane Historical Society, in putting up a monument to Canadians alone, were doing nothing but displaying the signs of an unslaked hatred. He would say that to show themselves afraid to honour the memory of their forefathers would be to make an exhibition of contemptible cowardice. Lieut.-Colonel Denison then argued that every great nation which has ever existed has shown itself ready to acknowledge the deeds of those who had fought for it, and he cited Assyria, Egypt, Greece, and Rome in ancient history, and Switzerland in modern times, in proof of this assertion. The erection of such monuments, he said, taught the youth of the land to venerate the memory of the past, and encouraged that sentiment of nationality which was throbbing now so strongly in Canada. (Applause.) The past ten years have witnessed a great improvement in that respect, he said. The flag can be seen flying everywhere, the maple leaf is worn, and Canadian poets celebrate in verse the finest passages of our history. The speaker concluded by expressing the thanks of all to the Government for deciding to erect monuments to commemorate Canadian battlefields. He was glad that the first had been erected on this sacred frontier; that at Chrysler's Farm would mark the spot of a great victory, and he was glad for the thought of sympathy with their French-Canadian brothers which had led to the commemoration of the brilliant victory of Chateauguay, where, against the greatest odds of the war, 500 French-Canadians had defeated 5,000 Americans. Where France's sons on British soil Fought for their English king. They should never forget that they owed a sacred duty to the men who fought and died for the independence of their country. (Applause.) The Historical Society objected strenuously to a proposed inscription for the monument, and stopped its being engraved, and asked me to urge upon the Government to put something different. This was done, and I was asked by the Minister to draft one. It was accepted, and now stands upon the monument as follows: Erected by the Canadian Parliament in honour of the victory gained by the British and Canadian forces on this field on the 25th July, 1814, and in grateful remembrance of the brave men who died on that day fighting for the unity of the Empire. 1895 My speech was printed in the Toronto papers at some length, and some of Mr. Smith's friends censured me for having defended the Lundy's Lane Society from his attacks. A week or two later I was amused at receiving a visit from the Rev. Canon Bull, the President of the Lundy's Lane Society, who came across the Lake to see me, to lay before me a matter which had come before the Society, and of which after discussion they felt I should be made aware. I have mentioned above Mr. Goldwin Smith's offer made through Mr. Howland to subscribe for the monument provided he could write the inscription. This offer and its refusal the Society had kept strictly private, so that I was quite ignorant of it, and made my address in entire innocence of any knowledge in reference to it. Mr. Smith apparently jumped to the conclusion that I had been told of this offer, and that my comments had been caused by it. He wrote to Mr. Howland and asked him to put the matter right, and enclosed him a draft of a memo, which he wished Mr. Howland to send to the Society. Mr. Howland very innocently sent Mr. Smith's letter, his draft memo., and his own comments to the President of the Society, Rev. Mr. Bull. As soon as the correspondence was read, my old friend Mr. Wm. Kirby, author of _Le Chien d'Or_, said, "Col. Denison knew nothing of that offer, but Mr. Smith did make an attack in his lecture on 'Jingoism,' and Col. Denison had answered him in his lecture on 'National Spirit' which was published in the _Empire_ in 1891, and his remarks on that point at the unveiling were on the same lines." The Society refused to act on Mr. Howland's and Mr. Smith's suggestion, but decided that Canon Bull should come over to Toronto and lay the whole matter before me. I thanked Canon Bull and asked him to thank the Society, and the next day wrote to him, and asked him if I might have a copy of the letters. He wrote to me promptly, saying I might as well have the originals and enclosed them. I have them now. While Mr. Goldwin Smith was working so earnestly against the interests of the Empire, and while many were leaning towards Commercial Union, and some even ready to go farther and favour annexation, Mr. (afterwards Sir) Oliver Mowat, then Premier of Ontario, saw the danger of the way in which matters were drifting. I often discussed the subject with him, and knew that he was a thorough loyalist, and a true Canadian and Imperialist. He often spoke despondingly to me as to what the ultimate outcome might be, for, of course, the majority of the men who at the time favoured Commercial Union were among his supporters, and he would therefore hear more from that side than I would. In spite of his uneasiness, however, he was staunchly loyal. Mr. Biggar, his biographer, relates that just before the Inter-Provincial Conference in October, 1887, an active Liberal politician, referring to his opposition to Commercial Union, said to Mr. Mowat in the drawing-room of his house on St. George Street, "If you take that position, sir, you won't have four per cent. of the party with you." To which the reply came with unusual warmth and sharpness, "I cannot help it, if I haven't one per cent. I won't support a policy that will allow the Americans to have any--even the smallest--voice in the making of our laws." On the evening of the 18th February, 1891, in the election then coming on, Mr. Mowat spoke at a meeting in the Horticultural Pavilion, Toronto, and again his strong loyalty spoke out. He said among other things, "For myself I am a true Briton. I love the old land dearly. I am glad that I was born a British subject; a British subject I have lived for three score years and something more. I hope to live and die a British subject. I trust and hope that my children and my grand-children who have also been born British subjects will live their lives as British subjects, and as British subjects die." Sir Oliver Mowat's clear and outspoken loyalty prevented the Liberals from being defeated in Ontario by a very much greater majority than they were. During the summer of 1891, however, the annexation movement assumed a still more active form. Mr. Goldwin Smith was doing his utmost to stir up the feeling. Solomon White, who had been a Conservative, and was a member of the Ontario Legislature, induced a public meeting in Windsor, where he lived, to pass a resolution in favour of annexation. Encouraged by this, Mr. White arranged for a meeting in Woodstock in Mr. Mowat's own constituency of South Oxford, in the hope of carrying a resolution there to the same effect. While there was a feeling to treat the meeting with contempt, Mr. Mowat with keener political insight saw that such a course would be dangerous, not only to the country but to the Liberal party as well, and he wrote a letter on the 23rd November, 1891, to Dr. McKay, M.P.P., who represented the other riding of the county of Oxford in the House of Assembly. He wrote: With reference to our conversation this morning, I desire to reiterate my strong opinion that it would not be good policy for the friends of British connection and the old flag to stay away from Mr. Solomon White's meeting at Woodstock to-morrow. By doing so and not voting at the meeting they would enable annexationists to carry a resolution in favour of their views, and to trumpet it throughout the Dominion and elsewhere as the sentiment of the community as a whole. If in the loyal town of Woodstock, thriving beyond most if not all the other towns of Ontario, the capital of the banner county of Canadian Liberalism, formerly represented by that great champion of both British connection and Liberal principles, the Hon. George Brown, and noted heretofore for its fidelity at once to the old flag and to the Liberal views, if in such a place a resolution were carried at a public meeting to which all had been invited, no subsequent explanation as to the thinness of the attendance or as to the contemptuous absence of opponents would, outside of Oxford, have any weight. There are in most counties a few annexationists--in some counties more than in others; but the aggregate number in the Dominion I am sure is very small as compared with the aggregate population. The great majority of our people, I believe and trust, are not prepared to hand over this great Dominion to a foreign nation for any present commercial consideration which may be proposed. We love our Sovereign, and we are proud of our status as British subjects. The Imperial authorities have refused nothing in the way of self-government which our representatives have asked for. Our complaints are against parliaments and governments which acquired their power from our own people. To the United States and its people we are all most friendly. We recognise the advantages which would go to both them and us from extended trade relations, and we are willing to go as far in that direction as shall not involve, now or in the future, political union; but there Canadians of every party have hitherto drawn the line. The meeting passed by twelve to one the following resolution: That the people of Oxford of all parties are deeply attached to their beloved Sovereign, the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland; that they proudly recognise the whole British Empire as their country, and rejoice that Canada is part of that Empire; that Canadians have the most friendly feelings toward the people of the United States, and desire the extension of their trade relations with them; that while differing among themselves as to the extent of the reciprocity to be desired or agreed to, we repudiate any suggestion that in order to accomplish this object Canadians should change their allegiance or consent to the surrender of the Dominion to any foreign Power by annexation, political union, or otherwise. Sir Oliver Mowat's biographer states that Sir Oliver had determined in case a pro-annexation resolution should be carried at this meeting, to resign his seat for North Oxford, and appeal again to the constituency on the straight issue of British Connection _v._ Annexation. The morning Sir Oliver's letter appeared in the papers and we knew what had happened at Woodstock, I went up to his house and congratulated him warmly, and thanked him earnestly for his wise and patriotic action. I knew that as the leader of the Liberal party in Ontario he had delivered a death-blow to the annexation movement. I told him so. I said to him, "You had control of the switch and you have turned it so that the party will be turned towards loyalty and away from annexation. And when the future historian writes the history of our country, he will not understand his business if he does not point out clearly the far-reaching effect of your action in this matter." Sir Oliver seemed to think that I overrated the matter, but he told me that he had sent his secretary, Mr. Bastedo, to Woodstock to see his leading supporters, and to do what he could to help Dr. McKay to secure control of the meeting. Many years have elapsed, and I still hold the opinion I expressed to Sir Oliver that morning, and I feel that Canada should never forget what she owes to Sir Oliver Mowat, and that his name should always be cherished in the memories of our people. This was followed on the 12th December, 1891, by an open letter to the Hon. A. Mackenzie which was published as a sort of manifesto to the Liberal party, in which he made an exhaustive argument along the same lines. In the early part of 1892 Mr. Elgin Myers, County Attorney of Dufferin, was writing and speaking openly and strongly in favour of annexation, and on being remonstrated with by the Government, said he had the right of free speech, and would persist. Sir Oliver dismissed him from office. This was another strong lesson, and was heartily approved by the people generally. About the same time and for the same cause E. A. Macdonald was dismissed by the Dominion Government from the Militia, in which he held the rank of Lieutenant in the 12th York Rangers. On the 16th July, 1892, about two months after Elgin Myers' dismissal, a great meeting of loyal Canadians was held at Niagara-on-the-Lake, the first capital of the Province, to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the establishment of the Province of Upper Canada by Lt.-Governor Simcoe, who issued his first proclamation on July 16th, 1792, at Kingston. The Lt.-Governor, Sir George Kirkpatrick, made the first speech, and gave a historical sketch of the history of the Province. Sir Oliver Mowat followed him, and made a very loyal and effective speech. He commenced by saying: At this great gathering of Reformers and Conservatives in which both are equally active, I may be permitted to express at the outset a hope that there will be no attempt in any quarter to make party capital out of this historic event, or out of anything which may be said or left unsaid either in my own case or that of any other of the speakers. . . . As the Dominion grows in population and wealth, changes are inevitable and must be faced. What are they to be? Some of you hope for Imperial Federation. Failing that, what then? Shall we give away our great country to the United States as some--I hope not many--are saying just now? (Cries of "Never.") Or when the time comes for some important change, shall we go for the only other alternative, the creation of Canada into an independent nation? I believe that the great mass of our people would prefer independence to political union with any other people. And so would I. As a Canadian I am not willing that Canada should cease to be. Fellow Canadians, are you? (Cries of "No.") I am not willing that Canada should commit national suicide. Are you? (Cries of "No.") I am not willing that Canada should be absorbed into the United States. Are you? (Cries of "No.") I am not willing that both our British connection and our hope of a Canadian nationality shall be for ever destroyed. (Cheers.) Annexation necessarily means all that. It means, too, the abolition of all that is to us preferable in Canadian character and institutions as contrasted with what in these respects our neighbours prefer. . . . But I don't want to belong to them. I don't want to give up my allegiance on their account or for any advantage they may offer. . . . I cannot bring myself to forget the hatred which so many of our neighbours cherish towards the nation we love and to which we are proud to belong. I cannot forget the influence which that hatred exerts in their public affairs. I don't want to belong to a nation in which both political parties have for party purposes to vie with one another in exhibiting this hatred. I don't want to belong to a nation in which a suspicion that a politician has a friendly feeling towards the great nation which gave him birth is enough to ensure his defeat at the polls. . . . No, I do not want annexation. I prefer the ills I suffer to the ills that annexation would involve. I love my nation, the nation of our fathers, and shall not willingly join any nation which hates her. I love Canada, and I want to perform my part, whatever it may be, in maintaining her existence as a distinct political or national organisation. I believe this to be on the whole and in the long run the best thing for Canadians and the best thing for the whole American continent. I hope that when another century has been added to the age of Canada, it may still be Canada, and that its second century shall, like its first, be celebrated by Canadians unabsorbed, numerous, prosperous, powerful, and at peace. For myself I should prefer to die in that hope than to die President of the United States. (Cheers and applause.) Sir Oliver's biographer, C. R. W. Biggar, says of this speech: Quoted and discussed by almost every newspaper in Canada from Halifax to Vancouver, and also by the leading journals of Britain and the United States, Sir Oliver Mowat's speech at the Niagara Centennial Celebration sounded the death-knell of the annexation movement in Ontario. While Sir Oliver was speaking I was sitting close behind him, next to Mr. Wm. Kirby, who was a staunch loyalist and keen Imperialist. He was delighted and whispered to me, "Mr. Mowat has stolen your thunder," and again, "He is making your speech." I replied, "Yes, there will not be any need for me to say much now." And when I was called upon to speak after him I made a speech strongly supporting him but very brief, feeling, as I did, that he had done all that was necessary in that line. He was always impressed with the feeling of hostility in the United States. As I had been speaking upon that subject for years in unmistakable language, and was often abused for my outspoken comments, I was delighted on one occasion some years before at a Board of Trade banquet in the Horticultural Pavilion, Toronto, to hear him say positively "that the United States was a hostile nation." Afterwards in the cloak room I congratulated him warmly upon his speech, and thanked him for speaking so plainly about the hostility of the United States. Sir John A. Macdonald was standing by, and he turned playfully towards Mr. Mowat, and, shaking him by the shoulders, said, "Yes, Denison, did he not do well, the little tyrant?" This was in reference to the opposition papers having sometimes called him "the little tyrant." Mr. Mowat seemed highly amused, and I was much impressed by the evident kindly, almost affectionate, personal feeling between the two rival statesmen. The decided position taken by Mr. Mowat certainly had an immense influence upon the Liberal party, and in this he was ably seconded by the Hon. G. W. Ross, who on many occasions sounded a clear note in favour of British connection and Imperial consolidation. CHAPTER XVIII DISSOLUTION OF THE IMPERIAL FEDERATION LEAGUE IN ENGLAND On the 30th January, 1891, Sir Leonard Tilley, of New Brunswick, was appointed President of the League in Canada in place of D'Alton McCarthy, mainly through the instrumentality of Principal Grant, who was of the opinion that the course taken by Mr. McCarthy in opposition to the Jesuit Estates Act and his movement in favour of Equal Rights were so unsatisfactory to the French Canadians that the prospect of the League obtaining their support would be hopeless while he remained President. Sir Leonard Tilley was one of the Fathers of Confederation, and at the time Lieutenant-Governor of New Brunswick. A meeting of the Council of the League in Canada was held on the 18th September, 1891, Sir Leonard Tilley, President, in the chair, when after careful discussion they passed a resolution asking the League in England to help the Canadian Government to secure the denunciation of the German and Belgian treaties, and a second one urging once more the importance of a preferential trade arrangement between the Mother Country and the Colonies. On the 30th of the same month, both Houses of the Canadian Parliament passed unanimously an address to the Imperial Government, asking them to denounce the German and Belgian treaties which prevented preferential trade arrangements between the various parts of the British Empire. The Seventh Annual General Meeting of the League in Canada was held in the Tower Room, House of Commons, Ottawa, on the 1st March, 1892, Mr. Alexander McNeill in the chair. A still further advance in the policy of the Canadian League was made in a resolution moved by Lt.-Col. W. Hamilton Merritt and carried as follows: That in the event of preferential inter Imperial trade relations being adopted in the British Empire, it is the opinion of this League that Canada will be found ready and willing to bear her share in a just and reasonable proportion of Imperial responsibilities. On the 28th April, 1892, Mr. McNeill moved in the House of Commons: That if and when the Parliament of Great Britain and Ireland admits Canadian products to the markets of the United Kingdom upon more favourable terms than it accords to the products of foreign countries, the Parliament of Canada will be prepared to accord corresponding advantages by a substantial reduction in the duties it imposes upon British manufactured goods. This was carried by ninety-eight votes to sixty-four. All this was very gratifying to our League, and proved to us that the campaign we had been waging in Canada for nearly five years had convinced the majority of the people of the soundness of our policy. We had our Parliament with us both on the question of the German and Belgian treaties and preferential tariffs. In Great Britain, however, our progress had been slow; with the exception of Sir Howard Vincent no prominent British politician had accepted the principle of preferential tariffs. Lord Salisbury had spoken tentatively at the Guildhall on the 9th November, 1890, and at Hastings on the 18th May, 1892, but he was, while in a sense favourable, very cautious in his remarks, as he felt public opinion in Great Britain was quite averse to any such policy on account of their obstinate adherence to the principle of Free Trade. The majority of the Imperial Federation League in England were not at all favourable to the views of the Canadian League, and the Journal of the League showed its bias in all its articles on the subject, while Lord Knutsford on behalf of the Imperial Government in his dispatch on the 2nd April, 1892, in answer to the joint address of the Canadian Houses of Parliament declared, that for reasons given, "Her Majesty's Government have felt themselves unable to advise Her Majesty to comply with the prayer of the address which you have transmitted for submission to Her Majesty." The Eighth Annual General Meeting of the League in Canada was held in Montreal on the 13th February, 1893, Mr. Alexander McNeill, Vice-President, in the chair, and a resolution was carried, asking the Government to request the Imperial Government to summon an Imperial Conference. Sir Leonard Tilley wrote to the meeting asking to be relieved of the duties of President, and advising the election of Mr. Alexander McNeill in his place. In my absence, through Mr. McNeill's efforts, I was elected President of the League. I accepted the position, and on examination of its affairs I found that from a business point of view it was in a very bad condition. The work of the Secretary was behindhand, the League was without funds and considerably in debt. I soon succeeded in placing it in a much better position. A large amount of arrears of fees was collected, and with the assistance of Mr. Herbert Mason and the late C. J. Campbell we soon secured subscriptions from a number of friends of the cause, whose names I feel should be recorded as they aided the movement for many years. The list of subscribers was as follows: George T. Denison, J. Herbert Mason, George Gooderham, A. R. Creelman, John T. Small, A. B. Lee, D'Alton McCarthy, Sir Sandford Fleming, Sir Frank Smith, Alfred Gooderham, T. G. Blackstock, D. R. Wilkie, Larratt W. Smith, E. B. Osler, A. M. Cosby, George R. R. Cockburn, Hugh Blain, Albert E. Gooderham, W. G. Gooderham, and W. H. Beatty. The debts were paid, and a balance on hand and the future expenses for some years secured. A new secretary was appointed, and everything was in good working order. I had barely succeeded in this when I received from the secretary of the League in England a communication marked "Strictly private and confidential," informing me that there was a proposal to dissolve the League, and close its business. I was much astonished and alarmed at this information, and much embarrassed by the strict secrecy imposed on me, but a day or two afterwards I found by the cable dispatches in the Toronto papers that the matter had come before the Council in England and that the motion had been adjourned for six months. I concluded that the six months' hoist meant the end of it. So I preserved the strict request for secrecy which had been made to me. I had before written privately in reply to the Secretary, Mr. A. H. Loring, protesting against the proposition to dissolve the League. And I happened to mention that I personally would feel inclined to keep up the struggle. I thought the postponement had settled the matter, but as Mr. John T. Small, the Hon. Treasurer, was going to England that summer, and as he was a member of the Executive Committee of the League in England and entitled to know what was being done, I urged him very particularly to go to the head office in London, and inquire carefully as what was going on. When he returned he told me that he had twice tried to see Mr. Loring but failed, that he had asked for his address, which the clerk said he could not give him as he was away on his holidays, and Mr. Small was assured by the clerk that there was nothing going on, and that there was no information that he knew of to give him. All this lulled me into a feeling of security. Suddenly on 25th November, 1893, the news came by cable to the Press that on the previous day a meeting had been held in London, and that the League had been dissolved. The meeting was called by a circular dated 17th November, so that there was no possibility for the Canadian members of the Council in England to have attended, even if notices had been sent to them, which was not done. In the Journal for the 1st December, 1893 (the last issue of that publication), it is stated that discussion had been taking place in the meetings of the Executive Committee during the previous six months, to decide upon the course of action to be adopted by the League in the immediate future; and it shows that a special committee had been appointed to consider the matter. The report of this committee was signed by the Rt. Hon. Edward Stanhope, M.P., President, Lord Brassey, Sir John Colomb, R. Munro-Ferguson, M.P., H. O. Arnold-Forster, M.P., S. Vaughan Morgan, the Lord Reay, and J. G. Rhodes. This committee reported "a recommendation, that the operations of the League should be brought to a close." "This report was discussed at several meetings of the Executive Committee, and alternative proposals were carefully considered during the autumn," and on the 24th November, 1893, the report was adopted by a vote of 18 to 17, Mr. Loring saying he had been assured that the Canadian League would continue as heretofore. In spite of all these discussions mentioned, Mr. Small was assured there was nothing going on, and the Canadian League were kept in ignorance of the movement until it was accomplished. This dissolution of the League at a council meeting to which none of the thirty-five Canadian members representing the Canadian Branch were either invited or notified, caused a considerable feeling of dissatisfaction among our members, and was a severe and disheartening blow to all friends of the cause in Canada, the concealment and secrecy of the whole movement being very unsatisfactory to everyone. I called a meeting of our Executive Committee at once for the 27th November when the matter was considered. A resolution was moved and unanimously carried that the Secretary should notify the Secretary of the Imperial Federation League to stop the paper at the end of this year, and if the journal should be continued that they should communicate direct with the Canadian subscribers. The following resolution was also, after careful consideration, carried unanimously: Moved by G. R. R. Cockburn, Esq., M.P., seconded by H. J. Wickham: 1. That the Executive Committee having had brought to its notice telegrams from England published during the past week in the daily papers stating that the Council of the League in England contemplated carrying resolutions tending towards its dissolution, would ask (as it conceives it has the right to do) to be advised at once of any steps proposed to be taken in that direction. 2. The Canadian Branch of the League was formed at a meeting held in Montreal on the 9th May, 1885. At that meeting the resolutions passed at the Conference held in London on the 29th July, 1884, and at the inaugural meeting of the League held on the 18th November, 1884, were accepted, and a resolution was then carried forming a Canadian Branch of the League, to be called the Imperial Federation League in Canada. 3. Among the resolutions of the League in England so accepted were the following:-- (1) That the object of the League be to secure by federation the permanent unity of the Empire. (2) That British subjects throughout the Empire be invited to become members and to form and organise branches of the League which may place their representatives on the general committee. 4. Canada then was, and is to-day, face to face with momentous questions involving its whole political future. The Earl of Rosebery then and until recently President of the League, in a speech at Edinburgh on the 31st October, 1888, quoted from a speech delivered in the American Senate by Senator Sherman these words: "I am anxious to bring about a public policy that will make more intimate our relations with the Dominion of Canada. Anything that will tend to the union of Canada with the United States will meet with my most hearty support. I want Canada to be part of the United States. Within ten years from this time (and I ask your particular attention to this), within ten years from this time the Dominion of Canada will, in my judgment, be represented either in the Imperial Parliament of Great Britain, or in the Congress of the United States." Such language he thought worthy of attention, and then Lord Rosebery went on to say: "My plan is this: to endeavour so to influence public opinion at home and in the Colonies that there shall come an imperious demand from the people of this country, both at home and abroad, that this federation should be brought about." 5. To bring about a solution of the questions above indicated on the lines laid down by Lord Rosebery has been, since the formation of the Canadian Branch and up to this time, its constant and anxious care, and many of its members have, at great personal sacrifice, devoted themselves to securing the permanent unity of the Empire, with Canada as an integral part. 6. Much work has been done, but much more remains to be done. The most enthusiastic of our members would be unable to say that the objects of the League have been accomplished, or that the question above referred to especially affecting Canada has as yet been solved. 7. The dissolution of the League in England would therefore be nothing less than the desertion of the Canadian Branch at a critical period in its history, and would further appear necessarily to involve the destruction of the Leagues branches both in Canada and elsewhere. To those at least who are unfriendly to our aims, it will seem that the great cause, of which this branch may without exaggeration be said to be the representative in Canada, has received a heavy blow indeed at the hands of its friends. 8. Under these circumstances the Council of the League in England will, this committee is convinced, appreciate the necessity and propriety of consulting the Canadian Branch of the League, and of duly notifying the members resident in Canada, of the Executive Committee and of the Council of the League in England, before taking any such step as that above referred to, a step to which this committee has seen the first and only reference in the public Press. Not long afterwards we learned that a small faction, principally those who had managed to destroy the League, had formed a new organisation, had taken over the office, appropriated the records, lists of members, subscription list, &c., and adopted the same trade mark or title cover used for pamphlets. They also assumed the name "Imperial Federation (Defence) Committee," and began circulating literature, pamphlets, fly-sheets, &c., all pointing out the shortcomings of the Colonies, and demanding cash contributions to the Army and Navy. This was done in a spirit that aroused a good deal of hostile feeling in Canada, and did much more harm than good to the cause they seemed to advocate. Had they desired to destroy the movement in Canada, they could not have taken more effective steps to secure that result. This intrigue has been the most puzzling circumstance connected with the history of the Imperial Federation movement. I have never been able, even after the most careful inquiry, to reach with confidence the real cause of such peculiar conduct. At one time I thought that as Lord Rosebery had become Premier the existence of the League might have become embarrassing to him, and that he had been in favour of doing away with it, but Dr. Parkin assured me that this could not be, as Lord Rosebery referred to the question some years after when Dr. Parkin was his guest at Mentmore, and asked him why the League was dissolved, and Lord Rosebery said that he regretted its dissolution very much and could never understand it. My own impression, although it is, of course, not capable of proof, has always been that a few free traders on the committee were alarmed at the progress the Canadian members were making in spreading views in favour of preferential tariffs, and in reference to which Sir Charles Tupper had been rather aggressive. The destruction of the League would have been useless unless steps were taken to prevent its revival, and to destroy, if possible, the League in Canada. Hence the adoption of the name, address, trade mark, etc., under which to flood Canada with publications tending to arouse great hostility among our people. This was the condition in which I found affairs only about ten months after I had been elected President. The outlook was most discouraging, and caused a great deal of anxious discussion among the stalwarts in Toronto. We decided to summon a meeting of our most influential men to consider the situation, and decide whether we also should dissolve, or whether we would continue the struggle. The meeting was held on the 3rd January, 1894, and after full discussion it was decided to fight on, and with the assistance of Sir John Lubbock, who had sent a communication to us asking us to co-operate with him, to endeavour to resuscitate the League in England. The ninth annual meeting of the Imperial Federation League in Canada was held in the Parliament Buildings, Ottawa, on the 29th May, 1894, and in the notices of motion printed in the circular calling the meeting was one by Lt.-Col. Wm. O'Brien, M.P., as follows: Resolved, that the first step towards arriving at a system of preferential trade within the Empire should be for the Government of Canada to lower the customs duties now imposed upon goods imported from the United Kingdom. And another to the same effect by Rev. Principal George M. Grant: Resolved, that this League is of opinion that as a first step towards arriving at a system of preferential trade within the Empire, the Government of Canada should lower the Customs duties now imposed on goods manufactured in and imported from Great Britain. These notices exactly foreshadowed the policy adopted by Sir Wilfrid Laurier's Government in 1897. Another resolution was carried to the effect that a delegation should be elected by the Executive Committee to confer personally with the City of London Branch and similar organisations, and agree upon a common course of future action. Accordingly on the 6th June, 1894, the Executive Committee appointed "Colonel G. T. Denison President, Larratt W. Smith, Esq., Q.C., LL.D., President Toronto Branch, George E. Evans, Esq., Hon. Secretary of the League in Canada, John T. Small, Esq., Hon. Treasurer, H. J. Wickham, Esq., Chairman of the Organising Committee, J. L. Hughes, Esq., J. M. Clark, Esq., and Professor Weldon, M.P., to be the delegation, with power to add to their number." Messrs. Clark, Small, and Weldon were unable to act, and Sir Charles Tupper, then High Commissioner, Lord Strathcona, and Lt.-Col. Septimus Denison, Secretary and Treasurer of the London Ontario Branch, were added to the delegation. This was the turning point of the movement, and led to the organisation of the British Empire League and the continuance of the struggle for Imperial consolidation. The account of this mission, its work in England, and the subsequent proceedings of the new League, and the progress of the movement for Imperial Unity during the succeeding years, will be dealt with in the following chapters. CHAPTER XIX ORGANISATION OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE LEAGUE I left for England on the 27th June 1894, arrived in London on the 9th July, and at once called upon Sir John Lubbock, M.P., now Lord Avebury. I breakfasted with him on the 13th, when we thoroughly discussed the whole question. I pressed upon him the urgent need there was that we should have a head office in England, and how important the movement was in order to spread and maintain the Imperial sentiment in Canada. He was most sympathetic and friendly, and said that if it would be convenient for us he would gather a number of men favourable to the idea to meet us at his house a week later, on the 20th July. I wrote to the members of the delegation, and gathered them the day before at Lord Strathcona's rooms on Dover Street, and secured the attendance of Sir Charles Tupper, who was then High Commissioner for Canada, and also a member of our League, and we added him to the committee. We discussed our policy at considerable length, and arranged to meet at Sir John Lubbock's in St. James's Square the following morning at eleven a.m. I happened to be breakfasting at the United Service Club that morning with Lord Roberts and General Nicholson, and Lord Roberts hearing that I was going to Sir John Lubbock's, said that he had been asked to attend the meeting, but had not intended to go. I prevailed upon him to accompany me. Sir John Lubbock had a number of gentlemen to meet us, among whom were Sir Westby Percival, Agent-General for New Zealand, the Hon. T. A. Brassey, Messrs. C. Freeman Murray, W. Culver James, W. H. Daw, W. Becket Hill, Ralph Young, H. W. Marcus, and others. Sir John Lubbock was in the chair and Mr. Freeman Murray was secretary. As chairman of our deputation, I put our case before the meeting, following the lines agreed upon at the conference at Lord Strathcona's rooms the day before. I spoke for about forty minutes, and naturally urged very strongly the importance of preferential trading throughout the Empire, as a practical means of securing a permanent unity, and I insisted that we should make the denunciation of the German-Belgian Treaties one of the definite objects of the League. The City of London Branch had prepared a programme of a suggested constitution, which contained nearly all the clauses afterwards agreed upon as the constitution of the British Empire League. Our Canadian delegation accepted all their suggestions, but we insisted on a clause referring to the German and Belgian Treaties. Our English friends were evidently afraid of the bogey of Free Trade, and seemed to think that any expressed intention of doing away with the German and Belgian Treaties would prevent many free traders from joining the League. I urged our view strongly, and was ably assisted by speeches from Sir Charles Tupper, Lord Strathcona, and Sir Westby Percival. Our English friends still held out against us. At last I said that we had agreed with all they had advocated, had accepted all their suggestions, but that when we asked what we considered the most important and necessary point of all, the denunciation of the German and Belgian Treaties, we were met with unyielding opposition, that there was no object in continuing the discussion, and we would go home and report to our League that, even among our best friends, we could not get any support towards relieving us of restrictions that should never have been placed upon us. Mr. Becket Hill seeing the possibility of the meeting proving abortive, suggested an adjournment for a week. Mr. Herbert Daw immediately rose, and in a few vigorous sentences changed the tone. He said that the Canadians had agreed with them in everything, and that when they urged a very reasonable request they were not listened to. He said that was an unwise course to take, and urged that an attempt should be made to meet our views. Sir John Lubbock then said: "Perhaps I can draw up a clause which will meet the wishes of our Canadian friends," and he wrote out the following clause: To consider how far it may be possible to modify any laws or treaties which impede freedom of action in the making of reciprocal trade arrangements between the United Kingdom and the colonies, or between any two or more British Colonies or possessions. I said at once that we would accept that clause, provided it was understood that we of the Canadian Branch should have the right to agitate for that which we thought was the best, and the only way, probably, of unifying the empire. We claimed we were to have the right to work for the denunciation of the treaties with the view of securing preferential tariffs around the Empire, and that in so doing we were not to be considered as violating the constitution of the League, although the central council was not to be responsible for the views of the Canadian Branch. That settled the matter at once, and the League was formed. Difficulty was found in deciding upon a name. We wished to retain the old name, but the arguments in favour of a change were so great that we yielded to the wishes of our English brethren. A number of names were suggested, most of them long and explanatory, when Mr. James L. Hughes suggested that as the object was the maintenance of the British Empire why not call the League simply "The British Empire League." This appealed to all, and it was at once adopted, so that Mr. Hughes was the godfather of the League. It was then arranged that a meeting of the old City of London branch of the Imperial Federation League should be called at the London Chamber of Commerce. It was held on the 26th July, when several of us addressed the meeting, and an organising committee was formed for undertaking the work of the reconstruction of the League. It consisted of the Canadian deputation and the following gentlemen: The Earl of Derby, Earl of Jersey, Earl of Onslow, Earl of Dunraven, Field Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar, Lord Brassey, Lord Tennyson, Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P., Sir Algernon Borthwick, Bart., M.P., Sir Charles Tupper, Bart., Sir Westby Percival, Sir Fred Young, Major General Ralph Young, Lieut.-Colonel P. R. Innes, Dr. W. Culver James, Messrs. F. Faithful Begg, M.P., W. Herbert Daw, E. M. Headley, W. Becket Hill, Neville Lubbock, Herman W. Marcus, John F. Taylor, and Freeman Murray. Addressing this meeting at some length, I endeavoured to show the importance of settling the North-West, as well as other portions of Canada, with a population of British people if possible, who would grow grain to supply the wants of the mother country. I stated that a preferential tariff against the United States would keep our people in Canada, and would cause settlers from Great Britain to make their homes in that country; and that in a very little time the North-West Territories would be occupied by a large population of loyal people, who would be devoted to the Empire, and would be able to supply all the bread-stuffs that England would require. In order to impress that upon the audience, I drew their attention to the fact that if England was engaged in a war with continental countries, say, for instance, Russia and France, it would cut off the supply of wheat from the former country; and that if hostilities were also to break out between the United States and England, it would confine the mother country's wheat supply to India, Australia, and Canada; that the distance was so great that it would take an enormous naval force to keep the sea routes open, and that these would be constantly liable to attack and interruption unless England had absolute command of the sea. I then went on to say that I was aware that there was a strong feeling in England that there was no possibility of a war with the United States, but warned the meeting that they must not rely upon that belief, and I quoted several facts to prove my view. Within eighteen months the Venezuelan Message of President Cleveland, followed as it was by the warlike approving messages to Mr. Cleveland from 42 out of the 45 Governors of States, proved how easily trouble might arise. Mr. James L. Hughes also addressed this meeting, and we were strongly supported by a member of the Fair Trade League, who used some powerful arguments in favour of some steps being taken to improve the position of the "Food Supply." He was answered by Mr. Harold Cox, Secretary of the Cobden Club, who said that my proposition was one that would abolish Free Trade, and substitute Protection for it. In spite of his appeal to the intense prejudice of the British people, at that time in favour of Free Trade, the idea of an Imperial Preferential tariff seemed to have considerable weight upon those who heard it expounded. Lord Tennyson was present at the meeting and spoke to me afterwards, approving of much of my speech, but regretting I had spoken so freely about the United States. I replied that the very fact of his criticism was a strong proof of the necessity for my speaking out, and told him I would send him some publications which would enable him the better to appreciate our view. This I did. He has been a strong supporter of the British Empire League and acted on the Executive Committee from the first. I addressed a large meeting at Hawick, Scotland, on the 17th August, 1894, and for the first time in Scotland advocated our Canadian policy. My friend Charles John Wilson organised the meeting. I spoke in much the same strain as in London. Although my remarks were well received it was evident that free trade opinion was paramount, and that I did not have any direct support in the meeting. One member of the Town Council told me at the close that, while they were all free traders, yet I had given them food for thought for some time. At the Congress of Chambers of Commerce of the Empire held in London in July, 1906, my friend Mr. Charles John Wilson, who spoke at my meeting in Hawick in 1894, was a representative of the South of Scotland Chamber of Commerce, and made a powerful speech in favour of the Canadian resolution which endorsed Mr. Chamberlain's policy of preferential tariff, and his Chamber of Commerce voted for it. The organising committee appointed at the London meeting took a considerable time in arranging the details. Lord Avebury told me that he had considerable difficulty in getting a prominent outstanding man as President, and that the negotiations took up a great deal of time. He wished to secure the Duke of Devonshire, and he being very busy, could not give much time, and only agreed at length to take the position on the understanding that Sir Robert Herbert who, for many years had been the Permanent Under Secretary for the Colonies, and was about to be superannuated, should undertake to act as chairman of the Executive Committee and attend to the management of the League. When all was arranged, a large meeting was held at the Mansion House on the 27th January, 1896, the Lord Mayor in the chair, and then the British Empire League was formally inaugurated, the constitution adopted, and a resolution, moved by Lord Avebury, carried: That the attention of our fellow-countrymen throughout the Empire is invited to the recent establishment of the British Empire League, and their support by membership and subscription is strongly recommended. It may be mentioned that when our deputation reported to the League in Canada the arrangements we had agreed to, it was suggested that an addition should be made to the constitution by the insertion of what is now the second clause of it. "It shall be the primary object of the League to secure the permanent unity of the Empire." This, of course, had been well understood, but the Canadian League desired it to be placed in the constitution in formal terms. The request was made to the committee in England, and it was at once acceded to. A special general meeting of the Imperial Federation League in Canada was held in the Tower Room, House of Commons, Ottawa, on the 4th March, 1896, to consider the annual report of the Executive Committee, and the recommendation therein contained, that the League should change its name to that of the British Empire League in Canada, and affiliate with the British Empire League. As President of the League I occupied the chair. Among those present were: Sir Charles Tupper, Bart., G.C.M.G. ; Sir Donald Smith, K.C.M.G. ; the Hon. Arthur R. Dickey, M.P. ; Senators W. J. Almon, C. A. Boulton, John Dobson, Thomas McKay, Clarence Primrose, W. D. Perley, and Josiah Wood. The following members of Parliament: W. H. Bennett, G. F. Baird, T. D. Craig, G. R. R. Cockburn, Henry Cargill, George E. Casey, F. M. Carpenter, G. E. Corbould, Dr. Hugh Cameron, Emerson Coatsworth, D. W. Davis, Eugene A. Dyer, Thomas Earle, Charles Fairburn, W. T. Hodgins, A. Haslam, Major S. Hughes, David Henderson, Charles E. Kaulbach, J. B. Mills, A. C. Macdonald, J. H. Marshall, James Masson, J. A. Mara, W. F. Maclean, D'Alton McCarthy, G. V. McInerney, John McLean, H. F. McDougall, Major R. R. Maclennan, Alex. McNeill, W. B. Northrup, Lt.-Col. O'Brien, H. A. Powell, A. W. Ross, Dr. Thomas Sproule, J. Stevenson, William Smith, Lt.-Col. Tisdale, Thomas Temple, Lt.-Col. Tyrwhitt, Dr. N. W. White, R. C. Weldon, R. D. Wilmot, W. H. Hutchins, Major McGillivray, William Stubbs, J. G. Chesley, A. B. Ingram; and Messrs. S. J. Alexander, Sandford Fleming, C.M.G., N. F. Hagel, Q.C., James Johnston, Thomas Macfarlane, Archibald McGoun, C. C. McCaul, Q.C., Joseph Nelson, J. C. Pope, E. E. Sheppard, J. G. Alexander, J. Coates, Joseph Nelson, McLeod Stewart, R. W. Shannon, Major Sherwood, Major Clark, Dr. Kingsford, Dr. Beattie Nesbitt, Prof. Robertson, Dr. Rholston, Lt.-Col. Scoble, Captain Smith, George E. Evans (Hon. Secretary), and others. I moved the adoption of the annual report, which contained a copy of the constitution of the British Empire League, and recommended that the Canadian League be affiliated with that body. As to the question of changing the name of the League, I said: That the Canadian delegation had urged the retention of the name Imperial Federation League, but the arguments in favour of the change were so great that we felt we had to yield to the wishes of our English brethren. The word Federation was objected to by some, and there is no doubt that to attempt to prepare a fixed and written constitution for a federated Empire, with all its divergent interests, would be a very difficult thing to do. If a dozen of the very ablest men in all the Empire were to devote any amount of time and their greatest energies to prepare a scheme for such a federation, and succeeded in making one practical and workable under existing conditions, might not ten or twenty years so change the conditions as to make a fixed written constitution very embarrassing and unsuitable? Such a method is not in accord with the genius of the British Constitution. The British Constitution is unwritten; it has "broadened down from precedent to precedent," always elastic, always adapting itself to changing conditions. So should the idea of British unity be carried out. Let us work along the lines of least resistance. The memorial included in the report urges a conference to consider the trade question. A conference might arrange some plan to carry out that one idea; in a year or two another conference could be called to consider some other point of agreement. Soon these conferences would become periodical. Soon a committee would be appointed to carry out the wishes of the conferences in the periods between the meetings; and then you would have an Imperial Council, and Imperial Federation would have become evolved in accordance with the true genius of the Anglo-Saxon race. Let us take one step at a time, and we shall slowly but surely realise our wishes. These remarks outlined the policy that the Executive Committee had agreed upon, and foreshadowed much that has since occurred. Mr. Alexander McNeill seconded the adoption of the report, which was carried unanimously. Sir Charles Tupper then moved the first resolution: Whereas the British Empire League has been formally inaugurated in London with practically the same objects in view as the Imperial Federation League, this meeting expresses its sympathy and concurrence therewith, and resolves that hereafter the Imperial Federation League in Canada shall be a branch of the British Empire League, and shall be known and described as the British Empire League in Canada. In his speech he gave a short sketch of the progress of the old League, and pointed out that it was an important fact that this organisation had committed itself to the policy of removing the obstruction to preferential trade with Great Britain which existed through the treaties with Belgium and Germany. Mr. D'Alton McCarthy seconded the resolution. He also spoke of the work of the old League which he had founded in Canada, and of which he was the first President. He said: That no mistake was made in forming the League, because at that time, twelve years ago, the feeling was towards independence or annexation. The League did very much to divert public opinion in the direction in which it was now running. As to the treaties between Great Britain and other countries, he did not look upon them as an obstruction but as an impediment. For his part he was prepared to do anything to advance Canadian trade relations with England at once, without postponing it until those treaties were terminated by Great Britain. This last sentence shows that at that time he was contemplating the adoption of the policy of a British Preference, which I believe in the following year, with Principal Grant's assistance, he succeeded in inducing Sir Wilfrid Laurier and his Government to adopt. The constitution, by-laws and rules for the governance of branches were then adopted, and the work of the old Imperial Federation League in Canada has since been carried on under the name of "The British Empire League in Canada." I have always felt that this success of our mission to England was most important in its result, or at least that its failure would have been very unfortunate. The collapse of the Imperial Federation League had disheartened the leading Imperialists very much, and the deputation to England was an effort to overcome what was a very serious set back. Had we been obliged to come home and report that we could get no one in Great Britain sufficiently interested to work with us, it would necessarily have broken up our organisation in Canada, and the movement in favour of the organisation of the Empire, and a commercial union of its parts, would have been abandoned by the men who had done so much to arouse an Imperial sentiment. The effect of this would have been widespread. Our opponents were still at work, and many of the Liberal party were still very lukewarm on the question of Imperial unity. Our success, on the other hand, encouraged the loyalists, and led the politicians of both sides to believe that the sentiment in favour of the unity of the Empire was an element to be reckoned with. Sir John Macdonald had made his great appeal to the loyalty of Canada in 1891, and had carried the elections, the ground having been prepared by the work of the League for years before. The general election was coming on in 1896, and it was most important that the Imperial sentiment should not be considered dead. After Sir John's death the Conservative party suffered several severe losses in the deaths of Sir John Abbott and Sir John Thompson, and in the revolt of a number of ministers against Sir Mackenzie Bowell, who had been appointed Prime Minister. The party had been in power for about eighteen years, and was moribund, many barnacles were clinging to it. My brother, Lt.-Col. Fred Denison, M.P., was a staunch conservative, and a strong supporter of the Government, but for a year before his death, that is during the last year of the Conservative _rgime_, he privately expressed his opinion to me that, although he could easily carry his own constituency, yet that throughout the country the Government would be defeated, and he also said he hoped they would. He was of the opinion that his party had been in long enough, and that it was time for a change; and he held that the success of the Liberals at that time with their accession to office, and the responsibilities thus created, would at once cause them to drop all their coquetting with the United States, and would naturally lead them to be thoroughly loyal to a country which they themselves were governing. About the 1st January, 1896, President Cleveland issued his Venezuelan message in reference to a dispute between Great Britain and Venezuela. It was couched in hostile terms, and was almost insolent in its character. Among European nations it would have been accepted almost as a declaration of war. This was approved of by the United States as a whole. Nearly all the Governors of States (forty-two out of forty-five was, I believe, the proportion) telegraphed messages of approval to President Cleveland, and many of them offered the services of the militia of their States, to be used in an invasion of Canada. This aroused the feeling of our people in an extraordinary degree, and in all Canada the newspapers sounded a loyal and determined note. I was anxious about several papers which had opposed us, and had even advocated independence or annexation, but indignant at the absolute injustice of the proposed attack upon Canada they came out more vehemently than any. The _Norfolk Reformer_ struck a loyal, patriotic, and manly note, while Mr. Daniel McGillicuddy of the _Huron Signal_, who used to attack me whenever he was short of a subject, was perhaps more decided than any. He said in his paper that he had always been friendly to the United States and always written on their behalf, but when they talked of invading the soil of Canada, they would find they would meet a loyal and determined people who would crowd to the frontier to the strains of "The Maple Leaf Forever" and would die in the last ditch, but would never surrender. Mr. McGillicuddy had served in the Fenian raid in the Militia, and all his fighting blood was aroused. This episode of the Venezuela message ended the annexation talk everywhere, and Mr. McGillicuddy has been for years a member of the Council of the British Empire League. I had but little influence myself in political matters, but I had great confidence in Sir Oliver Mowat and the Hon. George W. Ross, and among my friends I urged that they should be induced to enter Dominion politics, as their presence among the Liberal leaders would give the people of Ontario a confidence which in 1891 had been much shaken in reference to the loyalty of the Liberal opposition. I was much pleased to find that before the election in 1896, arrangements were made that Sir Oliver Mowat was to leave the Ontario Premiership, and support Sir Wilfrid Laurier in the Senate. In the early spring of 1896, while the Conservative Government were still in power, I wrote to Lord Salisbury and told him what I thought would happen, first that the Conservatives would be defeated, and secondly that the Liberals, when they came into power, would be loyal and true to the Empire, and that he need not be uneasy, from an Imperial point of view, on account of the change of Government. I knew that with Sir Oliver Mowat in the Cabinet everything would be right, and I felt that all the others would stand by the Empire. In 1897, during the Jubilee celebration in London, I saw Lord Salisbury, and he was much gratified at the action of the Canadian Government in establishing the British Preference, and said that they had been anxious about the attitude of the Liberal party, until Sir Wilfrid Laurier's first speeches in the House after his accession to office. I laughingly said, "You need not have been anxious, for I wrote telling you it would be all right and not to be uneasy." His reply was, "Yes, I know you did, but we thought you were too sanguine." As soon as the new Government were sworn in, we endeavoured to press our views of preferential tariffs upon them, D'Alton McCarthy and Principal George M. Grant exerting themselves on that behalf, and during the autumn of 1896 a deputation of the Cabinet consisting of the Hon. Wm. Fielding, Hon. Sir Richard Cartwright, and the Hon. Wm. Patterson travelled through the country inquiring of the Boards of Trade and business men as to their views on the question of revision of the tariff. Our League naturally took advantage of this opportunity to press our views upon the Government, and urged Mr. Fielding and his colleagues very earnestly to take steps to secure a system of preferential tariffs. A curious incident occurred on this occasion that is worth recording. While our deputation were sitting in the Board of Trade room in Toronto waiting our turn to be heard, a manufacturer was pressing the interests of his own business upon the Ministers. It was amusing to hear him explain how he wanted one duty lowered here, and another raised there, and apparently wanted the tariff system arranged solely for his own benefit. There was such a narrow, selfish spirit displayed that we listened in amazement that any man should be so callously selfish. Mr. Fielding thought he had a good subject to use against us, so he said to the man, "Suppose we lower the duty say one-third on these articles you make, how would that affect you?" "It would destroy my business and close my factory." "Then," said Mr. Fielding, "here is a deputation from the British Empire League waiting to give their views after you, and I am sure they will want me to give Great Britain a preference." The man became excited at once, he closed up his papers and in vehement tones said, "If that is what you are going to do, that is right. I am an Imperial Federationist clear through. Do that, and I am satisfied." "But what will you do?" said Mr. Fielding. "It will ruin your business." "Never mind me," he replied, "I can go into something else, preferential tariffs will build up our Empire and strengthen it, and I will be able to find something to do." "I am an Imperialist," he said with great emphasis as he went out. I turned to someone near me and said, "I must find out who that man is, and I will guarantee he has United Empire Loyalist blood in his veins." He proved to be a Mr. Greey, a grandson of John William Gamble, who was a member of a very distinguished United Empire Loyalist family. I am sure this incident must have had some influence upon Mr. Fielding, as an illustration of the deep-seated loyalty and Imperialism of a large element of the Upper Canadian population. The members of our League were delighted with the action of the Government in the Session of 1897, in establishing a preference in our markets in favour of British goods. It will be remembered that we had been disappointed in our hope that Lord Salisbury would have denounced the Treaties in 1892, when the thirty years for which they were fixed would expire, but five years more had elapsed and nothing had been done. I believe the plan adopted by our Government had been suggested by Mr. D'Alton McCarthy, our former President, and in order to get over the difficulty about the German and Belgian Treaties, the preference was not nominally given to Great Britain at all, but was a reduction of duty to all countries which allowed Canadian exports access to their markets on free trade terms. This of course applied at once to Great Britain and one of the Australian Colonies (New South Wales). All other nations, including Germany and Belgium, would not get the preference unless they lowered their duties to a level with the duties levied by Great Britain. The preference was first fixed at one-eighth of the duty just to test the principle. Shortly after this was announced in our Commons, Kipling, who saw at once the force of it, published his striking poem "Our Lady of the Snows," which emphasised the fact that Canada intended to manage her own affairs: Daughter am I in my mother's house, But mistress in mine own. The gates are mine to open As the gates are mine to close, And I set my house in order Said Our Lady of the Snows. . . . . . . . Another strong point was illustrated in the lines: Favour to those I favour But a stumbling block to my foes, Many there be that hate us, Said Our Lady of the Snows. . . . . . . . Carry the word to my sisters, To the Queens of the East and the South, I have proved faith in the heritage By more than the word of the mouth. They that are wise may follow Ere the world's war trumpet blows, But I, I am first in the battle, Said Our Lady of the Snows. This poem pointed out to Great Britain that Canada had waited long enough for the denunciation of treaties which never should have been made, and which were an absolutely indefensible restriction on the great colonies. At a meeting of the council of the British Empire League in Canada held in May a week or two after the Annual Meeting in Ottawa, a resolution was passed: That the President and those members of the Canadian Branch who are members of the Council of the League in England be hereby appointed a deputation (with power to add to their number) from the League in Canada to the League in the United Kingdom; and that they be instructed to lay before the members of the Parent League the views of the Canadian Branch on matters of national moment, such as the organisation of a Royal Naval Reserve in the colonies, and also to express their opinion that, as a guarantee of the general safety of the Empire, vigorous steps should at once be taken to provide that the British food supply should be grown within the Empire. The deputation consisted of the following: The Hon. R. R. Dobell, M.P., George R. Parkin, J. M. Clark, A. McNeill, M.P., Sir Charles Tupper, Bart., John T. Small, Sir Sandford Fleming, K.C.M.G., Lieut.-Colonel George T. Denison, D'Alton McCarthy, Q.C., M.P., Lord Strathcona, H. H. Lyman and J. Herbert Mason. CHAPTER XX MISSION TO ENGLAND, 1897 I left for England via Montreal on the 31st May, 1897, and expected to arrive in Liverpool a day or two before Sir Wilfrid Laurier, who was to sail some days later from New York on a fast ship. We were delayed for some days by fogs, and did not arrive in Liverpool till after Sir Wilfrid Laurier had left that place. He had arrived in the old world for the first time of his life, and at once fell into the hands of the Liverpool merchants and business men, at that time generally free traders. He had not a colleague with him and naturally was affected by the atmosphere in which he found himself, and in his speech at the great banquet given by the British Empire League with the Duke of Devonshire in the chair, he made a few remarks in reference to preferential tariffs for which he was severely criticised at home. I joined the party at Glasgow two days later, and Sir Wilfrid, who seemed pleased to see me, had a long talk with me between Glasgow and Liverpool on the special train which took the party down. On the following morning the Liverpool papers had cables from Canada giving an account of the discussion in the Canadian House of Commons over the cabled reports of Sir Wilfrid's speech. He was attacked vehemently by Alexander McNeill, our champion in the House, on one point of his speech at Liverpool, and Sir Richard Cartwright and his colleagues, in defending Sir Wilfrid, did so on the ground that the reports of what he said could not be taken as correct, and asking the House to withhold comment until the full reports should be received. This was a desirable course to adopt, for cable despatches have so often conveyed inaccurate impressions. The real secret of the trouble was that in the busy rush of his work as leader of the opposition, and then as Premier, Sir Wilfrid had not been able really to master the question, but he soon grasped the subject, and his later speeches were very effective. His reception by the British people was wonderfully favourable, and the impression he made upon them was remarkable. He stood out from all the other Premiers--and there were eleven in all--and he was everywhere the central and striking figure. On the 5th July, 1897, a meeting of the British Empire League was held in the Merchant Taylors Hall. The Duke of Devonshire was in the chair and made an able speech welcoming the Premiers from the colonies. He was followed by Rt. Hon. R. J. Seddon, Premier of New Zealand, Sir William Whiteway, Premier of Newfoundland, Mr. G. H. Reid, Premier of New South Wales, and Sir Edward Braddon, Premier of Tasmania. Sir Wilfred Laurier had not been able to attend, and as President of the League in Canada I was called upon to speak. As to the treaties, I said: I have come here from Canada to make one or two suggestions. In the first place in reference to preferential tariffs, we have shown you that we wish to give you a preference in our markets. (Cheers). But treaties interfere with us in the management of our own tariff, and I wish to emphasise the fact that some steps should be taken to place us in absolute freedom to give every advantage we wish to our fellow-countrymen all over the world. (Cheers.) We wish to give that advantage to our own people, and we do not wish to be forced to give it to the foreigner. (Hear, hear.) . . . Now my last point is this. In Canada we have viewed with considerable alarm the fact that the wealthiest and most powerful nation in all history is at this moment dependent for her daily food for three out of every four of her population upon two foreign nations, who are, I am thankful to say, friendly to her, and who, I hope, will always be friendly, but who, it cannot be denied, might by some possibility be engaged in war with us at some future time. These two nations might then stop your food supply, and that harm to you would spread great distress among the people of our country. I have been deputed by the League in Canada to ask you to look carefully into this question. If there is no real danger, relieve our fears; but if you find there is any danger let me urge upon you as strongly as I can to take some steps to meet that danger. Let the method be what it may, great national granaries, a duty on food, a bounty or what not, but let something be done. A special meeting of the Council of the League was held on the 7th July, 1897, to meet the deputation of our League. In my address I once more dealt with the question of the German and Belgian treaties. I said, "The Canadian people have now offered, in connection with their desire regarding these treaties, to give what they propose to all nations, but with the express intention of giving an advantage to our own people. I am deputed to ask you to use what influence you can on the Government and people of this country to give us that full control of our own tariff to which we contend we are entitled." Lord Salisbury in 1890, although favourable to the idea, was not able to secure the denunciation of the German and Belgian treaties, although I knew from his conversation with me that personally he felt that they should be denounced. In 1892 Lord Knutsford peremptorily refused a request by Canada to denounce the treaties. Lord Ripon was not quite so peremptory in 1894-'95 after the Ottawa Conference, but he refused permission to Mr. Rhodes to arrange a discriminating tariff in Matabeleland. We had been held off for six years, but the action of the Canadian Government brought matters to a head. During June and July, 1897, in London the most profuse and large-hearted hospitality was shown on every hand to the colonial visitors, and I was fortunate enough to be invited to all the large functions. I felt the importance of taking every opportunity to press upon the leading men in England the necessity for the denunciation of the treaties, and I knew Sir Wilfrid Laurier could not urge it with the freedom or force that I could. Consequently in private conversations I talked very freely on the subject, whenever and wherever I had an opportunity. I found that in meeting friends, almost the first remark would be an approving comment on the friendliness of the Canadian Parliament in giving the British people a preference in the markets of Canada. My reply always was that it was no more than was right, considering all that Great Britain had done for us. This was usually followed by the remark that the Government were afraid, from the first impression of the law officers of the Crown, that Great Britain would not be able to accept the favour. My reply was very confidently, "Oh yes! you will accept it." Then the remark would be made that the German and Belgian treaties would prevent it. "Then denounce the treaties," I would say. "That would be a very serious thing, and would be hardly possible." My reply was, "You have not fully considered the question, we have." Then I would be asked what I meant, and would reply somewhat in these terms: Consider the situation of affairs as they stand. To-day at every port of entry in Canada from Sydney, Cape Breton, to Victoria in the Island of Vancouver, along 3,500 miles of Canadian frontier, German goods are charged one-eighth more duty than goods from Great Britain, and goods from Great Britain one-eighth less duty than on German goods. This was being done yesterday, is being done to-day, and will be done to-morrow, and it is done by the Government of Canada, backed by a unanimous Parliament, and behind it a determined and united people. We have made up our minds and have thought it out, and have our teeth set, and what are you going to do about it? This did not usually bring out any indication that any clear decision had been arrived at by them, and then I would go on: Of course we know that you can send a large fleet to our Atlantic ports, and another to our Pacific ports, and blockade them, paralyse our trade, and stop our commerce, until we yield, or you may go farther and bombard our defenceless cities, and kill our women and children. Well, go on and do it, and we will still hold out, for we know that any British Government that would dare to send her fleets to jamb German goods down our throats when we want to buy British, would be turned out of office before the ships could get across the Atlantic. The thing is absurd, the treaties are an outrage, and the only course out of the difficulty is to denounce them. These arguments carried weight with all to whom I spoke, and I spoke to Ministers, Privy Councillors on the Government side, M.P. 's, and others. Once only the head of one of the great daily newspapers seemed to be annoyed at my aggressive attitude, and said, "You had better not be too sure. We might send the fleet and be very ugly with you." My reply was, "Well, go on and send it. You lost the southern half of North America by trying to cram tea down their throats, and you may lose the northern half if you try to cram German goods down our throats. I should have hoped you had learned something from history." It will be seen that the plan which was, I understand, originated by D'Alton McCarthy, worked out very successfully. There could only be one result, and within a month the treaties were denounced, and I felt that the first great step of our programme had been made. The amusing feature, however, was, that this object for which we fought so hard three years before at the meeting at Lord Avebury's, when the British Empire League was founded, and which was opposed by nearly all our English friends, was no sooner announced as accomplished, than men of all parties and views seemed to unite in praising the act, and the Cobden Club even went so far as to present the Cobden Medal to Sir Wilfrid Laurier. Sir Wilfrid Laurier in all his speeches had upheld abstract theories of free trade, and with considerable skill succeeded in allaying the hostility of the free trade element. This, I think, helped to secure the denunciation of the treaties, with the approval of all parties. On my return to Canada I was interviewed in Montreal by the representative of the Toronto _Globe_. Being asked by the reporter my opinion of the probable effect of the denunciation of the German and Belgian treaties, I said: The denunciation of these treaties marks an epoch in the history of the British Empire. The power of Canada has made itself felt not only in British but in European diplomacy. It has affected Germany, Belgium, and other countries, and every one of these countries knows that it was Canada's influence that produced the result. Another point in connection with the denunciation of these treaties is, that it is a tremendous step towards preferential trade within the Empire. Great Britain was going along half asleep. Canada has awakened her, and made her sit up and think. She has been jostled out of the rut she has been following, and is now in a position to proceed in the direction that may be in her own interest and in that of the Empire. Being then asked if I had any opinions to express in regard to the Premier's remarks in Great Britain on the question of free trade, I said: His remarks were general and theoretical. The great point of the whole movement was to secure the denunciation of the treaties. Nothing could be done while these treaties were in existence, and in my opinion it would have been a most indiscreet thing for Sir Wilfrid Laurier to have pursued any line of argument that would have aroused the hostility of the great free trade party in Great Britain. The great point was to secure the united influence of all parties in favouring the denunciation of the treaties, which was an important step in advance. Being asked to account for the fact that Sir Howard Vincent, of the United Empire Trade League, a strong protectionist, and the Cobden Club both united in applauding the denunciation of the treaties, I replied: Sir Howard Vincent and his League saw plainly that this action made for a preferential tariff. The Cobden Club are whistling to keep up their courage. In the Conference of Premiers, held in 1897, it was not possible to secure an arrangement for mutual preferential tariffs. The other colonies were not ready for it, the Imperial Government was not ready for it, nor were the people, but as the German and Belgian Treaties were denounced to take effect the following year, in August, 1898, the path was cleared, and from that date the Canadian Preference came into force, and has since been in operation. It will be remembered that the deputation of our British Empire League to England, in 1897, was instructed to express the great desire of the Canadian Branch that, as a guarantee of the general safety of the Empire, vigorous steps should at once be taken to provide that the British Food supply should be grown within the Empire. As chairman of the deputation I did all in my power to stir up inquiry on the subject. Being introduced to Principal Ward of Owens College, Manchester, when at that city, I talked freely with him on the point, and he suggested I should discuss it with Mr. Spencer Wilkinson, the well-known author and journalist. He gave me a letter introducing me to Mr. Wilkinson, and we had several interviews. Shortly after reaching London I called to see my friend Lord Wolseley, then Commander-in-Chief. He took me with him to his house to lunch, and as we walked over, I at once broached the subject of the food supply, principally wheat and flour, and he told me that the Government had been urged to look into the matter some two or three years before, and that there had been a careful inquiry by the best experts, and the report was that the command of the sea was a _sine qu non_, but if we maintained that, and paid the cost which would be much increased by war prices, the country could get all the grain they would want. I said suppose a war with Russia and the United States, what would be done if they combined and put an embargo on bread-stuffs? How would it be got then even with full command of the sea? He did not seem himself to have understood the difficulty, or studied the figures, and said, "I cannot explain the matter. All I can say is that the Government obtained the advice of the best men in England on the subject, and that is their report." My reply was, "I wish you would look into it yourself," and I dropped the subject. I met Lord Roberts shortly after and I pressed the matter upon him. He had not known of the Government report, and consequently listened to my arguments attentively and seemed impressed, for I may say that 1897 was the worst year in all our history as to the manner in which the supply of food was distributed among the nations. Mr. Spencer Wilkinson seemed to be much interested in my talks with him, and one day he said, "I wish you could have a conversation with some great authority on the other side of the question, who would understand the matter and be able to answer you." I replied, "That is what I should like very much. Tell me the best man you have and I will tackle him. If he throws me over in the gutter in our discussion it will be a good thing, for then I shall learn something." Mr. Wilkinson laughed at my way of putting it, and said, "If that is what you want, Sir Robert Giffen is the man for you to see." I said I would try and get a letter of introduction to him. Mr. Wilkinson said he would give me one, and did so. I called to see Sir Robert Giffen. He received me very kindly, and we had an interesting interview of about an hour. The moment I broached the subject of the food supply he said at once, "That question came up some two or three years ago, and I was called upon to inquire into the whole matter and report upon it, and my report in a few words was, that we must have the command of the sea, and that once that was secured, then, by paying the somewhat enhanced war prices, we could get all the grain required." My reply was, "Then, as you have fully inquired into the question, you can tell me what you could do under certain conditions. In case of a war between Great Britain and Russia combined with the United States, followed by an embargo on food products, where and how would you get your supplies?" Sir Robert said, "We do not expect to go to war with the United States and Russia at the same time." I said, "You were within an ace of war with the United States only a year ago over the Venezuelan difficulty, and Great Britain and Russia have been snarling at each other over the Indian Frontier for years, and if you go to war with either, you must count on having the other on your hands." Sir Robert then said, "But I said we must have the command of the sea." I replied, "I will give you the complete, undoubted, absolute command of the sea, everywhere all the time, although you are not likely to have it; and then in case of an embargo on wheat and foodstuffs where are you to get your supplies?" He said, "We would get some from Canada and other countries." I pointed out that all they sent was only a fraction. Sir Robert then said, "They could not put on an embargo, for it would ruin their trade." I told him that I was talking about war and not about peace and trade, and said that no desire for trade induced the Germans to sell wheat to Paris during the siege of 1870. His idea had been that, in case of war with Russia or the United States, or both, holding the command of the sea, Great Britain would allow foodstuffs to be exported to neutral countries such as Belgium or Holland, and then England would import from those countries. My answer to that was, that if England had the command of the sea, the United States or Russia would have only one weapon, an embargo, and they would certainly use it. He seemed cornered in the argument, and said, "Well, if we cannot get bread we can eat meat. I eat very little bread." I said, "The British people use about 360 lbs. per head of wheat per annum, and about 90 lbs. of meat, and a great deal of meat would be stopped too"; and I said on leaving, "I wish you would investigate this thoroughly again, and let the Government know, for I know they are depending upon your report at the War Office"; and then I left him. When at Liverpool shortly after on my way back to Canada, I asked the manager of the Bank of Liverpool, to whom I had a letter of introduction, if he would introduce me to the highest authority on the corn trade in Liverpool. He introduced me to the late Mr. Paul, ex-President of the Corn Exchange, and I had a long conversation with him on the question of the food supply. As soon as I mentioned the subject he told me that the corn trade people in Liverpool had been asked from London to make a report on the possibility of supplying grain in case of war. Mr. Paul told me that they had considered the matter (I suppose he meant the leading corn merchants), and that their report was practically that they must have the command of the sea, that was essential; but that secured, and the enhanced war prices paid, they could supply all the corn required in any contingency. I questioned him as I had Sir Robert Giffen and found the same underlying belief. The law of supply and demand would settle the question. The corn would be allowed to go in neutral ships to neutral ports, and then be transhipped to England. An embargo had not been considered or treated seriously as a possibility, and when I cornered him so that he could not answer my arguments, he said, "Well, if we could not get wheat we could live on potatoes." I told him potatoes could not be kept over a year, that a large quantity was imported which would be stopped. I said he had better make another report. The whole thing was very disheartening to me, for I saw how the Government were depending upon peaceful traders for information how to guard against war dangers. In 1902 when Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, proposed a small tax on wheat and flour, I was pleased to see that Sir Robert Giffen was the first prominent man to write to the Press endorsing and approving of the bread tax, as it was called. It showed me that Sir Robert had carefully considered the question, and was manly enough to advocate what was not altogether a popular idea. After my return to Canada I prepared an article for the _Nineteenth Century_ on the "Situation in England," and it appeared in the December number, 1897. In this I pointed out the danger of the condition of the food supply, and the article attracted a considerable amount of attention in the British Press, in comments, notices, letters, etc. Sir Michael Hicks-Beach in a speech at Bristol, in January, 1898, referred to the question, and in a way contradicted the points I had brought out in the _Nineteenth Century_ article. My conversations the summer before with Lord Wolseley, Sir Robert Giffen, and Mr. Paul had so alarmed me at the false security in which the Government were resting, that when I saw Sir Michael Hicks-Beach relying on the same official reports, I determined, although I had never met him, to write him direct, and on the 20th January, 1898, I wrote, drawing his attention to a remark which he was reported to have made that "in any war England would have many friends ready to supply corn," and I said, "Our League sent a deputation to England last summer to draw attention to the danger of the food supply. I was chairman of it. Since my return I published an article in the _Nineteenth Century_ giving our views. I enclose a reprint which I wish you could read. If you have not time please give me one minute to examine the enclosed diagram (cut out of the _Chicago Tribune_) showing the corn export of the world. This shows that Russia and the United States control, not including the Danubian ports, nearly 95 per cent. of the world's needs, and if they were to put an embargo on the export of food of all kinds, where would be the 'many friends ready to supply England with corn?'" Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, now Lord St. Aldwyn, with great courtesy wrote me a personal letter, in which he thanked me for my letter, and went on to say: I do not think that the sentence you quote "that in any war England would have many friends ready to supply corn" quite accurately represents what I said on that subject. The report was necessarily much condensed. But it would be true if (say) we were at war with the United States alone: or if we were at war with one or more of the European Powers and the United States were neutral. In either of such cases the interests of the neutral Powers in access to our market would be so strong, that our enemy would not venture to close it to them, in the only possible way, viz. : by declaring corn contraband of war. And I think that if the United States were the neutral party, self-interest would weigh more with them than their ill feeling towards us, whatever the amount of that feeling may be. It is possible, though most improbable, that the two great corn-producing countries might be allied against us. If they were, I believe that our navy would still keep the seas open for our supply from other sources, though no doubt there would be comparative scarcity and suffering. I am no believer in the enclosed diagram, the production of corn is constantly increasing in new countries such as the Argentine, and better communication is also increasing the total amount available for export. Bad harvests in the United States and Russia, and good ones in India and the Argentine, would show quite another result to that shown in the enclosed, though, as I have said, I do not believe it is true, even of the year which it professes to represent. On receipt of this letter I wrote to Mr. Geo. J. S. Broomhall, of Liverpool, editor of the _Corn Trade News_, and author of the _Corn Trade Year Book_, and received from him a certificate of the correct figures of corn exports. I forwarded it to Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, showing that in 1897 India and the Argentine only exported 200,000 qrs. and 740,000 qrs. respectively, and that the diagram I sent could not have been a very great way out. In 1902 Sir Michael Hicks-Beach put a tax of one shilling a quarter on imported wheat, and as I have already said, Sir Robert Giffen wrote to the _Times_ approving of it. I was very glad to see this action on the part of both of them. On the 4th December, 1897, the Hon. George W. Ross gave an address before the British Empire League in St George's Hall, Toronto, in which he strongly favoured preferential tariffs and came out squarely against reciprocity with the United States. This action was a great encouragement to our cause and attracted considerable attention all over Canada. On the 8th December, 1897, the National Club gave a complimentary banquet to his Excellency the Earl of Aberdeen, Governor-General. I attended the banquet and sat second to the left of the president of the club, Mr. McNaught. I was under the impression that Mr. Blake, who had been a few years away from Canada, and who had joined the Irish Nationalist party, would be sure to speak in a strain not acceptable to our club. I mentioned this to Dr. Parkin who sat next to me. When Mr. Blake began to speak he very soon uttered sentiments strongly opposed to all that the Canadians had been working for in the Imperial interest. I said to Parkin that as an ex-president of the club, and president of the British Empire League, I would not allow his remarks to pass without comment. I leaned over and told the chairman I intended to speak a few minutes when Mr. Blake finished. He raised some objection, but I told him I must speak. He mentioned it to the Governor-General, who said he would wait for fifteen minutes. I told Dr. Parkin I would divide the time with him. After Mr. Blake sat down, I said: I have been a member of this club almost from its foundation. I was for many years on the Board of Directors, and for some years its President, and I feel that I should state that the speech of my friend Mr. Blake does not represent the views nor the national aspirations which have always been characteristic of the National Club. . . . I agree with what Mr. Blake has said as to the importance of preserving friendly relations with the United States. We hope to live at peace with them, but because we do not wish to beg for reciprocity or make humiliating concessions for the sake of greater trade, it is no reason why we should be charged with wanting war. We want peace, and no one can point to any instance where the Canadian people or Government have been responsible for the irritation. Mr. G. W. Ross pointed this out clearly in his admirable speech of Saturday night. The great causes of irritation have come from the United States. The invasion of 1775, the war of 1812, the Trent affair, and the Venezuelan business were all matters in which we were absolutely free from blame. Nor were we to blame some thirty years ago when I had to turn out with my corps to help defend the frontier of this province from the attacks of bands of Fenians, organised, armed, and equipped, in the United States, who invaded our country, and shot down some of my comrades, who died defending Canada. These raids were maintained by contributions from our worst enemies in the United States, but we drove them out, and now I am glad to say that, while the contributions still go on, the proceeds are devoted to troubling the Empire elsewhere, and I hope they will continue to be expended in that direction rather than against us. I approve of Mr. Blake's remarks about the defence of Canada, and the expenditure of money to make our country safer, but I object strongly to the hopeless view he takes. We are 6,000,000 of northern men, and, fighting on our own soil for our rights and freedom, I believe we could hold our own in spite of the odds against us, as our fathers did in days gone by, when the outlook was much more gloomy. Dr. George R. Parkin followed with an eloquent and powerful speech pointing out the various arguments which showed the growth of the movement for Imperial unity. It was thought at that time that Mr. Blake had some idea of returning to Canadian politics, but the result of this meeting and the Press comments must have put an end to any such idea if it ever existed. CHAPTER XXI THE WEST INDIAN PREFERENCE In the autumn of 1897 the report of a Royal Commission on the condition of affairs in the West Indian Islands was published. Field-Marshal Sir Henry Norman disagreed with the other two members of the Commission, and put in a minority report, showing in effect that the real way to relieve the distress in the sugar industry of the West Indies, was for Great Britain to put countervailing duties on bounty favoured sugar coming into her markets. I was much impressed with Sir Henry Norman's report as to the condition of the West Indies, and came to the conclusion that we in Canada might do something to aid on Imperial grounds. I wrote, therefore, to Principal George M. Grant, one of our most energetic and brilliant colleagues, asking him to let me know when he would be in Toronto, as I wished to have a long conference with him. On the 29th December, 1897, we met, and I discussed the whole question with him and asked him to go to Ottawa, and urge Sir Wilfrid Laurier and Mr. Fielding to increase the sugar duty in order that Canada might be able to give a preference to West Indian Sugar. I pointed out that such action would be popular, and that I was satisfied both parties would support it. I had been pressing Sir Wilfrid and the Government on many points, and thought that in this matter they had better be approached from a different angle. Grant took up the idea eagerly, and promised to go to Ottawa and do his best. On the 3rd January, 1898, he wrote me "(Private and confidential)": A Happy New Year to you! I have just returned from Ottawa. Had an hour with Fielding discussing the West Indian question, which he understands thoroughly. I think that something will be done, though perhaps not all that we might wish at first. Had an hour also with Laurier. First, the preference hereafter is to be confined to Britain. That is settled, but this is of course strictly confidential. Secondly, he seemed at first to think that we had gone far enough with our twenty-five per cent. reduction, till we could see its workings, but when I argued for going steadily along that line he said, "I do not say yea, but I do not say nay." I intend to push the matter. He is in favour of the cable, but thinks that we cannot take it up this session. He impresses me favourably the more I study him. He has a truer understanding of the forces in Britain than Tupper in my opinion. Of course I told Fielding that the West Indian suggestion was yours, and that I cordially endorsed it. He is anxious to do something, but thinks that we must ask in dealing with them a _quid pro quo_. Shortly before it was announced Sir Wilfrid Laurier told me the Government were likely to give West Indian sugar a preference. And on the 5th April, 1898, Mr. Fielding introduced his Budget, and in a most eloquent and statesmanlike speech declared that Canada had her Imperial responsibilities, and that she would lend "a helping hand to our sister colonies in the south." This was received with great applause from both sides of the House, and Grant and I were not only much pleased at the success of our efforts, but still more gratified to find the universal feeling in Canada in favour of Mr. Fielding's action. A few days after, on the 9th April, Grant wrote to me: I am sure that my thorough discussion on the West India matter with Mr. Fielding did good, but the suggestion came from you. We may be well satisfied with the action of the Government, but it will be bad if the public gets the idea that the British Empire League is pressing them. It is our task rather to educate public opinion. Things are moving steadily in the right direction. P.S.--Mulock is evidently aiming at Imperial penny postage. Good! Some time after this the German Government put the maximum tariff against all Canadian goods, and Mr. Fielding met this by a surtax of ten per cent. on all German goods entering Canada. This changed the whole supply of sugar for Canada from Germany to the West Indies to their great advantage. On the 10th March, 1898, the Annual Meeting of the British Empire League was held in the Private Bills Committee Room in the House of Commons. It was a most successful meeting. Four Cabinet Ministers were present, Sir Louis Davies, Sir Wm. Mulock, Hon. J. Israel Tarte, and Hon. Charles Fitzpatrick. Sir Charles Tupper and Sir Mackenzie Bowell ex Prime Ministers, and many members of the Senate and the House. Those named above addressed the meeting as well as Principal Grant and Colonel Sam Hughes. Sir Wm. Mulock succeeded this year in securing Imperial Penny Postage, which was one of the objects for which the British Empire League had been working. It was managed with great boldness and skill by Mr. Mulock. His first step was to announce that on and after a certain date some three or four months in advance, all letters stamped with the ordinary three cent domestic rate would be carried to Great Britain without further charge. He knew that objection would be raised to his action, but that it would bring the question to the forefront. The Imperial Government objected to deliver the letters, and said the matter would have to be considered at a conference. Mr. Mulock then answered that a conference should be held, which was agreed to, but he insisted it should not be a departmental affair, that he should only be asked to discuss it with men of his own rank, that is with Cabinet Ministers. This also was agreed to, and it was not long before the matter was settled. Mr. Mulock sent me a cable telling me of his success as soon as he came out of the meeting where the resolution was passed. On the 28th August, 1898, a large deputation of the Executive Committee of the British Empire League met Mr. Mulock at the Toronto railway station on his arrival from England, to welcome him home, to congratulate him upon his success, and to invite him to a complimentary banquet to be given in his honour. The banquet took place on the 15th September, at the National Club. Principal Grant, Alexander McNeill, and Sir Sandford Fleming all came to Toronto to attend it. It was a most successful affair. The Lieut.-Governor Sir Oliver Mowat, who was one of our vice-presidents, attended, also Lord Herschel, Hon. Richard Herschel, Hon. Charles Russell, Sir Frank Smith, Mayor Shaw, and a large and distinguished company. I was in the chair and proposed the health of Mr. Mulock. The _World_ of the following day, the 16th September, 1898, reported me as follows: Colonel Denison, inspired by the nobility of the dominant idea of the evening, looked like a general standing on the ramparts just won by his troops. He spoke of the double aim of the League, to preserve the permanency of the British Empire, and secondly to procure closer intercourse between the parts. He dwelt on the wonderful advance made by the idea of federation and the disappearance of the "Little Englander." It was not enough to denounce the German and Belgian treaties, or to have a preferential tariff. There should be no rest until a mutual preferential tariff had been secured. Lord Herschel, Sir Oliver Mowat, Mr. Mulock, Principal Grant, Alexander McNeill, Sir Sandford Fleming, Mr. George Hague of Montreal, Geo. E. Casey, and W. F. Maclean all made loyal and patriotic speeches, Alexander McNeill's being especially eloquent and powerful. Our League was much gratified not long afterwards at an article which appeared in the London _Daily Mail_ of the 21st November, 1898, under the heading "Where Imperialism comes from." After referring to many things Canada had done, preferential tariffs and preferences to the West Indies, penny postage, &c., it concluded as follows: By their works ye shall know them, and by the record of Canada's works is her magnificent, constructive, peaceful Imperialism made known to the world. Yet its full strength can only be measured by going among Canadians in their homes and noting--and becoming affected by--the palpitating Imperialist life of the people, which even the coldness of the mother country cannot damp. When future historians come to write the history of the Empire's later development they will have much to say of Canada's Imperialist lead. At present we don't make half enough of this rich and beautiful Dominion--an Empire in itself--and its enthusiastically loyal sons. CHAPTER XXII 1899: THE ESTABLISHMENT OF EMPIRE DAY The Fourth Annual Meeting of the League in Canada was held in Ottawa on the 6th April, 1899. In moving the adoption of the Annual Report, I made an address which clearly outlined the policy of the League at that time, and may therefore be worth quoting. It appears in the report printed by order of the annual meeting as follows: The year that has passed since we last met has been a most important year in reference to the work of the British Empire League, and many striking events have happened which teach us lessons that we should carefully consider in framing our policy for the future. We have many things upon which we can look with great satisfaction. Since we last met the preference in our markets, which under certain conditions had previously been open to all countries, has been restricted to our empire. A preference has also been given to our sister colonies in the West Indies, and this example, we are gratified to find, has in a way been imitated by the Government of India, with the approval of the British Government, which is another move in the direction of the aims of our league. Almost simultaneously we see the London _Times_ discussing a duty on wheat and sugar as a means of raising revenue. As this would not only raise revenue but help to raise wheat in Britain as well, it would aid to that extent in strengthening the empire. In reference to the preference to West Indian sugar, I wish to point out that I am informed that cane sugar in the United States has a preference through duties on beet root sugar, which, at present, is an advantage to West Indian sugar to the extent of 27 cents per hundred pounds, while the preference we have given in our market is only about 18 cents per hundred pounds. I may suggest that we in Canada should increase our preference to, say, 40 per cent. of the duty, which would give our fellow-colonists a slightly greater preference than they now receive under the United States tariff. I need not say much about the fast Atlantic service, for all parties are united in favour of it, and we can only hope that it will be established at the earliest moment, for nothing would help more to show our position as a separate community upon this continent. We have been too backward in the past, and we should endeavour more and more to assert ourselves among the countries of the world. There is one point I wish to press upon this meeting: there has been in the last twenty-five or thirty years a revolution in the affairs of the world in reference to national relations and methods of defence. Germany has united, and we remember that it was accomplished under the stress and trial of war. The German Empire was inaugurated in the greatest palace of France, to the sound of the German cannon firing upon the capital city of their enemy. Italy, as the result of three wars, has been united and consolidated. The United States during the last year have launched out into the politics of the world, have adopted expansion as their policy, and are pressing their views on the Filipinos with rifles, maxims, and field guns. We have discovered this year once more by hard facts what history in all ages has shown--that nations cannot expect to exist upon the security of their natural moral rights, unless those rights are supported by physical strength. Spain has been taught that might prevails, and she has been crushed and humiliated for doing what the United States are now obliged to do themselves in the Philippine Islands. The greatest lesson of all, however, which this last year has taught us is that which we learn from the impending fate of China. There is a nation of three hundred to four hundred millions of people, honest traders, I am told, certainly most inoffensive and unaggressive; a nation which, from its peaceful character, industrious habits, and natural reserve, should have been the last to have aroused hostility. It has neglected its defences and has taken no effective steps to protect itself from wrong, and what do we see now as the result? The nations in the possession of navies and armies are commencing to tear it to pieces and divide the spoils. Do we hear of any of these nations being worried by conscientious scruples, or complaining of the moral wrong of this partition? No; the whole disputing is concentrated over the division of the spoils. Now what is the lesson this thing teaches us? It is this; that nations can only enjoy their freedom by being able to defend it, and that the true policy for nations under present conditions is to be closely united within themselves, to be thoroughly organised and equipped, and to be able in case of necessity to use their whole strength to the greatest advantage for the common safety--and to do this nations must be self-sustaining. (Applause.) In trade, also, we see the selfish war going on and increasing. While England is talking about the "open door," which is a fine phrase for theorists, she is finding other nations busily engaged in shutting their own doors. Each nation year by year is being forced to protect its industries by tariff regulations. France is following this policy; Germany and Russia also, and the most prosperous of them all, the United States, is carrying the principle to the greatest extent. One can see that this principle is growing and will grow, for the selfishness of nations seems, if possible, to be increasing every day. Now, how is the British nation placed? It has the best chances of all if it sees how to take advantage of them. It has the largest territory, with every variety of climate and products, with the greatest possibilities of development, with prospects of an internal trade far beyond all other countries. It has the best coaling stations scattered everywhere, but to secure and retain her advantages the empire must be consolidated, both for trade and defence, and this can be fully accomplished without the slightest aggression. (Hear, hear.) If we Canadians desire to be free and safe it must be in that empire to which we are attached by every tie, and to which we must be ready to give our strength for the common defence, if we expect the enormous reserve force of that empire to be at our back if our life as a free people should ever be threatened. (Applause.) It is necessary, therefore, for the prosperity and safety of all the parts, that the United Kingdom, India, Australasia, South Africa, and Canada should all be firmly united so as to show a square front to any enemies that may attack us. This is the object of our league; to secure the permanent unity of the empire; and with the extraordinary development of nations and of military progress in them, our empire must also, if it desires security, be ready in every part to pay for that security and be ready to defend it. In past ages the wars between nations have been carried on by moderate sized armies, while the great bulk of the people attended to their usual business, except where interrupted in the actual theatre of war. For a thousand years wars had been conducted upon that principle, until the French Revolution, when in 1793, being threatened with invasion by combined Europe, 1,300,000 men were conscripted in France to defend her frontier. This was the first example of a nation almost taking up arms to defend herself. It changed the organisation of armies; but later, under Napoleon, the nation returned more nearly to the old system of regular armies. In 1870 and since, however, the revolution in military defence in most civilised countries except our own has been completed. Now in France, Germany, and Russia the whole people practically are trained for war. The war footing of the army in France is about 4,000,000 and some thousands of field guns; in Germany just about the same; in Russia the army on a war footing is said to be 3,400,000; Austria has a war strength of 2,750,000. As these forces in these countries are all organised, and arms, equipment, and field guns ready, it will be seen that never before in history were such enormous military preparations made. The navies have increased almost in the same ratio, our navy fortunately being more than equal to any two navies combined. With this outlook, with this condition of affairs outside, it is only wisdom for the wealthiest of all nations to consolidate its power in order to preserve its wealth, possessions, and liberty. And what are we in Canada doing? We are following the example of the Chinese, and trusting to the forbearance and sense of honesty of other nations, instead of relying upon our own strength and the strength of the empire, to which we could better appeal if we did our own share properly. Thirty-eight thousand militia, drilled spasmodically, without the necessary equipment and departments, without reserves, or even rifles to arm them, is no contribution to the strength of the empire. This should be changed at once. We should establish depots for training our fishermen and sailors to supplement the royal naval reserve, and the guns with which to train them, the barracks in which to house them, and the permanent instructional staff necessary to drill them, if judiciously placed in batteries in front of St. John, N.B., Charlottetown, Quebec, and other seaports, would be aiding the British navy, which protects our mercantile marine, while matters could be arranged to make them a defence for those seaports, which at present would be at the mercy of any swift cruiser that, evading pursuit, might approach their wharves. (Hear, hear.) Our militia should be largely increased, and supplies of all kinds provided, and in agreeing to do our share in developing and strengthening the military resources of the empire, in our own borders, we could fairly ask the mother country to remedy a danger which at present menaces the safety of our race. I spoke very plainly on this point of the food supply last year, but the intervening months have produced such strong evidence in support of my arguments that I wish to draw attention to the subject again. I said last year that an embargo on foodstuffs in Russia and the United States, rigidly carried out, would force the surrender of the mother country in a very few months. I have been told by trade theorists in England that the demand would create the supply, and that England could purchase food through neutral countries. I argued that an embargo by the two countries mentioned would necessarily be followed by an embargo in all important countries at once, and in all other countries as soon as their surplus was exported. This last year has seen this view triumphantly vindicated. Mr. Leiter effected a corner in wheat in Chicago, purchasers became alarmed, prices increased, and wheat began to be picked up in other countries. What was the result? Spain, a country which about feeds itself, put on an embargo. I believe Italy did the same, or was on the point of doing so, while an embargo was being discussed in France and Germany. If this could be the result of the cornering operations of one dealer in one town in one exporting country, what would have happened if those two countries which control nearly nine-tenths of the wheat exports of the world were to withhold that amount? I have been told that no country could put on an embargo, that the people would rebel against being prevented from selling their produce, but I have one example which conclusively proves my argument. The southern States had the bulk of the cotton supply of the world when the Civil war broke out in 1860. Their main industry was growing cotton, their capital, labour, and business were mainly involved in the production and sale of it. To force Great Britain to recognise and assist them, in other words, to bring pressure to bear upon a neutral power, the southern Government placed an embargo on the export of cotton. At Great Britain's request the northern Government agreed to give permits to let it go to England. So that it was not the blockade alone which prevented its export. The southern Government maintained a strict embargo. When their troops were forced back the stores of cotton were seized and paid for by the Confederate Government by receipts and Government bonds, and the cotton was burned. Mrs. Jefferson Davis, in her memoirs, says that her husband grudged every pound that got out. Now let us see what was the result of this embargo, and how far it was possible to enforce it. In 1860, England imported from the United States 1,115,890,608 pounds; in 1861, England imported from the United States, 819,500,528 pounds; in 1862, England imported from the United States 13,524,224 pounds; in 1863, England imported from the United States 6,394,080 pounds; in 1864, England imported from the United States 14,198,688 pounds. The drop from 1,115,890,608 to 6,394,080 pounds, about one-half of one per cent, shows how complete this embargo was. The cotton famine has not been forgotten. The loss to the English people has been computed at 65,000,000, and yet this only affected one industry in one section of one kingdom. (Hear, hear.) Nine-tenths of the population were able to help; the tenth affected, and there was abundance of food for all. But extend that pressure, and let it be in food, which no one can do without, and let it extend over the whole ten-tenths (as would be the case in the event of a stoppage of food) and try to imagine the misery that would follow. Food would have to be rationed to rich and poor alike, for the starving masses would not allow all there was to be monopolised by the wealthy. Under such conditions, what heart could the Government be expected to display in the conduct of the struggle? Russia and the United States could control the export of 40,000,000 quarters out of 45,375,000 quarters exported by all nations in 1897. The late war between the United States and Spain is said to have cost the States nearly $500,000,000. If the Government of Russia and the United States bought the full surplus from their people of 320,000,000 bushels at the present market price, it would only cost them about $225,000,000, while even at $1 a bushel it would only be $320,000,000--the cheapest and most effective war measure that could be adopted. And this could be done by these countries without their having one war vessel. I repeat, therefore, that this is the weak point of our empire; our food should be grown under our own flag, or there should be large stores in England, and a preference which would increase the growth of wheat to the extent of 10,000,000 quarters additional in the British Isles would be the best spent money for defence that could be expended, and a preference to the colonies would soon produce the balance within the Empire. (Hear, hear.) We should urge this upon the mother country, not because it would help us enormously, though that is no reason why we should not urge it, but because danger to the mother country is danger to us all. These are the two points for us to look forward to, a thorough organisation of our own forces in Canada, with a liberal assistance from us toward the royal naval reserve and other defences of the empire, and a provision, for the food supply of the empire being made safe. These should go together, for there is not much use in our sending our sailors, well trained, to man war vessels, to defend our empire, unless it is understood that a ship without food is as useless as one without guns, or powder or coal or men. A number of requisites are absolutely necessary to make an effective navy, or an effective defence, and the want of one makes all the others useless, and food is one of these indispensable requisites. We cannot press this too earnestly upon the mother country, but we cannot talk to them about their duties or necessities until we first attend to ours, and show our willingness to take up our share of the common burden. The answer to my argument from the English point of view is that my suggestion to secure a safe supply of food might be a great material advantage to Canada. This should not be considered. A preference to the British farmer would increase the growth of wheat to sixteen or seventeen million quarters in the United Kingdom. This would do us no good financially, but would be a great service to us, because it would make our empire more secure. If large stores of grain were accumulated in England, it would be no advantage to us pecuniarily, but it would strengthen the whole empire, and I for one would be delighted to see either plan adopted, for at present none of us are safe. No nation or power can be independent that is not self-dependent. The lesson taught us by the course of events is to consolidate and unite our empire, both for trade and defence. (Applause.) Another movement which has spread over the Empire was started this year to help Imperial sentiment. Mrs. Clementine Fessenden of Hamilton wrote to the Hon. G. W. Ross suggesting the establishment of an Empire Day to be celebrated in the schools by patriotic exercises, readings, and addresses. Mr. Ross was favourably impressed with the idea and inaugurated the movement at a large meeting held in the Theatre of the Normal School, Toronto, on the 23rd May 1899, which was attended by most of the school teachers of the City and many others. I was asked by Mr. Ross to address the meeting, which I did. Mr. Ross himself, Mr. N. F. Rowell and Mr. Sanford Evans were the other speakers. This idea has been taken up by Lord Meath in England, and has spread throughout the empire, but that meeting in the Normal School was the beginning of the movement. CHAPTER XXIII THE SOUTH AFRICAN WAR During the summer of 1899 the relations between the British and the Boers in the Transvaal became very strained. As early as the 26th April, 1899, Mr. George Evans, Secretary of the British Empire League received the following cablegram from Kimberley, South Africa. "Twenty-one thousand British subjects, Transvaal, have petitioned Imperial Government obtain redress grievances and secure them status which their numbers, industry, stake in country, entitle them. We strongly sympathise, if you do too, would you as kindred Societies cable Imperial Government sympathetic resolution." "Signed, South African League Congress, Kimberley, representing 10,000 enrolled members." At this time we knew very little of the state of affairs in South Africa, or of the merits of the dispute, and there was a hazy idea that the Boers had opened up the country and should not be disturbed, and after a conference of the principal members of the Executive Committee it was decided to forward the cable to the Head Office of the League in England leaving the matter in their hands. A cable was sent to Kimberley telling them that we had asked the Head Office to decide what to do. Principal Grant at the beginning of the difficulties in South Africa, in the early summer of 1899, was in sympathy with the Boers as against the gold seeking speculators of Johannesburg, and publicly expressed his views in that way. I sympathised somewhat with his view, but advised him to keep quiet, saying we could not tell how events might shape, and we might have to take a strong stand on the other side. I felt I did not understand the question. In the following July, Mr. J. Davis Allen, representing the South African Association, came from England to Ottawa, and explained to the Canadian authorities the situation in South Africa and urged the passing of a resolution that would strengthen the hands of the British Government, in its negotiations with Mr. Kruger and the Transvaal Government. Mr. Alexander McNeill naturally took up the cause and wrote to me asking me to go to Ottawa to help Mr. Davis Allen in his efforts. I declined to go, saying I did not sufficiently understand the question, but a few days later, on the 31st July, 1899, Sir Wilfrid Laurier introduced and Parliament unanimously adopted a resolution which concluded as follows: That the House of Commons desires to express its sympathy with the efforts of Her Majesty's Imperial authorities, to obtain for the subjects of Her Majesty who have taken up their abode in the Transvaal such measures of justice and political recognition as may be found necessary to secure them in the full possession of equal rights and liberties. This resolution, seconded by the Hon. George E. Foster, was carried unanimously, and the House rose and sang "God Save the Queen." Mr. Allen came to Toronto on the 10th August. Mr. McNeill had written to me saying that Mr. Allen was coming to see me, and we had several long interviews. He explained to me the whole situation, and read me some of Lord Milner's despatches in which he pointed out clearly the dangers that were looming up. He explained that the whole trouble was a conspiracy on the part of the Boers to drive the British out of South Africa altogether. He insisted that the Orange Free State was deeply engaged in it, and that the Dutch in the Cape Colony were also involved. All that Mr. Allen told me was absolutely verified before six months had elapsed. After these explanations, and reading the despatches of Lord Milner, I took up a very decided stand against the Boers. Colonel Sam Hughes, M.P., had as early as the 13th July called the attention of the Government to the fact that Queensland had offered a contingent, and he urged them to make an offer of one on behalf of Canada. He also offered to raise a regiment, or brigade, for service in case war should break out. Other officers in various parts of the country made similar offers. Sir Charles Tupper, about the end of September, came out boldly in favour of offering a contingent, and agreed to help the Government in Parliament in any action they might take in that direction. On the 25th September there was a small meeting of senior officers in Toronto, Lieut.-Colonel James Mason being the moving spirit. At that meeting we decided to call a meeting of the members of the Canadian Military Institute for Saturday, the 30th September, to consider the question of what Canada should do. The _Globe_ of the 2nd October, 1899, reported me in part as follows: Lieut.-Colonel Denison followed. In his opening remarks he expressed the belief that there was no difference of opinion among British peoples, except those in South Africa, in regard to the question. The opinion had prevailed to a certain extent that the question was simply one as to the rights of the Uitlanders in the Transvaal. He was bound to admit that up to a certain period that had been his impression, and that being the case he had not been convinced that the matter was one which necessitated the Empire's going to war. Some time ago, however, he had been in the position of learning a good deal about the inside working of affairs in South Africa from one who was thoroughly posted in all the details. He had then discovered that it had got altogether beyond any question of interest or rights of the Uitlanders, and that for the last few years there had been a widespread conspiracy among the Dutch-speaking settlers over the whole of South Africa for the purpose of ousting the British. Ample proof was constantly being furnished as to the continuity of this conspiracy. Sir Alfred Milner's despatch of 14th May stated in the plainest possible language that such was the case, and it was a question whether Britain was to hold the balance of power in that part of the world or be driven out of it altogether. The conspiracy extended further back than the Jameson raid, and was one of the hidden causes leading to that affair. It was because of it that the English people and Government had become so angry over the famous telegram sent by the German Emperor to President Kruger. Continuing, Colonel Denison said it could not be gainsaid that the question was one of vital importance to the whole empire, and Canadians were as much interested as any of Her Majesty's subjects. The Dominion had not fully and properly appreciated her responsibilities as part of a great empire. If Canada was an independent nation of six millions of people it would have to support a standing army of 40,000 men, besides reserves of 200,000 or 300,000. "Is it right," he asked, "that we should all the time be dependent upon the home Government and the British fleet for protection? Is it fair that we should not give any proper assistance? What kind of treatment would we have received from Washington in the Behring's Sea business or in reference to this Alaskan question if we had not had behind us the power of the Empire?" Such a course was not only selfish but impolitic and foolish. In his opinion not only should one contingent of 1,500 men be offered in the present crisis, but another 1,500 should be immediately got together and drilled so as to be ready in case of emergency. No one could tell where the thing was going to end, and reverses might be expected in the beginning. Other great nations envied the power of Britain and would be ready to seize the opportunity if the Empire was in a tight hole. Therefore they should be prepared, not only to send one contingent and have another on hand ready for the call, but should be in a position to relieve the garrisons at Halifax and Esquimalt, allowing the regulars to be added to the forces in the field. "We have been children long enough," he concluded; "let us show the Empire that we have grown to manhood." He then moved "That the members of the Canadian Military Institute, feeling that it is a clear and definite duty for all British possessions to show their willingness to contribute to the common defence in case of need, express the hope that in view of impending hostilities in South Africa the Government of Canada will promptly offer a contingent of Canadian militia to assist in supporting the interests of our Empire in that country." This was carried unanimously. This meeting started a strong movement of public opinion in favour of the Government making an offer. On the 3rd October an article appeared in the Canadian _Military Gazette_ which began in these words: "If war should be commenced in the Transvaal--which seems most probable--the offer of a force from the Canadian Militia for service will be made by the Canadian Government," and it went on to give details of the composition and methods of organising the force. Sir Wilfrid Laurier, on behalf of the Government, at once disavowed it, and on the same day gave an interview to the _Globe_, which appeared in that paper on the 4th October. He said: There exists a great deal of misconception in the country regarding the powers of the Government in the present case. As I understand the Militia Act--and I may say that I have given it some study of late--our volunteers are enrolled to be used in defence of the Dominion. They are Canadian troops to be used to fight for Canada's defence. Perhaps the most widespread misapprehension is that they cannot be sent out of Canada. To my mind they might be sent to a foreign land to fight. To postulate a case: Suppose that Spain should declare war upon Great Britain. Spain has or had a navy, but that navy might be being got ready to assail Canada as part of the empire. Sometimes the best method of defending one's self is to attack, and in that case Canadian soldiers might certainly be sent to Spain, and it is quite certain that they legally might be so despatched to the Iberian Peninsula. The case of the South African Republic is not analogous. There is no menace to Canada, and although we may be willing to contribute troops, I do not see how we can do so. Then, again, how could we do so without Parliament's granting us the money? We simply could not do anything. In other words, we should have to summon Parliament. The Government of Canada is restricted in its powers. It is responsible to Parliament, and it can do very little without the permission of Parliament. There is no doubt as to the attitude of the Government on all questions that mean menace to British interests, but in this present case our limitations are very clearly defined. And so it is that we have not offered a Canadian contingent to the Home authorities. The Militia Department duly transmitted individual offers to the Imperial Government and the reply from the War Office, as published in Saturday's _Globe_, shows their attitude on the question. As to Canada's furnishing a contingent the Government has not discussed the question for the reasons which I have stated, reasons which, I think, must easily be understood by everyone who understands the constitutional law on the question. The statement in the _Military Gazette_ published this morning is a pure invention. This interview proves that Sir Wilfrid Laurier at that time had no intention of sending a contingent. On the 7th October Sir Wilfrid Laurier left for Chicago, and returned to Ottawa on the 12th. The Boer ultimatum had been given on the 9th October, was refused by Lord Milner on the 10th, and war opened on the 11th. This turned Sir Wilfrid back. He travelled on the train from Chicago with Mr. J. S. Willison, editor of the _Globe_, who urged him strongly to send a contingent at once. I called to see Sir Wilfrid on his way through Toronto in order to press the matter upon him. He had evidently made up his mind, for he told me he would send a contingent no matter whether it broke up his Government or not, that it was the right thing to do and he would do it. He was anxious, however, about how his own people would take it, and told me that Mr. Bourassa would resign as a protest, and he seemed very sorry that it should be so. I was very much pleased at the decision and firmness he evinced, and have always been very grateful to him for his action in this matter, as in many other things in the interest of the Empire. On the next day, the 13th October, the Order in Council was passed. It provided that a certain number of volunteers in units of 125 men each with a few officers, would be accepted to serve in the British army operating in South Africa, the moment they reached the coast, provided the expense of their equipment and transportation to South Africa was defrayed, either by themselves or by the Canadian Government, and the Government undertook to provide the equipment and transportation for 1,000 men. I knew that it was the intention to send these eight units of 125 men each, as distinct units to be attached to eight different British regular infantry regiments, and that no officer of higher rank than a captain was to be sent. I felt that our men would be swallowed up and lost, and could gain no credit under such conditions. I therefore published in the _Globe_ of the 14th October the following letter: The _Globe_ on Wednesday morning published in its Ottawa correspondence a proposed scheme for a Canadian contingent for the war in South Africa. If the Imperial Government proposes, as the report indicates, to enlist a number of units of one hundred and twenty-five men each, to be attached to the British Infantry Regiments, and to be paid and maintained at imperial expense, there can be no objection raised to their doing it, in any way they like, and under any conditions that may be agreed upon between the imperial authorities and the Canadians who enlist in what will practically be British regiments. Of course, these units will not be a Canadian contingent, any more than were the 40,000 Canadians who fought in the northern army during the civil war, or the large numbers who fought in the ranks of the United States army and navy in the late Spanish war. A thousand Canadians may go and fight for the Empire in the British army, but it will not be a Canadian contingent, nor will it represent Canadian sentiment, or a Canadian desire to aid the Empire. For what part will the six millions who stay at home contribute to that contingent? If Canada sends a contingent as her share in helping the common cause, she should send a force commanded by our own officers, and paid and maintained by our own people. They should feel that they represent our country, and that the honour of all who stay at home is in their keeping. Men would go in such a corps for such a purpose who would never dream of enlisting as the ordinary Tommy Atkins, in regiments they did not know, among comrades unfamiliar, and under strange officers. A Canadian contingent sent to represent our militia and country in an imperial quarrel would attract the very best of our young men, but every officer should be a Canadian. The slurs that have been thrown out in some quarters, that our officers are not qualified, are not based upon fact, and are grossly insulting to our people. We have had over 35,000 militia for over thirty years, we have had a Military College of the highest class for over twenty years, a permanent corps for over fifteen years, a number of our officers have been sent for long courses of instruction at Aldershot, and not long since 6,000 of our militia were engaged in a campaign of some four months' duration. If Canada with all that experience has not produced one man fit to command a battalion of infantry, we are too inferior a type of fellaheen to offer assistance to anyone. I repudiate, however, any such idea of inferiority. It does not exist, and even if it did, our own Government should not admit it until it has been clearly proven. It has been said that our men have not had war service, and that a lieutenant-colonel in command of a battalion in war must have war experience. I examined the list of imperial battalions published in this evening's _Telegram_, as being in South Africa, or told off to be sent there, and I find, after consulting Hart's army list, that out of these thirty-four battalions seventeen are commanded by lieutenant-colonels who have had war service, and the same number by lieutenant-colonels who have never had experience of any kind in active operations. An examination of our militia list of the 1st April last shows that in the seniority lists of lieutenant-colonels there are no less than seventy-six who have the crossed swords before their names, indicating that they have had active service. It seems strange that out of the seventy-six one could not be found sufficiently qualified. Let us send a Canadian contingent entirely our own, and at our own cost. Let us send the best we have, and then let us stand or fall with what they can do on our behalf. I think we can await the result with confidence. Sir Wilfrid Laurier read this letter the same evening, and wrote me at once, asking me to do nothing further on that line, but to meet him at Sir Wm. Mulock's at ten p.m. on Monday evening, the 16th, on his arrival from Bowmanville, and he asked me to get Mr. Willison to come also. On the Monday afternoon the evening papers published a despatch from Ottawa, saying that the British Government had agreed to change their order, and allow the contingent to go as a unit under a Canadian officer. When I met Sir Wilfrid he told me he had received a telegram at Bowmanville to that effect, but was surprised to hear that it had got into the newspapers. He then told me that he had cabled to England on the Saturday evening, the 14th, and had urged strongly that our men should be sent as one corps, and that it had been agreed to. Once more I was under obligations as a Canadian to Sir Wilfrid Laurier, in his efforts to maintain the dignity of Canada. The feeling here was that the dividing up our force into companies attached to British regiments was the idea of General Hutton, who had the regular officer's view as to the lack of capacity of colonial militia. The three years' war which followed, with colonial forces side by side with imperial troops, pretty effectually settled the question whether the colonial levies were inferior or not to any of their comrades. I was very much criticised by the more timid of my friends in Toronto for the action I had taken in favour of having a Canadian officer in command. The opinion was that Colonel Otter would, as senior permanent officer, get the position, and some of the militia officers did not have a high opinion of his capacity. The only regrettable incident connected with the Canadian contingents was the coming home of the bulk of Colonel Otter's regiment (when their term of service had expired) in spite of Lord Roberts' express request. The other contingents stood by their colonels, notably the Canadian Mounted Rifles under Col. Lessard, who three times, at his request, postponed their return after their term of service had expired, and only went home when there were very few men left to represent the corps. The Canadians who represented Canada, on the whole, did exceedingly well, and brought great credit to our country. There were no Canadian surrenders, in a war where Arnold White says that there were 226 surrenders of British troops. At the skirmish of Lilliefontein, Capt. Cockburn, whom I had recommended to represent my old regiment, and his troop of about thirty-five men, fought and would neither retreat nor surrender until all but four were either killed or wounded. Capt. Cockburn received the Victoria Cross for this affair. At the last battle of the war, Hart's River, Lieut. Bruce Carruthers and about thirty-five Canadian mounted riflemen fought until the last man was killed or wounded. Lord Kitchener cabled to England that the battle was won principally through the brilliant gallantry of Lieut. Bruce Carruthers and his party. There was one circumstance in connection with this fight that was very gratifying to me. It will be remembered that in 1890 I had been chairman of the deputation that had started the movement for raising the flag over the schools, and for holding patriotic exercises of various kinds. This movement had spread, and during the years 1890 to 1899 there had been a wave of Imperialism moving through the country. The boys at school in 1890 were in 1899 men of twenty to twenty-five years of age, the very men who formed our contingents. The proof of this spirit of Imperialism which animated these men was strikingly illustrated by an incident of this fight at Hart's River. I will quote from the _Globe_ of 19th April, 1902: Standing alone in the face of the onrushing Boers at the battle of Hart's River on the 31st March, every comrade dead or disabled, and himself wounded to the death, Charles Napier Evans fired his last cartridge and then broke his rifle over a boulder. In the last letter thus far received by his father, Mr. James Evans, of Port Hope, Charlie looked not without foreboding into the future. "Before this reaches you we will probably be after De Wet. We can only hope for a safe and victorious trip. Many a good man has died for the old flag, and why should not I? If parents had not given up their sons, and sons had not given up themselves to the British Empire, it would not be to-day the proud dictator of the world. So if one or both of us (he had a brother with him) should die, there will be no vain regrets, for we will have done what thousands have done before us, given our lives for a good cause." There could not be a better sermon on Imperialism than that young man's letter to his father. CHAPTER XXIV 1900: BRITISH EMPIRE LEAGUE BANQUET IN LONDON The fifth Annual Meeting of the British Empire League in Canada was held at Ottawa on the 14th March, 1900. It was a very successful gathering, no less than six Cabinet Ministers and five ex-Cabinet Ministers being present besides a large number of senators and members of the House of Commons. About the middle of April I received a cablegram from Mr. Freeman Murray, Secretary of the League in London, by order of the Council, inviting me to go to England to attend a banquet which the League was giving in London on the 30th April, and I left New York by the _Campania_ on the 19th April. (The cablegram was urgent and I felt it a duty to go over.) I arrived in London on Saturday evening, the 28th. All offices were closed on Sunday, so I could see no one until Monday morning, the day of the banquet. I went down to the offices of the League early and saw Mr. Murray, and found that there was to be a great demonstration. There were to be three toasts besides that of the Queen. The first the "Prince of Wales and the Royal Family," which was to be responded to by the Prince himself, now the King; the second was to "Her Majesty's Imperial Forces," to be proposed by Lord Salisbury and responded to by me; the third "The Australian Delegates," to be proposed by Mr. Chamberlain and responded to by Sir Edmund Barton, of Australia. I saw the diagram of the tables and found that nearly six hundred of the foremost men of the Empire were to be present, including Lord Wolseley, Commander-in-Chief, Lord Lansdowne, Secretary of State for War, and several Field Marshals and Admirals of the Fleet. Sir Robert Herbert, the chairman of the executive, was with Mr. Murray, and I demurred at once to responding to the toast of "Her Majesty's Imperial Forces" in the presence of Lord Wolseley and the other Field Marshals and Admirals. I asked if Lord Wolseley had been spoken to about it, and the reply was that he had not, but that Lord Lansdowne had arranged that I was to do it, and it was all right, and no one would object. I decided I would go at once and see Lord Wolseley. Before I left, Sir Robert Herbert and Mr. Murray consulted me about the Hon. Mr. Tarte, who was in Paris and had telegraphed that he was coming to the dinner, and wished to speak in order to make an important statement. They were both averse to changing their arrangements, on account of pressure of time. I urged them, however, to arrange for Mr. Tarte to speak, and the toast list was changed and an additional toast to the British Empire League was put on at the end of it, which Mr. Tarte was to propose, and to which the Duke of Devonshire, our chairman, was to respond. I drove then at once to the War Office and saw Lord Wolseley, and told him what the arrangements were, and the instant he heard I was to reply for the Imperial Forces, he said, "Oh, that is capital, I did not know whether I might not have to reply and I was thinking it over in the train on my way to town. I am so glad you are to do it." I said, "Was there nothing said to you about it? I will not be a party to anything that does not show proper respect for you." His answer was, "There is no one I would rather see reply than you." I asked him if I could say I had his consent and approval. "Certainly," he replied. When I arrived at the Hotel Cecil that evening I was warmly greeted by many old friends. Shortly after the Prince of Wales came in, and just afterwards Lord Salisbury, who spoke to the Duke of Devonshire and the Prince of Wales, and then looking about the room he saw me and crossed over at once and shook hands with me, and chatted for a few minutes in his usual friendly manner. As soon as he moved away several of my friends came to me and expressed surprise at the very cordial greeting he had given me. I said, "Why should he not?" and then they told me that he hardly ever knew or remembered anyone, and was very exclusive. I had never thought that of him, as he had always been so kind and friendly to me. At the table I was third to the left of the chairman, the present Prince of Wales and the Duke of Fife between us. I had a good deal of conversation with the Prince and the Duke of Fife during the dinner. Among other things, the Prince said to me, "Do you not feel nervous when you have to address a gathering like this?" I said, "Not generally, sir, but I must confess I never had to tackle an outfit like this before." He seemed much amused at my western way of putting it. I had not known anything of what I was wanted for till that morning, so I had little time to think over what I should say. I had during the afternoon thought out the general line of a short after-dinner speech, but when I sat down at the table and looked around the room I was impressed with the fact that I had been thrust into what was a great Imperial function, and I had to vary my plan and pitch my speech in a different key. The King, then Prince of Wales, in responding to his health, made a very fine speech, and referred to the attempt to assassinate him, which had occurred not long before in Belgium. Lord Salisbury then proposed "Her Majesty's Imperial Forces" and in doing so paid me a compliment that I appreciated more than any that has ever been paid me. He ended his speech in these words: "I beg to couple with the toast the name of my friend, Colonel Denison, who has been one of the most earnest and industrious, as well as most successful supporters of the Empire for many years, as I have well and personally known." I spoke as follows: May it please your Royal Highness, your Grace, my Lords and Gentlemen, and Ladies--I arrived at the offices of the League this morning, and found to my astonishment that I was put down to respond to the toast of the Imperial Forces. I am, I suppose, the junior officer in this room, but I have the consent and approval of my old commander, the Commander-in-Chief, so that I have very great pleasure in responding to this toast. I am glad to be here to-night, and I thank the Council of this League for their kindness in cabling an invitation across the Atlantic to me to come. I have come 3,500 miles to be with you to-night, to show my sympathy with the cause, and to bring to you a message from the British Empire League in Canada. I need not refer to what our League has done in our country, and is still doing, in educating public opinion in favour of the great idea of the unity of the Empire. We have been doing many things in that cause lately. You know what we have done in regard to preferential trade. What we have done in giving advantages to the West Indian Colonies is another proof that we are willing to put our hands in our pockets for the benefit of our fellow-countrymen. We Canadians are to-day paying a cent a pound more for our sugar to help labour in the markets of the West Indies. We have also had a great deal to do in helping to carry out the scheme of Mr. Henniker-Heaton for Imperial Penny Postage and in this sense we have done all we could. Now I want to say a few words to-night on behalf of our League on the question of Imperial Defence. We have thought over this thing seriously, and we see at this moment, in looking around the world, a great many things that we cannot help viewing with anxiety. We see every other great nation armed to the teeth; we see a feverish anxiety on the part of these other great nations to increase their navies to a very considerable extent. All that is something which should cause us to reflect very seriously as to our position, and do all that we can as an Empire to combine all our forces, so that, if at any future time the blow comes, the full force of the British Empire can strike in the swiftest and most powerful manner possible. We know that the Navy is the main defence of us all, and we know what great strides are being made abroad in regard to the navies of the different Powers, and it is our desire--and we have educated public opinion in Canada to that point--that there shall be a Royal Naval Reserve formed among our 70,000 hardy and vigorous sailors. We have got the people, Parliament, and the Government with us, and it will only take a little time and departmental work to have this matter carried out. That is one point. There is another. We are exceedingly anxious about your food supply. I know a candid friend is not always a pleasant companion, and this may be to some an unpleasant subject, but I have come to speak to you about it. Your food supply depends on your Navy, and if anything should happen to prevent for a few months the English Navy having the control of the sea, where would you people be? Now, we know that if the Mother Country goes down, the Colonies might hold together, but still what could we do if the heart of the Empire were struck? It would be like stabbing a man to the heart, and therefore we are anxious about your food supply because we, as a part of this Empire, are interested in it. Now, then, you are putting all your eggs in one basket. You are putting everything on the control of the Navy, and I want to say this to you to-night--I am again the candid friend--that you might have the absolute control of the sea and yet, by a combination of two Powers, with an embargo on food, you could be brought to your knees. I ask if it is right that things should be left like that? Should the greatest, the wealthiest, and the most powerful Empire in history be dependent on foreigners for its food supply? I shall not make any suggestions as to what should be done, but I have been asked to urge you to give earnest consideration to the point. So much for that. Now, with reference to the contingents. We sent our contingents to this war willingly. We not only did it willingly, but before the war came on our Parliament by a unanimous vote expressed its sympathy with and approval of the conduct of the Imperial Government, and therefore we had to stand by it. We have sent our men willingly--some 3,000 of them. We would have sent a great many more if it had been a great war, and I may tell you that at the opening of the war we all misunderstood it. One of our prominent statesmen said to me, "Denison, this is only a small war," and Mr. Alexander McNeill, of the Canadian House of Commons, one of the staunchest friends of the Empire said: "This is a small war, and it is not necessary to use a steam hammer to break a nut." Another prominent statesman said to me after the ultimatum was issued: "If this were a great war and the Empire in danger we should have to send our men by the 50,000 and vote war credits by the hundred million." When that man said that he voiced, I believe, the feelings of the Canadian people. We sent the contingents, and the men, as I said, turned out willingly. Officers resigned their commissions all over the country and went into the ranks. In fact in one regiment there was only one private. (Laughter.) I am going to let you have that joke; if I had finished my sentence you would not have had it. There was one regiment in which only one private was able to get in to the ranks of the contingent. The others were all officers and non-commissioned officers. That sort of thing went on all over the country, and although they were only militia men, although they were only raw troops, I am proud to be able to say to-night, on the authority of Lord Roberts' despatches, that our men have been able to hold their own with the others. There is one more remark I wish to make. The people of Canada have been struck by the extraordinary way in which the Mother Country has entered into this war. The manner in which it has been done has thrilled our people with admiration. We have seen the best blood in England spilt in this campaign. What for? In order to uphold the rights of one or two hundred thousand of our fellow-colonists in one small part of the Empire. That has been a great object-lesson to us all. We have seen men of wealth, of birth, and position leave their comfortable homes by hundreds; we have seen them leave all the luxury and ease of the greatest and finest and highest civilisation that this world has ever seen, to undergo dangers, trials, wounds, and in many cases death, all for this cause. Now, this has been an object-lesson to us all in Canada. If your people will do that for one colony we feel you would be likely to do it for another. Whether you would or not I say it is a fine thing to have an Empire to fight for that can produce such men, and it is a proud thing for our contingents to be able to fight alongside such comrades. With reference still to this point about Imperial defence, I wish to say that we Canadians are very anxious about the establishment of all-British cables round the world, and we have tried to do our share in regard to the Pacific cable. We who are connected with the League in Canada have written and spoken and done everything we could to stir up public opinion, so that the Canadian people might have their share in that cable, and we have been alarmed lest anything should occur to affect adversely that project; and here let me say that I am glad to see present to-night my fellow-countrymen from Australia. I congratulate them on the possibility of the federation of their country, for we Canadians know by experience what a good thing it has been for us, and we believe that it will be equally good for them. But I wish to say to them, while here to-night, that while the establishment of the Pacific cable might have the effect of benefiting us in a pecuniary way by cheapening rates, that has not been the motive which has influenced people in our country. I for one may say that I never in my life sent a cable to Australia, I never received one, I never saw one, and I never met a friend who had, and on the committee of which I was one of the members I believe that that was pretty generally the experience. Allow me to say in explanation of this that I live in Toronto, well inland, where there is not any great communication with Australia, and therefore the question of cheap rates had nothing to do with our action. We wanted to see an all-British cable, so that if there should be a war the man in charge of the Navy should have the opportunity of handling that Navy to the best advantage. It is for that reason we Canadians want an all-British Pacific cable, and I am called upon to ask you here to use what influence you can, that, in any arrangements for new cables anywhere, there shall be a provision that the Empire may buy them at a fair price whenever it may wish, and I hope that the Empire, with the assistance of the Colonies, may some day unite and have their cables all over the world. Now, with reference to the Imperial forces, the Marquess of Salisbury did not say a great deal about the Imperial army. I think that I should like to say a word or two for them to-night. I think they have shown that in pluck and daring, and in the courage which has carried the British people through so much, they have been fully equal to the traditions of the past. With reference to the future I want to say one word. When this war is over I hope there will be an Imperial Conference called. I think the moment would be most opportune for leading men from the leading Colonies to meet together and see on how many points they could agree. I quite agree with the noble Marquess in saying that we must move slowly and along the lines of the least resistance; that we must move step by step, slowly and carefully, as we have been doing, and not be in too great a hurry for a written Constitution. That is the policy we have been advocating in our country, and it is the right one. I am afraid I have kept you too long. I am glad indeed to have been here to meet you to-night, and I am glad to see with us my friend, the Hon. J. I. Tarte, the first French Canadian who joined our League, now long years ago; and if there is anything more to be said on behalf of Canada I am sure that he will be willing to say it for me. It will be noticed that when I said that there was one regiment in which there was only one private, the audience laughed loudly and interrupted me before I finished my sentence. I turned the laugh on them to the evident delight of the present Prince of Wales, who turned to me beaming with amusement when I sat down and said, "You nervous! you--why you could speak anywhere about anything." He was evidently pleased, for when my brother, Admiral John Denison, who commanded the _Niobe_, which escorted him as far as Gibraltar when he left for Australia, met him at Gibraltar, he spoke to him at once about my speech at that dinner. Lord Wolseley, who was sitting on my left, Lord Avebury and Sir Edmund Barton being between us, tore off a piece of a menu card and wrote on it, "My dear friend, Bravo! Bravo! Wolseley," and passed it up to me. Everyone was very kind. The King came and spoke to me for a few minutes as he was going out, and said he was pleased with my speech. The Duke of Cambridge, Lord Salisbury, Lord Lansdowne, and many others spoke in friendly terms, and altogether I was well pleased that I had crossed the Atlantic to do that one piece of work for Canada and the Empire. The accounts in the Press were very full of the idea of the importance and success of the function. The _British Empire Review_ said: It is unnecessary to dilate here upon the imposing features of the great assembly which congregated in the Grand Hall of the Hotel Cecil on 30th April. By common consent, as our principal contemporaries bear witness in the extracts from their leading columns, which are appended to the full report of the speeches at the banquet printed at the end of the present issue of the _Review_, no more memorable Imperial Demonstration has ever been held in London. Certainly the Executive Committee was justified in taking the exceptional course of inviting Colonel Denison to travel 3,500 miles in order to be present, and he in turn can have no reason to regret his acceptance of the invitation. Many of those present, from the highest downwards, have expressed the opinion that, taking into consideration the occasion of the banquet, the attendance of persons of note, the speeches, the general excellence of all the arrangements, and the dinner itself, the event stands unrivalled within living memory. On the 17th May, 1900, a meeting of the Council of the League was held, principally to hear an address from me on behalf of the Canadian Branch. The late Earl of Derby, K.G., occupied the chair. I brought before the Council the resolution with which our Executive Committee had entrusted me when I was leaving: Resolved, that the Executive Committee of the British Empire League in Canada wishes, in view of the President's coming visit to England, to reiterate its well-defined opinions upon certain matters of Imperial unity. It strongly feels the desirability of the Pacific cable project, the importance to the Empire of some mutual tariff preference between its various parts, the advisability of holding another Imperial Conference to discuss matters of defence, trade, and other interests of the Empire, and the vital necessity of encouraging the production of a sufficient national food supply under the British flag. I pressed all these points upon the Council in a speech which is reported in the _British Empire Review_ for June, 1900. I had been discussing these questions and particularly the food supply with many people and found an undercurrent of feeling much stronger in that direction than on my previous visits to England, and I felt sure that if any political leader would come out and boldly advocate our policy he would get a strong support. I knew Lord Salisbury was in full sympathy with my views, but the cold reception given to him in 1890 and 1892, when he tried to lead public opinion in that direction, had thoroughly discouraged him, and he refrained from further efforts, not because he did not feel the importance of the question, but he felt it was hopeless. He wrote me on 1st March, 1901: I am old enough to remember the rise of Free Trade and the contempt with which the apprehensions of the protectionists of that day were received, but a generation must pass before the fallacies then proclaimed will be unlearnt. There are too many people whose minds were formed under their influence, and until those men have died out, no change of policy can be expected. Mr. Chamberlain still held back, but I felt that he would come to our policy as soon as he could see any hope of a successful movement. I was anxious to test the public feeling, but did not see any opportunity, until I met Sir Howard Vincent about the middle of May, and he told me he was going down to Chelmsford, to deliver a lecture on "South Africa." The meeting was organised by Major Sir Carne Rasch, who was nursing the constituency, and intending to be a candidate in the Conservative interest at the general elections, which were to come off that autumn. Sir Howard Vincent said he would arrange that I should have half an hour to say something about Canada. I agreed to go, and decided that I would feel the pulse of the masses on the subject of food supply, but I said nothing of this to anyone, for I felt that neither Sir Howard nor Sir Carne Rasch would wish to run any risks. I began very cautiously but soon had the audience with me. I was continually cheered, and went on farther and farther, until I advocated a duty on corn, or a bounty on wheat, or a bonus to farmers to keep wheat in ricks. I had been astonished at the friendliness of the audience, but when I got to that point, Sir Carne Rasch and Sir Howard Vincent evidently became nervous, and Sir Howard whispered to me that we would have to get off in order to catch the train, and I stopped instantly. On driving to the station I saw that both my friends were uneasy, and I said, "I hope I did not make any bad breaks"; Sir Carne said, "Oh, I think not." I replied, "You can easily say that I am an ignorant colonial and did not know any better." He laughed at this, but I could see he was a little nervous as to the result. About four or five days after this I was in the lobby of the House of Commons, when Sir Carne Rasch came out of the House, and as soon as he saw me he came across to me at once, and said he was glad to see me, and that he was going to get my address from Sir Howard Vincent. He went on to say that the people at Chelmsford had been delighted with my speech, that letters had been written to him, and he had been asked to get me to go down to Chelmsford and repeat my speech and enlarge upon it. He said he was astonished, that the people had been discussing it ever since, and he offered to secure the largest hall in Chelmsford if I would go down, and that he would guarantee it would not hold all that would wish to come. I was leaving in three or four days for home, and had no opportunity, and so had to decline. A day or two afterwards, in the Mafeking demonstration, I was looking at the crowds near the Piccadilly Circus, when I heard a man say to another, "Is not that Colonel Denison?" I knew I had seen him before, and I said, "Yes, it is; do you come from Toronto?" "No," he replied, "I am from Chelmsford, and heard you speak there last week," and he introduced me to three friends from Chelmsford. One was the Mayor, another the editor of the _Essex County Chronicle_. They at once asked me if I was going down to Chelmsford again, and whether Major Rasch had seen me, and they urged me to go, telling me that the people were very anxious that I should speak there again, and that they were busily discussing the various points which I had raised. I naturally watched for the return of the election in the following October, for I was very anxious that my friend Sir Carne Rasch should be elected. The return for Chelmsford was Major Rasch, 4,978, H. C. S. Henry, Lib., 1,849, a majority of 3,129. I felt then that my speech had not hurt him, or that if it had it did not matter. This incident had an important influence upon the subsequent work of our League in Canada for several years. CHAPTER XXV WORK IN CANADA IN 1901 I reported to the Executive Committee the details of my work in England, and in the Annual Report for 1901 the Executive Committee strongly supported the suggestion, which I had made at the banquet, that an Imperial Conference should be held during 1901, to consider many important matters affecting the safety and welfare of the Empire. The Report went on to say: The time was never so opportune. The public mind is full of these Imperial questions. Australia is now in a position to act as a unit. Canada has long been ready. The people of England have at last awakened to the vastness, the importance, and future possibilities of their great outside Empire, and posterity would never forgive the statesmen of to-day if so favourable a chance to carry out a great work was lost. Your Committee consider that an Imperial Consultative Council should be established, and that immediate steps should be taken to thoroughly organise and combine the military and naval power of the Empire. During the year 1901 I was consulting with the Executive Committee, and with individual members of it from time to time, and expressed the view that we had accomplished our work in Canada, that Commercial Union had been killed, the desire for reciprocity with the States had died out, that both political parties had become alive to the importance of mutual Imperial preferential trade, and that the Canadian Government had given a preference to Great Britain and the West Indies, that penny postage had been established, Canadian contingents had been sent to fight in an Imperial quarrel, that the Pacific cable was being constructed principally through the determined action of Canada, and that I felt the whole movement in favour of Imperial Unification in the future would have to be fought out in Great Britain. My experience in Chelmsford had convinced me that there was a strong undercurrent of feeling in Great Britain in favour of tariff reform, but that nearly everyone seemed afraid to "bell the cat" or to face the tremendous influence of the bogey of Free Trade. I found many people quite willing to admit privately the necessity of some change, but no one ready to come out and boldly advocate tariff reform, or any kind of protection. I said that if a few Canadians, good platform speakers, would go over to England, and make a campaign through the cities and towns, pleading with the people to unite with the colonies to consolidate and strengthen the Empire, the support they would receive would be very great, and might lead to securing the assistance of some prominent political leaders. I was, and always have been, convinced that so many influences of every kind were working in our direction that in time our policy would necessarily be successful. This was discussed from time to time, and it was finally decided that a deputation should go to England before the Imperial Conference, which we knew would be held at the time of the coronation in 1902, and that the deputation should advocate a concise and definite policy, easily understood, which would contain the substance of the trade system that we felt to be so necessary for the stability of the Empire. This was crystallised into the following resolution: That a special duty of five or ten per cent. should be imposed at every port in the British possessions on all foreign goods; the proceeds to be devoted to Imperial defence, by which each part would not only be doing its duty toward the common defence, but at the same time be receiving a preference over the foreigner in the markets of the Empire. Having decided upon this point, it was considered advisable that before we went to England we should first test feeling in different centres in Canada, to make sure that the policy we were advocating was one that Canadians generally would approve. I decided to go to New Brunswick and lay the question before a public meeting in St. John and discuss the matter with prominent men, and in that way test public opinion. I had a very successful meeting in St. John on the 28th November, 1901, where one senator and four members of the Commons and of the local legislature spoke approvingly of the resolution, which was carried unanimously. The Press in New Brunswick was very favourable. The St. John _Sun_, in its leading article the next day, said: We have no hesitation in endorsing the policy propounded by the President of the British Empire League, and supported at last night's meeting by all the speakers on both sides of politics and the unanimous vote of the audience. The article concluded in the following words: Nor is it out of place to say that Colonel Denison's manner of presenting the proposition was worthy of the great theme. He is himself intensely impressed with the solemn dignity of the subject, which touches the destiny of our Empire, and this grave interest was borne in on the audience, and pervaded the other speeches, even those in which a lighter tone prevailed. For this reason, perhaps because most men speak better when they speak strongly, the speeches following the address of the evening were, like Colonel Denison's itself, in tone and quality distinctly superior to those which one usually hears on public occasions. The _Morning Post_, of London, and the _Naval and Military Record_ both had long articles commenting upon this meeting and approving of the spirit shown, but not speaking hopefully of the possibilities of Great Britain accepting the principle of preferential duties. From St. John I went to Montreal, where I addressed a successful meeting on the same subject on the 30th November, 1901. On the 24th January, 1902, I addressed a large meeting in London, Ontario, the Bishop of Huron in the chair. The same resolution was carried unanimously, and the three newspapers--the Conservative, the Liberal, and the Independent--all united in warm approval of the policy, as did the other speakers, who were chosen equally from both sides of politics. Some time later a meeting was organised at Owen Sound, which was addressed by Mr. Alexander McNeill, Vice-President of the League, advocating the same policy, which was unanimously endorsed. The seventh Annual Meeting of the League at Ottawa, at which this policy was also endorsed, took place on the 20th February, 1902. By this time the Executive Committee had become confident that they had the mass of the Canadian people behind them in their proposed policy, and steps were taken to have a deputation proceed to England to endeavour, by public meetings and otherwise, to bring the matter before the attention of the people, and if possible to inaugurate public discussion of the policy. The following resolution was carried by the Executive Committee: The Executive Committee of the British Empire League in Canada, having regard to the rapid growth of national sentiment in the greater colonies and the strong and vigorous Imperial sentiment throughout the Empire, is of opinion that it is most important that advantage should be taken of the coming Imperial Conference in London to secure some definite and forward action towards the accomplishment of the objects of the British Empire League as a whole. The Executive Committee, with this view, requests the President of the League in Canada to visit England soon, if possible, and advocate the already expressed opinions of the Canadian branch by addressing public meetings, and otherwise, as he may find expedient and proper, in order to assist in influencing public opinion in favour of these objects. That he also be empowered and requested to advocate that a special duty of 5 to 10 per cent. should be imposed at every port in the British possessions on all foreign goods, in order to provide a fund for Imperial Defence, which fund should be administered by a Committee or Council in which the colonies should have representation. The Executive Committee also expresses the hope that the Hon. George E. Foster, the Hon. George W. Ross, and Dr. George R. Parkin, C.M.G., if they may be able to visit England this year, will assist in this work, and give their valuable aid to the cause. A copy of this resolution was sent to the head office in England, with a request that I should have an opportunity of addressing the Council of the League in April. A favourable reply was received. CHAPTER XXVI MISSION TO ENGLAND IN 1902 I left for England on the 10th April, 1902, and arrived in London on 21st April. The following members of the League and of the Executive Committee, staunch friends and supporters of the cause, came to the station to see me off: W. B. McMurrich, President of the Navy League, H. J. Wickham, J. M. Clark, John T. Small, George E. Evans, Fraser Lefroy, H. M. Mowat, K.C., Colonel Grasett, and J. W. Curry, K.C. I was much impressed with the tone of their conversation; they seemed to feel that I was going upon an almost hopeless errand, but let me know how strongly they sympathised with me. I can never forget the loyal support and assistance I have always received in all circumstances from the spirited and unselfish patriotism of the advocates of Imperialism in Canada. The greatest satisfaction I have is to feel that for so many years I was working in a cause which rallied around it such a splendid galaxy of upright and honourable men. Mr. Foster was not able to go to England that year, but he went the following year, and did great work in speaking through England, and in Scotland, in support of Mr. Chamberlain's policy of Tariff Reform, which was what we had been working for for so many years. The Hon. George W. Ross came over late, being delayed by the Ontario General Elections, and he supported me by a powerful and eloquent speech at the annual meeting of the League in London. Dr. Parkin was also delayed, but he had never fully accepted our trade policy, and as negotiations opened at once between him and the Rhodes Trust to secure his services for their work, he was not able to address any meeting, so that for two months the whole burden fell upon me, and I was obliged unaided to endeavour to break the ice, and get the movement started. To look back now it is hard to call to mind the state of affairs in England at this time. No prominent statesman had said one word, in public, in support of mutual preferential tariffs except Lord Salisbury, and he was discouraged and disheartened by the lack of support, and at that time was in such failing health that no assistance could be expected from him. I felt that I was facing a very hard proposition, and one almost hopeless in its prospects. I was afraid of being ignored or simply sponged out. I was very anxious to be attacked. I knew if I was vehemently assailed it would be a great advantage, for I felt I had the facts and arguments, and could defeat my opponents in discussion. I had been for years studying the question, reading constantly articles _pro_ and _con._, and had classified, organised, and indexed my material, until I felt every confidence in my cause. I arrived in London on the 21st April, and on that morning my first stroke of good luck occurred. The papers had just published the announcement of the Morgan combine of the Atlantic Steamship Lines. This had positively startled the British people. It shook them up and alarmed them, and caused them for the first time for many years to be uneasy as to their pre-eminence in mercantile marine. They were in a mood to listen to questions as to their future prospects. I used Morgan's action in conversation to support my view that Great Britain must follow the advice of the Prince of Wales and "wake up." The _Daily Express_ sent a representative to interview me on the Morgan affair, and on the 25th April, 1902, it published an interview of over a column in length. I pointed out the widespread danger of Morgan's combination if it succeeded, that the Canadian Pacific Railway might be secured, and then no other line of steamships could compete, for if the United States combine controlled the railways, they would control the freights, and so the vessels; and if they dominated the Atlantic and Pacific, the British Empire would be split in twain. I wound up the interview by a plan to checkmate the combine, saying, "The right method is to run a competing line, tax everything the combine vessels bring into this country and let the things that the other line brings come in free." On the 1st May the _Express_ had another interview on the same question. On the 26th April I spoke at the banquet given to the Lacrosse Team at the Hotel Cecil, and touched upon Imperial questions, but the newspapers reported nothing. On the 28th April Sir Gilbert Parker gave a lunch for me at the Constitutional Club, and invited several editors to meet me. On the 30th April I attended the annual dinner of the Royal Colonial Institute, where I was assigned to respond to the toast of "The United Empire." This was my first chance of speaking to a large audience, and it was composed of the foremost men in England interested in the Colonial Empire. Sir George Taubman Goldie sat next to me and proposed the toast. It came last. An extra toast to the Houses of Parliament inserted to give Lord Halsbury, the Lord Chancellor, an opportunity to speak, made it very late when my turn came. Sir Taubman Goldie said it was too late and he would not speak. I felt it was too important a chance for me to allow to slip, and I said to him that I must speak for five minutes. The next morning none of the daily papers had any report of my speech. The _Times_ included it under the words "other toasts followed." This was the treatment I had been most afraid of. I knew there was no chance of doing anything if I was simply ignored. It was not that my speech was not important, but it was late and I was a stranger. Mr. I. N. Ford, representative of the New York _Tribune_ and the Toronto _Globe_, was present, and he at one saw the importance of the policy I propounded, and cabled to New York, and all over the States, and to Toronto a report of the dinner. His report, in view of subsequent developments, may be reproduced: The most interesting episode of the last twenty-four hours has been the breath of fresh air at the Imperial function, the annual banquet of the Royal Colonial Institute in Whitehall Rooms. The speaking began after nine o'clock and was perfunctory for two hours. Lord Grey, as chairman, opened the proceedings quietly, and there was nothing of exceptional interest. The Hon. Henry Copeland, representing New South Wales, suggested that the three sons of the Prince of Wales, should have the titles of Princes of Canada, of Australia and of South Africa, and the daughter Princess of New Zealand. Lieut.-General Leslie Rundle asserted that a good feeling had been brought about between the colonial contingents and the British Army. The Lord Chancellor talked about the utility of Parliament. Lord Grey paid a tribute to the unselfish idealism of Mr. Cecil Rhodes. It was not until eleven that real interest was created by the response of Colonel Denison to the toast of "The United Empire." He was only on his feet five minutes, but he carried the representative audience of 240 colonials with him. He then gave a summary of the speech and concluded: Colonel Denison's policy excited murmurs of dissent at first, but was applauded with great vigour at the close as a practical sequel to the tax on grain and flour. I give the verbatim report of this speech, and it will be seen that it contains the whole principle of the Tariff Reform movement which has since made such headway: As a member of this Institute, and one who has worked most of his life in the interests of the United Empire, I should have very great pleasure in responding to this toast at some little length, but I must be brief at this late hour. This year is one of the most important years of the history of the Empire. We speak of the United Empire, and although we have an Empire which in one sense is united, still in another sense it is not a United Empire. It is not combined in any way, or organised for defence, and I think it is absolutely necessary that steps should be taken at the earliest possible moment to have it properly combined. The coming conference of Premiers will be one of the most important events in the history of the British race. I am under the impression that when this conference meets it will either do some good work in connection with the unification of the Empire, or it may be that either through sloth, or indolence, or lack of appreciation of the extraordinary importance of the occasion, the critical moment may be allowed to lapse, and we may soon see our career as a great and powerful people approaching a close. ("No.") I certainly hope not, but speaking as a Canadian watching closely the trend of affairs in that country, and having had a good deal of work in the fight we had some fifteen years ago against Commercial Union with the United States, I tell you this is a most critical period, and that this Empire must combine for defence and for trade. For defence because every great thinker and every man who has studied the subject knows that we may have war upon us at any moment. Take the last words of that great statesman, Lord Dufferin, when he said that nothing, neither a sense of justice, nor the precepts of religion, nor the instincts of humanity, would prevent any of these foreign nations from attacking us at the first favourable opportunity. Why did Lord Salisbury two years ago, at the Primrose League gathering, say that "The whole thing may come as a wave upon us." Is it not necessary that we should combine the Empire both for trade and defence? Now we have considered this subject carefully in Canada, and held meetings all over the country, and the proposal we wish to see adopted at this conference--a proposal I have been asked by the British Empire League to lay before you--is that at that conference every representative there should agree to a proposal to put from five to ten per cent. duty on all foreign goods at every port in every part of the Empire. What for? Not for Protection or Free Trade, but to form a fund for defence. That is why it has got to be done, and you will require large sums of money to put the thing on a proper footing. We want also to combine for trade. We want some proposal which would help to a certain extent to protect the trade of the Empire in every part, which would tend not only to protect trade in every part, but to stop the merciless attacks made on the trade of this country by foreign nations. We have never had to face such a pitiless commercial war in all our history. The commercial war in the time of Napoleon was a mere incident in actual war, but we are to-day feeling the attacks at every turn. I think this proposal which the Canadian people wish to see adopted would have one other effect. We have 400,000,000 of people in this Empire, but only 50,000,000 of British stock and bound together by ties of kindred, race, and blood. The rest are satisfied to be in our Empire. But why? On account of the just administration of affairs, the freedom and liberties they enjoy under the British flag, and for one other reason also, because of the great prestige we have hitherto held as a great and dominant power. The proposal we suggest would have the effect of giving a direct trade interest to all these alien races under our flag to-day. I believe our good friend Mr. Seddon, of New Zealand, will soon be in this country and will be with us on this point. I hope our Australian friends will be with us also, and that the people of England will be willing to make some slight sacrifices for the purpose of holding our great and powerful Empire together, and at the same time we also shall be making sacrifices, and doing much more than ever before for the common cause. This banquet was on the 30th April. As an indication of the interest taken in the matter in the United States, on the 5th May the Chicago _Tribune_ had a portrait of my brother, Lieut.-Colonel Septimus Denison, which they believed was mine. Over the top were the words "Projector of plan for Union of the British Empire against the World"; at the foot of the portrait "Colonel Septimus Denison." Several hundred representatives of the British Colonies grew wildly enthusiastic at a banquet in London on Wednesday night, over a plan proposed by Colonel Denison, of Toronto, for a union of Great Britain and all its colonies for commercial defence against the rest of the world. Colonel Denison's scheme, as outlined in his speech, is to levy a tariff of from five to ten per cent. at all British and colonial ports on all goods not from Great Britain or one of its colonies and establish free trade within the Empire. On the 4th May I lunched with Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, and discussed with him the policy that I was advocating. He argued the matter with me, bringing forward any number of objections, which I answered as well as I could. I soon came to the conclusion that he was quietly taking my measure, and testing my knowledge of the question. I then warmed up in my arguments and put my views strongly and emphatically, and soon came to the conclusion, from a mischievous expression in his eye, that he was not as much opposed to me as his remarks would lead one to think. When leaving I felt that although he did not say a word in support of my plan, yet he was not altogether unfavourable. On the 5th May I met Sir Douglas Straight, editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, and after some conversation he suggested to Mr. Sydney Low, who was with us, to interview me on behalf of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, and a long interview appeared on the front pages of that paper on the 12th May, in which I put our views forward clearly and strongly. After pointing out the precarious condition of Great Britain's food supply I said that we in Canada felt that it would be a sheer waste of money for us to pay for ships, troops, and coaling stations, while taking no precautions to secure adequate supplies of food, and that a preferential tax on food would help greatly to overcome the danger. I concluded with the following words: I do not wish to enter upon the whole economical and financial question; but everything I have seen and read convinces me that your industrial situation is a perilous one, that you are paying for your imports largely out of capital, and that you are depending far too much on the profits of the carrying trade, of which, as you have been very forcibly reminded during the past few weeks, you cannot expect to have a virtual monopoly much longer. If you do not speedily make arrangements to secure yourselves some markets, where you will be able to deal at an advantage, you will be in a very serious position indeed in the course of the next few years. The opportunity of solving at once the defensive and the industrial problem seems to us to have arrived; and we have great hopes that British statesmen and the British public will take advantage of it. On the 6th May there was a special meeting of the Council of the League held in a room at the House of Commons, at which Lord Avebury presided. It was called to hear my appeal for assistance in obtaining opportunities for placing the views of the Canadian Branch before the British people. There were a number of prominent men present, among others the Duke of Abercorn, Earl Egerton of Tatton, Sir Walter Butler, Sir Edward Carbutt, Rt. Hon. Sir John Cockburn, Sir Charles Fremantle, W. Herbert Daw, Sir Robert Herbert, W. H. Holland, M.P., Dr. Culver James, Sir Guilford Molesworth, Sir Charles Tupper, and Sir Fred Young. Lord Avebury introduced me and I put my case before them. After I had spoken at some length Sir Charles Tupper followed, supporting me strongly. Mr. W. H. Holland--now Sir William Holland--criticised my views from the Free Trade Manchester standpoint, and was totally opposed to me. Captain Lee, M.P., was critical but not hostile. Mr. Talbot Baines was not favourable to my views, but thought I should have opportunities of putting them before the public. Sir Guilford Molesworth and Sir Fred Young supported me strongly, as did Dr. Culver James and Sir John Cockburn. I wound up the discussion, particularly replying to Sir William Holland's remarks. Among other things Sir William Holland had said: I might say that the trade of which I know the most, the cotton trade, would be affected considerably by such a scheme. If an important duty of five or ten per cent. were imposed on all cotton coming into this country from territory outside the limits of the British Empire, we should at once penalise that great industry by enhancing the cost of the raw material by five or ten per cent., and as the cotton trade is largely dependent on markets outside British territory, I am afraid it might have a disastrous effect on our ability to compete in the great neutral markets of the world, if our raw material was penalised to that extent. When I rose to reply, I said: Will Mr. Holland kindly wait a few moments? I have just a few words to say in reply to his remarks. He is interested in the cotton trade, and has given us one or two ideas upon it. . . . With regard to cotton, I will give you one fair warning about that. You are engaged at this moment--the British people are engaged--in one of the most pitiless and merciless wars ever waged in commercial history. Napoleon's war was nothing to it. The United States have made up their mind that they are going to use you up in every quarter. They are taking your ships from you, and they are going to take your boot trade altogether. I came over here with the president of their great combine, and he explained it to me. "We shall destroy the whole shoe trade of England," is what he said. Now about your cotton trade. I want to warn you. Do not be surprised if before long there will be a heavy export tax put upon cotton in the United States, because I understand that they may likely keep it for manufacturing with themselves. If that is done--and it may be easily done--such a proposition as I have made of putting a ten per cent. duty on imports into the ports of the empire might cause cotton to be grown in Africa, in India, in Egypt, and in other places, and I think for the benefit of having cotton grown inside the Empire it will be a good thing to put on the duty, because you are not safe for a day with the United States. They are waging war upon us now at every turn. Sir Wm. Holland evidently was impressed with my remarks about the danger of the United States reducing their sale of cotton. It was only about a month after that the public heard of the organisation of the British Cotton Supply Association, with a subscription of 50,000 to make experiments in growing cotton under the British flag. I have always had a very high opinion of Sir Wm. Holland ever since. It was unanimously resolved at that meeting "to give Colonel Denison every possible facility for stating his views to Chambers of Commerce and other influential bodies without committing the League to an endorsement, and it was referred to the Executive Committee to embody this decision in a formal resolution in the name of the Council." At a meeting of the Executive Committee held on the 15th May the resolution was passed in these words: That while maintaining its traditional policy of neutrality in all matters affecting tariffs and fiscal arrangements, the Council of the League have pleasure in resolving that it will do everything in its power to provide facilities for Colonel Denison, the distinguished President of the League in Canada, to express publicly his views before the Chambers of Commerce and other important bodies in this country. This resolution was published in the newspapers, and the action of the Council was known to the Liberal leaders. On the 7th May I dined at the Annual Banquet of the Newspaper Society, and responded to the toast of "The Guests," where I had an admirable opportunity of bringing my proposition before a large number of editors of newspapers from all over Great Britain. The Aberdeen _Journal_ commenting upon this dinner said:-- Perhaps the most interesting speech of the evening was the last one. It was delivered by Colonel Denison, a Canadian, and President of the Empire League in Canada. He stated that he had been sent over to this country to do what he could to promote a movement for the defence of the Empire, and indicated that one of the proposals to be discussed at the Colonial Conference at the coronation would be one to impose a duty on foreign imports at every port in the Empire, in order to raise an Imperial Defence Fund common to the whole Empire. He said the duty might be 5, 6, 7, 8, or 9 per cent. There was one exclamation of dissent when this proposal was mentioned, but Colonel Denison's breezy, confident manner, and evidently strong conviction on the subject, excited general sympathy. Lord Tweedmouth's attitude during the Colonel's speech, as it may be described, suggesting an Imperial war tax, was rather quizzical than sympathetic. By this time the newspapers were beginning to notice my work. Fortunately for me about the same time Mr. Seddon had been speaking on similar lines in South Africa, and Sir Wilfrid Laurier also in the Canadian House of Commons. This alarmed the Liberal party, and the _Manchester Guardian_ began to criticise and find fault with me to my great satisfaction, for I knew I could stand anything better than being ignored. A friend of mine in the Liberal ranks told me about this time that the leading Liberals were in a great state of anxiety at my work. They believed, he said, that Chamberlain, Seddon, and Sir Wilfrid Laurier had all agreed that the scheme was to be put through at the Imperial Conference, and that I had come over as an advance agent, to break the ice, to open the discussion, and prepare the way. I evaded making any definite reply to this suggestion, jokingly saying that I was not surprised to hear that they were anxious. I had another hint that the Liberal party purposed arranging for a great meeting at Leeds, at which Lord Rosebery was to speak, and a direct effort made to rally the whole Liberal party together, under the banner of Free Trade, as against the proposed corn tax, and the preferential arrangements with the colonies, I thought it desirable that I should have a talk with Lord Rosebery at once, and wrote asking him for an interview. He invited me to lunch the next day, the 8th May. There was no one present but his son and his secretary, and I appealed to him earnestly, appealed to his sympathy with Imperialism, and to his services to Imperial Federation, and urged him to assist me in my work. I pointed out the dangers of the precarious food supply, and the disintegrating influences that might break up the Empire, and put my case as clearly as possible. He seemed to get more and more serious as he saw all the arguments on that side, and when I was leaving I said to him; "It is too bad of me to come and unload all my gloomy forebodings upon you." His reply was, "I share a great many of them with you." I knew then, as I knew at the meeting in 1890, that at heart he was a warm Imperialist, but is terribly hampered and embarrassed by his party affiliations. The meeting took place at Leeds on the 30th May. In his speech he made two or three remarks which showed he was not as opposed to my policy as I expected. In reference to the corn tax he said: Not another acre of wheat, we were told by one Minister, would be planted in consequence of this tax, which removed, to my mind, the sole inducement to vote for it, for if more of our country could be placed under wheat it would solve some of the difficulties connected with the land. Again he said: But there is a much graver issue connected with this corn tax--an issue which has, in reality, only recently been imported into the discussion. It is, I think, quite clear from the last speech of the Colonial Secretary, that it is intended as a prelude to a sort of Zollverein or Customs Union throughout the British Empire. Now, speaking for myself, I cannot summarily dismiss any proposal for the closer union of the Empire, because it has been the ideal of more than the last twenty years of my life (hear, hear), an ideal of which I spoke to you at Leeds when I was last here. I do not say that Free Trade is a fetish, a religious dogma, which must be accepted and applied on all occasions without consideration or reservation. . . . I do not know, my mind is open, and I shall wait to hear. His speech was more friendly than I expected, although some of his party objected to an "open mind." Before the Leeds meeting the Liberals held a meeting in Scotland, at Aberdeen, on the 20th May, where the Rt. Hon. James Bryce made a vigorous speech against the corn tax, which it was believed was being put on preparatory for the Imperial Conference. On the 23rd May I addressed the Liverpool Chamber of Commerce under the chairmanship of its President, Sir Alfred Jones, who treated me with the most unbounded hospitality. The meeting was very large and successful, and although my views aroused criticism and were objected to by some speakers, I had a chance to reply in acknowledging a vote of thanks, and as I had the strongest arguments I had little difficulty in effectively answering objections. The _Westminster Gazette_ of the 21st May, the day before I went to Liverpool, had the following article: Mr. Bryce stated the case against the bread tax with admirable point and force in a speech last night at Aberdeen. He dealt with its protective aspect, and the part it seemed destined to play in helping on an Imperial Zollverein, and had an excellent passage as to the effect of the tax on the very poor: he said: And when you get lower still, when you approach that large section of our people--in many places 30 per cent. of the population--which lives on the verge of want, it becomes a crushing burden, which means reduced subsistence, frequent hunger, weakness of body, and susceptibility to disease. The poor man suffers not merely because his margin is so small that the least addition to price tells, but because he can only afford the simplest and cheapest kinds of food. Bread to him is not only an article of first necessity, but of last necessity, etc. The comment, "He dealt with its protective aspect and the part it seemed destined to play in helping on an Imperial Zollverein," shows the alarm in the Liberal ranks. One of the speakers at the Liverpool meeting, who objected to my arguments, spoke of the marvellous prosperity of Great Britain, all due, as he said, to Free Trade. In my reply I used with great effect this extract from Mr. Bryce's speech, and said that if about 8_d._ per head for a whole year meant to 30 per cent. of the population "a crushing burden, which means reduced subsistence, frequent hunger, weakness of body, susceptibility to disease," I could not see that it could be called a prosperous country. I said I do not believe that gentleman ever saw a prosperous country. Let him come to the protectionist United States of America, or to protectionist Canada, and he will see countries where there is hardly a soul who does not spend at least 8_d._ a week on pleasure or amusement. This was apparently an unanswerable retort. I found this paragraph of Mr. Bryce's very useful on more occasions than one. I was told some five months after I had returned home, by one of the newspaper men who visited Canada at that time, that he had heard, on undoubted authority, that Mr. Joseph Chamberlain had privately asked Sir Alfred Jones to get up a meeting, and invite me to go down and address it. The result must have been satisfactory, for the meeting was much more successful than I had any hope for. I think Mr. Chamberlain's part leaked out and still further alarmed the Liberals, and still more aided me. The Liverpool papers gave good reports of the meeting, and the editorial comments of two of them were not unfavourable, while one was opposed to me. The _Courier_ of the 24th May said: Now Canada proposes--and no doubt she will not be alone--that the Empire as a whole accept this challenge. Colonel Denison suggests that a five per cent. tariff should be laid on foreign goods in every part of the Empire, and that the money be ear-marked for the defence. It is, of course, premature to discuss details, but the final words of the Canadian Imperialist deserve the most earnest attention. He shows that Mr. Chamberlain has not misread the signs in saying that an opportunity of closer union is about to be offered, and a chance given, perhaps once for all, of keeping British trade in British hands. If the occasion should be rejected, fair warning is given that the elements of disintegration will inevitably begin to operate among the colonies thus flouted, disappointed, and rebuffed. But we are asked to remember what Mr. Bryce says as to the percentage of the population always on the verge of want, and to whom an important duty would be fatal. They have not this terrible dead-weight in Canada, and neither have they anything of the sort in the United States. Is it not rational to suggest that this vast proportion of the population, ever ready to be submerged, is a result not of dear commodities, but of restricted production. On the score of mere cheapness there is assuredly little to complain of. The biggest and cheapest loaf costs something, and its price has to be earned. The question is, Are we to face this commercial struggle alone and unarmed, or are we to unite with the daughter nations in securing a not dubious victory? On the 13th May, ten days before the meeting in Liverpool, I was dining at Lord Lansdowne's at a dinner given to Count Matsugata, formerly Prime Minister of Japan. The Premier and five Cabinet Ministers, Lord Roberts, the Duke of Abercorn, and several others were present. I was seated between Mr. Chamberlain and Lord George Hamilton. I took advantage of the opportunity to discuss our policy with Mr. Chamberlain, and pressed it as earnestly as I could put it, and we had a long conversation. I pleaded with him to help us, that I was still afraid of reciprocity with the United States, and that I felt we were drifting, drifting, and that every year made it worse. Whether my remarks had any weight on him or not I cannot say. I think he had long been privately on our side, but anyway, three days after he made a speech in Birmingham, which was the most hopeful thing that had happened in all our struggle. In that speech he said: "The position of this country is not one without anxiety to statesmen and careful observers. Political jealousy, commercial rivalry, more serious than anything we have yet had, the pressure of hostile tariffs, the pressure of bounties, the pressure of subsidies, it is all becoming more weighty and more apparent. What is the object of this system adopted by countries which, at all events, are very prosperous themselves--countries like Germany and other large Continental States? What is the object of all this policy of bounties and subsidies? It is admitted--there is no secret about it--the intention is to shut out this country as far as possible from all profitable trade with those foreign States, and at the same time to enable those foreign States to undersell us in British markets. That is the policy, and we see that it is assuming a great development, that old ideas of trade and free competition have changed. We are face to face with great combinations, with enormous trusts, having behind them gigantic wealth. Even the industries and commerce which we thought to be peculiarly our own, even those are in danger. It is quite impossible that these new methods of competition can be met by adherence to old and antiquated methods which were perfectly right at the time at which they were developed. At the present moment the Empire is being attacked on all sides, and in our isolation we must look to ourselves. We must draw closer our internal relations, the ties of sentiment, the ties of sympathy--yes, and the ties of interest. If by adherence to economic pedantry, to old shibboleths, we are to lose opportunities of closer union which are offered us by our Colonies; if we are to put aside occasions now within our grasp; if we do not take every chance in our power to keep British trade in British hands, I am certain that we shall deserve the disasters which will infallibly come upon us. This was the first public utterance of Mr. Chamberlain, in which he endorsed in general terms the policy I was advocating. In the remarks I have quoted, it will be seen that he endorsed the salient points of my five minutes' speech a fortnight before at the Royal Colonial Institute. Political jealousy, commercial rivalry, the pitiless commercial war, the ties of sentiment, the ties of interest, the keeping of British trade in British hands, etc. Nothing inspirited me so much as this speech. I had preserved as a profound secret Mr. Chamberlain's promise to me in 1890 that he would study up the question, and, if he came to the conclusion it would be a good thing for our Empire, that he would take it up. I had kept silent waiting for twelve years, until I read that speech on the morning of the 17th May, and I then told my wife the story of the interview in 1890, for I felt he had adopted the policy. The _Daily News_, in two articles on the 22nd and 24th May, made an attack on Mr. Chamberlain and me, and found fault also with the British Empire League for giving me any countenance, and strongly criticised our policy. The first article was entitled "The Empire Wreckers." I was delighted to see these articles, as well as others, in the _Westminster Gazette_, the _Manchester Guardian_, and other Liberal papers. I saw that my greatest difficulty had been overcome, and that I was not to be ignored, but that I was likely to succeed in getting the whole matter thrown into the arena for public discussion. After quoting the proposition I was advocating in full, the _Daily News_ went on to say: We leave to others the task of finding the appropriate adjectives for this composition, but Colonel Denison will forgive us if we observe that there is a certain inconvenience in conducting a campaign of this kind during the coronation festivities. We have no notion whether he is acting as the advance agent of Mr. Seddon and others, whose views on tariff preferences are of an extreme character, nor do we know how far he speaks as the representative of his fellow-colonists. But he and those who are acting with him must surely see that this is not the time for launching a campaign which is bound to give rise to differences, and possibly to heated differences. Everyone is anxious to give a cordial welcome to the visitors who will be coming to our shores next month, and nothing would be more unfortunate than to find ourselves involved in a dispute about preferences and tariffs with our own people. . . . There can be no doubt, however, that Mr. Chamberlain is the person primarily responsible for these proceedings, and it is with him that the Chambers of Commerce will have to deal if they wish to call their souls and their trade their own much longer. Ever since he came into office the master motive in Mr. Chamberlain's mind has been to put the Empire on a cash basis, to run it frankly as a commercial venture, and to occupy the position of managing director of the concern . . . From the standpoint of national trade and Imperial security it is the maddest scheme that was ever offered to a country as a policy. It ignores the fact that we do four times as much trade with foreign countries as with our Colonies and Dependencies, and that it ties our hands in our fiscal arrangements, and to all intents and purposes constitutes our Colonies as the predominant partner. Who would have thought that it would be necessary at this time of day to do battle against such midsummer madness? We repeat that if Mr. Chamberlain is allowed his way, and the British Empire comes to stand for starvation, misery, and loss of economic freedom for the mother country, the Empire will soon become a thing of the past. On the 24th May, two days later, it returned to the attack on similar lines. I saw my opening and promptly seized it. I wrote the following letter to the _News_, which they were fair enough to publish in full with an editorial note attached. It appeared in the _Daily News_ of the 27th May, 1902: SIR, In two articles in your issues of the 22nd and 24th inst., you have referred to my action in endeavouring to bring the views of the British Empire League in Canada--views which are almost universally shared by Canadians--before the people of this country. Will you kindly allow me to bring one or two points before your readers in defence of my action? The British Empire League here has not adopted our views, but has maintained a position of neutrality, being only willing to show to the Canadian Branch the courtesy of giving facilities for bringing its views forward. I have spoken already at four large banquets, and to the Liverpool Chamber of Commerce, without the British Empire League having had anything to do with the matter, either directly or indirectly. You speak of all that Free Trade has done for this country, the priceless boons, the carrying trade of the world, increased commercial relations with other nations, etc. I wish in a few words to point out why the Canadians are anxious about the present state of affairs in the interests of the whole Empire, in which our fate as a people is inextricably involved. 1. We see every nation in the world armed to the teeth, the great nations increasing their navies with feverish anxiety. We see that you are alarmed in this country, for your naval expenditure has almost doubled in the last fifteen or twenty years. If war is out of the question this great expenditure is useless. 2. We see that the United Kingdom which once grew 17,000,000 quarters of wheat, now produces about 6,500,000 quarters. We see that a combination of two Powers with an embargo on food would bring you to your knees in a few months, and compel you to surrender, and perhaps pull us down also as a people in the general smash of the Empire which might ensue. We know that our Empire cannot be either a free, independent, or great Power, until it is self-sustaining, and has its food grown on its own soil, and in the hands of its own people. 3. We see a great Empire with great possessions, with resources unparalleled, with possibilities of future strength and prosperity almost beyond imagination; with no organisation, no combination, no complete system of defence: and this in the face of what you admit to be a possibility of the dangers of war. 4. We see a commercial war going on of the most extreme type--many nations seemingly organising all their forces to injure the trade of Great Britain. We see that your export trade for the ten years 1881-1890 amounted to 2,343,000,000, while in the following ten years, 1891-1900, it had only increased to 2,398,000,000, or an increase of 55,000,000 in the ten years. But the exports of coal in the first ten years amounted to 125,000,000, in the last ten years to 210,000,000--an increase of 85,000,000; which makes the exports of manufactured goods less by 30,000,000 during the years 1891-1900 than during the previous ten years, for export of coal is only a sale of national assets or capital. 5. We see that while your trade is stationary at less profits, foreign nations are increasing theirs enormously. German exports in 1895 amounted to 171,203,000, in 1901 to 237,970,000. The United States in 1871 exported about 90,000,000, in 1901 about 300,000,000 (1,487,764,991 dollars). While your trade is in a weak condition, we see also the carrying trade passing into the hands of our rivals. The Morgan combine will control the North Atlantic trade if something is not done. It will fix the rates of freight, and, as a great portion of your food comes from the United States, they can make the British people pay the extra rates which will enable them to carry American manufactures of all kinds at the smallest cost, and so deprive your workmen of their employment and wages at the cost to themselves of dearer food. 6. Canadians have seen the difficulty, and have given this country a preference of one-third the duty in their markets without any return or _quid pro quo_. We have contributed to an all British cable to Australia for Imperial reasons. I advocated at Liverpool a large tariff on wheat in the United Kingdom against everyone, including Canada. I advocated a tariff of five to ten per cent. on all foreign goods at every port in the Empire to raise a fund for the common defence, and to combine the Empire for trade. We in Canada do not require this change if you do not. We are prosperous; our exports are mounting up by leaps and bounds; the balance of trade is in our favour: but we are in the Empire; we have made up our minds to stand by it. We have spent the lives of our young men, and our money, in that cause in the past. When, therefore, we see your manufactures going down, your export trade barely holding its own in spite of a great increase of population, your carrying trade slipping from your hands, your agricultural interests being destroyed, three quarters of Ireland disloyal, principally because their farming has been ruined by what must seem a false policy to them, is it any wonder that we should wish to appeal to you to do something? Is it not only fair that you should listen to us, and if we can combine in any way to defend our Empire from foreign aggression, either in war or in trade, should we not all endeavour to do so? Yours, &c., GEORGE T. DENISON. _President British Empire League in Canada._ Lord Masham, speaking to me afterwards about this letter, laughed most heartily and said, "Just think, to get that letter before the readers of the _News_. That is capital, how the editor must have grudged printing it." I spoke at the Canada Club dinner on the 8th May in response to the toast of "The Dominion of Canada," and at the Colonial Club dinner on the 28th May in response to the toast of "The Empire." On the 2nd June I addressed the Chamber of Commerce at Tunbridge Wells. On the 4th June I addressed a large meeting in Glasgow, the Lord Provost in the chair. On the 5th June another in Paisley, and on the 6th June I addressed a joint meeting of the Edinburgh and Leith Chambers of Commerce in Edinburgh. On the 5th June the Glasgow _Herald_ had an article criticising my speech. It gave me an opportunity which I used by sending them a letter which they published the next day, the 6th. The same issue of the _Herald_ had an article referring to my letter. To my gratification it closed with these words: The question remains an open one whether, when the Colonies are prepared to accept some of the burdens of the Empire, we should accord them preferential treatment in respect of products in which they compete with foreigners. I have already referred to the uneasiness and anxiety among the Liberals about my mission, and in addition to Mr. Bryce's speech in Aberdeen a large meeting was held in Edinburgh on the 8th June, where the Rt. Hon. John Morley spoke in reply to my speeches in Scotland. Among other things he said: You have got a gentleman now, I observe, perambulating Scotland--I am sure in perfectly good faith--I have not a word to say against it--perambulating Scotland on this subject, and it will be the subject, depend upon it, because it is in the hands of a very powerful and tenacious Statesman. Therefore excuse me if I point out a fifth broad effect. On the chances of some increase in your relatively small colonial trade, you are going to derange, dislodge, and dislocate all your immense foreign trade. And he also said that it meant the abandonment of Free Trade, and "would overthrow the very system that has placed us in the unexampled position of power and strength and wealth." On the 11th June I addressed the Chamber of Commerce of Bristol, and my meeting attracted considerable attention from the local newspapers. The _Western Daily Press_ had on the morning of the meeting a long and quite friendly article, bespeaking earnest attention to my address, even if I laid down "lines of fiscal policy along which the majority may be reluctant to travel." The Bristol _Mercury_ gave a very full report of the meeting and of the speeches, and had a long article discussing the proposition from a strong Free Trade and hostile point of view. On the 10th June in the House of Commons my work caused a passing notice. After I had left Canada the Executive Committee of the League in Canada published in pamphlet form a report of the Annual Meeting of the League in Canada containing my Presidential Address in moving the adoption of the Annual Report, and they had an extra quantity printed and sent a copy to every member of the House of Lords and the House of Commons. On the discussion of the Finance Bill in the House of Commons on the 10th June, Sir W. Harcourt, after saying that the Colonies could only join the mother country on the basis of protection, went on to say: "I received the other day the Manifesto of the Canadian Imperial League, which seems to be a very authoritative document, containing, as it does, the principal names in Canada, and which I would ask the committee to examine in relation to the Budget. The first article of the constitution of the League is thus laid down: 'To advocate a trade policy between Great Britain and her Colonies, by means of which discrimination in the exchange of natural and manufactured products will be made in favour of one another and against foreign countries.' Of course, that is the only basis on which the Colonies will deal with us. If they give up their preferential duties against us, they will expect us to institute preferential duties against other nations. In the annual report of the Executive Committee of this British Imperial League, dated February 1, 1902--months before the introduction of the present Budget--we learn that at its meeting, which was held at Toronto, the following resolution was adopted: 'Resolved, that this meeting is of opinion that a special duty of 5 to 10 per cent. should be imposed at every port in the British possessions on all foreign goods'; and we are told, further, that the proceeds are to be devoted to Imperial defence. But I come to the speech made by the president of the League, which bears particularly on the Budget. He said: "New methods of taxation are absolutely necessary in Great Britain, and there is no difficulty in the way except the over confidence against which Kipling writes, and the strong prejudice in the English mind against taxing wheat. It is a remarkable thing that two months after this declaration was made we have, for the first time, a tax imposed upon wheat. The joint action of the poet and the financier has overcome the prejudice in the English mind against taxing wheat; then we are to have this duty of 10 per cent. on all food introduced into this country against the foreigners, and the whole thing is accomplished. I say that that is a policy of pure and simple protection. The Chancellor of the Exchequer yesterday disavowed any intention of adopting this policy of universal duties to be levied upon all foreign goods. He said we are to proceed on the principles of free trade. But he introduced a sentence that something may be done in that direction. A great deal of doubt has been raised in reference to that sentence. "Mr. Austen Chamberlain said the right hon. gentleman the member for West Monmouth had adopted a remarkable line of argument. He had produced a pamphlet containing the report of an executive committee of a private association in Canada, and had referred to that document as if he could find in it an official explanation of the intentions and policy of His Majesty's Government. "Sir W. Harcourt.--I quoted it as the view to be presented by the Canadian Government. I believe I am perfectly justified in that statement. "Mr. Austen Chamberlain said he thought the right hon. gentleman had gone a good deal further than that. The views of the association were entitled to the respect which they commanded on their merits, and for the ability with which they were put forth; but they were not binding on the Canadian Cabinet, still less on the Government of this country. It was rather a far-fetched suggestion that in such a report as that was to be found the basis of the action which His Majesty's Government were now proposing. As a matter of fact the report appeared two months before the tax. Allusion had been made to a speech delivered by his right hon. friend the Colonial Secretary at Birmingham. But in that speech the Colonial Secretary was commenting on a speech made by the leader of the Opposition. He was not arguing in favour of preferential relations, but he was refusing to be deterred from proposing a tax which he believed to be good on its merits merely because it might be used, if the people of this country so willed, to draw closer the ties between the Motherland and the Colonies. That was a declaration which was emphasised by his right hon. friend the Chancellor of the Exchequer on Monday. The whole question between the Opposition and the Government now was that hon. and right hon. gentlemen opposite wished to extort from the Government at this stage a declaration that in no circumstances and at no time would they consent to preferential arrangements with the Colonies. He thought it would be a strange proceeding if, before learning authoritatively what the Prime Ministers of the great self-governing Colonies intended to propose, before learning the arguments with which those Ministers would support their propositions, the Government were to slam the door in their faces and solemnly declare that they would not listen to any arguments on the subject. That would not be a very friendly act. It would not be courteous in dealing with strangers, and it would not be decent in dealing with our kinsmen." The final meeting of my campaign was at the London Chamber of Commerce on the 13th June. Mr. Morley had spoken at Edinburgh on the 8th of June, and had said generally that the policy I was advocating was contrary to the principles of Free Trade under which England had built up her wonderful prosperity, had maintained it for years, and which was the foundation of Great Britain's present great prosperity. I had been urged very strongly by all my friends to be very cautious not to refer directly to either Free Trade or Protection. I was told that the feeling in favour of Free Trade was so strong, that it would be unwise to refer to it in set terms, and I was advised simply to argue for the war tax of 5 to 10 per cent. to raise a defence fund. Up to this time I had followed this advice, but when Mr. Morley attacked me, and raised the question, I felt that the time had arrived for me to come out boldly and in clear and unmistakable terms. I found in my movement about the country that there was much more feeling in favour of Protection than anyone believed. I therefore made up my mind to take advantage of the meeting of the London Chamber of Commerce to make a direct and vehement attack on Free Trade in order to test feeling in that centre. I carefully prepared as strong a speech as I could arrange, although I kept my own counsel as to my intentions. I decided to make my address a direct reply to the Rt. Hon. John Morley and to use his attack upon me as my excuse for criticising Free Trade in hostile terms. * * * * * The room was crowded, with a number of prominent men present. I referred to Mr. Morley's remarks and said that I took issue with him, and that I denied that Free Trade was the cause of Great Britain's progress. I said her position was established under a system of protection, that it was maintained by a protection of a different kind for years, and that now she was not prosperous. I gave a great many figures, and traced the trade returns at intervals from 1805 until the year 1901, and in reply to Mr. Morley's statement of the wonderful prosperity of Great Britain I repeated the argument I used at Liverpool, and quoted again Mr. Bryce's statement about the crushing burden the 1s. a quarter on wheat would be on about 30 per cent. of the population. When I had finished, Lord Charles Beresford made a speech that was quite friendly to my proposition, saying, "that the time had arrived when we had to do something to bind the Mother Country and the Colonies more closely together, and to do something also by which we might mutually benefit by the trade of the Empire, in view of the enormous competition directed against us by the rest of the world." Sir Guilford Molesworth and Mr. Ernest E. Williams then spoke strongly supporting me. They were followed by Mr. Faithfull Begg, who made a short but remarkably clever speech. He began by saying, "Is this the London Chamber of Commerce? Can I believe my eyes and ears? I have sat here and listened to what I am satisfied was the strongest attack upon Free Trade that has been heard in these walls in two generations, and in an open discussion no one has said a word in defence of the old policy. I was a Free Trader and I can no longer support the principle, but will no one say a word in defence of the old cause?" This taunt brought up a Mr. Pascoe, who used a number of stock arguments of the Cobden Club school. General Laurie, Admiral Sir Dalrymple Hay, Sir S. B. Boulton, and the Chairman, Sir Fortescue Flannery, then followed in speeches distinctly favourable to my proposition, and the meeting closed. The effect of this meeting cannot be better shown than in the editorial comments of the _Financial News_ of the next day, the 14th June, 1902: It was indeed a remarkable gathering which assembled at the London Chamber of Commerce yesterday to hear Colonel Denison speak upon the National Food Supply and cognate trade questions; and the essential feature of the meeting--more essential if Colonel Denison will allow us to say so, even than his own speech--was that to which Mr. Faithfull Begg drew attention when he announced his surprise that in a discussion upon Free Trade _versus_ Protection, no one, in that erstwhile typical house of Free Trade, stood up to champion the old cause. Most of those present were in Mr. Faithfull Begg's own position; they had recently been forced by the logic of events, from acquiescence in or championship of Free Trade, into a conviction that it would no longer do. True, Mr. Faithfull Begg's challenge brought forth a solitary advocate of the discredited philosophy; a young man to whom the meeting listened with obvious impatience; for as General Laurie said, every one of his points had been answered in advance by the lecturer, and the quality of his arguments might be gathered from the fact, that among them was an assertion that, as an explanation of our adverse trade balance there was no question as to there being anything in the nature of an export of securities in progress! That this should have been the only voice raised upon the Free Trade side would be a mightily significant circumstance in any gathering of business men; but to those who are familiar with the London Chamber even in its recent history, the significance is greatly heightened. For a body professedly independent, there was, until the other day, no association in England (unless it be the Royal Statistical Society) more thoroughly and openly upon the Free Trade side in the economic controversy. With the surrender of the London Chamber of Commerce it is really time to dictate conditions of peace. This was a conclusion to my campaign far beyond my most sanguine expectations. It was a coincidence that about the time I concluded my campaign at this successful meeting, Dr. Fred W. Borden, Minister of Militia of Canada, who had lately arrived in England, in an interview with Mr. I. N. Ford, representative of the New York _Tribune_, stated that I represented nobody's views except my own, and pretended that he did not know of me even by name, until Mr. Ford let him understand that he was too well informed for that to be accepted. In an interview with one of the London newspapers he also spoke in a hostile manner of me and my views. As he had been quite friendly to me personally when we had met a day or two before, I was at a loss to account for his action. After consideration, I came to the conclusion that the Canadian Government had taken up some new position upon the question of preferential trade, and that I was wrong in my previous belief that I was working directly in their interests and in accordance with their views in a general way. Mr. Ford telegraphed on the night of the meeting to his various papers across the Atlantic, the following account of my concluding words at the London Chamber of Commerce: Colonel Denison closed his series of addresses in the United Kingdom on a tariff for Imperial Defence by a speech before the London Chamber of Commerce in which he announced that he represented the British Empire League in Canada, and had accomplished his purpose. This had been to raise the question of a British tariff for defence and business. The subject had been discussed in Parliament, and had been taken up by the Press throughout the Kingdom. The Dominion Ministers would be in England next week, and the responsibility for carrying the question into the Imperial Conference or dropping it altogether would be theirs not his. When I sailed for home Mr. Ford cabled: Colonel Denison will sail for Montreal to-day. He has gone so far and so fast in presenting the plans of the British Empire League of Canada that neither Imperialist nor colonial has been able to keep abreast with him. His views on a war tax around the Empire are not considered practicable by the Canadian Ministers, but the energy with which he has forced the business side of Imperial Federation upon public attention here, is generally recognised. The Annual General Meeting of the British Empire League was held on the 7th July, where the Hon. George W. Ross and I represented the Canadian Branch. I moved a resolution which Mr. Ross seconded. I spoke as follows: Your Grace, my Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen,--I shall only occupy two or three minutes of your time, as I am fortunate to have with me one of the very best and most active members of our League, the Prime Minister of Ontario. I am here at this moment under a resolution of the League in Canada which reads as follows: "That he also be empowered and requested to advocate that a special duty of 5 to 10 per cent. be imposed at every port in the British possessions on all foreign goods in order to provide a fund for Imperial Defence, which fund should be administered by a committee or council in which the Colonies should have representation." That resolution I need not tell you is one which this League did not feel disposed to endorse because the League had held itself open, and I wish to thank the President, the Council, and the Members of this League for the broad-minded liberality and generosity with which they enabled me to speak, and say what we Canadians wished to lay before the people of this country. I thank this League for its courtesy, and for the broad-minded spirit in which it was done, more particularly as I happen to know that the well-considered resolution adopted by the Executive Committee was drafted by probably one of the most vehement opponents of my policy. That broad-minded spirit I have seen all over England and I wish publicly, as I am going away in a day or two, to express my thanks for that British spirit which allows such free discussion. I shall only take one or two minutes more because I wish Mr. Ross to have an opportunity of speaking at greater length. I have listened with a great deal of attention to what our noble President has said in his speech with respect to three questions, of defence, commercial relations, and political relations, and if you think of it, we have combined all three in these two lines: "A duty in order to provide a fund for Imperial Defence, which fund should be administered by a committee." The duty helps all questions of commercial relations, helps your trade, helps your food supplies, and it also furnishes a fund for defence, and provision is made for a committee to administer the political relations. The whole thing can be done by an adaptation of that resolution. As to the question of defence, I wish to say that we Canadians are in favour of any method that may be devised to defend this Empire, but we know that no system of defence can be made worth a snap of the finger that does not secure the protection of the food supplies of this Mother Country, and yet you persist in spending on ships, troops, fortification, on coaling stations on Naval Reserves, on everything but food, the most important of all. I urge you to do all you can not only to make your food supply safe, but also to save your trade, your merchant shipping, and to put all these things in a safe position. Mr. Ross followed me with a very able and powerful speech in which he expressed the views of the Canadian League with great eloquence and vigour. On the 17th June, a letter from Sir Robert Giffen appeared in the London _Times_ severely criticising the policy I was advocating. As a great statistician and Free Trader, and formerly Secretary of the Government Board of Trade, he was considered the ablest expert on the subject and his name carried great weight. His objections were in substance: First, that under such a system at 10 per cent., the United Kingdom would pay 41,000,000 annually, and the colonies but 3,500,000, of which Canada and Newfoundland would contribute 2,400,000, whereas on the basis of population the Colonies are one quarter of the United Kingdom. Second, the effect of such a tax would be infinite disaster to the trade of the United Kingdom, by raising the cost of raw material and by requiring harassing regulations in regard to the entrepot trade. Third, the increase of existing duties in the Colonies by 10 per cent. would effect no such injury to their trade as the substitution of duties for the Free Trade system of the United Kingdom. Fourth, the duty on foreign goods entering the United Kingdom and preference given to colonial goods, would increase the price for colonial goods imported in the United Kingdom by 11,000,000, and the Colonies would thus gain much more than their contribution. Fifth, the difficulty in arranging bonding privileges in such free ports as Singapore and Hong Kong. This letter was so plausible that even the _Times_ in an article on the 19th June, said: Colonel Denison is a representative Canadian of the highest character and proved loyalty, and no doubt his views prevail widely in British North America. At the same time the criticisms of his plan from a strictly economic point of view which Sir Robert Giffen published in our columns on Tuesday appear to us to be conclusive. This attack was satisfactory to me as it gave me an opening for a reply which I made as follows: SIR, In your issue of yesterday there is a letter from Sir Robert Giffen commenting upon my address to the London Chamber of Commerce, and requesting me to give information on certain points. May I give my answer? He asks (1) how much under the scheme I proposed the Mother Country would have to pay; (2) how much each of the principal Colonies; (3) how the trade of each would be probably affected; (4) what exceptions would be made as to Hong Kong and Singapore, which are distributing centres? 1 and 2. These I shall answer together, dealing only with Canada, as space will not admit my going fully into the whole question. I will take Sir Robert Giffen's figures, although he puts the foreign imports of Canada and Newfoundland together at 24,000,000; while the statistical abstract for colonial possessions gives the figures for Canada alone at over 27,000,000 for 1900. Taking Sir Robert Giffen's figures, however, Canada would have to pay, on a basis of ten per cent. on foreign imports, nearly 2,400,000 per annum. As the normal amount Canada has been spending on defence in years past, has been about 400,000 per annum, this would mean an additional payment by her of 2,000,000 a year. Sir Robert Giffen claims that the United Kingdom would have to pay 41,000,000 per annum. This is an extraordinary statement. The expenditure of the United Kingdom upon the Army and Navy in ordinary years, not counting war expenses, far exceeds 41,000,000. So that the United Kingdom would not pay one farthing a year more under the proposition than she always does expend. This answers the first two points. The United Kingdom would pay nothing additional, Canada would expend 2,000,000 more than she has been doing. As to Canada's paying in proportion to her population, that would be an unfair basis, because she is a young country with very little accumulated wealth, and is developing and opening up enormous tracts of territory at a great cost to the sparse population. Great Britain is a small country with a large population, and has been in process of development for nearly 2,000 years, for I believe some Roman roads are in use to-day. The time will come when Canada will be able to do far more. 3. As to how trade would be affected, I answer that the trade of the United Kingdom would be greatly benefited. The duty would tend to protect for yourselves your home market, which you are rapidly losing. It would give you advantages over the foreigner in the markets of 360,000,000 of people in the British possessions, in which at present you are being attacked in the most pitiless and disastrous commercial war. It would turn emigration into your own dominions, instead of aiding to build up foreign, and possibly hostile, countries. In the British Colonies the inhabitants purchase from the United Kingdom many times as much per head as the inhabitants of foreign countries, and it is the direct interest of the Mother Country to save her population to build up her own Empire. Your food supply also, which is in a most dangerous and perilous condition--a condition which leaves our Empire dependent upon the friendship of one or two nations for its very existence--would be rapidly produced upon British soil among your own people, and would make you once again an independent and powerful nation. At present you are existing upon sufferance. 4. Sir Robert Giffen speaks about the entrepot trade and the difficulty of allowing goods to pass in bond. We Canadians have so many goods passing in bond through the United States, and the United States have so many passing in bond through Canada, without the slightest difficulty on either side, that we cannot see how there could be any trouble about such an arrangement. This system could apply to Hong Kong and Singapore, and it should not require much thought or ingenuity to arrange minor details of that kind, if the broad principle was once agreed upon. The question of taxing raw material for manufactures and its effect upon exports to foreign countries could be easily arranged by the simple expedient of granting a rebate of the duty on goods sent to foreign countries. I fancy this is an expedient well understood by most civilised nations. It is asked also what would be result of putting an extra 10 per cent. on exports from the United States into Canada. It ought very largely to increase the sale of British manufactured goods in Canada, but I notice that Sir Robert Giffen, in counting the advantage to the United Kingdom, leaves out the United States, and only counts European competitors. This is rather remarkable, when we remember that the Canadian imports from the United States in 1900 were 22,570,763 and from all European countries under 4,000,000. In this connection it is interesting to note that British imports into Canada had been declining for some years before 1897, but when the 33 1/3 per cent. preference was given to the United Kingdom the imports from it into Canada rose from 6,000,000 worth in 1897 to 9,000,000 in 1900. Sir Robert Giffen claims that the Colonies would gain the full amount of the 10 per cent. tax on the foreigner in increased prices. If so, why should not the United Kingdom gain the 10 per cent. on all she sold in the Empire? The rule should certainly work both ways; but, as a matter of fact, a large portion of the duty would be borne by the foreigner. The greater part of the present tax on flour is now being paid by the United States railways, through the reduction of their freight rates in order to meet it. Sir Robert Giffen repeats a second time, to impress it upon his readers, that the proposed preferential arrangements would impose a charge upon the people of the United Kingdom of 42,000,000, as if the people would have to pay that amount more than they do now. This I emphatically deny. It will only mean a rearrangement of taxation. A little more would go on grain and manufactured goods and other things, but it could come off tea and tobacco or income tax, so that the taxpayer would pay no more, and it makes little difference to him on what he pays it, if he actually pays out the same amount for his needs each year. In Canada we feel that Great Britain is steadily losing her trade, that her home markets are being invaded, that she is in great and constant danger as to her food, that her mercantile marine is slipping from her, her agriculture being ruined, and that anything that would tend to keep the markets of the Empire for the Empire would be of enormous advantage to her. The British Empire League in Canada suggested the scheme they have urged me to advocate in this country. This scheme has received general support in Canada, but the League will, I am sure, be pleased with any effective plan which will put matters in a better position for the advantage of the Empire as a whole. Your obedient servant, GEORGE T. DENISON. _18th June._ This letter was not replied to. Lally Bernard writing from London to the Toronto _Globe_ of the 8th July says: There is a great deal of argument going on in a quiet way regarding the controversy between Sir Robert Giffen and Colonel George Denison, on the subject of an Imperial Zollverein, and the reply of Colonel Denison to Sir Robert Giffen's letter in the _Times_ has aroused the warmest admiration even from those who are diametrically opposed to his theory. Sir Wilfrid Laurier with Sir Wm. Mulock, Mr. Fielding, and Mr. Patterson, arrived in London a few days after this. I had been surprised at Dr. Borden's attempt to weaken and destroy the effect of what little I had done to prepare public opinion, and thinking that Sir Wilfrid and the other Ministers must have sympathised with what he had done, I came to the conclusion that there was no use in me taking any further trouble in the matter. I ceased any work, and although I was constantly meeting Sir Wilfrid and his colleagues I never once spoke to them upon the question. I had been having several conversations with Mr. Chamberlain, and knew exactly what his position was, and he had asked me to press the Canadian delegates to take a certain course. In view of Dr. Borden's action I had not attempted to do anything on the line Mr. Chamberlain suggested. This was the condition of affairs when I had to leave for home, which was just before the meeting of the Conference. I went down to the Hotel Cecil the morning before leaving, and called on Sir Wilfrid to say good-bye. He seemed astonished when I told him why I had called, and asked when I was leaving; I told him the next day. He urged me to stay over a week or two, but I said it was impossible as my passage was taken and all my arrangements made, and I said I knew he was going to a meeting and that I would not keep him. To my great astonishment he said, "Sit down; I want to talk to you," and then he surprised me by asking my opinion as to what could be done at the Conference. I was so astonished that I said, "You ask me what I would do in your place?" He said, "Yes. You have been here for over two months, you have been about the country addressing meetings, you have been discussing the question with the leading men, and you have studied the subject for years, and I want the benefit of your opinion. Now what would you say as to moving the resolution you have been advocating?" I thought for a moment and said, "No, Sir Wilfrid, I would not do that." He asked me why. I said, "Because it could not be carried. I have discussed it with Mr. Chamberlain and he is not ready for it. Sir Edmund Barton tells me that they are having a great fight over the tariff and could not take it up now. Sir Gordon Sprigg says they are not in a position to do it on account of the war in Cape Colony, and Mr. Seddon is so full of another scheme connected with shipping, that while he would support it, it might not be as vigorous support as would be required." Having the opening, however, I told him of my conversation with Mr. Chamberlain, and pressed upon him the advisability of taking up Mr. Chamberlain's idea, which was for Canada to give Great Britain further preferences on certain articles, in fact, if possible free entry of those articles in return for the preference of the one shilling a quarter on wheat. I think this was already his view, but I pointed out all the advantages from a Canadian point of view of this plan, and expressing the hope that he would be able to see his way to it, I said good-bye and left him. I saw my friend and colleague in my work, the Hon. G. W. Ross, and told him of the conversation, and asked him to press the same view upon the Canadian Ministers, which he did. On my arrival in Toronto the representatives of the Toronto newspapers came to interview me on my work. Among other things, I said: I am entirely satisfied that Sir Wilfrid Laurier and Mr. Fielding and Sir William Mulock are doing all in their power to obtain some advantageous arrangement for Canada at this Conference. They have all been impressed with the importance of their mission and their speeches have been along the best lines. Hon. Mr. Fielding made an admirable speech at the United Empire Trade League luncheon, in which he expressed the unanimity of the Canadian people in favour of the preference to England, stating that both parties were in favour of it, and appealing to Sir Charles Tupper, who sat near him, to corroborate this. Hon. George W. Ross at the annual meeting of the British Empire League, with the Duke of Devonshire as chairman, made a telling and impressive speech, strongly advocating preferential tariffs within the Empire. But in the face of Sir Frederick Borden's efforts in the opposite direction, these and the other splendid addresses of Sir Wilfrid and his colleagues could not have the effect that they would have produced had our representatives been of one mind in the matter. I was very much astonished at Sir Frederick Borden's action in stating that I represented nobody's views but my own, when he must have known that I never intended to represent anybody's views except those of the British Empire League, and that at all public meetings I invariably read the resolutions that had been passed asking me to take a certain course. His endeavours to minimise the result of my work and to lull the English mind into believing that everything was well, and that nothing should be done, must have had an injurious effect, as I have said, upon the efforts that Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Sir William Mulock, and Mr. Fielding were making upon behalf of Canada. Col. Denison was asked by one of those present as to the reason for Sir Frederick Borden's attitude, and he replied, "That I cannot tell you. I can only recall the remark of Lord Beaconsfield, made once in reference to Lord John Russell. He said, 'Against bad faith a man may guard, but it is beyond all human sagacity to baffle the unconscious machinations of stupidity.'" Sir Michael Hicks-Beach resigned from the Cabinet while I was on my way home. I always felt that the desire of Mr. Chamberlain to give a preference to the Colonies to the extent of the one shilling a quarter on wheat had something to do with the retirement of Sir Michael Hicks-Beach. In 1906 I lunched with Mr. Chamberlain and he explained to me why he had been unable to carry out the preferential arrangement that he had outlined to me before Sir Wilfrid Laurier arrived in England in 1902. The difficulty was that Sir Michael Hicks-Beach objected to it because he had imposed the duty avowedly as a means of raising revenue for war purposes, that he had defended it and justified it as a necessity on account of the war expenses, that the war was only just being concluded, and the outlay for months to come could not be diminished. For that reason he was firmly opposed to reducing any portion of the duty for the time. This prevented Sir Wilfrid Laurier's offers being accepted, and postponed action indefinitely, as the Conference concluded its session about the same time. Sir Edmund Barton and Sir John Forrest went through Canada on their way home to Australia from the Conference, and they with their party dined at my house. During the day I drove Sir Edmund and Lady Barton about Toronto. I told Sir Edmund what I had been urging Sir Wilfrid to do at the Conference, and the remark he made was peculiar. He said that the proceedings of the Conference were as yet confidential and he could not speak of them, but he might say that I should be well satisfied with my Premier. I was confident then that Sir Wilfrid had taken that line which the official reports shortly afterwards corroborated. The final result was, however, that our efforts had been unsuccessful, and our movement had received a serious set-back. We were encouraged in October, 1902, by the action of the National Union of Conservative Associations held at Manchester on the 15th of that month, when Sir Howard Vincent obtained the adoption of a resolution in favour of Imperial preferential trade. The New York _Tribune_, commenting on this, said: "This news is a great triumph for the Hon. Joseph Chamberlain's views, and it also no doubt goes to show that Colonel Denison's recent imperialistic campaign in the Motherland was not without decided educative effect." On the 20th October, 1902, the National Club of Toronto gave a complimentary banquet to me in recognition of the work I had done in England that summer for the Empire. Mr. J. F. Ellis, President of the Club, occupied the chair; the Hon. J. Israel Tarte and the Hon. George W. Ross were present. There was a large and influential gathering. I was very much gratified at Mr. Tarte's presence. Although once associating with the Continental Union League, he had for years been a loyal and active member of our British Empire League. He was at the time a Cabinet Minister, and came from Ottawa to Toronto solely to attend the dinner, and it was at such a crisis in his career that he wrote out his resignation from the Government on the train while coming up. His speech is worth reproducing: Mr. President and Gentlemen of the National Club,--I think it is fit, I think it is proper, that French Canada should be represented at a gathering like this. I am not here this evening as a member of the Dominion Cabinet. Am I a member of the Dominion Cabinet? That is the question. That is the question I very diplomatically declined to answer when I was leaving Ottawa to come here. Being a Minister is not the most care-free life in the world. It is an occupation that is exposed to accidents of all kinds. A Minister is exposed to tremendous hazards--to the fire of the newspapers, to the bad temper of members of Parliament, to the assaults of opponents, and occasionally to the tender mercies of your best personal friends. I am present to-night as a British subject of Canadian origin--of French-Canadian origin--proud of British institutions, and feeling in that pride that he is speaking the sentiments of his countrymen in the Province of Quebec. I have been connected with the British Empire League since 1888. I am not prepared to say that I have approved all the speeches made by all members of the League, or that I have always agreed with the speeches that members of the League make here. I have in mind the fact, however, that decent speeches of other people have not always been properly appreciated. I was agreed from the start and am agreed now with the primary object of the League, which is to promote British interests abroad and at home, to bring about a better knowledge of our needs and a better understanding between all portions of the Empire. We belong to a great Empire; great through its power, great through its wealth, but especially great through its free institutions. I have now been thirty years in public life, as a newspaper man, as a member of the Legislature of my native province, and as a Cabinet Minister. After having travelled pretty extensively, observing as I went, after having visited several exhibitions of the world, I have come to the conclusion that British institutions are the best adapted to bring about the greatness of this country, as they make for happiness, safety, prosperity, progress, and permanency. Since I have been in office as Minister of Public Works, and that is six years and three months, I have endeavoured to the best of my ability to build up British and Canadian commercial independence on this continent. I have done my best to improve and develop trade between the Empire through Canadian soil, through Canadian channels, in Canadian bottoms, and through Canadian railways. Let us not be satisfied, continued Mr. Tarte. Let us make up our minds to make ourselves at home from a national as well as a commercial standpoint. Col. Denison, who is allowed to speak of things of which other people fear the consequence, has spoken of the tariff. Col. Denison has spoken of Chamberlain, and has quoted Chamberlain's words on the tariff. Chamberlain is not Minister of Finance--he is Colonial Secretary. He has spoken of the tariff, mind you. I think he should be dismissed. He has violated the Constitution of England, and doesn't know what he has done. He has spoken on the tariff, and he has spoken for Protection. He is a dangerous man. He has said foreign nations had formed combinations, and were maintaining hostile tariffs and that the English nation was suffering by reason of this. He will be punished. This was a satirical allusion to the fact that he was being forced out of the Cabinet, because, as Minister of Public Works, he had discussed in public meetings the question of tariff policy. He was put out of the Cabinet the next day. CHAPTER XXVII CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. CHAMBERLAIN As I have said, we felt that the result of the Conference had been a very serious set-back and discouragement to all our wishes. I therefore watched public opinion very carefully and with considerable anxiety, and I noticed two or three uncomfortable indications. In the first place a restlessness manifested itself among the manufacturing classes in Canada, particularly in the woollen trade, against the British preference which pressed upon them, while Canada received no corresponding advantage, and a discussion began as to whether the British preference should not be cut off. The next thing which alarmed me was that during the following winter a movement arose in the United States to secure the establishment of a reciprocity treaty with Canada. Suggestions were made to renew the sittings of the High Joint Commission which had adjourned in 1898 without anything being done. This was evaded by our Government, but a strong agitation was commenced in the Eastern States, and supported in Chicago, to educate the people of the United States in favour of tariff arrangements with Canada. The more far-seeing men in the United States were uneasy about the movement for mutual preferential tariffs in the British Empire. They saw at once that if successful it would consolidate and strengthen British power and wealth and would be a severe blow to the prosperity of the United States, which for fifty years had been fattening upon the free British markets, while for thirty years their own had been to a great extent closed to the foreigner and preserved for their own enrichment. I felt that the failure of the Conference would give power to our enemies in the United States and aid them to enmesh us in the trade entanglements which would preclude the possibility of our succeeding in carrying our policy into effect. Every week I became more and more alarmed. It will be remembered that there was then no Tariff Reform movement in England. That Lord Salisbury was dying, that Mr. Chamberlain had not yet openly committed himself, and that nothing was being done, while our opponents were actively at work both in the States and in Canada. The small faction in Canada who were disloyal were once more taking heart while the loyal element were discouraged. Still further to cause anxiety the Imperial Federation Defence Committee took this opportunity, through Mr. Arthur Loring, to make an imperious demand upon the Colonies to hand over at once large cash contributions in support of the Navy, or practically to cut us adrift. Had the desire been to smash up the Empire, the attack could not have been better timed than when everything was going against the Imperial view. I wrote a reply which appeared in _The Times_ on the 2nd March, 1903: SIR, With reference to your issues of January 9th and 10th which contained the letter of Mr. Arthur Loring, Hon. Secretary of the Imperial Federation (Defence) Committee, and your leading article upon the question of colonial contributions to the Imperial Navy, I desire to send a reply from the Canadian point of view. Mr. Loring's proposition is practically that the Mother Country should repudiate any further responsibility for the defence of the Empire, unless the Colonies pay over cash contributions for the Navy in the way and under the terms that will suit the Imperial Federation (Defence) Committee. The British Empire League in Canada and the majority of the Canadians are as anxious for a secure Imperial Defence as is Mr. Loring, but the spirit of dictation which runs through the publications of his committee has always been a great difficulty in our way, by arousing resentment in our people, who might do willingly what they would object to be driven into. Because we hesitate to pay cash contributions we are attacked as if we had made no sacrifices for the Empire. Mr. Loring seems to forget our preference to all British goods, which has caused Germany to cut off the bulk of our exports to that country, to forget that we imposed a duty on sugar in order by preference to help the West Indies in the Imperial interest, that we helped to construct the Pacific cable for the same reason, or that numbers of our young men fought and died for the cause in South Africa. We have proved in many ways our willingness to make sacrifices for the Empire, and yet, because we will not do just exactly what Mr. Loring's committee suggest, they wish to cut us adrift. This is a very impolitic and dangerous suggestion. It is so important that we should understand each other, and that you in England should know how we look at this question, that I hope you will allow me to say a few words upon this subject. The British Empire League in Canada requested me as their president to go to Great Britain last April to advocate a duty of 5 to 10 per cent. all round the Empire on all foreign goods in order to provide a fund for Imperial Defence. This proposition was approved of at a number of meetings held in various parts of Canada, and by political leaders of all shades of politics and I am certain it would have been confirmed by a large majority in our Parliament had Great Britain and the other Colonies agreed to it. I addressed a number of meetings in England and Scotland, and discussed the question with many of the political leaders in London. I soon discovered while the audiences were receptive, and many approved of the proposition, that nevertheless it was new, contrary to their settled prejudices, and that it would take time and popular education on the subject before such an arrangement could be carried in the House of Commons. When Sir Wilfrid Laurier came over just before the Conference, knowing that I had been discussing the subject for two months, he asked me if I thought the proposition I had been advocating could be proposed at the Conference with any prospect of success. I replied that I did not think it could, that Great Britain was not ready for it, that Australia at the time was engaged in such a struggle over her revenue tariff that she could not act, and that if I was in his place I should not attempt it. He did, however, make a number of suggestions at the Conference which, if accepted by the home Government, would have gone a long way to place the Empire on a safer footing. The Mother Country would not agree to relieve Canada from the corn duty, but was quite willing to accept and ask for contributions for defence. This Sir Wilfrid refused; and a large portion of our people approve of that course, not because they do not feel that they ought to contribute, not because they are not able to contribute, but because they do not feel disposed to spend their money in what they would consider a senseless and useless way. We feel that to save our Empire, to consolidate it, to make it strong and secure, there are several points that must be considered and that, as all these points are essential, to spend money on some and leave out others that are vital would be a useless and dangerous waste. If our Empire is to live, she must maintain her trade and commerce, she must keep up her manufactures, she must retain and preserve her resources both in capital and population for her own possessions, she must have bonds of interest as well as of sentiment, and she must have a system of defence that shall be complete at all points. An army or a navy might be perfect in equipment, in training, in weapons, in organisation, in skilled officers, &c., and yet if powder and cordite were left out all would be useless waste. If food were left out it would be worst of all, and yet Mr. Loring asks us to contribute large sums to maintain a navy, and to have that navy directed and governed by a department in which we would have little or no voice--a department under the control of an electorate who in the first war with certain Powers (one of which we at least know is not friendly) would be starving almost immediately, and would very soon insist on surrendering the fleet to which we had contributed in order to get food to feed their starving children. They might even be willing to surrender possessions as well. While you in England maintain this position, that you will not include food in your scheme of defence, do you wonder that we in Canada should endeavour to perfect our own defence in order to secure our own freedom and independence as a people, if the general smash comes, which we dread as the possible result of your obstinate persistence in a policy, which leaves you at the mercy of one or two foreign nations. I wish to draw attention to the following figures, which seem to show that there is weakness and danger in your commercial affairs as well: 1900. United Kingdom imports (foreign) 413,544,528 United Kingdom exports (foreign) 252,349,700 ------------ Balance of trade against United Kingdom 161,194,828 1901. United Kingdom imports (foreign) 416,416,492 United Kingdom exports (foreign) 234,745,904 ------------ Balance of trade against United Kingdom 181,670,588 We see the result of this great import of foreign goods in the distress in England to-day. The cable reports tell us of unemployed farm labourers flocking into the towns, of unemployed townsmen parading the streets with organised methods of begging, of charity organisations taxed to their utmost limit to relieve want. We see the Mother Country ruining herself and enriching foreign nations by a blind adherence to a fetish, and we begin to wonder how long it can last. Adopt the policy of a duty upon all foreign goods, bind your Empire together by bonds of interest, turn your emigration and capital into your own possessions, produce ten or twelve million quarters more of wheat in your own islands, no matter what the cost may be, and then ask us to put in our contributions towards the common defence, for then an effective defence might be made. Yours truly, GEORGE T. DENISON. I was so alarmed at the state of affairs that on the 23rd March, 1903, I wrote to Mr. Chamberlain the following letter, which shows my anxiety at the time: DEAR MR. CHAMBERLAIN, There are one or two very important matters I wish to bring to your attention. Just before the Conference I had a conversation with you and Lord Onslow in reference to Canada's action. You considered that it would be useless at the time to attempt to carry the proposition that I had been advocating in Great Britain, of a 5 to 10 per cent. duty around the Empire for a defence fund. You told me what line you thought the most likely to succeed, and advised me that Canada should try to meet your views by further concessions to Great Britain in return for advantages for us in your markets. I urged this upon Sir Wilfrid Laurier, and I understand that he was willing to meet you, if possible, on the lines indicated. Unfortunately, nothing was done. I fancy your colleagues got frightened, for I know that you personally had a clear insight into the matter, and fully appreciated the importance of something being done. Now I wish to tell you how matters stand out here. Our people are very much discouraged. Many of our strongest Imperialists in the past are beginning to advocate the repeal of our preference to Great Britain. The manufacturers who were in favour of the preference, provided we had a prospect of getting a reciprocal advantage in your markets, are, many of them for their personal ends, now desirous of stopping it. All the disaffected (there are not very many of them) are using the failure of the Conference to attack and ridicule the Imperial cause. This is all very serious. The gravest danger of all, however, is that the United States will never give our Empire another chance to consolidate itself if they can prevent it. They are already agitating for the reassembling of the High Joint Commission to consider, among other things, reciprocal tariffs. Only the other day a member of the Massachusetts House of Assembly declared in that house that he had assurances from Washington that the passage of a resolution in favour of reciprocity with Canada would be welcomed by the administration. We see the danger of this, and our Government have made excuses to delay the meeting of the Commission until October. Now if nothing is done in the meantime towards combining the Empire--if nothing is done to make such a start towards it as would give our people encouragement, what will happen? The United States will give us the offer of free reciprocity in natural products. What would our people be likely to do in that case? All along the frontier our farmers would find it very convenient to sell their barley, oats, hay, butter, poultry, eggs, &c., to the cities on the border. In the North West it would appeal to our western farmers, who would be glad to get their wheat in free to the mills of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Such a proposition might therefore carry in our Parliament, and would probably bind us for ten or fifteen years. This would be a dead block against any combination of the Empire for preferential trade, for then you could not give us a preference, as we would be debarred from putting a duty on United States articles coming across our border, which would be necessary if an Imperial scheme were carried out. A proposition for reciprocity with the United States was made in 1887. At the dinner given to you in Toronto that year I fired my first shot against Commercial Union, and ever since I have been probably the leader in the movement against it. My main weapon, my strongest weapon, was an Imperial discriminating tariff around the Empire. We succeeded in getting our people and Parliament and Government to take the idea up and to do our side of it, and we have given the discriminating tariff in your favour. We hoped that you would meet us, but nothing has been done, and our people feel somewhat hurt at the result. Where will we Imperialists be this autumn when the High Joint Commission meets? The people of the United States will be almost sure to play the game to keep back our Empire, and we will be here with our guns spiked, with all our weapons gone, and in a helpless condition. I feel all this very deeply and think that I should lay the whole matter before you. I do not wish to see the Empire "fall to pieces by disruption or by tolerated secession." I do not wish to see "the disasters which will infallibly come upon us." I wish to see our Empire "a great Empire" and not see Great Britain "a little State," and I do urge upon you as earnestly as I can to get something done this Session that will give us a preference, no matter how small, in order that our hands may be tied before the High Joint Commission meets, so that we may escape the dangers of a reciprocity treaty, for if we are tied up with one for ten years, our Empire may have broken up before our hands are free again. If something was done on the preference, I believe we could carry large expenditures for Imperial Defence in our Parliament. I enclose a letter to the _Times_ which appeared while you were on the sea, which I believe pretty fairly expressed the views of most of our people. I send my hearty congratulations on the success of your mission to South Africa, and on the magnificent work you have done there for our Empire, Believe me, Yours, &c. _The Right Hon Joseph Chamberlain, M.P._ On the 16th April, 1903, I received a letter from Mr. Chamberlain which was quite discouraging. I wrote to him again on the 18th April, and on the 10th May received an answer which was much more encouraging. I was not surprised when, on the 15th May, Mr. Chamberlain made his great speech at Birmingham, which resulted soon afterwards in his resignation from the Government, and the organisation of the Tariff Reform movement, which he has since advocated with such enthusiasm, energy, and ability. The result of this speech was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Instantly the whole prospect brightened, every Canadian was inspirited, and confidence was restored. Such an extraordinary change has seldom been seen. The Toronto correspondent of the _Morning Post_, 17th May, 1903, said: Canada has seldom before shown such unanimity over a proposed Imperial policy, as that which greets the project of Mr. Chamberlain for the granting of trade concessions to the British Colonies in the markets of Great Britain. It is this hope in the ultimate triumph of Mr. Chamberlain's policy which has caused the Canadian people to wait patiently for that result. The extraordinary defeat of the Unionist party in the elections of 1906 has not destroyed this confidence, and the Empire has yet a chance to save herself. The 6th annual meeting of the British Empire League took place on 19th May, 1903, in the Railway Committee Room, House of Commons, Ottawa. A very unpleasant event occurred about this time in the Alaskan Award. I had looked into the matter very closely while Sir Wilfrid Laurier was in Washington engaged in the negotiations over the dispute, and I felt confident that we had a very weak case for our contentions, in fact I thought we had none at all. I saw Chief Justice Armour, who was to be one of the Canadian Commissioners, just before he left for England. He was a friend of mine, and one of the ablest judges who ever sat in the Canadian Courts, and I told him what I thought. He evidently felt much the same. I said to him that I wished to make a remark that might be stowed away in the back of his head in case of any necessity for considering it. It was that when he had done his very best for Canada, and had done all that he could, if he found that Lord Alverstone would not hold out with him, not to have a split but if the case was hopeless to join with Lord Alverstone and make the decision unanimous. I said if Lord Alverstone went against us the game was up, there was no further appeal, no remedy, and there was no use fighting against the inevitable, and it would be in more conformity with the dignity of Canada, and good feeling in the Empire, to have an award settled judicially, and by all the judges. Unfortunately the Chief Justice died, and the Government appointed a very able advocate Mr. Aylesworth, K.C., who happened to be in England at the time, to fill his place. Mr. Aylesworth had been the advocate all his life. At that time he had absolutely no knowledge of political affairs. The award was better than I expected and gave us two islands, which the United States had held for years, and on one of which a United States Post Office had been long established. Mr. Aylesworth forgetting there was no appeal, and that the matter was final, prevailed on Lt.-Governor Jett who was with him to make a most violent protest, and a direct attack upon Lord Alverstone. Owing to this, the award created a good deal of resentment in Canada. The people were very much aroused, and believed they had been betrayed. By the time Mr. Aylesworth arrived in Toronto he had time to think the matter over. The Canadian Club had organised a great banquet in his honour, and I am of opinion that when he arrived at home, he was astonished at the storm he had aroused. He at once allayed the excited feelings of his audience by a most loyal, patriotic, and statesmanlike speech, and quieted the feeling to a great extent, although it is still a very sore question in Canada, and Lord Alverstone is placed on the same shelf with Mr. Oswald of the treaty of 1783, and Lord Ashburton who gave away a great part of the State of Maine; but had I been in Lord Alverstone's place, and I am an out and out Canadian, with no sympathy whatever with the United States, I should have done as he did. In the spring of 1903 a controversy arose between Mr. Joseph Chamberlain and the present Lord Salisbury in which I was able to intervene on Mr. Chamberlain's side with some effect. Mr. Chamberlain had said in a public letter that the late Lord Salisbury had favoured retaliation and closer commercial union with the colonies. The present Lord Salisbury wrote to _The Times_ saying that his father profoundly dissented from Mr. Chamberlain's fiscal policy. Several letters followed from Mr. Chamberlain and Sir Michael Hicks-Beach. I published in _The Times_ on the 18th May, 1905, the following letter: SIR, The controversy which has been lately going on in the Press in Great Britain over the question of the late Lord Salisbury's view on protection and preferential tariffs has excited considerable interest in this country. As I am in a position to throw some light upon the late Premier's opinions on these questions, I would ask your permission to say a few words. I was for some years president of the Imperial Federation League in Canada, and since it was merged in the British Empire League I have held the same position in that body. In 1890 I was appointed specially to represent the Canadian League in England for the purpose of advocating the denunciation of the German and Belgian treaties, and of urging the establishment of a system of preferential tariffs between Canada and the Mother Country. In two interviews with Lord Salisbury, I urged both points upon him as strongly as possible, and pointed out to him that our League had taken up the policy of preferential tariffs in order to counteract the movement for commercial union or unrestricted reciprocity between the United States and Canada, which at that time was a very dangerous agitation. After hearing my arguments, Lord Salisbury said that he felt that the real way to consolidate the Empire would be by a Zollverein and a Kriegsverein. This was substantially our policy, and I begged of him to say something on that line publicly, as it would be a great help to us in the struggle we were having on behalf of Imperial Unity. He did not say whether he would do so or not; but a few months later at the Lord Mayor's banquet at the Guildhall in November, 1890, he made a speech which attracted considerable attention, and which gave us in Canada great encouragement. He spoke of the hostile tariffs and said: "Therefore it is that we are anxious above all things to conserve, to unify, to strengthen the Empire of the Queen because it is to the trade that is carried on within the Empire of the Queen that we look for the vital force of the commerce of this country. . . . The conflict which we have to fight is a conflict of tariffs." At Hastings on May 18th, 1892, he made another speech still more pronounced the terms of which are well known. We carried on a correspondence for many years, and I saw him on several occasions when I visited England. We discussed the policy of preferential tariffs and the denunciation of the German and Belgian treaties, which were denounced by his Government in August, 1897. His letters to me show how strongly he was in sympathy with us; but he was a statesman of great caution and evidently would not commit himself to practical action in regard to either preference or fair trade, as long as he believed that the prejudice against any taxation on articles of the first necessity was too strong to be overcome. The following extracts are taken from letters received by me from Lord Salisbury, and they give a clear idea of what his opinions were. In the early days of the movement I was probably the only one who was pressing on Lord Salisbury the urgent need of some action being taken, and he may not have had occasion to express his views upon the subject to many others. In a letter dated March 21st, 1891, in reply to one from me telling him of the danger of reciprocity or commercial union with the United States, he wrote: "I agree with you that the situation is full of danger, and that the prospect before us is not inviting. The difficulties with which we shall have to struggle will tax all the wisdom and all the energy of both English and Canadian statesmen during the next five or ten years. I should be very glad if I saw any immediate hope of our being able to assist you by a modification of our tariff arrangements. The main difficulty I think, lies in the great aversion felt by our people here to the imposition of any duties on articles of the first necessity. It is very difficult to bring home to the constituency the feeling that the maintenance of our Empire in its integrity may depend upon fiscal legislation. It is not that they do not value the tie which unites us to the colonies; on the contrary, it is valued more and more in this country, but they do not give much thought to political questions and they are led away by the more unreasoning and uncompromising advocates of free trade. There is a movement of opinion in this country, and I only hope it may be rapid enough to meet the necessities of our time." In another letter, dated November 22nd, 1892, he wrote: "I wish there were more prospect of some fiscal arrangements which would meet the respective exigencies of England and Canada, but that appears still to be in the far distance." "In another letter written nine years later, dated March 1st, 1901, a little over a year before his final retirement from office, referring to a report of the speeches at the annual meeting of our League in Canada, which I had sent to him, he wrote: "It is very interesting to read Mr. Ross's address about the error into which free trade may run, for I am old enough to remember the rise of free trade, and the contempt with which the apprehensions of the protectionists of that day were received. But a generation must pass before the fallacies then proclaimed will be unlearnt. "These extracts show very clearly Lord Salisbury's views, and prove that personally he would have favoured preferential tariffs in order to save and preserve a great Empire." Yours, GEORGE T. DENISON. This was much commented on in the British Press. _The Times_ said: The extraordinarily interesting letter which we publish from Colonel Denison, the president of the British Empire League in Canada, shows how deeply sensible was the late Lord Salisbury of the obstacles which prejudice and tradition offer to the adoption of a genuine policy of tariff reform, and how conscious he was of the difficulties to a practical statesman of overcoming them. The London _Globe_ said: Few more remarkable contributions have been made recently to the controversy over fiscal reform than the letters of the late Marquis of Salisbury, which Colonel Denison, of Toronto, has communicated to _The Times_. The _Outlook_ said: The invaluable letter in _The Times_ from Colonel G. T. Denison, of Toronto, has disposed once for all of Lord Hugh Cecil's theory that the system of free imports ought to be regarded as a Conservative institution. Passages cited by Colonel Denison from unpublished letters and forgotten speeches prove that the late Lord Salisbury's agreement with the principles of Mr. Chamberlain's policy was complete. Lord Hugh Cecil had the following letter in _The Times_ of the 20th May, 1905. SIR, I have no desire to enter into any controversy with Colonel Denison as to Lord Salisbury's opinion in 1891 or 1892. The extracts from the letters published by Colonel Denison do not seem to me to have any bearing on Lord Salisbury's attitude towards any question that is now before the public. I myself think that it is undesirable to quote the opinions of the dead, however eminent, in reference to a living controversy. But since the attempt continues to be made by tariff reformers to claim Lord Salisbury's authority in support of their views, it is right to say that I have no more doubt than have any of my brothers that Lord Salisbury profoundly dissented from Mr. Chamberlain's proposals so far as they were developed during his lifetime. Not only did he repeatedly express that dissent to us, and to others who had been in official relations with him, but he caused a letter to be written in that sense to one of my brothers. In conclusion, may I point out that it would have been more courteous in Colonel Denison, if he had at least consulted Lord Salisbury's personal representatives before publishing extracts from Lord Salisbury's private correspondence? Yours obediently, ROBERT CECIL. _19th May._ I replied to this in the following letter to _The Times_, which was published in the issue of 13th June, 1905: SIR, I have seen to-day, in _The Times_ of the 20th inst., Lord Robert Cecil's letter in reply to mine, which appeared on the 18th inst. As his letter contains a reflection on my action in publishing extracts from the late Lord Salisbury's letters to me, I hope you will allow me to make an explanation. Mr. Chamberlain had claimed that the late Lord Salisbury had approved of his policy of preferential tariffs, while the present Lord Salisbury held that his father "had profoundly dissented from Mr. Chamberlain's fiscal policy." As Lord Salisbury and his brothers had published their father's private opinions, which may have referred more to the time and method and details of Mr. Chamberlain's action than to the general principle of preferential tariffs, I had no reason to think that there could be any objection to publishing the late Premier's own written words on the subject. The letters from which I quoted, although not intended for publication at the time, contained his views on a great public question, and did not relate to any person, or any private matter, and as he was not here to speak for himself, I felt that it was desirable to publish the extracts in order to show clearly what his views were. Lord Robert Cecil says that it would have been more courteous in me to have consulted with his father's representatives before publishing, but in view of their own action in publishing his oral, private opinions, it would seem discourteous to assume that they could, under the circumstances, desire to suppress positive evidence on a matter of grave public importance to our Empire. Yours, etc., GEORGE T. DENISON. TORONTO, CANADA, _31st May, 1905_. This closed the episode. CHAPTER XXVIII CONGRESS OF CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE OF THE EMPIRE In 1906 I went to England again, and once more the Toronto Board of Trade appointed me as one of their delegates to the Sixth Congress of Chambers of Commerce of the Empire to be held in London. I arrived in London on the 27th June, and the next evening, at the Royal Colonial Institute Conversazione, I met Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, and it was arranged that my wife and I were to lunch with them a few days later. Mr. Chamberlain had wished that we should be alone. After lunch the ladies went upstairs, and Mr. Chamberlain had a quiet talk with me for about an hour. He gave me the whole history of the difficulties he had encountered and explained how it was that he was not able to carry out the arrangement we had discussed in 1902, just before the conference. He told me that Sir Michael Hicks-Beach objected to throwing off the one shilling a quarter on wheat in favour of the colonies, because he had put it on only a short time before as a necessary war tax to raise funds for the South African War, that the expenses were still going on, and that it would be inconsistent in him to agree to it at the time. Shortly after Sir Michael Hicks-Beach resigned from the Cabinet and Mr. C. T. Ritchie (afterwards Lord Ritchie) was appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer. In the autumn it was considered advisable, so Mr. Chamberlain told me, that he should pay a visit to South Africa, which would take him away for some months, and he went on to say: "On my return from South Africa we called at Madeira, and I found there a cablegram from Austen saying the corn tax was to be taken off. When I arrived in London the Budget was coming up very soon. I could not do anything for many reasons. I did not wish to precipitate a crisis, and I had to wait." He was evidently annoyed at the matter, and explained it to me, because he had held out hopes to me that if Sir Wilfrid Laurier would meet him with further preferences, he would give us the preference in wheat. This he had been unable to do. I asked him if he could explain why Ritchie acted as he did. He did not seem to know. I suggested that I thought either Mr. Choate, the United States Ambassador, or some other United States emissary, had frightened him and he had taken off the tax to head off any movement for imperial trade consolidation. Mr. Chamberlain asked me why I thought so, and I drew his attention to the fact that shortly after the corn tax was taken off Mr. Ritchie went down to Croydon to address his constituents, and in justifying his action used the argument--apparently to his mind the strongest--that a preferential corn tax against the United States would be likely to arouse the hostility of that country and be a dangerous course to pursue. The audience seemed at once to be struck with the cowardice of the argument, and there were loud cries of dissent, and then they rose and sang "Rule Britannia." Mr. Ritchie did not contest Croydon in the next election, but was moved to the House of Lords shortly before his death. Mr. Chamberlain apparently had not thought of that influence. Mr. Chamberlain was then looking in perfect health, and left the next day for Birmingham, where great demonstrations were made over his 70th birthday. He told me he was anxious to have a rest, as the burden of leading a great movement was very heavy. I urged him strongly to take a holiday, and I had pressed the same idea upon Mrs. Chamberlain as I sat next to her at lunch. He took ill, however, before a week had passed. The strain at Birmingham was very heavy. The meeting of the Congress of Chambers of Commerce of the Empire took place on the 10th, 11th and 13th July. We had but little hope of doing anything to help the preferential trade policy, for the General Elections had gone so overwhelmingly against us that it seemed impossible that in England our Canadian delegation could carry the resolution they had agreed upon in favour of Mr. Chamberlain's policy. We expected to be badly defeated, but decided to make a bold fight. After the discussion had gone on for some time, Sir Wm. Holland and Lord Avebury, who led the free trade ranks, approached Mr. Drummond, who had moved the Canadian resolution, and suggested that if we would compromise by the insertion of a few words which would have destroyed the whole effect of what we were fighting for, the resolution might be carried unanimously. Mr. Drummond said he wished to consult his colleagues, and he called Mr. Cockshutt, M.P., and me out of the room and put the proposition. I said at once, "I would not compromise to the extent of one word. Let us fight it out to the very end, let us take a vote. We will likely be beaten, but let us take our beating like men. We will find out our strength and our weakness, we will find out who are our friends and who are our enemies, and know exactly where we stand." Mr. Cockshutt said immediately, "I entirely agree with Denison." Drummond said, "That is exactly my view. I shall consult with no others but will tell them we will fight it to the end." I spoke that afternoon as follows as reported in the Toronto _News_, 23rd August, 1906: There were a few remarks, said Col. Denison, which had fallen from previous speakers, to which he desired to call attention. In the first place, his friend Mr. Cockshutt, said that Canada had given England the benefit of five million dollars annually in the reduction of duties, in order to help the English manufacturer to sell English manufactured goods in Canada, and stated that that was a contribution in an indirect way towards helping the defence of the Empire. Mr. Cockshutt, however, left out one important point. If Canada had put that tax on, collected the money, and handed over the five million dollars to England in hard cash, what would have been the result? The greater portion of the trade would have gone to Germany, would have given work to German workmen, would have helped to build German ships, and it would have taken more than the five million dollars annually to counterbalance the loss thereby caused to this country. He felt that every day the British people were allowing the greatest national trade asset that any nation ever possessed, the markets of Great Britain, to be exposed to the free attack of every rival manufacturing nation in the world without any protection, without any possibility of preserving those great national assets for the use of their own people, and in his opinion such a policy was exceedingly foolish. He had heard a gentleman from Manchester say that it was all very well for Canada, and that Canada wanted it. He was one of the very earliest of Canadians who advocated preferential tariffs. In 1887 he began with a number of other men who were working with him, to educate the people of Canada on the subject. When they first began they were laughed at; they were told it was a fad, and it was contrary to the principles of free trade. When he came to England years ago he could find hardly a single man anywhere who would say anything against free trade. He was perfectly satisfied that for years English people would have listened much more patiently to attacks upon the Christian religion than they would have to attacks upon free trade. Why did they advocate the system of preferential tariffs in Canada? Because the country was founded by the old United Empire Loyalists, who stood loyal to this country in 1776, who abandoned all their worldly possessions, who left the graves of their dead, and came away from the homes where they were born into the wilderness of Canada, and who wanted to carry their own flag with them. They wanted to be in a country where they were in connection with the Motherland, and it was the dream of those loyalists to have a united Empire. Canadians were not advocating preferential tariffs for the benefit of Canada. He said, further, that if England would not give Canada a preference, although Canada had already given England one, at least it was advisable that England should have some tariff reform which would prevent the wealth which belonged to this great Empire being dissipated among its enemies. That was the reason they were advocating the resolution. It was said that they desired to tax the poor man's food. He said it was of the utmost importance to have food grown in their own country. England in the past had had no reserves of food. Fortunately they were now in such a position that, if they kept the command of the sea, Canada would be able to grow enough in a year or two for the needs of the United Kingdom. Seven years ago England was in such a position that, if a combination of two nations had put an embargo on food, she would have been brought to her knees at once. Australia and Canada were now growing more wheat, but everything depended upon the navy; and if England allowed her trade and her markets, and the profits which could be made out of the markets, to be used by foreign and rival Powers to build navies, they were not only helping those foreign nations to build navies at their own cost, but at the same time the people of this country had to be taxed to build ships to counterbalance what their enemies were doing. Canadians felt that they were part of the Empire. They had helped as much as their fathers did; but after all, they had only added to the strength of the Empire, because their fathers went abroad to other nations, carrying the flag and spreading British principles and ideas into other countries. He therefore contended that Canadians had a great right to urge upon the people of England to do all they could to preserve the Empire, as Canadians were doing in their humble way. As had been already said, Canada was giving preferences. For instance, she was giving a preference to the West Indies, so that nearly every dollar that was paid for sugar in Canada went to the West Indies. A few years ago it all came from Germany, and the profits that were made out of Canadian markets went to Germany, and, although they were not comparable with the profits made out of the English markets, such as they were they helped Germany. The trade gave her people employment; gave her navy money, and enabled her still further to build rival battleships. Was that wise? (No.) Canada asked England to remedy that; but Canada did not want it if England did not, because England wanted it five, ten, fifteen, or thirty times more than Canada did. Free trade at one time existed in Canada. When he was a very young man he was a free trader, but he was now older and wiser. What was the condition of the country then? It was a country with the greatest natural resources in the world, with the most magnificent agricultural prospects, with mineral and every other resource, such as he believed had not been paralleled anywhere else on the globe. Yet, for twenty years, when they had only a revenue tariff, what happened? The Yankees in 1871 put on a large protective duty, and commenced to build up their manufactures. The result to Canada was that in a few years, in 1875, 1876, and 1877, the Americans not only made for themselves but introduced their goods into Canadian markets. The result was that Canadian manufactories were closed up, the streets of the cities were filled with unemployed, and during that early period of their history nearly one million Canadians left the country. It was so well known that it was called "the exodus." People used to wonder what was the matter, and enquired whether there was a plague in the country. They used to enquire how it was that Canadians could not succeed, and how it was there were so many people starving in the streets. An agitation was started for a national policy--a protective agitation. Canadians decided that they must protect their own manufactures, and they had done so since 1878, with the result that there were now no starving people in the streets, no want in the country, no submerged tenth, and no thirteen million people on the verge of starvation. The exodus had ceased from Canada to the States, and Canadians were now coming back in their tens and twenties of thousands. Canada was now prosperous. A great deal had been done in the last twenty years. For instance, Canada had to come to England to get an English company to build the Grand Trunk Railway. They did not do it wonderfully well, but still they did it, and it was now a fine railroad. But what had Canadians done? They had built the Canadian Pacific Railway to the other side; two gentlemen in Toronto were building another trans-continental railroad right across the continent, and the Government were assisting a third project, the Grand Trunk Pacific. The Canadian Pacific Railroad, a Canadian institution, managed in Canada, had its vessels on the western coast at Vancouver, carrying goods and passengers through to Japan, to the Far East, and Australia and New Zealand. All that had been done since Canada took up the policy which enabled it to prevent the enemy from bleeding it to death. He hoped he had made the point clear. Surely England would desire to follow the example of Canada in that respect. "The exodus" was now taking place. The Right Hon. John Morley, in reply to a speech that he (Col. Denison) made, referred to the wonderful prosperity of Great Britain, which depended on free trade. Now he would tell the delegates the other side. The Right Hon. James Bryce went to Aberdeen just at the time the Government put the tax of a shilling a quarter on wheat. The Right Hon. James Bryce, who was a very able and clever man, made a powerful and eloquent speech, but he had not lived long enough in Canada. He said that the tax of a shilling a quarter on wheat would make a difference of 7_d._ per annum to each person in the United Kingdom, and that it would be a great burden upon the ordinary working man of the country: but when they thought of the lowest class of the people, about 30 per cent. of the population, or 13 millions, as Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman had said, who were living upon the very verge of want, then he said it would mean reduced subsistence, frequent hunger, weakness of body, and susceptibility to disease. Was that not an awful fact for a prosperous country? Was it not an awful fact to think that 8_d_ in a whole year would mean reduced subsistence, frequent hunger, weakness of body and susceptibility to disease to 13 million of English people? That was the condition of England. The exodus was taking place; the people were going to Canada, where they enjoyed sane conditions under which people could live. They were going to Canada, instead of going to hostile countries, as they had done in the past. Canada was getting a good many of such people, but not half enough; and if she had preferential tariffs in that sense, it would keep the blood and bone and muscle in this country under the common flag: it would keep them from helping to build up hostile nations, and would in that way be a source of strength to the Empire. He hoped that would be considered an answer to his friends from Manchester, on the point that there would be give and take, and not as had been said, simply "take" on the part of the colonies. He thought that was a most unfair statement to make; but he had now presented the Canadian side of the question. Another extraordinary thing had happened. A gentleman whom the people of England had appointed to take control of English affairs with reference to the colonies, had lately declared that the colonies ought to make a treaty among themselves, leaving Great Britain out. That was rather a flippant way to meet offers of friendship, sympathy, and loyalty. Two hundred and seventy-four members of Parliament, he believed, had written requesting that no preference should be given. He desired to ask what had Great Britain done to those men that they should want to prevent England getting an advantage? Why should they object? Why should they interfere? What had Great Britain ever done to them? His friend, Mr. Wilson, had told the delegates of the French manufacturer who said, 'Why do you not come over and build your factories in France?' British factories were already being built on the Continent to-day. British factories, with British money, British brains, British enterprise, and British intellect, were now being built in the United States; but while that was the experience of England, Canada, on the other hand, was able to say that United States capital was being utilised in Canada and giving work to Canadian workmen. That was where Canada was reaping the advantage; and it was not to be wondered at that the Canadian delegates came to England and asked the English people to look about them. When he was a young man he used to boat a good deal upon the Niagara River, a mile above the Falls. Two people always rowed together and always had a spare pair of oars. They had to row at an angle of 45 degrees, and row hard to get across without being carried into the rapids. They could not depend on their course by watching the river or watching their own boat; they had to take a point on the shore, and another point away beyond it, and keep them in line. The instant they stopped rowing, although the boat might appear to be perfectly calm and safe, it was quietly drifting to destruction. The Canadian people were on the shore and were watching the British people in the stream. The people of this country had their eyes on the oars and on the boat, but were not watching the landmarks and outside currents. They were not watching what Germany or the United States were doing; they were not watching how other nations were progressing. In fact England was going backwards. If he were standing on the shore of the Niagara River and saw a man stop rowing, he would shout to him to look out, and that was what he was doing now. Two gentlemen had spoken on behalf of the poor people in India, but he would like to know whether those gentlemen were not much more interested in the exchange of commerce between England and India than they were in the internal comfort and happiness of the natives. He would also like to ask who put on and took off the duty in India? Was it not done through the influence of the English Government? Why was such a large duty placed on tea, and why was it not taken off tea and put on wheat? If the duty were taken off tea, it would not cost the working man a farthing more, and the result would be that the Indian farmers and agriculturists would probably obtain some slight advantage, but the Indian tea worker would get a direct and positive advantage. Both parties would be helped by it, and it would also help at the same time the whole Empire. An extract had been read from a speech by Sir Wilfrid Laurier, the Prime Minister of Canada. Sir Wilfrid seven or eight years ago might have made a remark of that kind, and it so happened that he was in very bad company at the time, because the remarks were made at the Cobden Club. In Canada, prominent men such as Sir Wilfrid Laurier were able to understand and listen to good arguments, to assimilate them and to change their minds. But Sir Wilfrid at the last conference made a plain and distinct offer, which he had repeated in public, and yet he (the speaker) heard political partisans in this country in their newspapers making the statement that Canada had made no offer. It was not true! The offers were in the report of the Imperial Conference of 1902; that he would give the present preference and a further preference on a certain list of selected articles, if the English people would meet him. The long list of articles was not mentioned because it would be improper to do so, as it would have the effect of making the business of Canada unsettled in reference to those things. But that the offer was made was an undoubted fact, and people in this country had no right to make statements to the contrary. He desired to make one final appeal to Englishmen to look at the matter broadly; and when they found that the security and unity of the whole Empire might depend upon closer federation with the colonies, he appealed to English people not to make such flippant remarks as that the colonies should make an agreement among themselves leaving out the Mother Country, because if that were done, and a preferential tariff instituted among the colonies, the Mother Country would very soon find out the difference. He appealed to Englishmen as a Canadian, the whole history of whose country was filled with records of devotion to the Empire, not to think that they were acting in any way for themselves, or for their personal interests, but only in the interests of their great Empire, which their fathers helped to build, and which they, the children, desired to hand down unimpaired and stronger to their children and children's children. The vote was not taken until the next day, and when the show of hands was taken I think we had five or six to one in our favour. A demand was made for a vote by Chambers with the result that 103 voted for the resolution, 41 against it, and 21 neutral. The reason so much larger a number appeared with us on a show of hands was, I believe, because many Chambers had given cast iron instructions to their delegates to vote against it, or to vote neutral, but on a show of hands many of them voted as they personally felt after hearing the arguments. This was a remarkable triumph that we did not expect, and must have been very gratifying to Mr. Chamberlain. Unfortunately Mr. Chamberlain's illness took place just as the Congress opened. It was thought at the time that he would recover in a few days, but he has not as yet been able to resume active leadership in the struggle for preferential tariffs or tariff reform. As far as the work of our organisation is concerned, although we were at first ridiculed and abused, criticised and caricatured, the force of the arguments and the innate loyalty of the Canadian people, have caused the feeling in favour of imperial unity and preferential trade to become almost universal in Canada. The preference has been established, West Indian Sugar favoured, penny postage secured, the Pacific Cable constructed, assistance given in the South African War in the imperial interest, and now the whole question remains to be decided in the Mother Country. The colonies have all followed Canada's lead. The conference of 1907 was futile. Sir Wilfrid Laurier took the dignified course of repeating his offers made in 1902, and saying that the question now rested in the hands of the British people. The British Government declined to do anything, which in view of the elections of the previous year was only to be expected, but a good deal of ill feeling was unnecessarily created by the action of one member of the Government, who offensively boasted that they had slammed, banged, and barred the door in the face of the colonies. We still feel however that this view will not represent the sober second thought of the British people. If it does, of course our hopes of maintaining the permanent unity of the Empire may not be realised. From the Canadian standpoint I feel that enough has been said in the foregoing pages, to show that there was a widespread movement, participated in by people of both sides of the boundary line, which would soon have become a serious menace to Canada's connection with the Empire, had it not been for the vigorous efforts of the loyalist element to counteract it. To the active share in which I took part in these efforts, I shall ever look back with satisfaction. Not many years have passed, but the change in the last twenty years, has been a remarkable one, the movement then making such headway towards commercial union or annexation being now to all seeming completely dead. Nor should it be forgotten that it is to the Liberal party, a great many of whose leading members took part in the agitation for Unrestricted Reciprocity, that we owe, since they came into power, the tariff preference to the Mother Country, and the other movements which I have mentioned above, which tend to draw closer the bonds of Empire. It would be difficult now to find in Canada any Canadians who are in favour of continental union, many of those who formerly favoured it, being now outspoken advocates of British connection, looking back with wonder as to how they then were carried away by such an ill-judged movement. Nevertheless the lesson taught by this period of danger is clear. We must not forget, that with a powerful neighbour alongside of Canada, speaking the same language, and with necessarily intimate commercial intercourse, an agitation for closer relations, leading to ultimate absorption, is easy to kindle, and being so plausible, might spread with dangerous rapidity. This is a danger that those both in Canada and Great Britain, who are concerned in the future of the British Empire, would do well to take to heart, and by strengthening the bonds of Empire avert such dangers for the future. APPENDIX _A_ _Speech Delivered at the Royal Colonial Institute on the 13th May, 1890, in reply to_ SIR CHARLES DILKE. I am very glad to have the opportunity of saying a few words this evening. I have listened to the discussion and I find there is a feeling that of all the Colonies Canada is the only one which is not doing her duty. I have heard the doubt expressed as to whether Canada would, in case of serious trouble, stand by the Empire in the defence of her own frontiers. In support of this view I have heard an opinion quoted of an Englishman who was dissatisfied with this country and left it for the United States; dissatisfied there also he went to Canada, where he is now equally dissatisfied and is agitating to break up this Empire. I utterly repudiate his opinions. He is no Canadian and does not express the views of my countrymen. You have generally large numbers of Australians, New Zealanders and Cape Colonists at these meetings, but it is not always that you have Canadians present, and I do not think that we have altogether had fair play in this matter. It seems to be popular to compliment the other Colonies, while the doubt is expressed as to whether the Canadian people would fight to keep Canada in the Empire. I am astonished to hear such a reflection upon my country. Our whole history is a standing protest against any such insinuation. Let me recall a few facts in our past history, facts which show whether Canadians have not been true to this country. Why our very foundation was based upon loyalty to the Empire. Our fathers fought for a united Empire in the revolution of 1776. They fought to retain the southern half of North America under the monarchy. Bereft of everything, bleeding from the wounds of seven long years of war, carrying with them nothing but their loyalty, they went to Canada and settled in the wilderness. Thirty years later, in 1812, in a quarrel caused by acts of British vessels on the high seas far from Canada--a quarrel in which they had no interest--the Canadian people (every able-bodied man) fought for three long years by the side of the British troops, and all along our frontier are dotted the battlefields in which lie buried large numbers of Canadians, who died fighting to retain the northern half of the continent in our Empire. And yet I come here to London and hear it said that my countrymen won't stand true to the Empire. (Cheers.) Again, in 1837, a dissatisfied Scotchman raised a rebellion, but the Canadian people rose at once and crushed it out of sight before it could come to a head. The people poured into Toronto in such numbers to support the Queen's authority, that Sir Francis Head, the Governor, had to issue a proclamation telling the people to stay at their homes, as they were gathering in such numbers they could not be fed. (Cheers.) In the Trent affair--no quarrel of ours; an event which occurred a thousand miles from our shores--every able-bodied man was ready to fight; our country was like an armed camp, the young and the old men drilling, no man complaining that it was not our quarrel, and the determined and loyal spirit of the Canadian people saved this country then from war. (Cheers.) So also in the Fenian Raid; again no quarrel of ours, for surely we have had nothing to do with the government of Ireland, and were not responsible in any way. Yet it was our militia that bore the brunt of that trouble. The lives lost in that affair were the lives of Canadian volunteers who died fighting in an Imperial quarrel. This affair cost us millions of dollars, and did we ever ask you to recoup us? And I, a Canadian volunteer, come here to London to hear the doubt expressed as to whether my countrymen would stand true to the Empire. (Cheers.) It is not fair, gentlemen; it is not right. For the spirit of our people is the same to-day. (Cheers.) I have also heard the statement made this evening that there were no proper arrangements for the Nova Scotia militia to help in the defence of Halifax, as if there might be a doubt whether they would assist the Imperial troops to defend Halifax. This is not fair to my comrades of the sister Province of Nova Scotia. Let me recall an incident in the history of that Province at the time of the Maine boundary difficulty. I allude to the occasion--many of you will remember it--when an English diplomatist, being humbugged with a false map, allowed the Yankees to swindle us out of half the State of Maine. Well, at that time, Governor Fairfield, of the State of Maine, ordered out all the militia of that State to invade New Brunswick. The Nova Scotian Legislature at once passed a resolution placing every dollar of their revenue, and every able-bodied man in the country, at the disposal of their sister Province of New Brunswick. This vote was carried unanimously with three cheers for the Queen; and their bold and determined stand once more saved the Empire from war--(cheers)--and yet I, an Ontario man, come here to England, to hear the doubt expressed as to whether the militia of our sister Province of Nova Scotia would help to defend their own capital city in case of attack. It is not fair, gentlemen, and I am glad to be here to-night to speak for my sister Province. (Cheers.) However, I cannot blame you for not understanding all these things. You have not all been in Canada and even if any of you were to come to the Niagara Falls and cross from the States to look at them from the Canadian side, you would not return to the States knowing all about Canada. It would not qualify you to be an authority on Canadian affairs. (Laughter and applause.) Now our position is peculiar. We have a new country with illimitable territory--you can have no conception of the enormous extent--a territory forty times the size of Great Britain, and fifteen times the size of the German Empire, and we have only a small population. We are opening up this country for settlement, developing its resources, and thereby adding to the power of the Empire. Our burdens are enormous for our population and our wealth. What have we done quite lately? We have spent something like $150,000,000--30,000,000--in constructing a railway across the continent and giving you an alternative route to the East. Many people thought this would be too great a burden--more than our country could stand--but our Government and the majority of our people took this view, that this scheme would supply a great alternative route to the East, bring trade to the country, add strength to the Empire, and make us more than ever a necessity and a benefit to the Empire. And remember, all the time we are developing our country, all the time we are spending these enormous sums, we do not live in the luxury you do here, and while we are perfectly willing to do a great deal, we cannot do everything all at once. With you everything is reversed. You have had nearly 2,000 years start, with your little bit of country, and your large population, and by this time I must say you have got it pretty well fixed up. (Laughter.) The other day I was travelling through Kent and I was reminded of the remark of the Yankee who said of it: "It appears to me this country is cultivated with a pair of scissors and a fine comb." We have not had the time or the population to do this, and we cannot afford a standing army. It is not fair to find fault with us because we do not keep up a standing army. It is absolutely necessary we should not take away from productive labour too large a number of men to idle about garrison towns. The Canadian people know that as things stand at present, they cannot be attacked by any nation except the United States. We would not be afraid of facing any European or distant Power, simply because the difficulties of sending a distant maritime expedition are recognised to be so tremendous. Suppose war should unfortunately break out with the United States--and that, as I say, is the only contingency we need seriously consider--in that case, what are we to do? It would be useless we know to attempt to defend our country with a small standing army. We know that every able-bodied man would have to fight. We know that our men are able and willing to fight, and what we are trying to do is to educate officers. Our military college, kept up at large expense, is one of the finest in the world. Then we have permanent schools for military purposes, men drafted from our corps being drilled there and sent back to instruct. We keep up about 38,000 active militia, and the country has numbers of drilled men who could be relied on. As an illustration of our system, I may mention that in 1866 there was a sudden alarm of a Fenian invasion. The Adjutant-General received orders at 4 o'clock in the afternoon to turn out 10,000 men. At eleven the next day the returns came in, and to his utter astonishment he found there were 14,000 under arms. The reason was that the old men who had gone through the corps had put on their old uniforms, taken down their rifles, and turned out with their comrades, and there they were ready to march. Instead of the militia force going down, it is, I think, slightly increasing. Our force could be easily expanded in case of trouble. If there were danger of war, and the Government were to say to me to-morrow: "Increase your regiment of cavalry and double it," I believe it could be done in twenty-four hours. I cannot tell you how many stand of arms we have in the country, but I believe there are three or four times as many rifles as would arm the present militia force, and therefore there would be no difficulty on that score. In case of a great war, it would, of course, be necessary to get assistance from England. We certainly should want that assistance in arms and ammunition. We have already established an ammunition factory, which is capable of great extension. We have a great many more field guns that we are absolutely using. It would be an easy thing to double the field batteries with retired men. Further, there is a good deal of voluntary drill, and I may say, speaking from my experience in the North-West campaign, that I would just as soon have good volunteer regiments as permanent forces. They may not be quite so well drilled, but they possess greater intelligence and greater zeal and enthusiasm. If any trouble should come, I am quite satisfied you will not find any backwardness on the part of the Canadian people in doing their full duty. At the present time, considering the enormous expense of developing the country and of, in other ways, making it great and powerful, it would, I think, be a pity to waste more than is absolutely necessary in keeping up a large military force. The training of officers, the providing of an organisation and machinery, the encouragement of a confident spirit in the people, and a feeling of loyalty to the Empire--these are, I venture to say, the principal things, of more importance than a small standing army. (Applause.) The Chairman (the Right Hon. Hugh C. Childers).--You will all, I think, agree that it is rather fortunate the few remarks by previous speakers have elicited so eloquent and powerful an address as that we have just listened to. (Cheers.) APPENDIX _B_ _Lecture Delivered at the Shaftesbury Hall, Toronto, on the 17th December, 1891, on "National Spirit," by_ COLONEL GEORGE T. DENISON. MR. CHAIRMAN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, The history of the world is the history of the rise and fall of nations. The record of the dim past, so great is the distance from which we look and so scanty the materials of history, seems almost a kaleidoscope, in which one dominant race rises into greatness and strength upon the ruins of another, each in turn luxuriating in affluence and power, each in turn going to ruin and decay. In the earliest period, when Europe was peopled by barbarians, we read of Egypt, of its power, its wealth, and its civilisation. Travellers to-day, standing in the ruins of Thebes and Memphis, view with amazement the architectural wonders of the gigantic ruins, and draw comparisons between what the race of ancient Egyptians must have been, and the poor Arab peasants who live in wretched huts among the _debris_ of former grandeur. The Assyrian empire has also left a record of its greatness and civilisation. Their sculptures show a race of sturdy heroes, with haughty looks and proud mien, evidently the leaders of a dominant race. The luxuriant costumes, the proud processions, the ceremonious _cortge_ of the Assyrian monarchs, all find their place in the sculptures of Nineveh, while their colossal dimensions indicate the magnificence of the halls and galleries in which they were placed. These broken stones, dug from the desert, are all that is left to tell us of a great and dominant race for ever passed away. The Persian empire came afterwards into prominence, and was a mighty power when in its prime. The Phnicians, by their maritime enterprise and their roving and energetic spirit, acquired great power. Their influence was felt as far as England. Their chief cities, Tyre and Sidon, were at one time the most wealthy and powerful cities in the world, excelling in all the arts and sciences. To-day ruin and desolation mark their sites, and testify to the truth of the awful prophecy of Ezekiel the prophet. The Greeks and Romans were also dominant races, but the small republics of Greece frittered away in dissension and petty civil wars the energy and daring that might have made Athens the mistress of the world. Rome, on the other hand, was more practical. The Roman was filled with a desire for national supremacy. He determined that Rome should be the mistress of the world, and the desire worked out its fulfilment. The Carthaginians rose and fell, victims to the greater vigour and energy of their indomitable rivals the Romans. After the fall of the Roman Empire of the East, the Mohammedan power, restless, warlike, and fanatical, quickly overran Asia Minor and Turkey, and threatened at one time the conquest of all Europe. Three hundred years ago Spain was the all-powerful country. Her ships whitened every sea, her language was spoken in every clime, her coins were the only money used by traders beyond the equator. England, which was at that time the sole home of English-speaking people, was only a fifth or sixth-rate Power. To-day the British Empire is the greatest empire the world has ever seen, with 11,214,000 square miles of territory, a population of 361,276,000, a revenue of 212,800,000, total imports and exports of 1,174,000,000, and she owns nearly one-half of the shipping of the world. In considering the causes which lead to the rise and fall of nations, we find that the first requisite to ensure national greatness is a national sentiment--that is, a patriotic feeling in the individual, and a general confidence of all in the future of the State. This national spirit generally exhibits itself in military prowess, in a determination of placing the country first, self afterwards; of being willing to undergo hardships, privation, and want; and to risk life, and even to lay down life, on behalf of the State. I can find no record in history of any nation obliterating itself, and giving up its nationality for the sake of making a few cents a dozen on its eggs, or a few cents a bushel on its grain. The Egyptians commemorated the deeds of their great men, erected the greatest monuments of antiquity, and taught the people respect for their ancestors, holding the doctrine, "accursed is he who holds not the ashes of his fathers sacred, and forgets what is due from the living to the dead." The Assyrians on their return from a successful war paraded the spoils and trophies of victory through their capital. They also recorded their warlike triumphs in inscriptions and sculptures that have commemorated the events and preserved the knowledge of them to us to this present day. The national spirit of the Greeks was of the highest type. When invaded by an army of 120,000 Persians in B.C. 490, the Athenians without hesitation boldly faced their enemies. Every man who could bear arms was enlisted, and 10,000 free men on the plains of Marathon completely routed the enormous horde of invaders. This victory was celebrated by the Greeks in every possible way. Pictures were painted, and poems were written about it. One hundred and ninety-two Athenians who fell in action were buried under a lofty mound which may still be seen, and their names were inscribed on ten pillars, one for each tribe. Six hundred years after the battle, Pausanias the historian was able to read on the pillars the names of the dead heroes. The anniversary of the battle was commemorated by an annual ceremony down to the time of Plutarch. After the death of Miltiades, who commanded the Greeks, an imposing monument was erected in his honour on the battlefield, remains of which can still be traced. This victory and the honour paid both the living and the dead who took part in it, had a great influence on the Greeks, and increased the national spirit and confidence of the people in their country. The heavy strain came upon them ten years later, when Xerxes invaded Greece with what is supposed to have been the greatest army that ever was gathered together. Such an immense host could not fail to cause alarm among the Greeks, but they had no thought of submission. The national spirit of a race never shone out more brightly. Leonidas, with only 4,000 troops all told, defended the pass at Thermopyl for three days against this immense host, and when, through the treachery of a Greek named Ephialtes, the Persians threatened his retreat, Leonidas and his Spartans would not fly, but sending away most of their allies, he remained there and died with his people for the honour of the country. They were buried on the spot, and a monument erected with the inscription: Go, stranger, and to Lacedmon tell That here, obedient to her laws, we fell. Six hundred years after, Pausanias read on a pillar erected to their memory in their native city, the names of 300 Spartans who died at Thermopyl. A stone lion was erected in the pass to the memory of Leonidas, and a monument to the dead of the allies with this inscription: "Four thousand from the Peloponnesus once fought on this spot with three millions." Another monument bore the inscription: "This is the monument of the illustrious Megistias whom the Medes, having passed the river Sperchius, slew--a prophet who, at the time, well knowing the impending fate, would not abandon the leaders of Sparta." The Athenians were compelled to abandon their homes and take refuge on the island of Salamis, where the great battle was fought the following October, between 380 Greek vessels and a Persian fleet of 2,000 vessels. This action was brought on by a stratagem of Themistocles, whom no odds seemed to discourage. This ended in a great victory for the Greeks, and practically decided the fate of the war. Themistocles and Eurybiades were presented with olive crowns, and other honours were heaped upon them. Ten months after this Mardonius a second time took possession of the city, and the Athenians were again fugitives on the island of Salamis; even then the Athenians would not lose hope. Only one man in the council dared to propose that they should yield; when he had left the council-chamber the people stoned him to death. Mardonius, who had an army of 300,000 men and the power of the Persian empire at his back, offered them most favourable terms, but the national spirit of the Greeks saved them when the outlook was practically hopeless. The Athenians replied that they would never yield while the sun continued in its course, but trusting in their gods and in their heroes, they would go out and oppose him. Shortly after the Greeks did go out, and a brilliant victory was won at Plata, where Mardonius and nearly all his army were killed. The Mantineans and the Elians arrived too late to take part in the action with the other Greeks, and were so mortified at the delay that they banished their generals on account of it. Thus ended the Persian invasions of Greece. The national spirit of the Greeks inspired them to the greatest sacrifices and the greatest heroism, and was the foundation of the confidence and hope that never failed them in the darkest hour. There were a few traitors such as Ephialtes, who betrayed the pass, and a few pessimists like Lycidas, who lost hope and was stoned to death for speaking of surrender. The lesson is taught, however, that the existence in a community of a few emasculated traitors and pessimists is no proof that the mass of the citizens may not be filled with the highest and purest national spirit. The history of Rome teaches us the same great lesson. As Rome was once mistress of the world, as no race or nationality ever before wielded the power or attained the towering position of Rome, so we find that just as in proportion she rose to a higher altitude than any other community, so does her early history teem with the records of a purer national sentiment, a more perfect patriotism, a greater confidence in the State on the part of her citizens, and a more enduring self-sacrificing heroism on the part of her young men. Early Roman history is a romance filled with instances of patriotic devotion to the State that have made Roman virtues a proverb even to this day. Many of the stories are, no doubt, mere legends, but they are woven into the history of the nation, and were evidently taught to the children to create and stimulate a strong patriotic sentiment in their breasts. When we read the old legend of Horatius at the bridge; when we read of Quintus Curtius, clad in complete armour and mounted on his horse, plunging into the yawning gulf in the Forum to save the State from impending destruction; when we read of Mutius Scvola, of Regulus, urging his countrymen to continue the war with Carthage, and then returning to the death which was threatened him if he did not succeed in effecting a peace, we can form some idea of the spirit which animated this people, and can no longer wonder at such a race securing such a world-wide supremacy. The Romans took every means to encourage this feeling and to reward services to the State. Horatius Cocles was crowned on his return, his statue erected in the temple of Vulcan, and a large tract of the public land given him. Rome was filled with the statues, and columns, and triumphal arches, erected in honour of great services performed for the State. Many of these monuments are still standing. Varro, after the terrible defeat of Cann, received the thanks of the Senate because, although defeated and a fugitive, he had not despaired of the future of the State. The Romans, like the English, never knew when they were beaten, and disaster rarely inclined them to make peace. They did not look upon Carthage, their neighbour to the south, as their natural market, not at least to the extent of inducing them to give up their nationality in the hope of getting rich by trading with that community, and yet history leads us to believe that Carthage was at one time very wealthy and prosperous. No, the national sentiment was the dominant idea. Even the Romans, however, had traitors, for we read that Brutus ordered the execution of his own sons for treason. Catiline also conspired against the State; of course his character was not good; he was said to be guilty of almost every crime in the calendar, but when you are picking out specimen traitors it is difficult to be fastidious about their personal character. The national spirit of the race, however, easily overcame all the bad influences of the disloyal, and it was only when this sentiment died out, and luxury, selfishness, and poltroonery took its place, that Rome was overthrown. The experience of the ancients has been repeated in later times. The national spirit of the Swiss has carried Switzerland through the greatest trials, and preserved her freedom and independence in the heart of Europe for hundreds of years. No principle of continental unity has been able to destroy her freedom. The Swiss confederation took its origin in the oath on the Rutli in 1307, and eight years later at Morgarten, the Marathon of Switzerland, 1,300 Swiss peasants defeated an army of 20,000 Austrians. This inspired the whole people, and commenced the series of brilliant victories which for two centuries improved the military skill, stimulated the national spirit, and secured the continued freedom of the Swiss nation. In 1386 another great victory was won at Sempach, through the devotion of Arnold of Winkelried, whose story of self-sacrifice is a household word taught to the children, and indelibly written on grateful Swiss hearts. The memory of Winkelried will ever remain to them as an inspiration whenever danger threatens the fatherland. A chapel marks the site of the battle, the anniversary is celebrated every year, while at Stanz a beautiful monument commemorates Winkelried's noble deed. In 1886 the five hundredth anniversary of Sempach was celebrated by the foundation of the Winkelried Institution for poor soldiers and the relatives of those killed in action. In 1388 a small army of Swiss, at Naefels, completely defeated, with fearful loss, ten times their number of Austrians, and secured finally the freedom of Switzerland. A history published last year says: "Year after year the people of Glarus, rich and poor alike, Protestant and Catholic, still commemorate this great victory. On the first Thursday in April, in solemn procession, they revisit the battlefield, and on the spot the Landammann tells the fine old story of their deliverance from foreign rule, while priest and minister offer thanksgiving. The 5th April, 1888, was a memorable date in the annals of the canton, being the five hundredth anniversary of the day on which the people achieved freedom. From all parts of Switzerland people flocked to Naefels to participate in the patriotic and religious ceremonies. A right stirring scene it was when the Landammann presented to the vast assembly the banner of St. Fridolin, the same which Ambuhl had raised high, and thousands of voices joined in the national anthem." A magnificent monument at Basle commemorates the bloody fight of St. Jacques. The national spirit of the Swiss, nurtured and evidenced in this manner, has held together for hundreds of years a people professing different religions, and actually speaking four different languages. In 1856 King Frederick William IV. of Prussia threatened them with war. The whole people rose; grey-haired old men and mere boys offered their services, fellow-countrymen abroad sent large sums of money, and even the school children offered up their savings, and there was no intruding traitor to object that the children should not be allowed to interfere on the pretext that it was a party question. Catholic and Protestant, French, German, Italian, and Romansch, all stood shoulder to shoulder, animated by the same spirit, determined to brave any danger in defence of the honour and independence of their country. The noble bearing of the Swiss aroused the sympathy and commanded the respect of all Europe, and really caused the preservation of peace. They have been free for 500 years, and will be free and respected so long as they retain the national spirit they have hitherto possessed. It is interesting to note that the Swiss teach the boys in the schools military drill, furnishing them with small guns and small cannon that they may be thoroughly trained. Russia has grown from a comparatively small principality to an enormous empire, and as it has constantly risen in the scale of nations, so has it also been marked by a strong sentiment of nationality. Alexander, Prince of Novgorod, in 1240 and 1242 won two great victories, one at the Neva and the other at Lake Peipus, and so saved Russia from her enemies. He received the honourable title of "Nefsky," or of the Neva, and the anniversaries of his victories were celebrated for hundreds of years. The great Alexander Nefsky monastery in St. Petersburg was built in his honour by Peter the Great. Dimitry, in 1380, won a great victory over the Tartars. Over 500 years have elapsed, but still the name of Dimitry Donskoi lives in the memory and in the songs of the Russian people, and still on "Dimitry's Saturday," the anniversary of the battle, solemn prayers are offered up in memory of the brave men who fell on that day in defence of the fatherland. It is hardly necessary to refer to the magnificent display of patriotism and self-sacrifice shown by the whole Russian people, from Czar to serf, in the defence of Russia in 1812, against armed Europe led by the greatest general of modern times. The spirit of the Russians rose with their sacrifices. The destruction of Moscow by its own people is one of the most striking instances of patriotic devotion in history. The Governor of Moscow, Count Rostopchin, burned his own country palace near Moscow when the French approached, and affixed to the gates this inscription: "During eight years I have embellished this country house, and lived happily in it in the bosom of my family. The inhabitants of this estate--7,000--quit at your approach. You find nothing but ashes." The city was abandoned and burnt. Nothing remained but the remembrance of its glories and the thirst for a vengeance, which was terrible and swift. Kutusof, the Russian general, announced the loss, and said "that the people are the soul of the empire, and that where they are there is Moscow and the empire of Russia." The magnificent column to Alexander I. in the square in front of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg is a striking memorial of the victor of this great war. A visitor to St. Petersburg cannot fail to notice the strong pride in their country that animates the people. Now turning to England we find numberless proofs of the same sentiment that has built up all great nations. The brilliant victories of Cressy, Poitiers, and Agincourt, won by Englishmen against overwhelming odds, had no doubt exercised an important influence upon the people. The Reformation and the discovery of the New World exercised the popular mind, and a spirit of adventure seized most of the European countries. English sailors were most active and bold in their seafaring enterprises. They waged private war on their own account against the Spaniards in the West Indies and in the southern seas, and attacked and fought Spanish vessels with the most reckless indifference as to odds. The Armada set a spark to the smouldering patriotism of the people, the whole nation sprang to arms, the City of London equipped double the number of war vessels they were called upon to furnish. Catholics and Protestants vied with each other in animating the people to the most vehement resistance. To excite the martial spirit of the nation Queen Elizabeth rode on horseback through her army, exhorting them to remember their duty to their country. "I am come amongst you," she said, "being resolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live and die amongst you all, to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour, and my blood even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart of a king, and a king of England, too, and think foul scorn that Parma, Spain, or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realms." These noble sentiments show the feeling that animated the race, for no woman could speak in such a strain who had not lived and breathed in an atmosphere of brave and true patriotism. Elizabeth voiced the feeling of her people, and this strong national spirit carried England through the greatest danger that ever menaced her. The poems of Shakespeare ring with the same loyal sentiment: This England never did (nor never shall) Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself Now these her princes have come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms. And we shall shock them: Nought shall make us rue If England to itself do rest but true. _Henry V._ is as much a song of triumph as the _Pers_ of schylus, but here again history repeats itself, and Shakespeare has to refer to the treasonable conspiracy of Grey, Scroop, and Cambridge, who Hath for a few light crowns lightly conspired And sworn unto the practices of France To kill us here in Hampton. The three hundredth anniversary of the defeat of the Armada was celebrated at Plymouth three years ago, and a magnificent monument erected on the Hoe, close to the statue of the brave old English sailor, Sir Francis Drake, who did so much to secure the victory. The great poets of England have voiced the patriotic feeling of the country in every age. Macaulay's "Armada," Tennyson's "Revenge," and "The Light Brigade"; the songs of Campbell and Dibdin are household words in our empire, and I never heard of any objection being made to their being read by children. The confidence of England in herself carried her through the terrible struggle with the French, Spaniards, and Dutch, in which she lost the American Colonies. Her patriotic determination also carried her through the desperate struggle with Napoleon, who at one time had subdued nearly every other European country to his will. While the English people are animated by the spirit of Drake and Frobisher, of Havelock and Gordon, of Grenville and Nelson, of the men who fought at Rorke's Drift, or those who rode into the valley of death, there need be no fear as to her safety. Our own short Canadian history gives us many bright pages to look back upon. The exodus of the United Empire Loyalists was an instance of patriotic devotion to the national idea that is almost unique in its way. The manly and vigorous way in which about 300,000 Canadians in 1812 defended their country against the attacks of a nation of 8,000,000, with only slight assistance from England, then engaged in a desperate war, is too well known to require more than the merest reference. It is well to notice, however, how the experience of all nations has been repeated in our own country. We were hampered and endangered in 1812 by the intrigues of traitors, some of whom in Parliament did all they could to embarrass and destroy the country, and then deserted to the enemy and fought against us. General Brock's address to the Canadian people, however, shows the same national confidence that has carried all great nations through their greatest trials. "We are engaged," said he, "in an awful and eventful contest. By unanimity and despatch in our councils and by vigour in our operations we may teach the enemy this lesson, that a country defended by free men enthusiastically devoted to the cause of their king and constitution can never be conquered." The memory of our victories at Queenston Heights and Chateauguay are as dear to the hearts of the Canadian people as Marathon and Salamis were to the Greeks, or Morgarten and Sempach are to the Swiss. Why then should we be asked to conceal the knowledge of these victories won on our own soil, by our own people, in defence of our own freedom? Confederation united the scattered provinces, extended our borders from ocean to ocean, gave us a country and a name, filled the minds of our youth with dreams of national greatness and hopes of an extending commerce spreading from our Atlantic and Pacific coasts to every corner in the world. The completion of the Canadian Pacific Railway consolidated the country more than ever, brought the provinces into closer union, and inspired the hope that a great portion of the trade between the East and the West would pulsate through our territory. All these causes have created a strong national spirit. This feeling was dormant until the people became uneasy about an insidious movement commenced four years ago in New York, which, while apparently advocated in the interest of Canada, would have resulted in the loss of our fiscal independence and possibly our national existence. This was followed by President Cleveland's retaliation proclamation, a blow intended to embarrass our affairs, and so to force us into subserviency. Afterwards came Senator Sherman's speech, strongly advocating annexation; and Mr. Whitney, the Secretary of the Navy, threatened us with an invasion, describing how four armies of 25,000 men each could easily take Canada. The newspapers in the States were filled with articles on the subject, and maps were published showing our country divided up into states, and its very name obliterated. As an instance of the newspaper articles I quote the following from the New York _Commercial Bulletin_, published in November, 1888, commenting on the speeches of Senator Sherman and Mr. Whitney. The _Bulletin_ says: "Both are inimical to commercial union unless it also be complemented by political union, or, to phrase it more plainly, they insist that annexation of Canada to the United States can afford the only effective guarantee of satisfactory relations between the two countries, if these are to be permanent. These prominent men, representing each of the great parties that have alternately the administration of this Government in their hands, we are persuaded did not put forth these views at random, but that they voiced the views of other political leaders, their associates, who are aiming at making Canadian annexation the leading issue at the next Presidential election. As if speaking for the Republicans, Senator Sherman, as has already been shown, thinks the country now ready for the question, while Secretary Whitney, as if speaking for the other political party, is not less eager to bring the country face to face with it, even at the risk of war with England." The _North American Review_, one of the most respectable of their magazines, actually published an article by General Benjamin F. Butler, in which, speaking of annexation, he said: "Is not this the fate of Canada? This was followed by the McKinley Bill, aimed of course at all countries, but especially bearing upon the articles where Canada's trade could be seriously injured. This portion of the bill is generally believed to have been prepared with the assistance and advice of traitors in our own country. In face of all this a lecturer in this city a few weeks ago made the following statement: "Let me say once more, that I have been going among the Americans now for more than twenty years. I have held intercourse with people of all classes, parties, professions, characters, and ages, including the youth of a university who are sure to speak as they feel. I never heard the slightest expression of a wish to aggress on Canada, or to force her into the union." Among the people of antiquity there was a race that inhabited Mysia, a portion of Asia Minor, lying next to the Hellespont. This race was said to have been once warlike, but they soon degenerated, and acquired the reputation of being the meanest of all people, Mysorum ultimus or last of the Mysians being used as a most contemptuous epithet. The ancients generally hired them to attend their funerals as mourners because they were naturally melancholy and inclined to shed tears. I think that the last lingering remnant of that bygone race must have wandered into this country, and, unable to obtain employment in their natural vocation, mourn and wail over the fate of Canada, urge our people to commit national suicide, and use every effort to destroy that hope and confidence which a young country like our own should always possess. This small clique is working in collusion with our enemies in the States, the design being to entrap us into annexation by force or fraud. This threat upon our country's life, and the intrigues of these conspirators have had the effect that similar attempts have had upon all nations that have possessed the slightest elements of manliness. The patriotic feeling at once became aroused, the clergy in their pulpits preached loyalty and patriotism, the people burst out into song, and patriotic poems of greater or less merit appeared in the local press everywhere. The Stars and Stripes, often before draped in friendly folds with the Union Jack, disappeared from sight, while our own flag was hoisted all over the land. Battle anniversaries were celebrated, military monuments decorated, and in all public gatherings the loyal sentiment of the people showed itself, not in hostility to the people of the United States, but in bitter contempt for the disloyal among ourselves, who were intriguing to betray the country. This manifestation of the popular feeling killed the commercial union movement. No party in Canadian politics would touch it, and the Commercial Union Club in this city is, I believe, defunct. Its chairman, however, has not given up his designs against Canada. Coming to Canada about twenty years ago, his first mission was to teach the Canadians those high principles of honour of which he wished them to believe he was the living embodiment. His writings and his influence have never been on the side of the continued connection between Canada and the Empire, but it is only within the last year or two that he has thrown off the mask, and taking advantage of the movements in the States to coerce us into annexation has come out openly in favour of the idea under the name of Continental Unity. In his last lecture on "Jingoism," given a few weeks ago, he made his political farewell. If I placed the slightest confidence in his statement that he had concluded his attacks on Canada, I would not have troubled to answer this, his latest vindictive effusion. But he has already made so many farewells that he calls to mind the numerous farewell performances of antiquated ballet dancers, who usually continue repeating them till they are hissed off the stage. Before three weeks had elapsed he once more appeared before the public, with a letter announcing once more his departure from the stage, and arguing at length in favour of annexation for the purpose of influencing Mr. Solomon White's Woodstock meeting. Mr. White's speech and his letter were the only words heard in favour of that view, in a meeting which by an overwhelming majority of both parties in politics, voted against the idea. He will write again and lecture again if he sees any opportunity of doing Canada any injury. This Oxford Professor has been most systematic in his efforts to carry out his treasonable ideas. He sees several obstacles in his way. The prosperity of the people, their loyalty to their sovereign, their love for the motherland, the idea of imperial unity, the memory of what we owe to the dead who have died for Canada's freedom, and the martial instinct of our young men which would lead them to fight to maintain the independence of their country. He sees all these influences in his way, while the only inducement he can hold out to us in support of his view is the delusive hope that annexation would make us more prosperous and wealthy. How getting a market among our competitors, who produce everything we sell and are our rivals everywhere, would enrich us is a difficult point to maintain, and as his forte is destruction and not construction, his main efforts are devoted to attacking all that stands in his way. Without the same ability, he seems desirous of playing the part of a second Tom Paine in a new revolution, hoping to stab the mother country, and rob her empire of half a continent, as did that other renegade whose example he tries to imitate. He never loses an opportunity to make Canadians dissatisfied with their lot, trying to make us believe that we are in a hopeless state, while in reality we are exceedingly prosperous. In England he poses as a Liberal Unionist, which gives him a standpoint in that country from which he can attack Canada to the greatest advantage. His book on the Canadian question was evidently written for the purpose of damaging this country in England. One of his very few sympathisers said to me with a chuckle, "It will stop emigration to Canada for five years." I need not devote time to this, however. Principal Grant has exposed its inaccuracies and unfairness, and proved that this prophet of honour has been guilty of misrepresentations that would shame a fourth-rate Yankee politician. In the London _Anti-Jacobin_ this summer he tells the English people to turn their attention to Africa, to India, and to Egypt, that there they have fields for achievement, and that other fields may be opened when the Turkish empire passes away, and asks the English people why they should cling to a merely nominal dominion. He evidently longs to see Englishmen, and English treasure and English enterprise given to assist and develop India, Africa, Egypt, or Turkey, anywhere except Canada, which has given him a home and treated him with a forbearance and courtesy unparalleled. The vindictive malignancy of this suggestion to the _Anti-Jacobin_ is manifest. He sees that emigration to the magnificent wheat fields of our North-West will help and strengthen Canada, and so he decries Canada in his book and writes to English journals endeavouring to divert English enterprise and capital to countries inhabited by alien races about whose affairs and possibilities he knows nothing. These are instances of his systematic intrigues against the prosperity of Canada. In February last, to attack the innate loyalty of the people, he delivered to an organisation of young men in this city a lecture on "Loyalty." The whole aim of the lecture was to throw ridicule upon the very idea. A few men of bad character, who had claimed to be loyal, were quoted to insinuate that loyalty was synonymous with vice. As I have in my lecture on the "United Empire Loyalists" sufficiently answered him on this point, I will pass on to the next which was on "Aristocracy." The object of this lecture was to discredit aristocracy, to show that the aristocracy belong to England and to the Empire, and to try to arouse the democratic instincts of a democratic country like ours against British connection. To weaken, if possible, the natural feeling of the people towards the land of their ancestors. His last lecture, on "Jingoism," is the one I principally wish to deal with, as it is aimed at the other influences, which this Mysian desires to weaken in furtherance of his traitorous plans. The main object is to strike at our national spirit, at the evidences of it, and at the causes which increase and nourish this sentiment. He combines in a few words what he objects to: "Hoisting of flags, chanting martial songs, celebration of battle anniversaries, erection of military monuments, decoration of patriotic graves, arming and reviewing the very children in our public schools." In his elegant way he says: "If Jingoism finds itself in need of all these stimulants, we shall begin to think it must be sick." As a matter of fact, it is these manifestations of a Canadian national spirit that make him sick, to use his own elegant phrase. He says, "Jingoism" originated in the music halls of London. No feeling could have originated in that way in Canada. We have neither the music halls nor the class of population he refers to. With his usual inaccuracy and want of appreciation of historical teaching he fails to see that the national spirit in Canada has shown itself in exactly the same way as the same feeling has been exhibited in all great nations in all ages, and has been evoked by the same cause, viz. national danger. He speaks of protectionism coming back to us from the tomb of medival ignorance, forgetting that he helped to resurrect it in 1878 and gave the influence of his pen and voice to put that principle in power. The volunteer movement, that embodiment of the martial instinct of our race, the outcome of the manly feeling of our youth to be willing to fight for the freedom and autonomy of their native land is another great element that stands in the way of the little gang of conspirators, and so our lecturer attacks the whole force. As we have no standing army, he praises the regular soldiers, so as by innuendo the more forcibly to insult our volunteers; insinuates that it is something feminine in the character of our people that induces them to flirt with the scarlet and coquette with the steel. This historian says the volunteer movement in England was no pastime, it was a serious effort to meet a threatened danger; but, unfortunately for his argument, the danger never came to anything. And yet he ought to know that volunteers in England have never seen a shot fired in anger for over two hundred years, and that he was speaking to the citizens of a city, that have seen in every generation since it was founded dead comrades brought home for burial who had died in action for their country. The loss of life and the hardships of the North-west campaign, the exposure to the bitter cold of winter storms, and the other sufferings of our Toronto lads on the north shore trip, of course, were only pastime, while the parading in the parks and commons of England, in the long summer evenings, has been a serious effort. The erection of a monument at Lundy's Lane, unless it included honouring the aggressors who fought against us and tried to wrest from us our country, is described as "the meanness of unslaked hatred." Are the monuments all over England, France, Germany, Russia, Switzerland, Rome, Greece and the United States all evidences of "the meanness of unslaked hatred"? They have never hitherto been looked at in that light. The professor, however, considering how he is always treating a country that has used him far better than he ever deserved, should be a first-class authority on the meanness of unslaked and unfounded hatred. After twenty-five years the people of Toronto decorated the monument in honour of their dead volunteers, who died in defence of Canada in 1866. There was not one word of swagger or fanfaronade, simply an honouring of the memory of the dead, and pointing out the lesson it taught to the living to be true to their country. This is the cause of a sneer from this man, who seems to forget that those who fell in 1866 died for Canada. What more could man do than give up his life in defence of his country? And yet we, the people of Toronto, have to submit to these insults to the memory of our dead fellow-citizens. An earnest protest is also made against teaching patriotism to our children in the public schools, making them nurseries, as he says, of party passion. Of all the many instances of the false arguments and barefaced impertinence of this stranger, this is the worst. What party in this country is disloyal? What party is not interested in Canadian patriotism? A few strangers, some like the Athenian Eschines, believed to be in the pay of the enemy, some actuated only by natural malignity, are trying to destroy Canada, and find the patriotic spirit of our people in the way. These men have tried to hang on to the outskirts of a great and loyal party, and by the ill odour which attaches to them have injured the party, which longs to be quit of them. When Goldwin Smith's letter was read at the Woodstock meeting another letter from the foremost Liberal leader in Canada was there advising the Liberal party to be true to its fidelity to the old flag, to vote down the resolutions of the conspirators, and to show that we were prepared to sacrifice something to retain the allegiance of this great Dominion to the sovereign we love. I have never referred to this question without vouching for the loyalty of the great body of the Liberal party, and especially for the loyalty of my old leaders, the Hon. George Brown, Mr. Mackenzie, Mr. Blake and Mr. Mowat. And Mr. Mowat voiced the feeling of all true Canadians, for, thank God, this has not yet become a party question. As is done in Switzerland, and as is universally done in the United States--and all honour to them for it--all parties will unite to teach our children to honour our own flag, to sing our own songs, to celebrate the anniversaries of our own battles, to learn our own history, and will endeavour to inspire them with a national spirit and a confidence in our future. In all this, remember that we do not want war. It is the last thing anyone wants. These intrigues between traitors here and enemies in the States may betray us into war, but if it comes, it will not be the fault of the Canadian people, or the great mass of the right-thinking people of the United States. We only want to be let alone. We have everything a nation requires, we have an immense territory and resources, we are as free as air, with as good institutions as any country in the world. We do not wish to lose our nationality or to join a country for mere mercenary considerations where, in addition to a thousand other disadvantages, we would have to pay more as our share of the pension fund alone than the whole interest on our present national debt. We have nothing whatever to fight for; we don't even require their market unless we can get it on equal and honourable terms. We do not intend, as some advise, to kneel down in the gutter in front of our neighbour's place of business, and put up our hands and blubber and beg him to trade with us. Such a course would be humiliating to the self-respect of a professional tramp. A war could do us no good--could give us no advantage we do not now possess, save that it would rid us of our traitors. It would be a fearful struggle, and, no matter how successful we might be, would bring untold loss and suffering upon our people. This professor of history, who asks if we want war, ought to know that every attempt in the past to carry out his views has resulted in bloodshed. In 1775 our people fought against the idea. In 1812 they fought again in the same cause. In 1837, in spite of real grievances, all was forgotten in the loyalty of the Canadians, and once more by bloodshed the feeling of the people was manifested. On the 27th October, 1874, the _Globe_ editorially told him that what he was advocating simply meant revolution, and yet this man who is taking a course that he knows leads in the direction of war and bloodshed has the impudence to charge loyal men who are working in the opposite direction with wanting war. The Swiss have for 500 years celebrated their battle anniversaries and honoured their flag and taught patriotism and military drill to their children. Their whole male population is drilled, and yet no one charges them with being an aggressive or "jingo" race; no one ever dreams that they desire war. It is a fallacious and childish argument to say that this kind of national spirit in itself indicates an aggressive feeling. If so, the United States must be a most aggressive race, for no country waves her flag more persistently with cause or without; no country more generally decorates the graves of her dead soldiers, and no country is erecting so many military monuments, and I respect them for it. By all means let us live on friendly terms with our neighbours, but certainly no people would despise us as much as they would were all Canadians so cowardly and contemptible as some sojourners here wish us to be. The census returns seem to cause great satisfaction to our enemies. The progress has not been as fast as some could wish, and the exodus of our people is much talked of. The only trouble I find is that the exodus is not as extensive as it should be. The man who cannot get on here, or who is dissatisfied with Canada or her institutions, is right to go to the country he likes best. It does not cost much to go, and, if he wishes, by all means let him go. The man to be despised is he who, dissatisfied here, remains here, and, using the vantage ground of residence in the country, exerts every effort to injure and destroy it. If a few of this class would join the exodus, instead of doing all they can to increase it, it would be a blessing, and in the end increase materially both our population and our prosperity. Strength does not consist so much in numbers as in quality. When Hannibal was crossing into Italy he called for volunteers to stay behind to garrison some posts; not that he required them, but because he desired to rid himself of the half-hearted. Some thousands volunteered to remain. He then considered his army much stronger than when it was more numerous, because the weak element was gone. Shakespeare, that great master of human nature, puts the same idea in Henry V.'s mouth on the eve of Agincourt, when in the face of fearful danger: Oh, do not wish one more; Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host That he who hath no stomach to this fight Let him depart; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. It is this very exodus of the dissatisfied from Canada that makes our people more united and determined. We have about 5,000,000 of people anyway, about equal to the population of England when she faced Spain, about equal to the population of Prussia when, under Frederick the Great, she waged a triumphant war against a combination of Powers of about 100,000,000. The remarks about the copyright law are really too funny. The professor says that the anti-British feeling in the States is dying out, "and its death will be hastened by the International Copyright Law, because hitherto the unfair competition to which American writers were exposed with pirated English works has helped to embitter them against England." Their hatred is not against their own countrymen, who, with the consent of the nation, have pirated English books, and sold them in competition against their native writings, but it is vented against the poor, innocent English author, whose property has been taken from him, much against his will and to his great loss. There is not a man in all the United States who would imagine so mean an idea. Space will not admit of answering one-half the misrepresentations and false arguments in this lecture on "Jingoism." The utter indifference to facts and to the teachings of history, when they do not aid his arguments, gives this lecturer an advantage from which a more scrupulous writer is debarred. Take for instance his reference to the calmness and freedom in the States during the civil war. His statement that "civil law prevailed, personal liberty was enjoyed, the press was free, and criticised without reserve the acts of the Government and the conduct of the war" seems strange to any who remember the history of the time when Seward's "little bell" could put any citizen in the northern states in prison without warrant or trial; when Fort Lafayette in New York harbour, the old capitol at Washington, Fort McHenry at Baltimore, and Fort Warren at Boston were filled to overflowing with political prisoners; when newspapers were suspended and editors imprisoned, when Clement Vallandigham, one of the foremost men in the United States, was imprisoned and then banished for criticising the policy of the Government. He speaks of his sympathy with the "Canada First" movement, of which I was one of the originators and for which I chose the motto "Canada First," the idea being that we were to put our country first, before all personal or party considerations. We began our work by endeavouring to stir up and foster a national spirit. Charles Mair wrote a series of letters from Fort Garry to the _Globe_ in 1869, before the North-West territories became part of Canada, advocating the opening of that country. His letters were filled with the loyal Canadian spirit. Robert G. Haliburton a year or two after went through the country lecturing on "Intercolonial Trade," and "The Men of the North," and teaching the same lesson. W. A. Foster about the same time wrote his lecture on "Canada First," a magnificent appeal to Canadian patriotism, while I lectured in different parts of the Dominion on "The Duty of Canadians to Canada," urging the necessity of encouraging a strong national spirit in the people. The professor says he gave the movement his sympathy and such assistance as he could with his pen. He hoped, as did one or two others who injured us by their support, to turn it into an independence movement and make a sort of political party out of it, and it melted into thin air, but the work of the originators was not all lost, as Mair says in his lines in memory of our friend Foster: The seed they sowed has sprung at last, And grows and blossoms through the land. The professor has in the same way been giving his sympathy and support to the Reform party, advocating trade arrangements somewhat as they do, and tacking on annexation, which they do not. His assistance is blasting to the Reform party, and nothing but Mr. Mowat's manly repudiation of his ideas could save the party from the injury and damage that so unwelcome a guest could not fail to bring upon it. For I have no doubt he is as unwelcome in the ranks of the Reform party as his presence in Canada is a source of regret to the whole population. The last words of his lecture are as follows: "But at last the inevitable will come. It will come, and when it does come it will not be an equal and honourable union. It will be annexation indeed." With this last sneer, with this final insulting menace, this stranger bids us farewell, and only does so, partly because he thinks that in his book and in his lectures he has done all that he possibly can to injure our prosperity, to destroy our national spirit, to weaken our confidence in ourselves and in our country; and partly also to disarm criticism and somewhat allay the bitter feeling his disloyal enmity to Canada has aroused. But we need not lose hope. The instances I have given from the history of the past show that the very spirit that has carried great nations through great trials has manifested itself in all ages, just as the patriotic feeling of the Canadian people has burst out under the stress of foreign threats and foreign aggression, and under the indignation aroused by internal intrigue and treachery. This feeling cannot be quenched. Our flag will be hoisted as often as we will, and I am glad to notice that our judges are seeing that what is a general custom shall be a universal custom, and that where the Queen's courts are held there her flag shall float overhead. All parties will unite in encouraging a national spirit, for no party can ever attain power in this country unless it is loyal. Mr. Mowat shows this clearly in a second letter which has just been published in the _Globe_. We will remember the deeds of our ancestors and strive to emulate their example. Our volunteers will do their duty in spite of sneers, whether that duty be pastime or a serious effort. We will strive to be good friends with our neighbours, and trade with them if they will, putting above all, however, the honour and independence of our country. In Mr. Mowat's words: "We will stand firm in our allegiance to the sovereign we love, and will not forget the dear old land from which our fathers have come." If all this is "Jingoism," the Canadians will be "Jingoes," as that loyal Canadian, Dr. Beers, said in his magnificent lecture at Windsor. We would rather be loyal Jingoes than disloyal poltroons. If history teaches us anything, it teaches us that a sound national spirit alone can bring our native land to a prominent position among the nations of the earth; and if thus animated, what a strength this country will be to the British Empire, of which, I hope, we may ever form a part. Let us then do everything to encourage this spirit. Let all true Canadians think of Canada first, putting the country above all party or personal or pecuniary considerations, ever remembering that no matter what the dangers, or trials, or difficulties, or losses may be, we must never lose faith in Canada. I will conclude with a few lines from one of "The Khan's" poems, which appeared not long since in one of our city papers, as they indicate the feeling that exists generally among native Canadians: Shall the mothers that bore us bow the head And blush for degenerate sons? Are the patriot fires gone out and dead? Ho! brothers, stand to the guns, Let the flag be nailed to the mast Defying the coming blast, For Canada's sons are true as steel, Their mettle is muscle and bone. The Southerner never shall place his heel On the men of the Northern Zone. Oh, shall we shatter our ancient name, And lower our patriot crest, And leave a heritage dark with shame To the infant upon the breast? Nay, nay, and the answer blent With a chorus is southward sent: "Ye claim to be free, and so are we; Let your fellow-freemen alone, For a Southerner never shall place his heel On the men of the Northern Zone." THE END INDEX A Abbott, Sir John, 217 Abercorn, the Duke of, 299 _Aberdeen Journal_ on Newspaper Society's dinner, 302 Aberdeen, Lord, at National Club dinner, 239 Aberdeen, Mr. James Bryce's meeting at, 305 Abortive political movement, 56-61 Adams, Charles Francis, 109 Address, House of Commons to the Queen, 131 Adolphustown, meeting at, 64 Alaska acquired by United States, 98 Alaskan Award, 347 Algoma, contest constituency, 57 Allan, Hon. G. W., 65, 158 Allen, Benjamin, 78 Allen, J. Davis, visits Canada, 259; visits Toronto, 260 Allen, Ethan, 109 Alverstone, Lord, on Alaskan Arbitration, 348 American Continental Congress, 2 Ames, Oliver, 109 Amnesty meeting, 41-45 Annexation letters to _Globe_, 121 Annexation manifesto of 1849, 4 Annual meeting, Imperial Federation League in Canada, 1888, 91; 1889, 128; 1890, 138; 1892, 195; 1893, 196; 1894, 204; 1896, 213 Annual meeting, Imperial Federation League (England), 1890, 142 Annual meeting, British Empire League in Canada, 1897, 223; 1898, 244; 1899, 248; 1900, 271; 1901, 285; 1902, 288, 289; 1903, 347 Annual meeting, British Empire League (England), 1902, 324 Appendix A, 369 Appendix B, 375 Archibald, Lt.-Governor, visits Niagara Falls, 36; plot to forestall expedition, 45-47; fails to meet Riel's emissaries, 48 Argentine export of wheat, 1897, 238, 239 Armour, Chief Justice, 347 Arnold-Forster, Rt. Hon. H. O., 199 Ashburton, Lord, 349 Atlantic and Pacific Fleets increased, 152 Atlantic Steamship Combine, 292 Avebury, Lord (Sir John Lubbock), 203, 206; presides at conference, 207; member of organising committee, 209; British Empire League inaugurated, 212; meeting at his house, 230; at British Empire banquet, 280; presides at Council meeting, 1902, 299; at Congress, 358 Aylesworth, Hon. Mr., Alaskan Arbitration, 348 B Badenach, Wm., 58 Badgerow, G. W., 58 Baines, Talbot, 300 Baker, Edgar, 78 Balfour, Rt. Hon. A. J., 76 Banquet, British Empire League in London, 1900, 271-280 Barrie, meeting at, 136 Barton, Sir Edmund, 280, 332, 334 Bastedo, S. T., 189 Beach, Sir Michael Hicks-, on food supply, 236, 334, 356 Beatty, W. H., 158, 197 Beers, Dr. W. Geo., speech at Syracuse, 126; speech at Toronto, 137 Begg, Faithfull, M.P., 321, 322 Behring Sea fisheries, 147, 150, 151 Belleville welcomes Schultz, 27 Bennett, Capt. James, 26, 43 Beresford, Lord Charles, 320 Bernard, Lally, letter to _Globe_, 330 Bethune, R. N., 159 Biggar, C. W. R., 58; on Sir Oliver Mowat, 186, 192 Birmingham Chamber of Commerce, 138 Blackstock, T. G., 197 Blain, Hugh, 58, 158, 197 Blaine, Hon. James, Behring Sea difficulty, 147, 151, 153; _re_ Commercial Union, 163 Blake, Edward, at National Club, 239 Bliss, Cornelius N., 109 Board of Trade banquet, 1887, 88 Board of Trade banquet, Sir Oliver Mowat's speech, 193 Body Guard, Governor-General's, escort Lord Lansdowne, 73 Boer ultimatum, 264 Borden, Sir Fred, in England, 1902, 322, 331, 333, 334 Borthwick, Sir Algernon, 209 Boswell, Mayor, 64, 65 Boulton, Major Charles, 23 Boulton, Sir S. B., 321 Bourassa, Henri, 264 Bowell, Sir Mackenzie, 217, 244 Braddon, Sir Edward, 226 Brantford branch formed, 119 Brassey, Hon. T. A., 207 Brassey, Lord, 198, 209 Bristol Chamber of Commerce meeting, 316 British Columbia, union with Canada, 9 Brock, Sir Isaac, 15 Brock, W. R., 158 Brock's Monument, 158 Broomhall, G. S., 239 Brown, Hon. G., letters of Mair to _Globe_, 14; Red River expedition, 34; publishes Foster's lecture, 55; Algoma election, 57 Bruce Mines, meeting at, 57 Bryce, Dr. George, 20 Bryce, Rt. Hon. James, at Aberdeen, 306, 315 Bull, Rev. Canon, 185, 186 _Bulletin_, New York _Commercial_, 106, 148 Bunting, Percy Wm., correspondence with, 178 Butler, General Benjamin F., 105 Butler, Sir Walter, 299 C Caledonian Society dinner, 1888, 122 California absorbed by United States, 98 Cambridge, the Duke of, 140 Cameron, Hector, 78 Cameron, Hon. John Hillyard, 32 Campbell, C. J., 159 Canada, condition of, before Confederation, 7 Canada Club dinner, 1902, 315 Canada Club, speech at, 1890, 150 "Canada First" party, origin of and meaning of, 9 group aroused, 19 a secret organisation, 21 name chosen, 50 Foster's lecture, 54 Canadian Club, dinner to Mr. Aylesworth, 348 Canadian Club of New York, 82 _Canadian Monthly_ started, 169 Canadian Mounted Rifles, 269 Canadian Pacific Railway, cause of Commercial Union movement, 81 Canadian Pacific Railway, plot to injure it, 110 Canniff, Dr. Wm., 19, 26, 56, 58, 65 Carbutt, Sir Edward, 299 Carnegie, Andrew, member of Continental Union League, 109; at meeting in _Sun_ office, 111; subscription to Continental Union League, 113 Carruthers, Bruce, at Hart's River action, 269 Cartier, Sir George, in Hudson Bay negotiations, 13; Red River expedition, 34; visits Niagara Falls with Bishop Tach, 35-37; his early disloyalty, 44; changes his policy _re_ Red River, 45; letter to Riel, 48; defeated in Montreal, 49 Cartoon, United States in 1900, 104 Cartwright, Sir Richard, resolution on reciprocity, 117; meeting with Hon. James Blaine, 163; on tariff inquiry, 220; defends Sir Wilfrid Laurier, 226 Casey, George E., M.P., 246 Cattanach, A. J., 128 Cawthra, Henry, 158 Cecil, Lord Robert, letter to _Times_, 353 Centennial of United Empire Loyalists, 64, 65 Chamberlain, Rt. Hon. Austen, 318 Chamberlain, Rt. Hon. Joseph, 75; at Board of Trade banquet, 1887, 88; interview with, 1890, 146; at British Empire League banquet, 1900, 272; on preferential tariffs, 282; luncheon with, 1902, 298; Liverpool meeting, 1902, 306; at Lord Lansdowne's, 308; speech at Birmingham, May, 1902, 308; _Daily News_ attacks, 310; correspondence with, 338; letter to him, 343-346; speech at Birmingham, May, 1903, 346; controversy with Lord Salisbury, 349; luncheon with, 1906, 356; illness of, 358, 366 Charlton, John, M.P., in Continental Union Association, 108 asks Glen for money, 112 Chelmsford, meeting at, in 1900, 282; effect of this meeting, 286 Chicago _Tribune_, 103; on speech, 1902, 297 Chippawa, "Raising the Flag," 159 Civil War in United States, 5 Clafflin, John, 109 Clark, J. M., 85, 91; seconds resolution, 1888, 94; at Ingersoll, 205; on deputations, 136, 204, 224 Clarke, Mayor, 135 Cleveland, President, message to Congress, 103, 120; Venezuela message, 210, 218 Cobden Club give Sir W. Laurier Gold Medal, 142 Coburg, reception of Schultz and Mair, 28 Cochrane, Bourke, 109, 112 Cockburn, Capt. Churchill, at action of Lilliefontein, 268 Cockburn, George R. R., 78, 85, 91; occupies chair at First Imperial Federation meeting, 92, 159, 197, 200 Cockburn, Sir John, 299 Cockshutt, W. F., M.P., at Congress of Chambers of Commerce, 358 Colomb, Sir John, 140, 199 Colonial Club dinner, 1902, 315 Commercial Union, origin of, 80-82; a treasonable conspiracy, 82-96 Commons, resolution on Preference, 195 Condition of Canada before Confederation, 7, 8 Confederation of Canada, 6 Conference of 1907 futile, 366 Congress, the American, 2 Congress of Chambers of Commerce, 1906, 212, 356, 359 Constitution of Imperial Federation League, 77 Constitution of National Association, 59 _Contemporary Review_, Goldwin Smith in, 177 Continental Union Association, 108, 109; Goldwin Smith Honorary President, 169; Goldwin Smith's letter to, 174 Contingent to South Africa, letter on, 265, 266 Cornell, W. E., 58 Corn laws, repeal of, 4 Cosby, A. M., 158, 197 Cotton, growth of, in Empire, 300, 301 Council Meeting of Imperial Federation League in 1890, 141 _Courier, Liverpool_, extract from, 307 Cox, Harold, 211 Creelman, A. R., 197 Creighton, David, 136, 165 Crickmore, J., 58 Crimean War, raised prices, 5 Cumberland, Lt.-Col. Fred W., 57 Currie, Sir Philip, Behring Sea question, 148 Curry, J. W., K.C., 291 Curzon, Mrs. S. A., poem, 87 D Dana, Chas. A., Continental Union League, 109; at meeting in _Sun_ office, 111; Myers visits, 112; Mercier's letter to, 114; letter to Morison, 115 Darling, Henry W., 82 Davidson, Lt.-Col. John I., 158 Davies, Sir Louis, 244 Daw, W. Herbert, at Conference in 1894, 207, 208 Dedrickson, C. W., 58 Denison, Colonel George T., one of Canada First Group, 10; welcomes refugees from Fort Garry, 24, 25; goes to Ottawa with refugees, 26; drafts protest, 29; interview with Lt.-Col. Durie, 37; moves resolution at meeting, 1870, 43; lecture on Duty of Canadians, 50; advocates Imperial Confederation, 1870, 53; speech at National Club against independence, 63; speech at United Empire Loyalists' Centennial, 66, 67; O'Brien episode, 69; opposes Commercial Union, 83, 84; speech at Board of Trade banquet, 1887, 88; at organisation of Imperial Federation League, Toronto, 91, 92, 93; letter to _Globe_, 1888, 121; at Caledonian Society dinner, 122; threatens Annexationists, 123, 126; at Ingersoll, Lindsay, and St. Thomas, 127; at Peterborough and Woodstock, 128; chairman of flag-raising deputation, 135; appointed president Imperial Federation League, 196; on deputation to England, 1894, 204; at conference, Sir John Lubbock's, 1894, 207; organisation of British Empire League, 213; deputation to Hon. Wm. Fielding and Mr. Patterson, 220; mission to England, 1897, 225; on denunciation of German treaties, 228, 229, 230; interviewed in Toronto, 1897, 231; on food supply, 232-236; on West Indian preference, 242, 243; speech at annual meeting, 1899, 248; South African War, at Military Institute, 260, 261; letter to _Globe_ on Volunteer contingent, 265; at British Empire League banquet in England, 1900, 271-280; speech at Chelmsford, 1900, 282; speaks at St. John, N.B., and Montreal and London, Ont., 287, 288; mission to England, 1902, 291; speech at Royal Colonial Institute, 1902, 293; at Council meeting, British Empire League, 299; interview with Lord Rosebery, 303; addresses Liverpool Chamber of Commerce, 305; dines at Lord Lansdowne's, 308; letter to _Daily News_, 311; discussion in House of Commons, 316; addresses London Chamber of Commerce, 319, 320; controversy with Sir Robert Giffen, 326-331; returns to Toronto and interview, 332, 333; banqueted by National Club, Toronto, 335; writes to Mr. Chamberlain, 23rd March, 1903, 343; writes to _Times_ on Lord Salisbury's views, 349-352; writes to _Times_ in reply to Lord Robert Cecil, 354; speech at Congress of Chambers of Commerce, 359 Denison, Lt.-Col. Fred C., writes to Wiman, 86, 87, 158, 165, 218. Denison, Rear-Admiral, 280 Denison, Lt.-Col. Robert B., 65 Denison, Lt.-Col. Septimus, 205 Dennis, Lt.-Col. J. Stoughton, 17, 18 Depew, Chauncey M., 109 Deputation to England, 1894, 204; 1897, 223, 224; 1902, 286, 287 Derby, Earl of, sends book to the Queen, 159; on British Empire League committee, 208, 281 Detroit, 95 Devonshire, the Duke of, president British Empire League, 212, 272, 273; at Liverpool, 225, 226 Dickson, Casimir, 86 Dilke, Sir Charles, at Royal Colonial Institute, 140 Dissolution of Imperial Federation League, 194-198 Dobell, Hon. R. R., 224 Dodge, Granville W., 109 Donovan, J. A., 58 Drummond, George, 358 Dunraven, Lord, 209 Dun Winian & Co., influence of, 83 Durie, Lt.-Col., guard of honour for Cartier, 37 "Duty of Canadians to Canada," lecture on, 50, 51 E Edgar, Sir James D., 19, 25, 43 Edinburgh, Lord Morley's speech at, 315 Edinburgh Chamber of Commerce meeting, 315 Egerton of Tatton, Earl, 299 Election of 1891, 156 Elgin, Lord, negotiates Reciprocity Treaty, 5 Elliott, R. W., 58 Ellis, J. F., presides at National Club dinner, 335 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 98 _Empire_, article in, 1890, 162; comments on national spirit, 172; flags given to schools, 156 Empire Day inaugurated, 256 English, C. E., 58 Equal rights movement, 194 Evans, Charles Napier, at Hart's River, 269 Evans, George E., on deputation, 204; receives cable from Africa, 258, 291 Evans, Sanford, 257 Executive committee, resolution, 1902, 289 Expedition, Red River, withdrawal proposed, 36, 42 _Express_, The _Daily_, interview in, 293 F Fair Trade League, 211 Farrer, Edward, in Commercial Union, 108; Glen's letters to, 110, 111, 112; pamphlet, 163, 164 Farrer, Sir William, 142 Fenian influence, 115 Fenian raid, Lt.-Col. J. S. Dennis at, 17 Fenian raids, 9, 70, 240 Ferguson, R. Munro, 199 Fessenden, Mrs. Clementine, suggests Empire Day, 256 Fielding, Hon. W. S., on Trade Inquiry, 220, 221; West Indian preference, 242, 243; speech in House, 243; in London in 1902, 331 Fife, the Duke of, 273 _Financial News_ on London meeting, 321 Fisheries Treaty defeated in United States Senate, 120 Fitzpatrick, Hon. Charles, 244 Flag raising over schools, 134, 135 Flag over schools, effect of, 269 Flannery, Sir Fortescue, 321 Fleming, Andrew, 27, 44 Fleming, Sir Sandford, 197, 224, 245, 246 Florida acquired by United States, 100 Flower, Roswell P., 109, 113 Food supply, correspondence on, 237 Foraker, John B., 109 Ford, I. N., report of Royal Colonial Institute dinner, 1902, 294 Ford, I. N., 322, 323 Forrest, Sir John, 334 Fort Garry, 17; seized by Riel, 18; projected attack upon, 23 Foster, Hon. George E., at First Imperial Federation League meeting, 78; mission to England, 1902, 290, 291 Foster, W. A., in "Canada First" group, 10, 15; articles in _Daily Telegraph_, 22; gets warrant against Richot and Scott, 31; calls public meeting, 1870, 35; at amnesty meeting, 1870, 44; writes lecture, 54; organises National Association, 56, 57, 58, 59 Fraser, W. H., 58 Free Trade, attack upon, at London Chamber of Commerce, 320 Free Trade bogey, 286 Fremantle, Sir Charles, 299 French wars, expense of, 1 Fuller, Bishop of Niagara, 65 Fuller, Valancy, 82 G Gallinger, Jacob, 109 Galloway, Joseph, 2 Gallows Hill, 95 Gamble, John W., 221 German goods taxed in Canada, 229 German and Belgian Treaties prevented preference, 139; mission against them, 150; resolution against, 194; discussion on, 207, 208; efforts against, in 1897, 228; denounced, 230 Giffen, Sir Robert, interview with, 234; supports Corn Tax, 239; letter against me to _Times_, 325; reply, 327 Glasgow, meeting at, 1902, 315 Glen, Francis W., organises Continental Union League, 108; letters of, 109, 110, 111, 112 _Globe_, the London, comments, 352 _Globe_, Toronto, 14; letter to, in 1888, 101; attacks and reply, 122, 124; interview in 1897, 231 Gooderham, Albert E., 197 Gooderham, Alfred, 197 Gooderham, George, 158, 197 Gooderham, Wm. G., 197 Governor-General Lord Lisgar, 45 Governors of States endorse Cleveland, 211, 218 Grahame, Richard, of Canada First Group, 19, 35, 58 Grant, Rev., Principal George M., met him in Halifax, 53; at First League meeting, 78; in Australia, 127; at Hamilton, 128; on preferential trade, 204, 216; urges West Indian preference, 242; letters from, 243, 244; speaks at Mulock banquet, 1898, 246; sympathises at first with Boers, 259 Grasett, Lt.-Col., 291 Gray, R. H., 58 Green, Mohawk Chief, 65 Grey, Mr., United Empire Loyalist, 221 Guelph, meeting at, 136 Gurney, Edward, 158 Gzowski, Sir Casimir, 70, 159 H Hague, George, 246 Haliburton, R. J., 10, 15, 16; at Niagara Falls, 35; lectures, 16, 51, 52, 53 Halifax, lecture at, 53 Halifax branch, annual meeting of, 119 Hamilton, annual meeting at, 128 Hamilton, Lord George, 148, 308 Hamilton, Wm. B., 159 Hamilton, Wm. O'Brien at, 76 Harcourt, Sir Wm. Vernon, speech in House of Commons, 316 Harrison, President, breaks off negotiations, 151 Hartington, Lord, 74 Harts River, Bruce Carruthers, at action of, 268, 269 Hawick, meeting at, in 1894, 211 Hay, Admiral Sir Dalrymple, 321 Hay, Col. John, 109, 110 Headley, E. M., 210 Henderson, James, 159 Herbert, Sir Robert, chairman of executive, 212, 272, 299 Herschel, Lord, at Mulock banquet, 245, 246 Herschel, Hon. Richard, 245 Hessin, Wm., 58 Hill, Rt. Hon. Staveley, Behring Sea negotiations, 151, 163 Hill, W. Becket, 207, 208, 209 Hoffmeyer proposal, 90 Holland, Sir W. H., 299, 300, 301, 358 Home Rule resolutions, 69, 70 Hopkins, J. Castell, Woodstock meeting, 128; at Ingersoll, 79; St. George's Society, 175 Hoskin, John, 158 House of Commons address, 1891, 195, 196 Howard, Allan McLean, 158 Howe, Hon. Joseph, 4, 20 Howell, A., 58 Howland, O. A., 182 Howland, W. H., chairman at Canada First meeting, 59, 60 Howland, Sir Wm. P., 59 Hudson's Bay officials, hostile, 17 Hudson's Bay Company, their policy, 12 Hudson's Bay Territory, 9, 12; acquired, 15 Hughes, James L., 86; meeting at Lindsay, 127; on deputation to England, 1894, 205, 209, 211 Hughes, Colonel Sam, at annual meeting, 1898, 244; offers to raise contingent for South Africa, 260 Hunter, Rose & Co. print Farrer's pamphlet, 164 Huron, Bishop of, 288 Huron signal, 219 Hutchinson, Thomas, 1 Hutton, Major-General, 268 I Imperial Conference, 1902, 286, 287, 303, 305, 331, 332 Imperial defence, letter to _Times_, 339 Imperial Federation (Defence) Committee, 339 Imperial Federation foreshadowed in lecture in 1870, 53 Imperial Federation Journal, comments of, 96, 118 Imperial Federation League started, 77; in Canada, 85; annual meeting, 1888, 91; work of, 117-126; dissolved, 197, 198; resolution on dissolution, 199, 200 Imperial preferential duty, 287 Independence flag hoisted, 64 Independence flurry, 62-68 Independence movement, _Globe's_ action, 121 India, export of wheat, 1897, 238, 239 Ingersoll, branch formed at, 79; meeting at, 127 Innerkip, Meeting at, 173 Innes, Lt.-Col. P. R., 209 Interprovincial trade, Haliburton's lecture on, 15 Irving, A. S., 58 J James, Dr. W. Culver, 207, 209, 299 Jersey, Lord, 209 Jesuit Estates Act, 194 Jones, Sir Alfred, organises meeting at Liverpool, 305 Jett, Lt.-Governor, Alaska Commission, 348 Jones, John P., 109 K Kilbride, Mr., evicted tenant, 74, 75 Kimberley, cable from, 258 King, the, at British Empire League banquet, 1900, 273, 274, 280 Kingsmill, George R., 20, 22, 58 Kingsmill, Nicol, 58 Kipling, Rudyard, poem, 222 Kirby, Wm., 185, 192 Kirkpatrick, Lt.-Governor Sir George, 190 Kitchener, Lord, on Hart's River action, 269 Kirwan, Capt. Michael, 114 Kirwin, General, 114 Knutsford, Lord, refuses to denounce treaties, 196, 228 L Lacrosse Club banquet, London, 1902, 293 _Lady of the Snows_, 222 Langelier, Mr., at New York, 111 Lansdowne, Lord, visit to Toronto, 70, 71, 73, 74; interviewed by Imperial Federation League, 118; British Empire League banquet, 1900, 272, 280; dinner at, 308 La Prairie Camp, 33 Laurie, General, 321 Laurier, Sir Wilfrid, 111; British preference, 216; election of 1896, 219; Lord Salisbury refers to, 220; in Liverpool, 1897, 225; on Free Trade, 231; West Indian preference, 242, 243; resolution about Transvaal, 259; on contingent, 263, 264; returns from Chicago, 264; decides to send contingent, 264; at Sir William Mulock's, 267; speech in House, 1902, 303; interview with, at Hotel Cecil, 331; at conference, 1902, 333, 334; at conference, 1907, 366 Lauterbach, Edward, 109 Law, Fred, Commander, 86, 128 _Leader_ article on Red River Expedition, 36 Lecture on "Duty of Canadians," 50, 51 Lecture on "National Spirit," Appendix A, 371 Lee, A. B., 158 Lee, Capt., M.P., 300 Lee, Walter S., 158 Leeds, Lord Rosebery's meeting at, 1902, 304 Lefroy, Fraser, 291 Leith Chamber of Commerce, 315 Letter to _Globe_, 26th September, 1888, 101 Letter to _Globe_ on wanting war, 124; on contingent, 265 Lesperance, John Talon, poem, 158 Lessard, Col. C. B., 268 Leys, John, Jr., 158 Liberty, Sons of, reference to, 126 Lilliefontein, fight at, 268 Lindsay, meeting at, 127 Lisgar, Lord, at Niagara Falls, 35, 45 Liverpool, arrived at, 1890, 140; in 1897, 225 Liverpool Chamber of Commerce, 1902, 305, 307 Liverpool papers, comments on meeting, 307 London Chamber of Commerce meeting, 1902, 319, 320 London, Ontario, meeting at, 1901, 288 Long, J. M., 79 Loring, A. H., 197, 198, 199; letter to _Times_ in reply, 339 Louisiana purchased, 98 Low, Seth, 109 Low, Sydney, writes interview for _Pall Mall Gazette_, 298 Loyal address from House to the Queen, 131 Loyalists of the Revolution, 1 Lubbock, Sir John: _see_ Avebury, Lord Lubbock, Neville, 210 Lundy's Lane Monument, 181, 182 Lyman, Henry, 128 Lyman, H. H., 128, 224 Lynch, Dr., taken prisoner, 19; arrives from Fort Garry, 25; first protest, 30, 31; second protest, 38, 39 M Mafeking demonstration, 283 _Mail_, London _Daily_, on Canadian Imperialism, 246 _Mail_, the Toronto, 117 Mair, Charles, 10; writes letters from Fort Garry, 14; introduces Schultz, 15; made prisoner, 19; escapes from Fort Garry, 21; raises loyal men at Portage la Prairie, 23; lectures at Belleville, 53, 54 Manchester _Guardian_, 303, 310 Manitoba No. 1, hard wheat, 13 Mansion House, meeting at, 140; meeting in 1896, 212 Map of North America in New York _World_, 104 Marcus, Herman W., 207, 210 Masham, Lord, 314 Mason, Lt.-Col. James, 260 Mason, J. Herbert, 158, 197, 224 Matabeleland, proposed preference, 228 Matsugata, Count, at Lord Lansdowne's dinner, 308 Matthews, Jehu, 78 Macdonald, E. A., 108, 190 Macdonald, Sir John A., Hudson's Bay acquisition, 13; Red River rebellion, 28; interview with, 29; illness of, 35, 41; letter to, 130, 161; election in 1891, 163, 164, 165, 166; his death, 217 Macdonald, J. K., 128 Macdougall, Hon. Wm., sent to England _re_ Hudson's Bay, 13; appoints Mair to surveying party Fort Garry, 13; Lt.-Governor of North-West Territory, 15; arrives at Pembina, 17; returns to Ottawa, 20; at amnesty meeting, 42; member North-West Emigration Society, 54 Macdougall, Joseph E., 20, 54, 58 Macfarlane, Senator, 78 Macfarlane, Thomas, letter to League _Journal_, 90; at Hamilton meeting, 128 Mackenzie, Alexander, becomes Premier, 49, 57 Macklem, Oliver, 158 Maclean, W. F., M.P., 246 MacNab, John, County Attorney, 24, 25 MacNabb, Alexander, Police Magistrate, 31 McCarthy, Dulton, president Imperial Federation League, 78; Toronto branch, 85, 90; at Toronto meeting, 1888, 95, 96; at Peterborough, 12; at Hamilton, 128; Sir Leonard Tilley replaces him as president, 194; subscribes to fund, 197; at annual meeting, 1896, 216; suggests preference to England, 222; on deputation, 224 McGillicuddy, Daniel, 219 McGoun, Archibald, 139 McGuire, John C., 109 McInnes, Senator, 128 McKay, Dr., Sir Oliver Mowat writes to him, 187 McKenzie, Kenneth, Q.C., 44 McLennan, Hugh, 78 McMurrich, W. B., 58, 291 McNaught, W. K., 158, 240 McNeill, Alexander, 78; speech at Paris, 91; at Toronto meeting, 94; at Guelph, 112; moves resolution in House of Commons, 195; in the chair at annual meeting, 1893, 196; at meeting of League at Ottawa, 1896, 214, 215; on deputation to England, 224; attacks Sir W. Laurier, 1897, 226; speaks at Mulock banquet, 245, 246; introduces J. Davis Allen, 260; on South African War, 276; at Owen Sound, 1901, 288 McTavish, Governor, 20 McTavish, John H., 48 McWilliams, W. G., 58 Meath, Lord, takes up Empire Day, 257 Medcalfe, Mayor, F. H., 43 Meeting of Imperial Federation League in Toronto, 1888, 91 Meeting to welcome Schultz, Mair, etc., 24, 25, 26 Mercier, Honore, New York _World's_ comment, 107; in Continental Union League, 110; at meeting in New York, 111; Glen writes to, 112; writes to Dana, 113; copy of letter, 114 _Mercury_, the Bristol, 316 Merritt, Lt.-Col. W. Hamilton, helps to escort Lord Lansdowne, 73; helps to organise Toronto branch Imperial Federation League, 79, 86; secretary Toronto branch Imperial Federation League, 91; moves resolution for preferential tariffs, 91, 195; advocates deputation to England, 139 Michie, James, 58 _Military Gazette_ on South African War, 263 Military Institute, meeting at, 260, 261 Militia, the, 8 Miller, Warner, 109 Milligan, Rev. Mr., 124 Milner, Lord, 260, 261, 264 Mission to England, 1897, 225; 1902, 223-258 Molesworth, Sir Guilford, 299, 300 Monkman, Joseph, 23 Montague, Hon. W. H., 182 Montreal meeting, 1901, 288 Montreal Transcript, 13 Morgan Combine, 292 Morison, John, president Continental Union Association, 109, 111, 112 Morley, Lord, at Edinburgh, 1902, 315 _Morning Post_ on St. John meeting, 1902, 288; comments, 1903, 347 Moss, Chief Justice Thomas, 58 Mowat, Arthur, contests West Toronto, 166 Mowat, H. M., K.C., 291 Mowat, Sir Oliver, at St. George's Society, 70; F. W. Glen's reference to, 111, 112; assists Laurier, 1891, 166, 167; his views on annexation, 178, 186, 187; letter to Dr. McKay, M.P., 187; action about Woodstock meeting, 189; speech at Niagara, 1892, 190, 191; joins Sir Wilfrid Laurier's Government, 219; attends Mulock banquet, 245 Mulock, Sir William, moves address to the Queen, 130, 131, 132; penny postage, 244, 245; banquet to, 245, 246; a conference of, 1902, 331 Murray, C. Freeman, secretary of meeting, 1894, 207; member of organising committee British Empire League, 210; cable from, 271 Mutton, W. G., 58 Myers, Elgin, in annexation conspiracy, 108; dismissed from office, 190; visits C. A. Dana, 112 N National Association, constitution, 59 National Club founded, 60; dinners at, 62; banquet to Lord Aberdeen, 239; dinner, 1902, 335 National sentiment, efforts to encourage, 11, 50 National Societies, 8 "National Spirit," lecture on, 50, 172; Appendix B, 377 National spirit lacking before Confederation, 8 National Union of Conservative Associations, England, 335 Naval reserve, 223 Navy Island, 1837, 95 Nelson, E. G., writes _Raise the Flag_, 157 Nelson, Knute, 109 New Brunswick, 11 _News_, The _Daily_, London, attacks, 310; letter to, 311 Newspaper Society dinner, 1902, 302 Niagara-on-the-Lake, Centennial meeting, 190; United Empire Loyalist meeting, 64, 66 Nicholson, General Sir Wm., 206 Nicholson, Peter, 57 _Norfolk Reformer_, 219 Norman, Field-Marshal Sir Henry, 242 Norris, W. E., on Independence, 64 Northcote, Sir Stafford, 28 Northern Railway in Algoma Election, 58 "Northmen of the New World," lecture by Haliburton, 16 North-West Emigration Aid Society, 50 North-West rebellion, 68, 95 North-West Territories, 13 Nova Scotia, 11 O O'Brien, Archbishop, 79; speech at Halifax, 119 O'Brien, Dennis, 109 O'Brien, Wm., visit to Toronto, 70; meeting at Toronto, 74 O'Donohue, Joseph John, 109 Onslow, Lord, 209, 343 "Opening of the War of 1812," lecture, 171 Orillia, branch formed at, 119 Osler, E. B., 158, 197 Oswald, Mr., 348 Ottawa, branch meeting at, 119 Ottawa welcomes Lord Lansdowne, 76 Ottendorfer, Oswald, 109 Otter, Colonel, 268 _Outlook_ comments on letter to _Times_, 353 Owen, Colonel, at Royal Colonial Institute, 140 Owen Sound meeting, 1901, 288 P Pacific cable, 286 Paisley, meeting at, 1902, 315 _Pall Mall Gazette_ prints interview, 298 Papineau, Louis Joseph, 111 Parker, Sir Gilbert, M.P., lunch at Constitutional Club, 293 Parkin, Dr. George R., C.M.G., tour in Australia, 105; lecture at Whitechapel, 140; at Imperial Federation meeting, 144; on dissolution of League, 203; on deputation, 204; at National Club dinner, 239; answers Edward Blake, 241; on deputation to England, 1902, 290, 292 Patterson, Hon. Wm., 220; at conference of 1902, 331 Paul, Mr., at Liverpool, 236 Pauncefote, Sir Julian, dispatch to United States Government, 152, 153 Pembina, Hon. Wm. Macdougall arrives at, 17 Percival, Sir Westby, 207, 209 Peterborough, branch formed at, 79 Phelps, Walter, 109 Plan of Union of Empire by Galloway, 2 Plumb, Senator, 78 Portage la Prairie contingent, 23 Port Arthur, base of Red River Expedition, 34; branch formed at, 119 Porter, Horace, 109 Post Office service in Canada, at first British, 8 Potter, O. B., 109, 113 Potts, Rev. Dr. John, 78 Preference granted to Great Britain, 222 Prescott, Schultz welcomed at, 27 President of the League, 1893, 196 Press Association and Goldwin Smith, 179, 180 Prince of Wales at banquet, 1900, 273, 279; his advice to Great Britain, 293 Princess Theatre, political meeting in, 1891, 164, 165 Protest to Governor-General by Dr. Lynch, 30, 31 Protest, Lynch's, against amnesty, 38, 39 Q Queen, the, on _Raise the Flag_, 159 Queen's Own welcomes Lord Lansdowne, 73; Sergeants' Mess on Imperial Federation 136 Queenston Heights, 80; anniversary of, 155; view of, on book, 158 R Rae, G. M., 20 _Raise the Flag_, song and book, 157, 158, 159 Rasch, Sir Carne, 282, 283 Reay, Lord, 199 Rebellion of 1837, 4 Reciprocity, discussion in 1902, 338; dangers of, in 1903, 344 Reciprocity treaty, 5 Red River Expedition, 33, 34; proposed withdrawal, 36, 43 Red River Rebellion, 17 Red River Settlement, 13 Reid, Hon. G. H., 226 Report of Imperial Federation League in England, 1890, 140, 141 Resolution at Toronto Station, 1870, 27 Resolution on withdrawal of Red River Expedition, 43 Resolution in Commons on preference, 195 Retaliation Act in Congress, 120 Review in Toronto in 1884, 64, 65 Rhodes, Cecil, on preference, 228 Rhodes, J. G., 199 Richot, Father, delegate from Riel, 27, 28 Richot and Scott arrested and discharged, 32 Ridout, John G., 58 Riel, seizes Fort Garry, 18; parleys with loyalists, 23; to send to meet Archibald, 45; letters from Bishop Tach, 46, 47 Ripon, Lord, 228 Ritchie, Rt. Hon. C. T., 356, 357 Ritchie, J., Jr., 58 Roaf, James R., 58 Roberts, C. G. D., favours independence, 64 Roberts, Field-Marshal Lord, at United Service Club, 206; attends conference at Lord Avebury's, 207; on food supply, 233; at Lord Lansdowne's, 308 Robertson, J. Ross, 158 Robidoux, Mr., 111 Robinson, Hon. John Beverley, contests Algoma, 57; at military dinner 1884, 65; President Toronto branch Imperial Federation League, 86, 91 Roosevelt, Theodore, 109 Root, Elihu, 109 Rosebery, Lord, at Whitechapel meeting, 1890, 140; at annual meeting, 1890, 143, 144, 146; dissolution of League, 200, 202, 203; at Leeds meeting, 304 Rosebrugh, Dr., 58 Ross, A. W., 78 Ross, Col. Robertson, 33 Ross, Hon. George W., supports flag raising over schools, 135; election of 1891, 166, 167; Press Association, 179, 181; his loyalty, 156; speech at St. George's Hall, 1897, 239; establishes Empire Day, 256; on deputation, 1902, 292, 324; speech at annual meeting in London, 1902, 325; at conference, 1902, 332; at National Club banquet, 1902, 335 Rowell, N. F., speech on Empire Day, 257 Royal Colonial Institute meeting 1890, 140; conversazione, 1906, 356; dinner, 1902, 293-298 Russell, Hon. Charles, 245 S Salisbury, Lord, 74; dinner with, in 1887, 76; views on preference, 149, 150; speech at Guildhall, 150, 196; ultimatum to United States, 152; on Canadian preference, 220; delayed denouncing treaties, 222; at British Empire League banquet, 1900, 272, 273, 274; discouraged, 281, 282; not supported, 292; fails in health, 339; letter to _Times_ on his views, 349 Salisbury, the present Lord, writes to _Times_, 1903, 349 Schultz, Sir John, at Fort Garry, 1862, 14; meets Mair, 15; advises Dennis, 18; taken prisoner, 19; escapes, 21; secures release of prisoners, 23; welcomed at Toronto, 25, 26; goes to Ottawa, 27, 28; sends me warning, 35 Scott, Hugh, 19, 68, 158 Scott, Riel's delegate, 28; arrested and discharged, 32 Scott, Thomas, taken prisoner by Riel, 19; put to death, 22 Seddon, Rt. Hon. R. J., at British Empire League meeting, 1897, 226; speaks in South Africa, 303; a conference, 1902, 332 Sergeants' Mess Queen's Own Rifles, 136 Setter, J. J., 23 Shaw, Mayor, at Mulock banquet, 246 Shebandowan, Lake, 34 Sheppard, E. E., favours independence, 64; at St. Thomas, 127 Sherman, Senator, advocates annexation, 99, 100, 101, 102; interview in New York _World_, 104; quoted by Lord Rosebery, 200 Sherwood, Lt.-Col., 164 Simcoe, Lt.-Governor, first Lt.-Governor of Ontario, 190 Slocum, General Henry W., 109 Small, J. T., at organisation of Imperial Federation League, Toronto, 86; at Hamilton, 1889, 128, 158; subscribes to special fund, 197; visits England, 198; proposition to dissolve league, 198; on deputation to England in 1897, 224, 291 Smith, Goldwin, joins National Association, 60; organises club dinners, 62; _Bystander_ comments, 63; advocates Commercial Union, 82, 83; foresees annexation, 104; joins Annexationists, 108, 109; honorary president Continental Union Association, 109; name appears in Glen's correspondence, 112; Archbishop O'Brien denounces him, 119, 120; contest with, 168-193; lectures on "Loyalty," "Aristocracy," and "Jingoism," 171; lectures in reply, "United Empire Loyalists," "War of 1812," and "National Sentiment," 171, 172 Smith, Larratt W., 197; on deputation in 1894, 204 Smith, Sir Frank, 197, 246 Snow Road, 45 Somers, Mr., 136 South African War, 258, 259; contingents for, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264 Speech by G. T. Denison at banquet, 1887, 88; British Empire League dinner, 1900, 274, 275 Speech of Senator Sherman, 99 Spencer, Samuel, 109 Sprigg, Sir Gordon, 332 Spry, Daniel, 56 Stanhope, Rt. Hon. Edward, 198 St. George's Society censures Goldwin Smith, 175, 176; dinner, 1887, 70 Stimpson, Ont., false telegram report, 106 St. John meeting, 1901, 287 Stone Fort, Lt.-Col. Dennis at, 18 St. Paul, hostile influence in, 21 Straight, Sir Douglas, 298 Strathcona, Lord, on deputation to England, 1894, 205, 206, 207; on deputation to England, 1897, 224 Straus, Nathan, 109 St. Thomas branch formed, 119; meetings at, 127, 128 Symons, D. T., 128 T Tach, Bishop, 36, 44; letters to Riel, 46, 47 Tariff Reform, 291; movement started, 346 Tarte, J. Israel, 111, 244; in London, 1900, 272; speech at National Club dinner, 1902, 335, 336 Taxation in American colonies, 1 Taylor, J. F., 210 Tecumseh, 15 Tennyson, Lord, 209, 211 Texas acquired by United States, 98 Thompson, Sir John, 113; at Washington, 147; his death, 217 Thorold Camp, 33 Tiffany, Charles L., 109 Tilley, Sir Leonard, 20; president of Imperial Federation League, 134, 194; resigns presidency, 196 _Times, The_, on Royal Colonial Institute dinner, 1902, 294; comments on Sir R. Giffen's letter, 326; letter in reply to Sir R. Giffen, 325, 326, 327; letter to, in 1903, 339; on Chamberlain-Salisbury question, 349-352 Toronto branch Imperial Federation League, 80, 91 Imperialistic city, 95 United Empire Loyalist meeting, 65 Transcript, Montreal, on North-West, 13 Transvaal, 258 Treaties, German and Belgian, 139; denounced, 230 Trent affair, 240 _Tribune_, New York, comments, 1902, 335 Troops, British, in Canada, 8 Trotter, R. G., 58 Trout, J. M., 58 Tunbridge Wells Chamber of Commerce, 315 Tupper, Sir Charles, 215; on deputation, 1897, 224; annual meeting, 1898, 244; on contingent, 260; at League council meeting, 1902, 299; organisation of British Empire League, 205, 206, 207, 209 Tupper, Sir Hibbert, at Washington negotiations, 147, 154; Farrer pamphlet, 164, 165 "Twelve Apostles," 49 U United Empire, idea started in America, 1 United Empire Loyalists, 1; lecture on, 171 United Empire Trade League luncheon, 1902, 333 Unrestricted Reciprocity defeated in Commons, 117 Unrestricted Reciprocity, 367 "United States in 1900," cartoon, 104 United States Senate throw out treaty, 120 United States discussing reciprocity, 1902, 338, 339 Upper Canada College, meeting at, 155 V Venezuelan affair, Message, 210, 211, 218, 240 Victoria, B.C., branch at, 79 Vincent, Sir Howard, 196, 232; meeting at Chelmsford, 282, 283; at Manchester, 1902, 335 W Wales, Prince of (now the King), at banquet, 1900, 271, 274, 280 Walmsley, Thomas, 19, 58, 158 Walsh, M., 79 Ward, Principal, Owens College, 232 War of 1812-14, 3 Warrant issued for Richot and Scott, 31 Washington, negotiations at, 1890, 150, 151, 152 Weldon, Professor, 95, 204 West Indian preference, 242, 243, 244 _Western Daily Press_, article, 316 _Westminster Gazette_, 305, 310 _Westminster Review_, article in, 179 White, Arnold, on the Army, 268 White, Solomon, advocates annexation, 108, 187 White, T. M., secretary Continental Union Association, 109; letter to Goldwin Smith, 173 Whiteway, Sir Wm., 226 Whitney, W. C., threatening war, 105, 109, 113 Wilkie, D. R., 86; seconds resolution for preferential tariff, 91; subscribes to fund, 197 Wickham, H. J., 86; starts flag movement, 134, 135; seconds resolution, 200; on deputation, 1894, 204, 291 Wilkinson, Spenser, on food supply, 232, 233 Williams, E. E., at London Chamber of Commerce, 321 Willison, J. S., 264, 267 Wilson, General James H., 105, 109 Wilson, Charles John, Hawick meeting, 211, 212 Wiman, Erastus, starts Commercial Union, 81, 82; Lt.-Col. Fred C. Denison, letter to, 86; telegram to Press, 102; in Glen's letters, 112; and Sir R. Cartwright, 163; meets Goldwin Smith, 170 Winnipeg, 13 Wolseley, Field-Marshal Lord, commands Red River Expedition, 33; warn him, 37, 44; at Fort Garry, 48; success of, 48; food supply, 233; British Empire League banquet, 1900, 272, 273, 280 Woodstock meeting, 187 Woollen trade in Canada, 338 Worrell, John A., 86 _World_, Toronto, comments, 89, 90 _World_, New York, 107; map of North America, 1900, 104 Y Young, Sir Frederick, 209, 299, 300 Young, Major-General Ralph, 207, 209 RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. FOOTNOTE: From Charles Mair's lines in memory of Foster. Transcriber's Notes: Hyphenation has been standardised. Ellipses have been standardised. Some minor spelling, punctuation and presentation layout has been corrected/changed without specific note. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works 1.A. By reading or using any part of this when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other must appear prominently whenever any copy of a included with this eBook or online at 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. 1.E.2. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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The included with this eBook or online at Posting Date: August 6, 2008 THIS SIDE OF PARADISE By F. Scott Fitzgerald ... Well this side of Paradise!... There's little comfort in the wise. --Rupert Brooke. Experience is the name so many people give to their mistakes. --Oscar Wilde. To SIGOURNEY FAY CONTENTS BOOK ONE: The Romantic Egotist 1. AMORY, SON OF BEATRICE 2. SPIRES AND GARGOYLES 3. THE EGOTIST CONSIDERS 4. NARCISSUS OFF DUTY BOOK TWO: The Education of a Personage 1. THE DEBUTANTE 2. EXPERIMENTS IN CONVALESCENCE 3. YOUNG IRONY 4. THE SUPERCILIOUS SACRIFICE 5. THE EGOTIST BECOMES A PERSONAGE BOOK ONE--The Romantic Egotist CHAPTER 1. Amory, Son of Beatrice Amory Blaine inherited from his mother every trait, except the stray inexpressible few, that made him worth while. His father, an ineffectual, inarticulate man with a taste for Byron and a habit of drowsing over the Encyclopedia Britannica, grew wealthy at thirty through the death of two elder brothers, successful Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that the world was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice O'Hara. In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down to posterity his height of just under six feet and his tendency to waver at crucial moments, these two abstractions appearing in his son Amory. For many years he hovered in the background of his family's life, an unassertive figure with a face half-obliterated by lifeless, silky hair, continually occupied in "taking care" of his wife, continually harassed by the idea that he didn't and couldn't understand her. But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on her father's estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart Convent--an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy--showed the exquisite delicacy of her features, the consummate art and simplicity of her clothes. A brilliant education she had--her youth passed in renaissance glory, she was versed in the latest gossip of the Older Roman Families; known by name as a fabulously wealthy American girl to Cardinal Vitori and Queen Margherita and more subtle celebrities that one must have had some culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to prefer whiskey and soda to wine, and her small talk was broadened in two senses during a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice O'Hara absorbed the sort of education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all ideas, in the last of those days when the great gardener clipped the inferior roses to produce one perfect bud. In her less important moments she returned to America, met Stephen Blaine and married him--this almost entirely because she was a little bit weary, a little bit sad. Her only child was carried through a tiresome season and brought into the world on a spring day in ninety-six. When Amory was five he was already a delightful companion for her. He was an auburn-haired boy, with great, handsome eyes which he would grow up to in time, a facile imaginative mind and a taste for fancy dress. From his fourth to his tenth year he did the country with his mother in her father's private car, from Coronado, where his mother became so bored that she had a nervous breakdown in a fashionable hotel, down to Mexico City, where she took a mild, almost epidemic consumption. This trouble pleased her, and later she made use of it as an intrinsic part of her atmosphere--especially after several astounding bracers. So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were defying governesses on the beach at Newport, or being spanked or tutored or read to from "Do and Dare," or "Frank on the Mississippi," Amory was biting acquiescent bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing a natural repugnance to chamber music and symphonies, and deriving a highly specialized education from his mother. "Amory." "Yes, Beatrice." (Such a quaint name for his mother; she encouraged it.) "Dear, don't _think_ of getting out of bed yet. I've always suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous. Clothilde is having your breakfast brought up." "All right." "I am feeling very old to-day, Amory," she would sigh, her face a rare cameo of pathos, her voice exquisitely modulated, her hands as facile as Bernhardt's. "My nerves are on edge--on edge. We must leave this terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine." Amory's penetrating green eyes would look out through tangled hair at his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her. "Amory." "Oh, _yes_." "I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and just relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish." She fed him sections of the "Fetes Galantes" before he was ten; at eleven he could talk glibly, if rather reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot Springs, he sampled his mother's apricot cordial, and as the taste pleased him, he became quite tipsy. This was fun for a while, but he essayed a cigarette in his exaltation, and succumbed to a vulgar, plebeian reaction. Though this incident horrified Beatrice, it also secretly amused her and became part of what in a later generation would have been termed her "line." "This son of mine," he heard her tell a room full of awestruck, admiring women one day, "is entirely sophisticated and quite charming--but delicate--we're all delicate; _here_, you know." Her hand was radiantly outlined against her beautiful bosom; then sinking her voice to a whisper, she told them of the apricot cordial. They rejoiced, for she was a brave raconteuse, but many were the keys turned in sideboard locks that night against the possible defection of little Bobby or Barbara.... These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; two maids, the private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, and very often a physician. When Amory had the whooping-cough four disgusted specialists glared at each other hunched around his bed; when he took scarlet fever the number of attendants, including physicians and nurses, totalled fourteen. However, blood being thicker than broth, he was pulled through. The Blaines were attached to no city. They were the Blaines of Lake Geneva; they had quite enough relatives to serve in place of friends, and an enviable standing from Pasadena to Cape Cod. But Beatrice grew more and more prone to like only new acquaintances, as there were certain stories, such as the history of her constitution and its many amendments, memories of her years abroad, that it was necessary for her to repeat at regular intervals. Like Freudian dreams, they must be thrown off, else they would sweep in and lay siege to her nerves. But Beatrice was critical about American women, especially the floating population of ex-Westerners. "They have accents, my dear," she told Amory, "not Southern accents or Boston accents, not an accent attached to any locality, just an accent"--she became dreamy. "They pick up old, moth-eaten London accents that are down on their luck and have to be used by some one. They talk as an English butler might after several years in a Chicago grand-opera company." She became almost incoherent--"Suppose--time in every Western woman's life--she feels her husband is prosperous enough for her to have--accent--they try to impress _me_, my dear--" Though she thought of her body as a mass of frailties, she considered her soul quite as ill, and therefore important in her life. She had once been a Catholic, but discovering that priests were infinitely more attentive when she was in process of losing or regaining faith in Mother Church, she maintained an enchantingly wavering attitude. Often she deplored the bourgeois quality of the American Catholic clergy, and was quite sure that had she lived in the shadow of the great Continental cathedrals her soul would still be a thin flame on the mighty altar of Rome. Still, next to doctors, priests were her favorite sport. "Ah, Bishop Wiston," she would declare, "I do not want to talk of myself. I can imagine the stream of hysterical women fluttering at your doors, beseeching you to be simpatico"--then after an interlude filled by the clergyman--"but my mood--is--oddly dissimilar." Only to bishops and above did she divulge her clerical romance. When she had first returned to her country there had been a pagan, Swinburnian young man in Asheville, for whose passionate kisses and unsentimental conversations she had taken a decided penchant--they had discussed the matter pro and con with an intellectual romancing quite devoid of sappiness. Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the Catholic Church, and was now--Monsignor Darcy. "Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company--quite the cardinal's right-hand man." "Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful lady, "and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood me." Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than ever on to his Celtic mother. He had tutored occasionally--the idea being that he was to "keep up," at each place "taking up the work where he left off," yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind was still in very good shape. What a few more years of this life would have made of him is problematical. However, four hours out from land, Italy bound, with Beatrice, his appendix burst, probably from too many meals in bed, and after a series of frantic telegrams to Europe and America, to the amazement of the passengers the great ship slowly wheeled around and returned to New York to deposit Amory at the pier. You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent. After the operation Beatrice had a nervous breakdown that bore a suspicious resemblance to delirium tremens, and Amory was left in Minneapolis, destined to spend the ensuing two years with his aunt and uncle. There the crude, vulgar air of Western civilization first catches him--in his underwear, so to speak. ***** A KISS FOR AMORY His lip curled when he read it. "I am going to have a bobbing party," it said, "on Thursday, December the seventeenth, at five o'clock, and I would like it very much if you could come. Yours truly, R.S.V.P. Myra St. Claire. He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his chief struggle had been the concealing from "the other guys at school" how particularly superior he felt himself to be, yet this conviction was built upon shifting sands. He had shown off one day in French class (he was in senior French class) to the utter confusion of Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned contemptuously, and to the delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, who had spent several weeks in Paris ten years before, took his revenge on the verbs, whenever he had his book open. But another time Amory showed off in history class, with quite disastrous results, for the boys there were his own age, and they shrilled innuendoes at each other all the following week: "Aw--I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was _lawgely_ an affair of the middul _clawses_," or "Washington came of very good blood--aw, quite good--I b'lieve." Amory ingeniously tried to retrieve himself by blundering on purpose. Two years before he had commenced a history of the United States which, though it only got as far as the Colonial Wars, had been pronounced by his mother completely enchanting. His chief disadvantage lay in athletics, but as soon as he discovered that it was the touchstone of power and popularity at school, he began to make furious, persistent efforts to excel in the winter sports, and with his ankles aching and bending in spite of his efforts, he skated valiantly around the Lorelie rink every afternoon, wondering how soon he would be able to carry a hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably tangled in his skates. The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle. During the afternoon he brought it to light with a sigh, and after some consideration and a preliminary draft in the back of Collar and Daniel's "First-Year Latin," composed an answer: My dear Miss St. Claire: Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday evening was truly delightful to receive this morning. I will be charm and inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next Thursday evening. Faithfully, Amory Blaine. ***** On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively along the slippery, shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in sight of Myra's house, on the half-hour after five, a lateness which he fancied his mother would have favored. He waited on the door-step with his eyes nonchalantly half-closed, and planned his entrance with precision. He would cross the floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St. Claire, and say with exactly the correct modulation: "My _dear_ Mrs. St. Claire, I'm _frightfully_ sorry to be late, but my maid"--he paused there and realized he would be quoting--"but my uncle and I had to see a fella--Yes, I've met your enchanting daughter at dancing-school." Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half-foreign bow, with all the starchy little females, and nod to the fellas who would be standing 'round, paralyzed into rigid groups for mutual protection. A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door. Amory stepped inside and divested himself of cap and coat. He was mildly surprised not to hear the shrill squawk of conversation from the next room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved of that--as he approved of the butler. "Miss Myra," he said. To his surprise the butler grinned horribly. "Oh, yeah," he declared, "she's here." He was unaware that his failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly. "But," continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, "she's the only one what _is_ here. The party's gone." Amory gasped in sudden horror. "What?" "She's been waitin' for Amory Blaine. That's you, ain't it? Her mother says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after 'em in the Packard." Amory's despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice pleasant only with difficulty. "'Lo, Amory." "'Lo, Myra." He had described the state of his vitality. "Well--you _got_ here, _any_ways." "Well--I'll tell you. I guess you don't know about the auto accident," he romanced. Myra's eyes opened wide. "Who was it to?" "Well," he continued desperately, "uncle 'n aunt 'n I." "Was any one _killed?_" Amory paused and then nodded. "Your uncle?"--alarm. "Oh, no just a horse--a sorta gray horse." At this point the Erse butler snickered. "Probably killed the engine," he suggested. Amory would have put him on the rack without a scruple. "We'll go now," said Myra coolly. "You see, Amory, the bobs were ordered for five and everybody was here, so we couldn't wait--" "Well, I couldn't help it, could I?" "So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory." Amory's shredded poise dropped from him. He pictured the happy party jingling along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine, the horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, his apology--a real one this time. He sighed aloud. "What?" inquired Myra. "Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to _surely_ catch up with 'em before they get there?" He was encouraging a faint hope that they might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found in blas seclusion before the fire and quite regain his lost attitude. "Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right--let's hurry." He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy over a rather box-like plan he had conceived. It was based upon some "trade-lasts" gleaned at dancing-school, to the effect that he was "awful good-looking and _English_, sort of." "Myra," he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully, "I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?" She regarded him gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could forgive him very easily. "Why--yes--sure." He looked at her again, and then dropped his eyes. He had lashes. "I'm awful," he said sadly. "I'm diff'runt. I don't know why I make faux pas. 'Cause I don't care, I s'pose." Then, recklessly: "I been smoking too much. I've got t'bacca heart." Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch, with Amory pale and reeling from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp. "Oh, _Amory_, don't smoke. You'll stunt your _growth!_" "I don't care," he persisted gloomily. "I gotta. I got the habit. I've done a lot of things that if my fambly knew"--he hesitated, giving her imagination time to picture dark horrors--"I went to the burlesque show last week." Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. "You're the only girl in town I like much," he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment. "You're simpatico." Myra was not sure that she was, but it sounded stylish though vaguely improper. Thick dusk had descended outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn she was jolted against him; their hands touched. "You shouldn't smoke, Amory," she whispered. "Don't you know that?" He shook his head. "Nobody cares." Myra hesitated. "_I_ care." Something stirred within Amory. "Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody knows that." "No, I haven't," very slowly. A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was something fascinating about Myra, shut away here cosily from the dim, chill air. Myra, a little bundle of clothes, with strands of yellow hair curling out from under her skating cap. "Because I've got a crush, too--" He paused, for he heard in the distance the sound of young laughter, and, peering through the frosted glass along the lamp-lit street, he made out the dark outline of the bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent, jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand--her thumb, to be exact. "Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk to you--I _got_ to talk to you." Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother, and then--alas for convention--glanced into the eyes beside. "Turn down this side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!" she cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the cushions with a sigh of relief. "I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!" Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon. "Pale moons like that one"--Amory made a vague gesture--"make people mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair sorta mussed"--her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks _good_." They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch. A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for many an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing parties. "There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he commented, "sitting at the tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other off. Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl"--he gave a terrifying imitation--"she's always talkin' _hard_, sorta, to the chaperon." "You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra. "How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at last. "Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with Marylyn and I to-morrow?" "I don't like girls in the daytime," he said shortly, and then, thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: "But I like you." He cleared his throat. "I like you first and second and third." Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell Marylyn! Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy--the little fire--the sense that they were alone in the great building-- Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate. "I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice trembling, "and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth." Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even noticed it. But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly and kissed Myra's cheek. He had never kissed a girl before, and he tasted his lips curiously, as if he had munched some new fruit. Then their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind. "We're awful," rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped her hand into his, her head drooped against his shoulder. Sudden revulsion seized Amory, disgust, loathing for the whole incident. He desired frantically to be away, never to see Myra again, never to kiss any one; he became conscious of his face and hers, of their clinging hands, and he wanted to creep out of his body and hide somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his mind. "Kiss me again." Her voice came out of a great void. "I don't want to," he heard himself saying. There was another pause. "I don't want to!" he repeated passionately. Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on the back of her head trembling sympathetically. "I hate you!" she cried. "Don't you ever dare to speak to me again!" "What?" stammered Amory. "I'll tell mama you kissed me! I will too! I will too! I'll tell mama, and she won't let me play with you!" Amory rose and stared at her helplessly, as though she were a new animal of whose presence on the earth he had not heretofore been aware. The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the threshold, fumbling with her lorgnette. "Well," she began, adjusting it benignantly, "the man at the desk told me you two children were up here--How do you do, Amory." Amory watched Myra and waited for the crash--but none came. The pout faded, the high pink subsided, and Myra's voice was placid as a summer lake when she answered her mother. "Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well--" He heard from below the shrieks of laughter, and smelled the vapid odor of hot chocolate and tea-cakes as he silently followed mother and daughter down-stairs. The sound of the graphophone mingled with the voices of many girls humming the air, and a faint glow was born and spread over him: "Casey-Jones--mounted to the cab-un Casey-Jones--'th his orders in his hand. Casey-Jones--mounted to the cab-un Took his farewell journey to the prom-ised land." ***** SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis. The first winter he wore moccasins that were born yellow, but after many applications of oil and dirt assumed their mature color, a dirty, greenish brown; he wore a gray plaid mackinaw coat, and a red toboggan cap. His dog, Count Del Monte, ate the red cap, so his uncle gave him a gray one that pulled down over his face. The trouble with this one was that you breathed into it and your breath froze; one day the darn thing froze his cheek. He rubbed snow on his cheek, but it turned bluish-black just the same. ***** The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once, but it didn't hurt him. Later, however, he lost his mind and ran madly up the street, bumping into fences, rolling in gutters, and pursuing his eccentric course out of Amory's life. Amory cried on his bed. "Poor little Count," he cried. "Oh, _poor_ little _Count!_" After several months he suspected Count of a fine piece of emotional acting. ***** Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature occurred in Act III of "Arsene Lupin." They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. The line was: "If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing is to be a great criminal." ***** Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it: "Marylyn and Sallee, Those are the girls for me. Marylyn stands above Sallee in that sweet, deep love." He was interested in whether McGovern of Minnesota would make the first or second All-American, how to do the card-pass, how to do the coin-pass, chameleon ties, how babies were born, and whether Three-fingered Brown was really a better pitcher than Christie Mathewson. Among other things he read: "For the Honor of the School," "Little Women" (twice), "The Common Law," "Sapho," "Dangerous Dan McGrew," "The Broad Highway" (three times), "The Fall of the House of Usher," "Three Weeks," "Mary Ware, the Little Colonel's Chum," "Gunga Din," The Police Gazette, and Jim-Jam Jems. He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was particularly fond of the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart. ***** School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors. His masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever. ***** He collected locks of hair from many girls. He wore the rings of several. Finally he could borrow no more rings, owing to his nervous habit of chewing them out of shape. This, it seemed, usually aroused the jealous suspicions of the next borrower. ***** All through the summer months Amory and Frog Parker went each week to the Stock Company. Afterward they would stroll home in the balmy air of August night, dreaming along Hennepin and Nicollet Avenues, through the gay crowd. Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen. Always, after he was in bed, there were voices--indefinite, fading, enchanting--just outside his window, and before he fell asleep he would dream one of his favorite waking dreams, the one about becoming a great half-back, or the one about the Japanese invasion, when he was rewarded by being made the youngest general in the world. It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was quite characteristic of Amory. ***** CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva, he had appeared, shy but inwardly glowing, in his first long trousers, set off by a purple accordion tie and a "Belmont" collar with the edges unassailably meeting, purple socks, and handkerchief with a purple border peeping from his breast pocket. But more than that, he had formulated his first philosophy, a code to live by, which, as near as it can be named, was a sort of aristocratic egotism. He had realized that his best interests were bound up with those of a certain variant, changing person, whose label, in order that his past might always be identified with him, was Amory Blaine. Amory marked himself a fortunate youth, capable of infinite expansion for good or evil. He did not consider himself a "strong char'c'ter," but relied on his facility (learn things sorta quick) and his superior mentality (read a lotta deep books). He was proud of the fact that he could never become a mechanical or scientific genius. From no other heights was he debarred. Physically.--Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was. He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple dancer. Socially.--Here his condition was, perhaps, most dangerous. He granted himself personality, charm, magnetism, poise, the power of dominating all contemporary males, the gift of fascinating all women. Mentally.--Complete, unquestioned superiority. Now a confession will have to be made. Amory had rather a Puritan conscience. Not that he yielded to it--later in life he almost completely slew it--but at fifteen it made him consider himself a great deal worse than other boys... unscrupulousness... the desire to influence people in almost every way, even for evil... a certain coldness and lack of affection, amounting sometimes to cruelty... a shifting sense of honor... an unholy selfishness... a puzzled, furtive interest in everything concerning sex. There was, also, a curious strain of weakness running crosswise through his make-up... a harsh phrase from the lips of an older boy (older boys usually detested him) was liable to sweep him off his poise into surly sensitiveness, or timid stupidity... he was a slave to his own moods and he felt that though he was capable of recklessness and audacity, he possessed neither courage, perseverance, nor self-respect. Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not self-knowledge, a sense of people as automatons to his will, a desire to "pass" as many boys as possible and get to a vague top of the world... with this background did Amory drift into adolescence. ***** PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE The train slowed up with midsummer languor at Lake Geneva, and Amory caught sight of his mother waiting in her electric on the gravelled station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of the early types, and painted gray. The sight of her sitting there, slenderly erect, and of her face, where beauty and dignity combined, melting to a dreamy recollected smile, filled him with a sudden great pride of her. As they kissed coolly and he stepped into the electric, he felt a quick fear lest he had lost the requisite charm to measure up to her. "Dear boy--you're _so_ tall... look behind and see if there's anything coming..." She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into a speed of two miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act as sentinel; and at one busy crossing she made him get out and run ahead to signal her forward like a traffic policeman. Beatrice was what might be termed a careful driver. "You _are_ tall--but you're still very handsome--you've skipped the awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps it's fourteen or fifteen; I can never remember; but you've skipped it." "Don't embarrass me," murmured Amory. "But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a _set_--don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?" Amory grunted impolitely. "You must go to Brooks' and get some really nice suits. Oh, we'll have a talk to-night or perhaps to-morrow night. I want to tell you about your heart--you've probably been neglecting your heart--and you don't _know_." Amory thought how superficial was the recent overlay of his own generation. Aside from a minute shyness, he felt that the old cynical kinship with his mother had not been one bit broken. Yet for the first few days he wandered about the gardens and along the shore in a state of superloneliness, finding a lethargic content in smoking "Bull" at the garage with one of the chauffeurs. The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing family of white cats that prowled the many flower-beds and were silhouetted suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to his private library. After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tete-a-tete in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a fortunate woman of thirty. "Amory, dear," she crooned softly, "I had such a strange, weird time after I left you." "Did you, Beatrice?" "When I had my last breakdown"--she spoke of it as a sturdy, gallant feat. "The doctors told me"--her voice sang on a confidential note--"that if any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have been physically _shattered_, my dear, and in his _grave_--long in his grave." Amory winced, and wondered how this would have sounded to Froggy Parker. "Yes," continued Beatrice tragically, "I had dreams--wonderful visions." She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. "I saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, parti-colored birds with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music and the flare of barbaric trumpets--what?" Amory had snickered. "What, Amory?" "I said go on, Beatrice." "That was all--it merely recurred and recurred--gardens that flaunted coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons--" "Are you quite well now, Beatrice?" "Quite well--as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I know that can't express it to you, Amory, but--I am not understood." Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder. "Poor Beatrice--poor Beatrice." "Tell me about _you_, Amory. Did you have two _horrible_ years?" Amory considered lying, and then decided against it. "No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie. I became conventional." He surprised himself by saying that, and he pictured how Froggy would have gaped. "Beatrice," he said suddenly, "I want to go away to school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school." Beatrice showed some alarm. "But you're only fifteen." "Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I _want_ to, Beatrice." On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying: "Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, you can go to school." "Yes?" "To St. Regis's in Connecticut." Amory felt a quick excitement. "It's being arranged," continued Beatrice. "It's better that you should go away. I'd have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ Church, Oxford, but it seems impracticable now--and for the present we'll let the university question take care of itself." "What are you going to do, Beatrice?" "Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away my years in this country. Not for a second do I regret being American--indeed, I think that a regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great coming nation--yet"--and she sighed--"I feel my life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns--" Amory did not answer, so his mother continued: "My regret is that you haven't been abroad, but still, as you are a man, it's better that you should grow up here under the snarling eagle--is that the right term?" Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese invasion. "When do I go to school?" "Next month. You'll have to start East a little early to take your examinations. After that you'll have a free week, so I want you to go up the Hudson and pay a visit." "To who?" "To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you. He went to Harrow and then to Yale--became a Catholic. I want him to talk to you--I feel he can be such a help--" She stroked his auburn hair gently. "Dear Amory, dear Amory--" "Dear Beatrice--" ***** So early in September Amory, provided with "six suits summer underwear, six suits winter underwear, one sweater or T shirt, one jersey, one overcoat, winter, etc.," set out for New England, the land of schools. There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England dead--large, college-like democracies; St. Mark's, Groton, St. Regis'--recruited from Boston and the Knickerbocker families of New York; St. Paul's, with its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George's, prosperous and well-dressed; Taft and Hotchkiss, which prepared the wealth of the Middle West for social success at Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a hundred others; all milling out their well-set-up, conventional, impressive type, year after year; their mental stimulus the college entrance exams; their vague purpose set forth in a hundred circulars as "To impart a Thorough Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a Christian Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting the problems of his day and generation, and to give a solid foundation in the Arts and Sciences." At St. Regis' Amory stayed three days and took his exams with a scoffing confidence, then doubling back to New York to pay his tutelary visit. The metropolis, barely glimpsed, made little impression on him, except for the sense of cleanliness he drew from the tall white buildings seen from a Hudson River steamboat in the early morning. Indeed, his mind was so crowded with dreams of athletic prowess at school that he considered this visit only as a rather tiresome prelude to the great adventure. This, however, it did not prove to be. Monsignor Darcy's house was an ancient, rambling structure set on a hill overlooking the river, and there lived its owner, between his trips to all parts of the Roman-Catholic world, rather like an exiled Stuart king waiting to be called to the rule of his land. Monsignor was forty-four then, and bustling--a trifle too stout for symmetry, with hair the color of spun gold, and a brilliant, enveloping personality. When he came into a room clad in his full purple regalia from thatch to toe, he resembled a Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration and attention. He had written two novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just before his conversion, and five years later another, in which he had attempted to turn all his clever jibes against Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes against Episcopalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly dramatic, loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate, and rather liked his neighbor. Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled in his company because he was still a youth, and couldn't be shocked. In the proper land and century he might have been a Richelieu--at present he was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly pious) clergyman, making a great mystery about pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life to the fullest, if not entirely enjoying it. He and Amory took to each other at first sight--the jovial, impressive prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, intent youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in their own minds a relation of father and son within a half-hour's conversation. "My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair and we'll have a chat." "I've just come from school--St. Regis's, you know." "So your mother says--a remarkable woman; have a cigarette--I'm sure you smoke. Well, if you're like me, you loathe all science and mathematics--" Amory nodded vehemently. "Hate 'em all. Like English and history." "Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're going to St. Regis's." "Why?" "Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you so early. You'll find plenty of that in college." "I want to go to Princeton," said Amory. "I don't know why, but I think of all Harvard men as sissies, like I used to be, and all Yale men as wearing big blue sweaters and smoking pipes." Monsignor chuckled. "I'm one, you know." "Oh, you're different--I think of Princeton as being lazy and good-looking and aristocratic--you know, like a spring day. Harvard seems sort of indoors--" "And Yale is November, crisp and energetic," finished Monsignor. "That's it." They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. "I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie," announced Amory. "Of course you were--and for Hannibal--" "Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy." He was rather sceptical about being an Irish patriot--he suspected that being Irish was being somewhat common--but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was a romantic lost cause and Irish people quite charming, and that it should, by all means, be one of his principal biasses. After a crowded hour which included several more cigarettes, and during which Monsignor learned, to his surprise but not to his horror, that Amory had not been brought up a Catholic, he announced that he had another guest. This turned out to be the Honorable Thornton Hancock, of Boston, ex-minister to The Hague, author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages and the last of a distinguished, patriotic, and brilliant family. "He comes here for a rest," said Monsignor confidentially, treating Amory as a contemporary. "I act as an escape from the weariness of agnosticism, and I think I'm the only man who knows how his staid old mind is really at sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the Church to cling to." Their first luncheon was one of the memorable events of Amory's early life. He was quite radiant and gave off a peculiar brightness and charm. Monsignor called out the best that he had thought by question and suggestion, and Amory talked with an ingenious brilliance of a thousand impulses and desires and repulsions and faiths and fears. He and Monsignor held the floor, and the older man, with his less receptive, less accepting, yet certainly not colder mentality, seemed content to listen and bask in the mellow sunshine that played between these two. Monsignor gave the effect of sunlight to many people; Amory gave it in his youth and, to some extent, when he was very much older, but never again was it quite so mutually spontaneous. "He's a radiant boy," thought Thornton Hancock, who had seen the splendor of two continents and talked with Parnell and Gladstone and Bismarck--and afterward he added to Monsignor: "But his education ought not to be intrusted to a school or college." But for the next four years the best of Amory's intellect was concentrated on matters of popularity, the intricacies of a university social system and American Society as represented by Biltmore Teas and Hot Springs golf-links. ... In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory's mind turned inside out, a hundred of his theories confirmed, and his joy of life crystallized to a thousand ambitions. Not that the conversation was scholastic--heaven forbid! Amory had only the vaguest idea as to what Bernard Shaw was--but Monsignor made quite as much out of "The Beloved Vagabond" and "Sir Nigel," taking good care that Amory never once felt out of his depth. But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish with his own generation. "You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not," said Monsignor. "I _am_ sorry--" "No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me." "Well--" "Good-by." ***** THE EGOTIST DOWN Amory's two years at St. Regis', though in turn painful and triumphant, had as little real significance in his own life as the American "prep" school, crushed as it is under the heel of the universities, has to American life in general. We have no Eton to create the self-consciousness of a governing class; we have, instead, clean, flaccid and innocuous preparatory schools. He went all wrong at the start, was generally considered both conceited and arrogant, and universally detested. He played football intensely, alternating a reckless brilliancy with a tendency to keep himself as safe from hazard as decency would permit. In a wild panic he backed out of a fight with a boy his own size, to a chorus of scorn, and a week later, in desperation, picked a battle with another boy very much bigger, from which he emerged badly beaten, but rather proud of himself. He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference toward his work, exasperated every master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread of being alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the elite of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy. There were some few grains of comfort. Whenever Amory was submerged, his vanity was the last part to go below the surface, so he could still enjoy a comfortable glow when "Wookey-wookey," the deaf old housekeeper, told him that he was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. It had pleased him to be the lightest and youngest man on the first football squad; it pleased him when Doctor Dougall told him at the end of a heated conference that he could, if he wished, get the best marks in school. But Doctor Dougall was wrong. It was temperamentally impossible for Amory to get the best marks in school. Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with both faculty and students--that was Amory's first term. But at Christmas he had returned to Minneapolis, tight-lipped and strangely jubilant. "Oh, I was sort of fresh at first," he told Frog Parker patronizingly, "but I got along fine--lightest man on the squad. You ought to go away to school, Froggy. It's great stuff." ***** INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the senior master, sent word to study hall that Amory was to come to his room at nine. Amory suspected that advice was forthcoming, but he determined to be courteous, because this Mr. Margotson had been kindly disposed toward him. His summoner received him gravely, and motioned him to a chair. He hemmed several times and looked consciously kind, as a man will when he knows he's on delicate ground. "Amory," he began. "I've sent for you on a personal matter." "Yes, sir." "I've noticed you this year and I--I like you. I think you have in you the makings of a--a very good man." "Yes, sir," Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as if he were an admitted failure. "But I've noticed," continued the older man blindly, "that you're not very popular with the boys." "No, sir." Amory licked his lips. "Ah--I thought you might not understand exactly what it was they--ah--objected to. I'm going to tell you, because I believe--ah--that when a boy knows his difficulties he's better able to cope with them--to conform to what others expect of him." He a-hemmed again with delicate reticence, and continued: "They seem to think that you're--ah--rather too fresh--" Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling his voice when he spoke. "I know--oh, _don't_ you s'pose I know." His voice rose. "I know what they think; do you s'pose you have to _tell_ me!" He paused. "I'm--I've got to go back now--hope I'm not rude--" He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his house, he exulted in his refusal to be helped. "That _damn_ old fool!" he cried wildly. "As if I didn't _know!_" He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back to study hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room, he munched Nabiscos and finished "The White Company." ***** INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on Washington's Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event. His glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian Nights; but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed from the chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the Astor, where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' had dinner. When they walked down the aisle of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and discord of untuned violins and the sensuous, heavy fragrance of paint and powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything enchanted him. The play was "The Little Millionaire," with George M. Cohan, and there was one stunning young brunette who made him sit with brimming eyes in the ecstasy of watching her dance. "Oh--you--wonderful girl, What a wonderful girl you are--" sang the tenor, and Amory agreed silently, but passionately. "All--your--wonderful words Thrill me through--" The violins swelled and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank to a crumpled butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping filled the house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the languorous magic melody of such a tune! The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the 'cellos sighed to the musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like comedy flitted back and forth in the calcium. Amory was on fire to be an habitui of roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that--better, that very girl; whose hair would be drenched with golden moonlight, while at his elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible waiter. When the curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the people in front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough for him to hear: "What a _remarkable_-looking boy!" This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem handsome to the population of New York. Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a melancholy strain on Amory's musings: "I'd marry that girl to-night." There was no need to ask what girl he referred to. "I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people," continued Paskert. Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of Paskert. It sounded so mature. "I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?" "No, _sir_, not by a darn sight," said the worldly youth with emphasis, "and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell." They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music that eddied out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like myriad lights, pale or rouged faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary excitement. Amory watched them in fascination. He was planning his life. He was going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and cafe, wearing a dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the forenoon. "Yes, _sir_, I'd marry that girl to-night!" ***** HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE October of his second and last year at St. Regis' was a high point in Amory's memory. The game with Groton was played from three of a snappy, exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight, and Amory at quarter-back, exhorting in wild despair, making impossible tackles, calling signals in a voice that had diminished to a hoarse, furious whisper, yet found time to revel in the blood-stained bandage around his head, and the straining, glorious heroism of plunging, crashing bodies and aching limbs. For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on the prow of a Norse galley, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will into the breach, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of cheers... finally bruised and weary, but still elusive, circling an end, twisting, changing pace, straight-arming... falling behind the Groton goal with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game. ***** THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER From the scoffing superiority of sixth-form year and success Amory looked back with cynical wonder on his status of the year before. He was changed as completely as Amory Blaine could ever be changed. Amory plus Beatrice plus two years in Minneapolis--these had been his ingredients when he entered St. Regis'. But the Minneapolis years were not a thick enough overlay to conceal the "Amory plus Beatrice" from the ferreting eyes of a boarding-school, so St. Regis' had very painfully drilled Beatrice out of him, and begun to lay down new and more conventional planking on the fundamental Amory. But both St. Regis' and Amory were unconscious of the fact that this fundamental Amory had not in himself changed. Those qualities for which he had suffered, his moodiness, his tendency to pose, his laziness, and his love of playing the fool, were now taken as a matter of course, recognized eccentricities in a star quarter-back, a clever actor, and the editor of the St. Regis Tattler: it puzzled him to see impressionable small boys imitating the very vanities that had not long ago been contemptible weaknesses. After the football season he slumped into dreamy content. The night of the pre-holiday dance he slipped away and went early to bed for the pleasure of hearing the violin music cross the grass and come surging in at his window. Many nights he lay there dreaming awake of secret cafes in Mont Martre, where ivory women delved in romantic mysteries with diplomats and soldiers of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes and the air was thick and exotic with intrigue and moonlight and adventure. In the spring he read "L'Allegro," by request, and was inspired to lyrical outpourings on the subject of Arcady and the pipes of Pan. He moved his bed so that the sun would wake him at dawn that he might dress and go out to the archaic swing that hung from an apple-tree near the sixth-form house. Seating himself in this he would pump higher and higher until he got the effect of swinging into the wide air, into a fairyland of piping satyrs and nymphs with the faces of fair-haired girls he passed in the streets of Eastchester. As the swing reached its highest point, Arcady really lay just over the brow of a certain hill, where the brown road dwindled out of sight in a golden dot. He read voluminously all spring, the beginning of his eighteenth year: "The Gentleman from Indiana," "The New Arabian Nights," "The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne," "The Man Who Was Thursday," which he liked without understanding; "Stover at Yale," that became somewhat of a text-book; "Dombey and Son," because he thought he really should read better stuff; Robert Chambers, David Graham Phillips, and E. Phillips Oppenheim complete, and a scattering of Tennyson and Kipling. Of all his class work only "L'Allegro" and some quality of rigid clarity in solid geometry stirred his languid interest. As June drew near, he felt the need of conversation to formulate his own ideas, and, to his surprise, found a co-philosopher in Rahill, the president of the sixth form. In many a talk, on the highroad or lying belly-down along the edge of the baseball diamond, or late at night with their cigarettes glowing in the dark, they threshed out the questions of school, and there was developed the term "slicker." "Got tobacco?" whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the door five minutes after lights. "Sure." "I'm coming in." "Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you." Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill settled for a conversation. Rahill's favorite subject was the respective futures of the sixth form, and Amory never tired of outlining them for his benefit. "Ted Converse? 'At's easy. He'll fail his exams, tutor all summer at Harstrum's, get into Sheff with about four conditions, and flunk out in the middle of the freshman year. Then he'll go back West and raise hell for a year or so; finally his father will make him go into the paint business. He'll marry and have four sons, all bone heads. He'll always think St. Regis's spoiled him, so he'll send his sons to day school in Portland. He'll die of locomotor ataxia when he's forty-one, and his wife will give a baptizing stand or whatever you call it to the Presbyterian Church, with his name on it--" "Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?" "I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers." "I'm not." "Sure you are. You've got a darn good head on you." But Amory knew that nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill until he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae of it. "Haven't," insisted Rahill. "I let people impose on me here and don't get anything out of it. I'm the prey of my friends, damn it--do their lessons, get 'em out of trouble, pay 'em stupid summer visits, and always entertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they get selfish and then they think they pay me back by voting for me and telling me I'm the 'big man' of St. Regis's. I want to get where everybody does their own work and I can tell people where to go. I'm tired of being nice to every poor fish in school." "You're not a slicker," said Amory suddenly. "A what?" "A slicker." "What the devil's that?" "Well, it's something that--that--there's a lot of them. You're not one, and neither am I, though I am more than you are." "Who is one? What makes you one?" Amory considered. "Why--why, I suppose that the _sign_ of it is when a fellow slicks his hair back with water." "Like Carstairs?" "Yes--sure. He's a slicker." They spent two evenings getting an exact definition. The slicker was good-looking or clean-looking; he had brains, social brains, that is, and he used all means on the broad path of honesty to get ahead, be popular, admired, and never in trouble. He dressed well, was particularly neat in appearance, and derived his name from the fact that his hair was inevitably worn short, soaked in water or tonic, parted in the middle, and slicked back as the current of fashion dictated. The slickers of that year had adopted tortoise-shell spectacles as badges of their slickerhood, and this made them so easy to recognize that Amory and Rahill never missed one. The slicker seemed distributed through school, always a little wiser and shrewder than his contemporaries, managing some team or other, and keeping his cleverness carefully concealed. Amory found the slicker a most valuable classification until his junior year in college, when the outline became so blurred and indeterminate that it had to be subdivided many times, and became only a quality. Amory's secret ideal had all the slicker qualifications, but, in addition, courage and tremendous brains and talents--also Amory conceded him a bizarre streak that was quite irreconcilable to the slicker proper. This was a first real break from the hypocrisy of school tradition. The slicker was a definite element of success, differing intrinsically from the prep school "big man." "THE SLICKER" 1. Clever sense of social values. 2. Dresses well. Pretends that dress is superficial--but knows that it isn't. 3. Goes into such activities as he can shine in. 4. Gets to college and is, in a worldly way, successful. 5. Hair slicked. "THE BIG MAN" 1. Inclined to stupidity and unconscious of social values. 2. Thinks dress is superficial, and is inclined to be careless about it. 3. Goes out for everything from a sense of duty. 4. Gets to college and has a problematical future. Feels lost without his circle, and always says that school days were happiest, after all. Goes back to school and makes speeches about what St. Regis's boys are doing. 5. Hair not slicked. Amory had decided definitely on Princeton, even though he would be the only boy entering that year from St. Regis'. Yale had a romance and glamour from the tales of Minneapolis, and St. Regis' men who had been "tapped for Skull and Bones," but Princeton drew him most, with its atmosphere of bright colors and its alluring reputation as the pleasantest country club in America. Dwarfed by the menacing college exams, Amory's school days drifted into the past. Years afterward, when he went back to St. Regis', he seemed to have forgotten the successes of sixth-form year, and to be able to picture himself only as the unadjustable boy who had hurried down corridors, jeered at by his rabid contemporaries mad with common sense. CHAPTER 2. Spires and Gargoyles At first Amory noticed only the wealth of sunshine creeping across the long, green swards, dancing on the leaded window-panes, and swimming around the tops of spires and towers and battlemented walls. Gradually he realized that he was really walking up University Place, self-conscious about his suitcase, developing a new tendency to glare straight ahead when he passed any one. Several times he could have sworn that men turned to look at him critically. He wondered vaguely if there was something the matter with his clothes, and wished he had shaved that morning on the train. He felt unnecessarily stiff and awkward among these white-flannelled, bareheaded youths, who must be juniors and seniors, judging from the savoir faire with which they strolled. He found that 12 University Place was a large, dilapidated mansion, at present apparently uninhabited, though he knew it housed usually a dozen freshmen. After a hurried skirmish with his landlady he sallied out on a tour of exploration, but he had gone scarcely a block when he became horribly conscious that he must be the only man in town who was wearing a hat. He returned hurriedly to 12 University, left his derby, and, emerging bareheaded, loitered down Nassau Street, stopping to investigate a display of athletic photographs in a store window, including a large one of Allenby, the football captain, and next attracted by the sign "Jigger Shop" over a confectionary window. This sounded familiar, so he sauntered in and took a seat on a high stool. "Chocolate sundae," he told a colored person. "Double chocolate jiggah? Anything else?" "Why--yes." "Bacon bun?" "Why--yes." He munched four of these, finding them of pleasing savor, and then consumed another double-chocolate jigger before ease descended upon him. After a cursory inspection of the pillow-cases, leather pennants, and Gibson Girls that lined the walls, he left, and continued along Nassau Street with his hands in his pockets. Gradually he was learning to distinguish between upper classmen and entering men, even though the freshman cap would not appear until the following Monday. Those who were too obviously, too nervously at home were freshmen, for as each train brought a new contingent it was immediately absorbed into the hatless, white-shod, book-laden throng, whose function seemed to be to drift endlessly up and down the street, emitting great clouds of smoke from brand-new pipes. By afternoon Amory realized that now the newest arrivals were taking him for an upper classman, and he tried conscientiously to look both pleasantly blas and casually critical, which was as near as he could analyze the prevalent facial expression. At five o'clock he felt the need of hearing his own voice, so he retreated to his house to see if any one else had arrived. Having climbed the rickety stairs he scrutinized his room resignedly, concluding that it was hopeless to attempt any more inspired decoration than class banners and tiger pictures. There was a tap at the door. "Come in!" A slim face with gray eyes and a humorous smile appeared in the doorway. "Got a hammer?" "No--sorry. Maybe Mrs. Twelve, or whatever she goes by, has one." The stranger advanced into the room. "You an inmate of this asylum?" Amory nodded. "Awful barn for the rent we pay." Amory had to agree that it was. "I thought of the campus," he said, "but they say there's so few freshmen that they're lost. Have to sit around and study for something to do." The gray-eyed man decided to introduce himself. "My name's Holiday." "Blaine's my name." They shook hands with the fashionable low swoop. Amory grinned. "Where'd you prep?" "Andover--where did you?" "St. Regis's." "Oh, did you? I had a cousin there." They discussed the cousin thoroughly, and then Holiday announced that he was to meet his brother for dinner at six. "Come along and have a bite with us." "All right." At the Kenilworth Amory met Burne Holiday--he of the gray eyes was Kerry--and during a limpid meal of thin soup and anaemic vegetables they stared at the other freshmen, who sat either in small groups looking very ill at ease, or in large groups seeming very much at home. "I hear Commons is pretty bad," said Amory. "That's the rumor. But you've got to eat there--or pay anyways." "Crime!" "Imposition!" "Oh, at Princeton you've got to swallow everything the first year. It's like a damned prep school." Amory agreed. "Lot of pep, though," he insisted. "I wouldn't have gone to Yale for a million." "Me either." "You going out for anything?" inquired Amory of the elder brother. "Not me--Burne here is going out for the Prince--the Daily Princetonian, you know." "Yes, I know." "Why--yes. I'm going to take a whack at freshman football." "Play at St. Regis's?" "Some," admitted Amory depreciatingly, "but I'm getting so damned thin." "You're not thin." "Well, I used to be stocky last fall." "Oh!" After supper they attended the movies, where Amory was fascinated by the glib comments of a man in front of him, as well as by the wild yelling and shouting. "Yoho!" "Oh, honey-baby--you're so big and strong, but oh, so gentle!" "Clinch!" "Oh, Clinch!" "Kiss her, kiss 'at lady, quick!" "Oh-h-h--!" A group began whistling "By the Sea," and the audience took it up noisily. This was followed by an indistinguishable song that included much stamping and then by an endless, incoherent dirge. "Oh-h-h-h-h She works in a Jam Factoree And--that-may-be-all-right But you can't-fool-me For I know--DAMN--WELL That she DON'T-make-jam-all-night! Oh-h-h-h!" As they pushed out, giving and receiving curious impersonal glances, Amory decided that he liked the movies, wanted to enjoy them as the row of upper classmen in front had enjoyed them, with their arms along the backs of the seats, their comments Gaelic and caustic, their attitude a mixture of critical wit and tolerant amusement. "Want a sundae--I mean a jigger?" asked Kerry. "Sure." They suppered heavily and then, still sauntering, eased back to 12. "Wonderful night." "It's a whiz." "You men going to unpack?" "Guess so. Come on, Burne." Amory decided to sit for a while on the front steps, so he bade them good night. The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue, and, weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely transient, infinitely regretful. He remembered that an alumnus of the nineties had told him of one of Booth Tarkington's amusements: standing in mid-campus in the small hours and singing tenor songs to the stars, arousing mingled emotions in the couched undergraduates according to the sentiment of their moods. Now, far down the shadowy line of University Place a white-clad phalanx broke the gloom, and marching figures, white-shirted, white-trousered, swung rhythmically up the street, with linked arms and heads thrown back: "Going back--going back, Going--back--to--Nas-sau--Hall, Going back--going back-- To the--Best--Old--Place--of--All. Going back--going back, From all--this--earth-ly--ball, We'll--clear--the--track--as--we--go--back-- Going--back--to--Nas-sau--Hall!" Amory closed his eyes as the ghostly procession drew near. The song soared so high that all dropped out except the tenors, who bore the melody triumphantly past the danger-point and relinquished it to the fantastic chorus. Then Amory opened his eyes, half afraid that sight would spoil the rich illusion of harmony. He sighed eagerly. There at the head of the white platoon marched Allenby, the football captain, slim and defiant, as if aware that this year the hopes of the college rested on him, that his hundred-and-sixty pounds were expected to dodge to victory through the heavy blue and crimson lines. Fascinated, Amory watched each rank of linked arms as it came abreast, the faces indistinct above the polo shirts, the voices blent in a paean of triumph--and then the procession passed through shadowy Campbell Arch, and the voices grew fainter as it wound eastward over the campus. The minutes passed and Amory sat there very quietly. He regretted the rule that would forbid freshmen to be outdoors after curfew, for he wanted to ramble through the shadowy scented lanes, where Witherspoon brooded like a dark mother over Whig and Clio, her Attic children, where the black Gothic snake of Little curled down to Cuyler and Patton, these in turn flinging the mystery out over the placid slope rolling to the lake. ***** Princeton of the daytime filtered slowly into his consciousness--West and Reunion, redolent of the sixties, Seventy-nine Hall, brick-red and arrogant, Upper and Lower Pyne, aristocratic Elizabethan ladies not quite content to live among shopkeepers, and, topping all, climbing with clear blue aspiration, the great dreaming spires of Holder and Cleveland towers. From the first he loved Princeton--its lazy beauty, its half-grasped significance, the wild moonlight revel of the rushes, the handsome, prosperous big-game crowds, and under it all the air of struggle that pervaded his class. From the day when, wild-eyed and exhausted, the jerseyed freshmen sat in the gymnasium and elected some one from Hill School class president, a Lawrenceville celebrity vice-president, a hockey star from St. Paul's secretary, up until the end of sophomore year it never ceased, that breathless social system, that worship, seldom named, never really admitted, of the bogey "Big Man." First it was schools, and Amory, alone from St. Regis', watched the crowds form and widen and form again; St. Paul's, Hill, Pomfret, eating at certain tacitly reserved tables in Commons, dressing in their own corners of the gymnasium, and drawing unconsciously about them a barrier of the slightly less important but socially ambitious to protect them from the friendly, rather puzzled high-school element. From the moment he realized this Amory resented social barriers as artificial distinctions made by the strong to bolster up their weak retainers and keep out the almost strong. Having decided to be one of the gods of the class, he reported for freshman football practice, but in the second week, playing quarter-back, already paragraphed in corners of the Princetonian, he wrenched his knee seriously enough to put him out for the rest of the season. This forced him to retire and consider the situation. "12 Univee" housed a dozen miscellaneous question-marks. There were three or four inconspicuous and quite startled boys from Lawrenceville, two amateur wild men from a New York private school (Kerry Holiday christened them the "plebeian drunks"), a Jewish youth, also from New York, and, as compensation for Amory, the two Holidays, to whom he took an instant fancy. The Holidays were rumored twins, but really the dark-haired one, Kerry, was a year older than his blond brother, Burne. Kerry was tall, with humorous gray eyes, and a sudden, attractive smile; he became at once the mentor of the house, reaper of ears that grew too high, censor of conceit, vendor of rare, satirical humor. Amory spread the table of their future friendship with all his ideas of what college should and did mean. Kerry, not inclined as yet to take things seriously, chided him gently for being curious at this inopportune time about the intricacies of the social system, but liked him and was both interested and amused. Burne, fair-haired, silent, and intent, appeared in the house only as a busy apparition, gliding in quietly at night and off again in the early morning to get up his work in the library--he was out for the Princetonian, competing furiously against forty others for the coveted first place. In December he came down with diphtheria, and some one else won the competition, but, returning to college in February, he dauntlessly went after the prize again. Necessarily, Amory's acquaintance with him was in the way of three-minute chats, walking to and from lectures, so he failed to penetrate Burne's one absorbing interest and find what lay beneath it. Amory was far from contented. He missed the place he had won at St. Regis', the being known and admired, yet Princeton stimulated him, and there were many things ahead calculated to arouse the Machiavelli latent in him, could he but insert a wedge. The upper-class clubs, concerning which he had pumped a reluctant graduate during the previous summer, excited his curiosity: Ivy, detached and breathlessly aristocratic; Cottage, an impressive mlange of brilliant adventurers and well-dressed philanderers; Tiger Inn, broad-shouldered and athletic, vitalized by an honest elaboration of prep-school standards; Cap and Gown, anti-alcoholic, faintly religious and politically powerful; flamboyant Colonial; literary Quadrangle; and the dozen others, varying in age and position. Anything which brought an under classman into too glaring a light was labelled with the damning brand of "running it out." The movies thrived on caustic comments, but the men who made them were generally running it out; talking of clubs was running it out; standing for anything very strongly, as, for instance, drinking parties or teetotalling, was running it out; in short, being personally conspicuous was not tolerated, and the influential man was the non-committal man, until at club elections in sophomore year every one should be sewed up in some bag for the rest of his college career. Amory found that writing for the Nassau Literary Magazine would get him nothing, but that being on the board of the Daily Princetonian would get any one a good deal. His vague desire to do immortal acting with the English Dramatic Association faded out when he found that the most ingenious brains and talents were concentrated upon the Triangle Club, a musical comedy organization that every year took a great Christmas trip. In the meanwhile, feeling strangely alone and restless in Commons, with new desires and ambitions stirring in his mind, he let the first term go by between an envy of the embryo successes and a puzzled fretting with Kerry as to why they were not accepted immediately among the elite of the class. Many afternoons they lounged in the windows of 12 Univee and watched the class pass to and from Commons, noting satellites already attaching themselves to the more prominent, watching the lonely grind with his hurried step and downcast eye, envying the happy security of the big school groups. "We're the damned middle class, that's what!" he complained to Kerry one day as he lay stretched out on the sofa, consuming a family of Fatimas with contemplative precision. "Well, why not? We came to Princeton so we could feel that way toward the small colleges--have it on 'em, more self-confidence, dress better, cut a swathe--" "Oh, it isn't that I mind the glittering caste system," admitted Amory. "I like having a bunch of hot cats on top, but gosh, Kerry, I've got to be one of them." "But just now, Amory, you're only a sweaty bourgeois." Amory lay for a moment without speaking. "I won't be--long," he said finally. "But I hate to get anywhere by working for it. I'll show the marks, don't you know." "Honorable scars." Kerry craned his neck suddenly at the street. "There's Langueduc, if you want to see what he looks like--and Humbird just behind." Amory rose dynamically and sought the windows. "Oh," he said, scrutinizing these worthies, "Humbird looks like a knock-out, but this Langueduc--he's the rugged type, isn't he? I distrust that sort. All diamonds look big in the rough." "Well," said Kerry, as the excitement subsided, "you're a literary genius. It's up to you." "I wonder"--Amory paused--"if I could be. I honestly think so sometimes. That sounds like the devil, and I wouldn't say it to anybody except you." "Well--go ahead. Let your hair grow and write poems like this guy D'Invilliers in the Lit." Amory reached lazily at a pile of magazines on the table. "Read his latest effort?" "Never miss 'em. They're rare." Amory glanced through the issue. "Hello!" he said in surprise, "he's a freshman, isn't he?" "Yeah." "Listen to this! My God! "'A serving lady speaks: Black velvet trails its folds over the day, White tapers, prisoned in their silver frames, Wave their thin flames like shadows in the wind, Pia, Pompia, come--come away--' "Now, what the devil does that mean?" "It's a pantry scene." "'Her toes are stiffened like a stork's in flight; She's laid upon her bed, on the white sheets, Her hands pressed on her smooth bust like a saint, Bella Cunizza, come into the light!' "My gosh, Kerry, what in hell is it all about? I swear I don't get him at all, and I'm a literary bird myself." "It's pretty tricky," said Kerry, "only you've got to think of hearses and stale milk when you read it. That isn't as pash as some of them." Amory tossed the magazine on the table. "Well," he sighed, "I sure am up in the air. I know I'm not a regular fellow, yet I loathe anybody else that isn't. I can't decide whether to cultivate my mind and be a great dramatist, or to thumb my nose at the Golden Treasury and be a Princeton slicker." "Why decide?" suggested Kerry. "Better drift, like me. I'm going to sail into prominence on Burne's coat-tails." "I can't drift--I want to be interested. I want to pull strings, even for somebody else, or be Princetonian chairman or Triangle president. I want to be admired, Kerry." "You're thinking too much about yourself." Amory sat up at this. "No. I'm thinking about you, too. We've got to get out and mix around the class right now, when it's fun to be a snob. I'd like to bring a sardine to the prom in June, for instance, but I wouldn't do it unless I could be damn debonaire about it--introduce her to all the prize parlor-snakes, and the football captain, and all that simple stuff." "Amory," said Kerry impatiently, "you're just going around in a circle. If you want to be prominent, get out and try for something; if you don't, just take it easy." He yawned. "Come on, let's let the smoke drift off. We'll go down and watch football practice." ***** Amory gradually accepted this point of view, decided that next fall would inaugurate his career, and relinquished himself to watching Kerry extract joy from 12 Univee. They filled the Jewish youth's bed with lemon pie; they put out the gas all over the house every night by blowing into the jet in Amory's room, to the bewilderment of Mrs. Twelve and the local plumber; they set up the effects of the plebeian drunks--pictures, books, and furniture--in the bathroom, to the confusion of the pair, who hazily discovered the transposition on their return from a Trenton spree; they were disappointed beyond measure when the plebeian drunks decided to take it as a joke; they played red-dog and twenty-one and jackpot from dinner to dawn, and on the occasion of one man's birthday persuaded him to buy sufficient champagne for a hilarious celebration. The donor of the party having remained sober, Kerry and Amory accidentally dropped him down two flights of stairs and called, shame-faced and penitent, at the infirmary all the following week. "Say, who are all these women?" demanded Kerry one day, protesting at the size of Amory's mail. "I've been looking at the postmarks lately--Farmington and Dobbs and Westover and Dana Hall--what's the idea?" Amory grinned. "All from the Twin Cities." He named them off. "There's Marylyn De Witt--she's pretty, got a car of her own and that's damn convenient; there's Sally Weatherby--she's getting too fat; there's Myra St. Claire, she's an old flame, easy to kiss if you like it--" "What line do you throw 'em?" demanded Kerry. "I've tried everything, and the mad wags aren't even afraid of me." "You're the 'nice boy' type," suggested Amory. "That's just it. Mother always feels the girl is safe if she's with me. Honestly, it's annoying. If I start to hold somebody's hand, they laugh at me, and let me, just as if it wasn't part of them. As soon as I get hold of a hand they sort of disconnect it from the rest of them." "Sulk," suggested Amory. "Tell 'em you're wild and have 'em reform you--go home furious--come back in half an hour--startle 'em." Kerry shook his head. "No chance. I wrote a St. Timothy girl a really loving letter last year. In one place I got rattled and said: 'My God, how I love you!' She took a nail scissors, clipped out the 'My God' and showed the rest of the letter all over school. Doesn't work at all. I'm just 'good old Kerry' and all that rot." Amory smiled and tried to picture himself as "good old Amory." He failed completely. February dripped snow and rain, the cyclonic freshman mid-years passed, and life in 12 Univee continued interesting if not purposeful. Once a day Amory indulged in a club sandwich, cornflakes, and Julienne potatoes at "Joe's," accompanied usually by Kerry or Alec Connage. The latter was a quiet, rather aloof slicker from Hotchkiss, who lived next door and shared the same enforced singleness as Amory, due to the fact that his entire class had gone to Yale. "Joe's" was unaesthetic and faintly unsanitary, but a limitless charge account could be opened there, a convenience that Amory appreciated. His father had been experimenting with mining stocks and, in consequence, his allowance, while liberal, was not at all what he had expected. "Joe's" had the additional advantage of seclusion from curious upper-class eyes, so at four each afternoon Amory, accompanied by friend or book, went up to experiment with his digestion. One day in March, finding that all the tables were occupied, he slipped into a chair opposite a freshman who bent intently over a book at the last table. They nodded briefly. For twenty minutes Amory sat consuming bacon buns and reading "Mrs. Warren's Profession" (he had discovered Shaw quite by accident while browsing in the library during mid-years); the other freshman, also intent on his volume, meanwhile did away with a trio of chocolate malted milks. By and by Amory's eyes wandered curiously to his fellow-luncher's book. He spelled out the name and title upside down--"Marpessa," by Stephen Phillips. This meant nothing to him, his metrical education having been confined to such Sunday classics as "Come into the Garden, Maude," and what morsels of Shakespeare and Milton had been recently forced upon him. Moved to address his vis-a-vis, he simulated interest in his book for a moment, and then exclaimed aloud as if involuntarily: "Ha! Great stuff!" The other freshman looked up and Amory registered artificial embarrassment. "Are you referring to your bacon buns?" His cracked, kindly voice went well with the large spectacles and the impression of a voluminous keenness that he gave. "No," Amory answered. "I was referring to Bernard Shaw." He turned the book around in explanation. "I've never read any Shaw. I've always meant to." The boy paused and then continued: "Did you ever read Stephen Phillips, or do you like poetry?" "Yes, indeed," Amory affirmed eagerly. "I've never read much of Phillips, though." (He had never heard of any Phillips except the late David Graham.) "It's pretty fair, I think. Of course he's a Victorian." They sallied into a discussion of poetry, in the course of which they introduced themselves, and Amory's companion proved to be none other than "that awful highbrow, Thomas Parke D'Invilliers," who signed the passionate love-poems in the Lit. He was, perhaps, nineteen, with stooped shoulders, pale blue eyes, and, as Amory could tell from his general appearance, without much conception of social competition and such phenomena of absorbing interest. Still, he liked books, and it seemed forever since Amory had met any one who did; if only that St. Paul's crowd at the next table would not mistake _him_ for a bird, too, he would enjoy the encounter tremendously. They didn't seem to be noticing, so he let himself go, discussed books by the dozens--books he had read, read about, books he had never heard of, rattling off lists of titles with the facility of a Brentano's clerk. D'Invilliers was partially taken in and wholly delighted. In a good-natured way he had almost decided that Princeton was one part deadly Philistines and one part deadly grinds, and to find a person who could mention Keats without stammering, yet evidently washed his hands, was rather a treat. "Ever read any Oscar Wilde?" he asked. "No. Who wrote it?" "It's a man--don't you know?" "Oh, surely." A faint chord was struck in Amory's memory. "Wasn't the comic opera, 'Patience,' written about him?" "Yes, that's the fella. I've just finished a book of his, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray,' and I certainly wish you'd read it. You'd like it. You can borrow it if you want to." "Why, I'd like it a lot--thanks." "Don't you want to come up to the room? I've got a few other books." Amory hesitated, glanced at the St. Paul's group--one of them was the magnificent, exquisite Humbird--and he considered how determinate the addition of this friend would be. He never got to the stage of making them and getting rid of them--he was not hard enough for that--so he measured Thomas Parke D'Invilliers' undoubted attractions and value against the menace of cold eyes behind tortoise-rimmed spectacles that he fancied glared from the next table. "Yes, I'll go." So he found "Dorian Gray" and the "Mystic and Somber Dolores" and the "Belle Dame sans Merci"; for a month was keen on naught else. The world became pale and interesting, and he tried hard to look at Princeton through the satiated eyes of Oscar Wilde and Swinburne--or "Fingal O'Flaherty" and "Algernon Charles," as he called them in precieuse jest. He read enormously every night--Shaw, Chesterton, Barrie, Pinero, Yeats, Synge, Ernest Dowson, Arthur Symons, Keats, Sudermann, Robert Hugh Benson, the Savoy Operas--just a heterogeneous mixture, for he suddenly discovered that he had read nothing for years. Tom D'Invilliers became at first an occasion rather than a friend. Amory saw him about once a week, and together they gilded the ceiling of Tom's room and decorated the walls with imitation tapestry, bought at an auction, tall candlesticks and figured curtains. Amory liked him for being clever and literary without effeminacy or affectation. In fact, Amory did most of the strutting and tried painfully to make every remark an epigram, than which, if one is content with ostensible epigrams, there are many feats harder. 12 Univee was amused. Kerry read "Dorian Gray" and simulated Lord Henry, following Amory about, addressing him as "Dorian" and pretending to encourage in him wicked fancies and attenuated tendencies to ennui. When he carried it into Commons, to the amazement of the others at table, Amory became furiously embarrassed, and after that made epigrams only before D'Invilliers or a convenient mirror. One day Tom and Amory tried reciting their own and Lord Dunsany's poems to the music of Kerry's graphophone. "Chant!" cried Tom. "Don't recite! Chant!" Amory, who was performing, looked annoyed, and claimed that he needed a record with less piano in it. Kerry thereupon rolled on the floor in stifled laughter. "Put on 'Hearts and Flowers'!" he howled. "Oh, my Lord, I'm going to cast a kitten." "Shut off the damn graphophone," Amory cried, rather red in the face. "I'm not giving an exhibition." In the meanwhile Amory delicately kept trying to awaken a sense of the social system in D'Invilliers, for he knew that this poet was really more conventional than he, and needed merely watered hair, a smaller range of conversation, and a darker brown hat to become quite regular. But the liturgy of Livingstone collars and dark ties fell on heedless ears; in fact D'Invilliers faintly resented his efforts; so Amory confined himself to calls once a week, and brought him occasionally to 12 Univee. This caused mild titters among the other freshmen, who called them "Doctor Johnson and Boswell." Alec Connage, another frequent visitor, liked him in a vague way, but was afraid of him as a highbrow. Kerry, who saw through his poetic patter to the solid, almost respectable depths within, was immensely amused and would have him recite poetry by the hour, while he lay with closed eyes on Amory's sofa and listened: "Asleep or waking is it? for her neck Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out; Soft and stung softly--fairer for a fleck..." "That's good," Kerry would say softly. "It pleases the elder Holiday. That's a great poet, I guess." Tom, delighted at an audience, would ramble through the "Poems and Ballades" until Kerry and Amory knew them almost as well as he. Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willows. May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight and rain. ***** A DAMP SYMBOLIC INTERLUDE The night mist fell. From the moon it rolled, clustered about the spires and towers, and then settled below them, so that the dreaming peaks were still in lofty aspiration toward the sky. Figures that dotted the day like ants now brushed along as shadowy ghosts, in and out of the foreground. The Gothic halls and cloisters were infinitely more mysterious as they loomed suddenly out of the darkness, outlined each by myriad faint squares of yellow light. Indefinitely from somewhere a bell boomed the quarter-hour, and Amory, pausing by the sun-dial, stretched himself out full length on the damp grass. The cool bathed his eyes and slowed the flight of time--time that had crept so insidiously through the lazy April afternoons, seemed so intangible in the long spring twilights. Evening after evening the senior singing had drifted over the campus in melancholy beauty, and through the shell of his undergraduate consciousness had broken a deep and reverent devotion to the gray walls and Gothic peaks and all they symbolized as warehouses of dead ages. The tower that in view of his window sprang upward, grew into a spire, yearning higher until its uppermost tip was half invisible against the morning skies, gave him the first sense of the transiency and unimportance of the campus figures except as holders of the apostolic succession. He liked knowing that Gothic architecture, with its upward trend, was peculiarly appropriate to universities, and the idea became personal to him. The silent stretches of green, the quiet halls with an occasional late-burning scholastic light held his imagination in a strong grasp, and the chastity of the spire became a symbol of this perception. "Damn it all," he whispered aloud, wetting his hands in the damp and running them through his hair. "Next year I work!" Yet he knew that where now the spirit of spires and towers made him dreamily acquiescent, it would then overawe him. Where now he realized only his own inconsequence, effort would make him aware of his own impotency and insufficiency. The college dreamed on--awake. He felt a nervous excitement that might have been the very throb of its slow heart. It was a stream where he was to throw a stone whose faint ripple would be vanishing almost as it left his hand. As yet he had given nothing, he had taken nothing. A belated freshman, his oilskin slicker rasping loudly, slushed along the soft path. A voice from somewhere called the inevitable formula, "Stick out your head!" below an unseen window. A hundred little sounds of the current drifting on under the fog pressed in finally on his consciousness. "Oh, God!" he cried suddenly, and started at the sound of his voice in the stillness. The rain dripped on. A minute longer he lay without moving, his hands clinched. Then he sprang to his feet and gave his clothes a tentative pat. "I'm very damn wet!" he said aloud to the sun-dial. ***** HISTORICAL The war began in the summer following his freshman year. Beyond a sporting interest in the German dash for Paris the whole affair failed either to thrill or interest him. With the attitude he might have held toward an amusing melodrama he hoped it would be long and bloody. If it had not continued he would have felt like an irate ticket-holder at a prize-fight where the principals refused to mix it up. That was his total reaction. ***** "HA-HA HORTENSE!" "All right, ponies!" "Shake it up!" "Hey, ponies--how about easing up on that crap game and shaking a mean hip?" "Hey, _ponies!_" The coach fumed helplessly, the Triangle Club president, glowering with anxiety, varied between furious bursts of authority and fits of temperamental lassitude, when he sat spiritless and wondered how the devil the show was ever going on tour by Christmas. "All right. We'll take the pirate song." The ponies took last drags at their cigarettes and slumped into place; the leading lady rushed into the foreground, setting his hands and feet in an atmospheric mince; and as the coach clapped and stamped and tumped and da-da'd, they hashed out a dance. A great, seething ant-hill was the Triangle Club. It gave a musical comedy every year, travelling with cast, chorus, orchestra, and scenery all through Christmas vacation. The play and music were the work of undergraduates, and the club itself was the most influential of institutions, over three hundred men competing for it every year. Amory, after an easy victory in the first sophomore Princetonian competition, stepped into a vacancy of the cast as Boiling Oil, a Pirate Lieutenant. Every night for the last week they had rehearsed "Ha-Ha Hortense!" in the Casino, from two in the afternoon until eight in the morning, sustained by dark and powerful coffee, and sleeping in lectures through the interim. A rare scene, the Casino. A big, barnlike auditorium, dotted with boys as girls, boys as pirates, boys as babies; the scenery in course of being violently set up; the spotlight man rehearsing by throwing weird shafts into angry eyes; over all the constant tuning of the orchestra or the cheerful tumpty-tump of a Triangle tune. The boy who writes the lyrics stands in the corner, biting a pencil, with twenty minutes to think of an encore; the business manager argues with the secretary as to how much money can be spent on "those damn milkmaid costumes"; the old graduate, president in ninety-eight, perches on a box and thinks how much simpler it was in his day. How a Triangle show ever got off was a mystery, but it was a riotous mystery, anyway, whether or not one did enough service to wear a little gold Triangle on his watch-chain. "Ha-Ha Hortense!" was written over six times and had the names of nine collaborators on the programme. All Triangle shows started by being "something different--not just a regular musical comedy," but when the several authors, the president, the coach and the faculty committee finished with it, there remained just the old reliable Triangle show with the old reliable jokes and the star comedian who got expelled or sick or something just before the trip, and the dark-whiskered man in the pony-ballet, who "absolutely won't shave twice a day, doggone it!" There was one brilliant place in "Ha-Ha Hortense!" It is a Princeton tradition that whenever a Yale man who is a member of the widely advertised "Skull and Bones" hears the sacred name mentioned, he must leave the room. It is also a tradition that the members are invariably successful in later life, amassing fortunes or votes or coupons or whatever they choose to amass. Therefore, at each performance of "Ha-Ha Hortense!" half-a-dozen seats were kept from sale and occupied by six of the worst-looking vagabonds that could be hired from the streets, further touched up by the Triangle make-up man. At the moment in the show where Firebrand, the Pirate Chief, pointed at his black flag and said, "I am a Yale graduate--note my Skull and Bones!" --at this very moment the six vagabonds were instructed to rise _conspicuously_ and leave the theatre with looks of deep melancholy and an injured dignity. It was claimed though never proved that on one occasion the hired Elis were swelled by one of the real thing. They played through vacation to the fashionable of eight cities. Amory liked Louisville and Memphis best: these knew how to meet strangers, furnished extraordinary punch, and flaunted an astonishing array of feminine beauty. Chicago he approved for a certain verve that transcended its loud accent--however, it was a Yale town, and as the Yale Glee Club was expected in a week the Triangle received only divided homage. In Baltimore, Princeton was at home, and every one fell in love. There was a proper consumption of strong waters all along the line; one man invariably went on the stage highly stimulated, claiming that his particular interpretation of the part required it. There were three private cars; however, no one slept except in the third car, which was called the "animal car," and where were herded the spectacled wind-jammers of the orchestra. Everything was so hurried that there was no time to be bored, but when they arrived in Philadelphia, with vacation nearly over, there was rest in getting out of the heavy atmosphere of flowers and grease-paint, and the ponies took off their corsets with abdominal pains and sighs of relief. When the disbanding came, Amory set out post haste for Minneapolis, for Sally Weatherby's cousin, Isabelle Borge, was coming to spend the winter in Minneapolis while her parents went abroad. He remembered Isabelle only as a little girl with whom he had played sometimes when he first went to Minneapolis. She had gone to Baltimore to live--but since then she had developed a past. Amory was in full stride, confident, nervous, and jubilant. Scurrying back to Minneapolis to see a girl he had known as a child seemed the interesting and romantic thing to do, so without compunction he wired his mother not to expect him... sat in the train, and thought about himself for thirty-six hours. ***** "PETTING" On the Triangle trip Amory had come into constant contact with that great current American phenomenon, the "petting party." None of the Victorian mothers--and most of the mothers were Victorian--had any idea how casually their daughters were accustomed to be kissed. "Servant-girls are that way," says Mrs. Huston-Carmelite to her popular daughter. "They are kissed first and proposed to afterward." But the Popular Daughter becomes engaged every six months between sixteen and twenty-two, when she arranges a match with young Hambell, of Cambell & Hambell, who fatuously considers himself her first love, and between engagements the P. D. (she is selected by the cut-in system at dances, which favors the survival of the fittest) has other sentimental last kisses in the moonlight, or the firelight, or the outer darkness. Amory saw girls doing things that even in his memory would have been impossible: eating three-o'clock, after-dance suppers in impossible cafes, talking of every side of life with an air half of earnestness, half of mockery, yet with a furtive excitement that Amory considered stood for a real moral let-down. But he never realized how wide-spread it was until he saw the cities between New York and Chicago as one vast juvenile intrigue. Afternoon at the Plaza, with winter twilight hovering outside and faint drums down-stairs... they strut and fret in the lobby, taking another cocktail, scrupulously attired and waiting. Then the swinging doors revolve and three bundles of fur mince in. The theatre comes afterward; then a table at the Midnight Frolic--of course, mother will be along there, but she will serve only to make things more secretive and brilliant as she sits in solitary state at the deserted table and thinks such entertainments as this are not half so bad as they are painted, only rather wearying. But the P. D. is in love again... it was odd, wasn't it?--that though there was so much room left in the taxi the P. D. and the boy from Williams were somehow crowded out and had to go in a separate car. Odd! Didn't you notice how flushed the P. D. was when she arrived just seven minutes late? But the P. D. "gets away with it." The "belle" had become the "flirt," the "flirt" had become the "baby vamp." The "belle" had five or six callers every afternoon. If the P. D., by some strange accident, has two, it is made pretty uncomfortable for the one who hasn't a date with her. The "belle" was surrounded by a dozen men in the intermissions between dances. Try to find the P. D. between dances, just _try_ to find her. The same girl... deep in an atmosphere of jungle music and the questioning of moral codes. Amory found it rather fascinating to feel that any popular girl he met before eight he might quite possibly kiss before twelve. "Why on earth are we here?" he asked the girl with the green combs one night as they sat in some one's limousine, outside the Country Club in Louisville. "I don't know. I'm just full of the devil." "Let's be frank--we'll never see each other again. I wanted to come out here with you because I thought you were the best-looking girl in sight. You really don't care whether you ever see me again, do you?" "No--but is this your line for every girl? What have I done to deserve it?" "And you didn't feel tired dancing or want a cigarette or any of the things you said? You just wanted to be--" "Oh, let's go in," she interrupted, "if you want to _analyze_. Let's not _talk_ about it." When the hand-knit, sleeveless jerseys were stylish, Amory, in a burst of inspiration, named them "petting shirts." The name travelled from coast to coast on the lips of parlor-snakes and P. D.'s. ***** DESCRIPTIVE Amory was now eighteen years old, just under six feet tall and exceptionally, but not conventionally, handsome. He had rather a young face, the ingenuousness of which was marred by the penetrating green eyes, fringed with long dark eyelashes. He lacked somehow that intense animal magnetism that so often accompanies beauty in men or women; his personality seemed rather a mental thing, and it was not in his power to turn it on and off like a water-faucet. But people never forgot his face. ***** ISABELLE She paused at the top of the staircase. The sensations attributed to divers on spring-boards, leading ladies on opening nights, and lumpy, husky young men on the day of the Big Game, crowded through her. She should have descended to a burst of drums or a discordant blend of themes from "Thais" and "Carmen." She had never been so curious about her appearance, she had never been so satisfied with it. She had been sixteen years old for six months. "Isabelle!" called her cousin Sally from the doorway of the dressing-room. "I'm ready." She caught a slight lump of nervousness in her throat. "I had to send back to the house for another pair of slippers. It'll be just a minute." Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last peek in the mirror, but something decided her to stand there and gaze down the broad stairs of the Minnehaha Club. They curved tantalizingly, and she could catch just a glimpse of two pairs of masculine feet in the hall below. Pump-shod in uniform black, they gave no hint of identity, but she wondered eagerly if one pair were attached to Amory Blaine. This young man, not as yet encountered, had nevertheless taken up a considerable part of her day--the first day of her arrival. Coming up in the machine from the station, Sally had volunteered, amid a rain of question, comment, revelation, and exaggeration: "You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. Well, he's simply mad to see you again. He's stayed over a day from college, and he's coming to-night. He's heard so much about you--says he remembers your eyes." This had pleased Isabelle. It put them on equal terms, although she was quite capable of staging her own romances, with or without advance advertising. But following her happy tremble of anticipation, came a sinking sensation that made her ask: "How do you mean he's heard about me? What sort of things?" Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her more exotic cousin. "He knows you're--you're considered beautiful and all that"--she paused--"and I guess he knows you've been kissed." At this Isabelle's little fist had clinched suddenly under the fur robe. She was accustomed to be thus followed by her desperate past, and it never failed to rouse in her the same feeling of resentment; yet--in a strange town it was an advantageous reputation. She was a "Speed," was she? Well--let them find out. Out of the window Isabelle watched the snow glide by in the frosty morning. It was ever so much colder here than in Baltimore; she had not remembered; the glass of the side door was iced, the windows were shirred with snow in the corners. Her mind played still with one subject. Did _he_ dress like that boy there, who walked calmly down a bustling business street, in moccasins and winter-carnival costume? How very _Western!_ Of course he wasn't that way: he went to Princeton, was a sophomore or something. Really she had no distinct idea of him. An ancient snap-shot she had preserved in an old kodak book had impressed her by the big eyes (which he had probably grown up to by now). However, in the last month, when her winter visit to Sally had been decided on, he had assumed the proportions of a worthy adversary. Children, most astute of match-makers, plot their campaigns quickly, and Sally had played a clever correspondence sonata to Isabelle's excitable temperament. Isabelle had been for some time capable of very strong, if very transient emotions.... They drew up at a spreading, white-stone building, set back from the snowy street. Mrs. Weatherby greeted her warmly and her various younger cousins were produced from the corners where they skulked politely. Isabelle met them tactfully. At her best she allied all with whom she came in contact--except older girls and some women. All the impressions she made were conscious. The half-dozen girls she renewed acquaintance with that morning were all rather impressed and as much by her direct personality as by her reputation. Amory Blaine was an open subject. Evidently a bit light of love, neither popular nor unpopular--every girl there seemed to have had an affair with him at some time or other, but no one volunteered any really useful information. He was going to fall for her.... Sally had published that information to her young set and they were retailing it back to Sally as fast as they set eyes on Isabelle. Isabelle resolved secretly that she would, if necessary, _force_ herself to like him--she owed it to Sally. Suppose she were terribly disappointed. Sally had painted him in such glowing colors--he was good-looking, "sort of distinguished, when he wants to be," had a line, and was properly inconstant. In fact, he summed up all the romance that her age and environment led her to desire. She wondered if those were his dancing-shoes that fox-trotted tentatively around the soft rug below. All impressions and, in fact, all ideas were extremely kaleidoscopic to Isabelle. She had that curious mixture of the social and the artistic temperaments found often in two classes, society women and actresses. Her education or, rather, her sophistication, had been absorbed from the boys who had dangled on her favor; her tact was instinctive, and her capacity for love-affairs was limited only by the number of the susceptible within telephone distance. Flirt smiled from her large black-brown eyes and shone through her intense physical magnetism. So she waited at the head of the stairs that evening while slippers were fetched. Just as she was growing impatient, Sally came out of the dressing-room, beaming with her accustomed good nature and high spirits, and together they descended to the floor below, while the shifting search-light of Isabelle's mind flashed on two ideas: she was glad she had high color to-night, and she wondered if he danced well. Down-stairs, in the club's great room, she was surrounded for a moment by the girls she had met in the afternoon, then she heard Sally's voice repeating a cycle of names, and found herself bowing to a sextet of black and white, terribly stiff, vaguely familiar figures. The name Blaine figured somewhere, but at first she could not place him. A very confused, very juvenile moment of awkward backings and bumpings followed, and every one found himself talking to the person he least desired to. Isabelle manoeuvred herself and Froggy Parker, freshman at Harvard, with whom she had once played hop-scotch, to a seat on the stairs. A humorous reference to the past was all she needed. The things Isabelle could do socially with one idea were remarkable. First, she repeated it rapturously in an enthusiastic contralto with a soupcon of Southern accent; then she held it off at a distance and smiled at it--her wonderful smile; then she delivered it in variations and played a sort of mental catch with it, all this in the nominal form of dialogue. Froggy was fascinated and quite unconscious that this was being done, not for him, but for the green eyes that glistened under the shining carefully watered hair, a little to her left, for Isabelle had discovered Amory. As an actress even in the fullest flush of her own conscious magnetism gets a deep impression of most of the people in the front row, so Isabelle sized up her antagonist. First, he had auburn hair, and from her feeling of disappointment she knew that she had expected him to be dark and of garter-advertisement slenderness.... For the rest, a faint flush and a straight, romantic profile; the effect set off by a close-fitting dress suit and a silk ruffled shirt of the kind that women still delight to see men wear, but men were just beginning to get tired of. During this inspection Amory was quietly watching. "Don't _you_ think so?" she said suddenly, turning to him, innocent-eyed. There was a stir, and Sally led the way over to their table. Amory struggled to Isabelle's side, and whispered: "You're my dinner partner, you know. We're all coached for each other." Isabelle gasped--this was rather right in line. But really she felt as if a good speech had been taken from the star and given to a minor character.... She mustn't lose the leadership a bit. The dinner-table glittered with laughter at the confusion of getting places and then curious eyes were turned on her, sitting near the head. She was enjoying this immensely, and Froggy Parker was so engrossed with the added sparkle of her rising color that he forgot to pull out Sally's chair, and fell into a dim confusion. Amory was on the other side, full of confidence and vanity, gazing at her in open admiration. He began directly, and so did Froggy: "I've heard a lot about you since you wore braids--" "Wasn't it funny this afternoon--" Both stopped. Isabelle turned to Amory shyly. Her face was always enough answer for any one, but she decided to speak. "How--from whom?" "From everybody--for all the years since you've been away." She blushed appropriately. On her right Froggy was _hors de combat_ already, although he hadn't quite realized it. "I'll tell you what I remembered about you all these years," Amory continued. She leaned slightly toward him and looked modestly at the celery before her. Froggy sighed--he knew Amory, and the situations that Amory seemed born to handle. He turned to Sally and asked her if she was going away to school next year. Amory opened with grape-shot. "I've got an adjective that just fits you." This was one of his favorite starts--he seldom had a word in mind, but it was a curiosity provoker, and he could always produce something complimentary if he got in a tight corner. "Oh--what?" Isabelle's face was a study in enraptured curiosity. Amory shook his head. "I don't know you very well yet." "Will you tell me--afterward?" she half whispered. He nodded. "We'll sit out." Isabelle nodded. "Did any one ever tell you, you have keen eyes?" she said. Amory attempted to make them look even keener. He fancied, but he was not sure, that her foot had just touched his under the table. But it might possibly have been only the table leg. It was so hard to tell. Still it thrilled him. He wondered quickly if there would be any difficulty in securing the little den up-stairs. ***** BABES IN THE WOODS Isabelle and Amory were distinctly not innocent, nor were they particularly brazen. Moreover, amateur standing had very little value in the game they were playing, a game that would presumably be her principal study for years to come. She had begun as he had, with good looks and an excitable temperament, and the rest was the result of accessible popular novels and dressing-room conversation culled from a slightly older set. Isabelle had walked with an artificial gait at nine and a half, and when her eyes, wide and starry, proclaimed the ingenue most. Amory was proportionately less deceived. He waited for the mask to drop off, but at the same time he did not question her right to wear it. She, on her part, was not impressed by his studied air of blas sophistication. She had lived in a larger city and had slightly an advantage in range. But she accepted his pose--it was one of the dozen little conventions of this kind of affair. He was aware that he was getting this particular favor now because she had been coached; he knew that he stood for merely the best game in sight, and that he would have to improve his opportunity before he lost his advantage. So they proceeded with an infinite guile that would have horrified her parents. After the dinner the dance began... smoothly. Smoothly?--boys cut in on Isabelle every few feet and then squabbled in the corners with: "You might let me get more than an inch!" and "She didn't like it either--she told me so next time I cut in." It was true--she told every one so, and gave every hand a parting pressure that said: "You know that your dances are _making_ my evening." But time passed, two hours of it, and the less subtle beaux had better learned to focus their pseudo-passionate glances elsewhere, for eleven o'clock found Isabelle and Amory sitting on the couch in the little den off the reading-room up-stairs. She was conscious that they were a handsome pair, and seemed to belong distinctively in this seclusion, while lesser lights fluttered and chattered down-stairs. Boys who passed the door looked in enviously--girls who passed only laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves. They had now reached a very definite stage. They had traded accounts of their progress since they had met last, and she had listened to much she had heard before. He was a sophomore, was on the Princetonian board, hoped to be chairman in senior year. He learned that some of the boys she went with in Baltimore were "terrible speeds" and came to dances in states of artificial stimulation; most of them were twenty or so, and drove alluring red Stutzes. A good half seemed to have already flunked out of various schools and colleges, but some of them bore athletic names that made him look at her admiringly. As a matter of fact, Isabelle's closer acquaintance with the universities was just commencing. She had bowing acquaintance with a lot of young men who thought she was a "pretty kid--worth keeping an eye on." But Isabelle strung the names into a fabrication of gayety that would have dazzled a Viennese nobleman. Such is the power of young contralto voices on sink-down sofas. He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She said there was a difference between conceit and self-confidence. She adored self-confidence in men. "Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked. "Rather--why?" "He's a bum dancer." Amory laughed. "He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms." She appreciated this. "You're awfully good at sizing people up." Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for her. Then they talked about hands. "You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you played the piano. Do you?" I have said they had reached a very definite stage--nay, more, a very critical stage. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train left at twelve-eighteen that night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket. "Isabelle," he said suddenly, "I want to tell you something." They had been talking lightly about "that funny look in her eyes," and Isabelle knew from the change in his manner what was coming--indeed, she had been wondering how soon it would come. Amory reached above their heads and turned out the electric light, so that they were in the dark, except for the red glow that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps. Then he began: "I don't know whether or not you know what you--what I'm going to say. Lordy, Isabelle--this _sounds_ like a line, but it isn't." "I know," said Isabelle softly. "Maybe we'll never meet again like this--I have darned hard luck sometimes." He was leaning away from her on the other arm of the lounge, but she could see his eyes plainly in the dark. "You'll meet me again--silly." There was just the slightest emphasis on the last word--so that it became almost a term of endearment. He continued a bit huskily: "I've fallen for a lot of people--girls--and I guess you have, too--boys, I mean, but, honestly, you--" he broke off suddenly and leaned forward, chin on his hands: "Oh, what's the use--you'll go your way and I suppose I'll go mine." Silence for a moment. Isabelle was quite stirred; she wound her handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that streamed over her, dropped it deliberately on the floor. Their hands touched for an instant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming more frequent and more delicious. Outside another stray couple had come up and were experimenting on the piano in the next room. After the usual preliminary of "chopsticks," one of them started "Babes in the Woods" and a light tenor carried the words into the den: "Give me your hand I'll understand We're off to slumberland." Isabelle hummed it softly and trembled as she felt Amory's hand close over hers. "Isabelle," he whispered. "You know I'm mad about you. You _do_ give a darn about me." "Yes." "How much do you care--do you like any one better?" "No." He could scarcely hear her, although he bent so near that he felt her breath against his cheek. "Isabelle, I'm going back to college for six long months, and why shouldn't we--if I could only just have one thing to remember you by--" "Close the door...." Her voice had just stirred so that he half wondered whether she had spoken at all. As he swung the door softly shut, the music seemed quivering just outside. "Moonlight is bright, Kiss me good night." What a wonderful song, she thought--everything was wonderful to-night, most of all this romantic scene in the den, with their hands clinging and the inevitable looming charmingly close. The future vista of her life seemed an unending succession of scenes like this: under moonlight and pale starlight, and in the backs of warm limousines and in low, cosy roadsters stopped under sheltering trees--only the boy might change, and this one was so nice. He took her hand softly. With a sudden movement he turned it and, holding it to his lips, kissed the palm. "Isabelle!" His whisper blended in the music, and they seemed to float nearer together. Her breath came faster. "Can't I kiss you, Isabelle--Isabelle?" Lips half parted, she turned her head to him in the dark. Suddenly the ring of voices, the sound of running footsteps surged toward them. Quick as a flash Amory reached up and turned on the light, and when the door opened and three boys, the wrathy and dance-craving Froggy among them, rushed in, he was turning over the magazines on the table, while she sat without moving, serene and unembarrassed, and even greeted them with a welcoming smile. But her heart was beating wildly, and she felt somehow as if she had been deprived. It was evidently over. There was a clamor for a dance, there was a glance that passed between them--on his side despair, on hers regret, and then the evening went on, with the reassured beaux and the eternal cutting in. At quarter to twelve Amory shook hands with her gravely, in the midst of a small crowd assembled to wish him good-speed. For an instant he lost his poise, and she felt a bit rattled when a satirical voice from a concealed wit cried: "Take her outside, Amory!" As he took her hand he pressed it a little, and she returned the pressure as she had done to twenty hands that evening--that was all. At two o'clock back at the Weatherbys' Sally asked her if she and Amory had had a "time" in the den. Isabelle turned to her quietly. In her eyes was the light of the idealist, the inviolate dreamer of Joan-like dreams. "No," she answered. "I don't do that sort of thing any more; he asked me to, but I said no." As she crept in bed she wondered what he'd say in his special delivery to-morrow. He had such a good-looking mouth--would she ever--? "Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang Sally sleepily from the next room. "Damn!" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious lump and exploring the cold sheets cautiously. "Damn!" ***** CARNIVAL Amory, by way of the Princetonian, had arrived. The minor snobs, finely balanced thermometers of success, warmed to him as the club elections grew nigh, and he and Tom were visited by groups of upper classmen who arrived awkwardly, balanced on the edge of the furniture and talked of all subjects except the one of absorbing interest. Amory was amused at the intent eyes upon him, and, in case the visitors represented some club in which he was not interested, took great pleasure in shocking them with unorthodox remarks. "Oh, let me see--" he said one night to a flabbergasted delegation, "what club do you represent?" With visitors from Ivy and Cottage and Tiger Inn he played the "nice, unspoilt, ingenuous boy" very much at ease and quite unaware of the object of the call. When the fatal morning arrived, early in March, and the campus became a document in hysteria, he slid smoothly into Cottage with Alec Connage and watched his suddenly neurotic class with much wonder. There were fickle groups that jumped from club to club; there were friends of two or three days who announced tearfully and wildly that they must join the same club, nothing should separate them; there were snarling disclosures of long-hidden grudges as the Suddenly Prominent remembered snubs of freshman year. Unknown men were elevated into importance when they received certain coveted bids; others who were considered "all set" found that they had made unexpected enemies, felt themselves stranded and deserted, talked wildly of leaving college. In his own crowd Amory saw men kept out for wearing green hats, for being "a damn tailor's dummy," for having "too much pull in heaven," for getting drunk one night "not like a gentleman, by God," or for unfathomable secret reasons known to no one but the wielders of the black balls. This orgy of sociability culminated in a gigantic party at the Nassau Inn, where punch was dispensed from immense bowls, and the whole down-stairs became a delirious, circulating, shouting pattern of faces and voices. "Hi, Dibby--'gratulations!" "Goo' boy, Tom, you got a good bunch in Cap." "Say, Kerry--" "Oh, Kerry--I hear you went Tiger with all the weight-lifters!" "Well, I didn't go Cottage--the parlor-snakes' delight." "They say Overton fainted when he got his Ivy bid--Did he sign up the first day?--oh, _no_. Tore over to Murray-Dodge on a bicycle--afraid it was a mistake." "How'd you get into Cap--you old roue?" "'Gratulations!" "'Gratulations yourself. Hear you got a good crowd." When the bar closed, the party broke up into groups and streamed, singing, over the snow-clad campus, in a weird delusion that snobbishness and strain were over at last, and that they could do what they pleased for the next two years. Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest time of his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it; he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships through the April afternoons. Alec Connage came into his room one morning and woke him up into the sunshine and peculiar glory of Campbell Hall shining in the window. "Wake up, Original Sin, and scrape yourself together. Be in front of Renwick's in half an hour. Somebody's got a car." He took the bureau cover and carefully deposited it, with its load of small articles, upon the bed. "Where'd you get the car?" demanded Amory cynically. "Sacred trust, but don't be a critical goopher or you can't go!" "I think I'll sleep," Amory said calmly, resettling himself and reaching beside the bed for a cigarette. "Sleep!" "Why not? I've got a class at eleven-thirty." "You damned gloom! Of course, if you don't want to go to the coast--" With a bound Amory was out of bed, scattering the bureau cover's burden on the floor. The coast... he hadn't seen it for years, since he and his mother were on their pilgrimage. "Who's going?" he demanded as he wriggled into his B. V. D.'s. "Oh, Dick Humbird and Kerry Holiday and Jesse Ferrenby and--oh about five or six. Speed it up, kid!" In ten minutes Amory was devouring cornflakes in Renwick's, and at nine-thirty they bowled happily out of town, headed for the sands of Deal Beach. "You see," said Kerry, "the car belongs down there. In fact, it was stolen from Asbury Park by persons unknown, who deserted it in Princeton and left for the West. Heartless Humbird here got permission from the city council to deliver it." "Anybody got any money?" suggested Ferrenby, turning around from the front seat. There was an emphatic negative chorus. "That makes it interesting." "Money--what's money? We can sell the car." "Charge him salvage or something." "How're we going to get food?" asked Amory. "Honestly," answered Kerry, eying him reprovingly, "do you doubt Kerry's ability for three short days? Some people have lived on nothing for years at a time. Read the Boy Scout Monthly." "Three days," Amory mused, "and I've got classes." "One of the days is the Sabbath." "Just the same, I can only cut six more classes, with over a month and a half to go." "Throw him out!" "It's a long walk back." "Amory, you're running it out, if I may coin a new phrase." "Hadn't you better get some dope on yourself, Amory?" Amory subsided resignedly and drooped into a contemplation of the scenery. Swinburne seemed to fit in somehow. "Oh, winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the seasons of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover, Blossom by blossom the spring begins. "The full streams feed on flower of--" "What's the matter, Amory? Amory's thinking about poetry, about the pretty birds and flowers. I can see it in his eye." "No, I'm not," he lied. "I'm thinking about the Princetonian. I ought to make up to-night; but I can telephone back, I suppose." "Oh," said Kerry respectfully, "these important men--" Amory flushed and it seemed to him that Ferrenby, a defeated competitor, winced a little. Of course, Kerry was only kidding, but he really mustn't mention the Princetonian. It was a halcyon day, and as they neared the shore and the salt breezes scurried by, he began to picture the ocean and long, level stretches of sand and red roofs over blue sea. Then they hurried through the little town and it all flashed upon his consciousness to a mighty paean of emotion.... "Oh, good Lord! _Look_ at it!" he cried. "What?" "Let me out, quick--I haven't seen it for eight years! Oh, gentlefolk, stop the car!" "What an odd child!" remarked Alec. "I do believe he's a bit eccentric." The car was obligingly drawn up at a curb, and Amory ran for the boardwalk. First, he realized that the sea was blue and that there was an enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and roared--really all the banalities about the ocean that one could realize, but if any one had told him then that these things were banalities, he would have gaped in wonder. "Now we'll get lunch," ordered Kerry, wandering up with the crowd. "Come on, Amory, tear yourself away and get practical." "We'll try the best hotel first," he went on, "and thence and so forth." They strolled along the boardwalk to the most imposing hostelry in sight, and, entering the dining-room, scattered about a table. "Eight Bronxes," commanded Alec, "and a club sandwich and Juliennes. The food for one. Hand the rest around." Amory ate little, having seized a chair where he could watch the sea and feel the rock of it. When luncheon was over they sat and smoked quietly. "What's the bill?" Some one scanned it. "Eight twenty-five." "Rotten overcharge. We'll give them two dollars and one for the waiter. Kerry, collect the small change." The waiter approached, and Kerry gravely handed him a dollar, tossed two dollars on the check, and turned away. They sauntered leisurely toward the door, pursued in a moment by the suspicious Ganymede. "Some mistake, sir." Kerry took the bill and examined it critically. "No mistake!" he said, shaking his head gravely, and, tearing it into four pieces, he handed the scraps to the waiter, who was so dumfounded that he stood motionless and expressionless while they walked out. "Won't he send after us?" "No," said Kerry; "for a minute he'll think we're the proprietor's sons or something; then he'll look at the check again and call the manager, and in the meantime--" They left the car at Asbury and street-car'd to Allenhurst, where they investigated the crowded pavilions for beauty. At four there were refreshments in a lunch-room, and this time they paid an even smaller per cent on the total cost; something about the appearance and savoir-faire of the crowd made the thing go, and they were not pursued. "You see, Amory, we're Marxian Socialists," explained Kerry. "We don't believe in property and we're putting it to the great test." "Night will descend," Amory suggested. "Watch, and put your trust in Holiday." They became jovial about five-thirty and, linking arms, strolled up and down the boardwalk in a row, chanting a monotonous ditty about the sad sea waves. Then Kerry saw a face in the crowd that attracted him and, rushing off, reappeared in a moment with one of the homeliest girls Amory had ever set eyes on. Her pale mouth extended from ear to ear, her teeth projected in a solid wedge, and she had little, squinty eyes that peeped ingratiatingly over the side sweep of her nose. Kerry presented them formally. "Name of Kaluka, Hawaiian queen! Let me present Messrs. Connage, Sloane, Humbird, Ferrenby, and Blaine." The girl bobbed courtesies all around. Poor creature; Amory supposed she had never before been noticed in her life--possibly she was half-witted. While she accompanied them (Kerry had invited her to supper) she said nothing which could discountenance such a belief. "She prefers her native dishes," said Alec gravely to the waiter, "but any coarse food will do." All through supper he addressed her in the most respectful language, while Kerry made idiotic love to her on the other side, and she giggled and grinned. Amory was content to sit and watch the by-play, thinking what a light touch Kerry had, and how he could transform the barest incident into a thing of curve and contour. They all seemed to have the spirit of it more or less, and it was a relaxation to be with them. Amory usually liked men individually, yet feared them in crowds unless the crowd was around him. He wondered how much each one contributed to the party, for there was somewhat of a spiritual tax levied. Alec and Kerry were the life of it, but not quite the centre. Somehow the quiet Humbird, and Sloane, with his impatient superciliousness, were the centre. Dick Humbird had, ever since freshman year, seemed to Amory a perfect type of aristocrat. He was slender but well-built--black curly hair, straight features, and rather a dark skin. Everything he said sounded intangibly appropriate. He possessed infinite courage, an averagely good mind, and a sense of honor with a clear charm and _noblesse oblige_ that varied it from righteousness. He could dissipate without going to pieces, and even his most bohemian adventures never seemed "running it out." People dressed like him, tried to talk as he did.... Amory decided that he probably held the world back, but he wouldn't have changed him. ... He differed from the healthy type that was essentially middle class--he never seemed to perspire. Some people couldn't be familiar with a chauffeur without having it returned; Humbird could have lunched at Sherry's with a colored man, yet people would have somehow known that it was all right. He was not a snob, though he knew only half his class. His friends ranged from the highest to the lowest, but it was impossible to "cultivate" him. Servants worshipped him, and treated him like a god. He seemed the eternal example of what the upper class tries to be. "He's like those pictures in the Illustrated London News of the English officers who have been killed," Amory had said to Alec. "Well," Alec had answered, "if you want to know the shocking truth, his father was a grocery clerk who made a fortune in Tacoma real estate and came to New York ten years ago." Amory had felt a curious sinking sensation. This present type of party was made possible by the surging together of the class after club elections--as if to make a last desperate attempt to know itself, to keep together, to fight off the tightening spirit of the clubs. It was a let-down from the conventional heights they had all walked so rigidly. After supper they saw Kaluka to the boardwalk, and then strolled back along the beach to Asbury. The evening sea was a new sensation, for all its color and mellow age was gone, and it seemed the bleak waste that made the Norse sagas sad; Amory thought of Kipling's "Beaches of Lukanon before the sealers came." It was still a music, though, infinitely sorrowful. Ten o'clock found them penniless. They had suppered greatly on their last eleven cents and, singing, strolled up through the casinos and lighted arches on the boardwalk, stopping to listen approvingly to all band concerts. In one place Kerry took up a collection for the French War Orphans which netted a dollar and twenty cents, and with this they bought some brandy in case they caught cold in the night. They finished the day in a moving-picture show and went into solemn systematic roars of laughter at an ancient comedy, to the startled annoyance of the rest of the audience. Their entrance was distinctly strategic, for each man as he entered pointed reproachfully at the one just behind him. Sloane, bringing up the rear, disclaimed all knowledge and responsibility as soon as the others were scattered inside; then as the irate ticket-taker rushed in he followed nonchalantly. They reassembled later by the Casino and made arrangements for the night. Kerry wormed permission from the watchman to sleep on the platform and, having collected a huge pile of rugs from the booths to serve as mattresses and blankets, they talked until midnight, and then fell into a dreamless sleep, though Amory tried hard to stay awake and watch that marvellous moon settle on the sea. So they progressed for two happy days, up and down the shore by street-car or machine, or by shoe-leather on the crowded boardwalk; sometimes eating with the wealthy, more frequently dining frugally at the expense of an unsuspecting restaurateur. They had their photos taken, eight poses, in a quick-development store. Kerry insisted on grouping them as a "varsity" football team, and then as a tough gang from the East Side, with their coats inside out, and himself sitting in the middle on a cardboard moon. The photographer probably has them yet--at least, they never called for them. The weather was perfect, and again they slept outside, and again Amory fell unwillingly asleep. Sunday broke stolid and respectable, and even the sea seemed to mumble and complain, so they returned to Princeton via the Fords of transient farmers, and broke up with colds in their heads, but otherwise none the worse for wandering. Even more than in the year before, Amory neglected his work, not deliberately but lazily and through a multitude of other interests. Co-ordinate geometry and the melancholy hexameters of Corneille and Racine held forth small allurements, and even psychology, which he had eagerly awaited, proved to be a dull subject full of muscular reactions and biological phrases rather than the study of personality and influence. That was a noon class, and it always sent him dozing. Having found that "subjective and objective, sir," answered most of the questions, he used the phrase on all occasions, and it became the class joke when, on a query being levelled at him, he was nudged awake by Ferrenby or Sloane to gasp it out. Mostly there were parties--to Orange or the Shore, more rarely to New York and Philadelphia, though one night they marshalled fourteen waitresses out of Childs' and took them to ride down Fifth Avenue on top of an auto bus. They all cut more classes than were allowed, which meant an additional course the following year, but spring was too rare to let anything interfere with their colorful ramblings. In May Amory was elected to the Sophomore Prom Committee, and when after a long evening's discussion with Alec they made out a tentative list of class probabilities for the senior council, they placed themselves among the surest. The senior council was composed presumably of the eighteen most representative seniors, and in view of Alec's football managership and Amory's chance of nosing out Burne Holiday as Princetonian chairman, they seemed fairly justified in this presumption. Oddly enough, they both placed D'Invilliers as among the possibilities, a guess that a year before the class would have gaped at. All through the spring Amory had kept up an intermittent correspondence with Isabelle Borge, punctuated by violent squabbles and chiefly enlivened by his attempts to find new words for love. He discovered Isabelle to be discreetly and aggravatingly unsentimental in letters, but he hoped against hope that she would prove not too exotic a bloom to fit the large spaces of spring as she had fitted the den in the Minnehaha Club. During May he wrote thirty-page documents almost nightly, and sent them to her in bulky envelopes exteriorly labelled "Part I" and "Part II." "Oh, Alec, I believe I'm tired of college," he said sadly, as they walked the dusk together. "I think I am, too, in a way." "All I'd like would be a little home in the country, some warm country, and a wife, and just enough to do to keep from rotting." "Me, too." "I'd like to quit." "What does your girl say?" "Oh!" Amory gasped in horror. "She wouldn't _think_ of marrying... that is, not now. I mean the future, you know." "My girl would. I'm engaged." "Are you really?" "Yes. Don't say a word to anybody, please, but I am. I may not come back next year." "But you're only twenty! Give up college?" "Why, Amory, you were saying a minute ago--" "Yes," Amory interrupted, "but I was just wishing. I wouldn't think of leaving college. It's just that I feel so sad these wonderful nights. I sort of feel they're never coming again, and I'm not really getting all I could out of them. I wish my girl lived here. But marry--not a chance. Especially as father says the money isn't forthcoming as it used to be." "What a waste these nights are!" agreed Alec. But Amory sighed and made use of the nights. He had a snap-shot of Isabelle, enshrined in an old watch, and at eight almost every night he would turn off all the lights except the desk lamp and, sitting by the open windows with the picture before him, write her rapturous letters. ... Oh it's so hard to write you what I really _feel_ when I think about you so much; you've gotten to mean to me a _dream_ that I can't put on paper any more. Your last letter came and it was wonderful! I read it over about six times, especially the last part, but I do wish, sometimes, you'd be more _frank_ and tell me what you really do think of me, yet your last letter was too good to be true, and I can hardly wait until June! Be sure and be able to come to the prom. It'll be fine, I think, and I want to bring _you_ just at the end of a wonderful year. I often think over what you said on that night and wonder how much you meant. If it were anyone but you--but you see I _thought_ you were fickle the first time I saw you and you are so popular and everthing that I can't imagine you really liking me _best_. Oh, Isabelle, dear--it's a wonderful night. Somebody is playing "Love Moon" on a mandolin far across the campus, and the music seems to bring you into the window. Now he's playing "Good-by, Boys, I'm Through," and how well it suits me. For I am through with everything. I have decided never to take a cocktail again, and I know I'll never again fall in love--I couldn't--you've been too much a part of my days and nights to ever let me think of another girl. I meet them all the time and they don't interest me. I'm not pretending to be blas, because it's not that. It's just that I'm in love. Oh, _dearest_ Isabelle (somehow I can't call you just Isabelle, and I'm afraid I'll come out with the "dearest" before your family this June), you've got to come to the prom, and then I'll come up to your house for a day and everything'll be perfect.... And so on in an eternal monotone that seemed to both of them infinitely charming, infinitely new. ***** June came and the days grew so hot and lazy that they could not worry even about exams, but spent dreamy evenings on the court of Cottage, talking of long subjects until the sweep of country toward Stony Brook became a blue haze and the lilacs were white around tennis-courts, and words gave way to silent cigarettes.... Then down deserted Prospect and along McCosh with song everywhere around them, up to the hot joviality of Nassau Street. Tom D'Invilliers and Amory walked late in those days. A gambling fever swept through the sophomore class and they bent over the bones till three o'clock many a sultry night. After one session they came out of Sloane's room to find the dew fallen and the stars old in the sky. "Let's borrow bicycles and take a ride," Amory suggested. "All right. I'm not a bit tired and this is almost the last night of the year, really, because the prom stuff starts Monday." They found two unlocked bicycles in Holder Court and rode out about half-past three along the Lawrenceville Road. "What are you going to do this summer, Amory?" "Don't ask me--same old things, I suppose. A month or two in Lake Geneva--I'm counting on you to be there in July, you know--then there'll be Minneapolis, and that means hundreds of summer hops, parlor-snaking, getting bored--But oh, Tom," he added suddenly, "hasn't this year been slick!" "No," declared Tom emphatically, a new Tom, clothed by Brooks, shod by Franks, "I've won this game, but I feel as if I never want to play another. You're all right--you're a rubber ball, and somehow it suits you, but I'm sick of adapting myself to the local snobbishness of this corner of the world. I want to go where people aren't barred because of the color of their neckties and the roll of their coats." "You can't, Tom," argued Amory, as they rolled along through the scattering night; "wherever you go now you'll always unconsciously apply these standards of 'having it' or 'lacking it.' For better or worse we've stamped you; you're a Princeton type!" "Well, then," complained Tom, his cracked voice rising plaintively, "why do I have to come back at all? I've learned all that Princeton has to offer. Two years more of mere pedantry and lying around a club aren't going to help. They're just going to disorganize me, conventionalize me completely. Even now I'm so spineless that I wonder how I get away with it." "Oh, but you're missing the real point, Tom," Amory interrupted. "You've just had your eyes opened to the snobbishness of the world in a rather abrupt manner. Princeton invariably gives the thoughtful man a social sense." "You consider you taught me that, don't you?" he asked quizzically, eying Amory in the half dark. Amory laughed quietly. "Didn't I?" "Sometimes," he said slowly, "I think you're my bad angel. I might have been a pretty fair poet." "Come on, that's rather hard. You chose to come to an Eastern college. Either your eyes were opened to the mean scrambling quality of people, or you'd have gone through blind, and you'd hate to have done that--been like Marty Kaye." "Yes," he agreed, "you're right. I wouldn't have liked it. Still, it's hard to be made a cynic at twenty." "I was born one," Amory murmured. "I'm a cynical idealist." He paused and wondered if that meant anything. They reached the sleeping school of Lawrenceville, and turned to ride back. "It's good, this ride, isn't it?" Tom said presently. "Yes; it's a good finish, it's knock-out; everything's good to-night. Oh, for a hot, languorous summer and Isabelle!" "Oh, you and your Isabelle! I'll bet she's a simple one... let's say some poetry." So Amory declaimed "The Ode to a Nightingale" to the bushes they passed. "I'll never be a poet," said Amory as he finished. "I'm not enough of a sensualist really; there are only a few obvious things that I notice as primarily beautiful: women, spring evenings, music at night, the sea; I don't catch the subtle things like 'silver-snarling trumpets.' I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write anything but mediocre poetry." They rode into Princeton as the sun was making colored maps of the sky behind the graduate school, and hurried to the refreshment of a shower that would have to serve in place of sleep. By noon the bright-costumed alumni crowded the streets with their bands and choruses, and in the tents there was great reunion under the orange-and-black banners that curled and strained in the wind. Amory looked long at one house which bore the legend "Sixty-nine." There a few gray-haired men sat and talked quietly while the classes swept by in panorama of life. ***** UNDER THE ARC-LIGHT Then tragedy's emerald eyes glared suddenly at Amory over the edge of June. On the night after his ride to Lawrenceville a crowd sallied to New York in quest of adventure, and started back to Princeton about twelve o'clock in two machines. It had been a gay party and different stages of sobriety were represented. Amory was in the car behind; they had taken the wrong road and lost the way, and so were hurrying to catch up. It was a clear night and the exhilaration of the road went to Amory's head. He had the ghost of two stanzas of a poem forming in his mind. ... So the gray car crept nightward in the dark and there was no life stirred as it went by.... As the still ocean paths before the shark in starred and glittering waterways, beauty-high, the moon-swathed trees divided, pair on pair, while flapping nightbirds cried across the air.... A moment by an inn of lamps and shades, a yellow inn under a yellow moon--then silence, where crescendo laughter fades... the car swung out again to the winds of June, mellowed the shadows where the distance grew, then crushed the yellow shadows into blue.... They jolted to a stop, and Amory peered up, startled. A woman was standing beside the road, talking to Alec at the wheel. Afterward he remembered the harpy effect that her old kimono gave her, and the cracked hollowness of her voice as she spoke: "You Princeton boys?" "Yes." "Well, there's one of you killed here, and two others about dead." "_My God!_" "Look!" She pointed and they gazed in horror. Under the full light of a roadside arc-light lay a form, face downward in a widening circle of blood. They sprang from the car. Amory thought of the back of that head--that hair--that hair... and then they turned the form over. "It's Dick--Dick Humbird!" "Oh, Christ!" "Feel his heart!" Then the insistent voice of the old crone in a sort of croaking triumph: "He's quite dead, all right. The car turned over. Two of the men that weren't hurt just carried the others in, but this one's no use." Amory rushed into the house and the rest followed with a limp mass that they laid on the sofa in the shoddy little front parlor. Sloane, with his shoulder punctured, was on another lounge. He was half delirious, and kept calling something about a chemistry lecture at 8:10. "I don't know what happened," said Ferrenby in a strained voice. "Dick was driving and he wouldn't give up the wheel; we told him he'd been drinking too much--then there was this damn curve--oh, my _God!_..." He threw himself face downward on the floor and broke into dry sobs. The doctor had arrived, and Amory went over to the couch, where some one handed him a sheet to put over the body. With a sudden hardness, he raised one of the hands and let it fall back inertly. The brow was cold but the face not expressionless. He looked at the shoe-laces--Dick had tied them that morning. _He_ had tied them--and now he was this heavy white mass. All that remained of the charm and personality of the Dick Humbird he had known--oh, it was all so horrible and unaristocratic and close to the earth. All tragedy has that strain of the grotesque and squalid--so useless, futile... the way animals die.... Amory was reminded of a cat that had lain horribly mangled in some alley of his childhood. "Some one go to Princeton with Ferrenby." Amory stepped outside the door and shivered slightly at the late night wind--a wind that stirred a broken fender on the mass of bent metal to a plaintive, tinny sound. ***** CRESCENDO! Next day, by a merciful chance, passed in a whirl. When Amory was by himself his thoughts zigzagged inevitably to the picture of that red mouth yawning incongruously in the white face, but with a determined effort he piled present excitement upon the memory of it and shut it coldly away from his mind. Isabelle and her mother drove into town at four, and they rode up smiling Prospect Avenue, through the gay crowd, to have tea at Cottage. The clubs had their annual dinners that night, so at seven he loaned her to a freshman and arranged to meet her in the gymnasium at eleven, when the upper classmen were admitted to the freshman dance. She was all he had expected, and he was happy and eager to make that night the centre of every dream. At nine the upper classes stood in front of the clubs as the freshman torchlight parade rioted past, and Amory wondered if the dress-suited groups against the dark, stately backgrounds and under the flare of the torches made the night as brilliant to the staring, cheering freshmen as it had been to him the year before. The next day was another whirl. They lunched in a gay party of six in a private dining-room at the club, while Isabelle and Amory looked at each other tenderly over the fried chicken and knew that their love was to be eternal. They danced away the prom until five, and the stags cut in on Isabelle with joyous abandon, which grew more and more enthusiastic as the hour grew late, and their wines, stored in overcoat pockets in the coat room, made old weariness wait until another day. The stag line is a most homogeneous mass of men. It fairly sways with a single soul. A dark-haired beauty dances by and there is a half-gasping sound as the ripple surges forward and some one sleeker than the rest darts out and cuts in. Then when the six-foot girl (brought by Kaye in your class, and to whom he has been trying to introduce you all evening) gallops by, the line surges back and the groups face about and become intent on far corners of the hall, for Kaye, anxious and perspiring, appears elbowing through the crowd in search of familiar faces. "I say, old man, I've got an awfully nice--" "Sorry, Kaye, but I'm set for this one. I've got to cut in on a fella." "Well, the next one?" "What--ah--er--I swear I've got to go cut in--look me up when she's got a dance free." It delighted Amory when Isabelle suggested that they leave for a while and drive around in her car. For a delicious hour that passed too soon they glided the silent roads about Princeton and talked from the surface of their hearts in shy excitement. Amory felt strangely ingenuous and made no attempt to kiss her. Next day they rode up through the Jersey country, had luncheon in New York, and in the afternoon went to see a problem play at which Isabelle wept all through the second act, rather to Amory's embarrassment--though it filled him with tenderness to watch her. He was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears, and she slipped her hand into his under cover of darkness to be pressed softly. Then at six they arrived at the Borges' summer place on Long Island, and Amory rushed up-stairs to change into a dinner coat. As he put in his studs he realized that he was enjoying life as he would probably never enjoy it again. Everything was hallowed by the haze of his own youth. He had arrived, abreast of the best in his generation at Princeton. He was in love and his love was returned. Turning on all the lights, he looked at himself in the mirror, trying to find in his own face the qualities that made him see clearer than the great crowd of people, that made him decide firmly, and able to influence and follow his own will. There was little in his life now that he would have changed. ... Oxford might have been a bigger field. Silently he admired himself. How conveniently well he looked, and how well a dinner coat became him. He stepped into the hall and then waited at the top of the stairs, for he heard footsteps coming. It was Isabelle, and from the top of her shining hair to her little golden slippers she had never seemed so beautiful. "Isabelle!" he cried, half involuntarily, and held out his arms. As in the story-books, she ran into them, and on that half-minute, as their lips first touched, rested the high point of vanity, the crest of his young egotism. CHAPTER 3. The Egotist Considers "Ouch! Let me go!" He dropped his arms to his sides. "What's the matter?" "Your shirt stud--it hurt me--look!" She was looking down at her neck, where a little blue spot about the size of a pea marred its pallor. "Oh, Isabelle," he reproached himself, "I'm a goopher. Really, I'm sorry--I shouldn't have held you so close." She looked up impatiently. "Oh, Amory, of course you couldn't help it, and it didn't hurt much; but what _are_ we going to do about it?" "_Do_ about it?" he asked. "Oh--that spot; it'll disappear in a second." "It isn't," she said, after a moment of concentrated gazing, "it's still there--and it looks like Old Nick--oh, Amory, what'll we do! It's _just_ the height of your shoulder." "Massage it," he suggested, repressing the faintest inclination to laugh. She rubbed it delicately with the tips of her fingers, and then a tear gathered in the corner of her eye, and slid down her cheek. "Oh, Amory," she said despairingly, lifting up a most pathetic face, "I'll just make my whole neck _flame_ if I rub it. What'll I do?" A quotation sailed into his head and he couldn't resist repeating it aloud. "All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this little hand." She looked up and the sparkle of the tear in her eye was like ice. "You're not very sympathetic." Amory mistook her meaning. "Isabelle, darling, I think it'll--" "Don't touch me!" she cried. "Haven't I enough on my mind and you stand there and _laugh!_" Then he slipped again. "Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about a sense of humor being--" She was looking at him with something that was not a smile, rather the faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the corners of her mouth. "Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her room. Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion. "Damn!" When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured through dinner. "Isabelle," he began rather testily, as they arranged themselves in the car, bound for a dance at the Greenwich Country Club, "you're angry, and I'll be, too, in a minute. Let's kiss and make up." Isabelle considered glumly. "I hate to be laughed at," she said finally. "I won't laugh any more. I'm not laughing now, am I?" "You did." "Oh, don't be so darned feminine." Her lips curled slightly. "I'll be anything I want." Amory kept his temper with difficulty. He became aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness piqued him. He wanted to kiss her, kiss her a lot, because then he knew he could leave in the morning and not care. On the contrary, if he didn't kiss her, it would worry him.... It would interfere vaguely with his idea of himself as a conqueror. It wasn't dignified to come off second best, _pleading_, with a doughty warrior like Isabelle. Perhaps she suspected this. At any rate, Amory watched the night that should have been the consummation of romance glide by with great moths overhead and the heavy fragrance of roadside gardens, but without those broken words, those little sighs.... Afterward they suppered on ginger ale and devil's food in the pantry, and Amory announced a decision. "I'm leaving early in the morning." "Why?" "Why not?" he countered. "There's no need." "However, I'm going." "Well, if you insist on being ridiculous--" "Oh, don't put it that way," he objected. " --just because I won't let you kiss me. Do you think--" "Now, Isabelle," he interrupted, "you know it's not that--even suppose it is. We've reached the stage where we either ought to kiss--or--or--nothing. It isn't as if you were refusing on moral grounds." She hesitated. "I really don't know what to think about you," she began, in a feeble, perverse attempt at conciliation. "You're so funny." "How?" "Well, I thought you had a lot of self-confidence and all that; remember you told me the other day that you could do anything you wanted, or get anything you wanted?" Amory flushed. He _had_ told her a lot of things. "Yes." "Well, you didn't seem to feel so self-confident to-night. Maybe you're just plain conceited." "No, I'm not," he hesitated. "At Princeton--" "Oh, you and Princeton! You'd think that was the world, the way you talk! Perhaps you _can_ write better than anybody else on your old Princetonian; maybe the freshmen _do_ think you're important--" "You don't understand--" "Yes, I do," she interrupted. "I _do_, because you're always talking about yourself and I used to like it; now I don't." "Have I to-night?" "That's just the point," insisted Isabelle. "You got all upset to-night. You just sat and watched my eyes. Besides, I have to think all the time I'm talking to you--you're so critical." "I make you think, do I?" Amory repeated with a touch of vanity. "You're a nervous strain"--this emphatically--"and when you analyze every little emotion and instinct I just don't have 'em." "I know." Amory admitted her point and shook his head helplessly. "Let's go." She stood up. He rose abstractedly and they walked to the foot of the stairs. "What train can I get?" "There's one about 9:11 if you really must go." "Yes, I've got to go, really. Good night." "Good night." They were at the head of the stairs, and as Amory turned into his room he thought he caught just the faintest cloud of discontent in her face. He lay awake in the darkness and wondered how much he cared--how much of his sudden unhappiness was hurt vanity--whether he was, after all, temperamentally unfitted for romance. When he awoke, it was with a glad flood of consciousness. The early wind stirred the chintz curtains at the windows and he was idly puzzled not to be in his room at Princeton with his school football picture over the bureau and the Triangle Club on the wall opposite. Then the grandfather's clock in the hall outside struck eight, and the memory of the night before came to him. He was out of bed, dressing, like the wind; he must get out of the house before he saw Isabelle. What had seemed a melancholy happening, now seemed a tiresome anticlimax. He was dressed at half past, so he sat down by the window; felt that the sinews of his heart were twisted somewhat more than he had thought. What an ironic mockery the morning seemed!--bright and sunny, and full of the smell of the garden; hearing Mrs. Borge's voice in the sun-parlor below, he wondered where was Isabelle. There was a knock at the door. "The car will be around at ten minutes of nine, sir." He returned to his contemplation of the outdoors, and began repeating over and over, mechanically, a verse from Browning, which he had once quoted to Isabelle in a letter: "Each life unfulfilled, you see, It hangs still, patchy and scrappy; We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy." But his life would not be unfulfilled. He took a sombre satisfaction in thinking that perhaps all along she had been nothing except what he had read into her; that this was her high point, that no one else would ever make her think. Yet that was what she had objected to in him; and Amory was suddenly tired of thinking, thinking! "Damn her!" he said bitterly, "she's spoiled my year!" ***** THE SUPERMAN GROWS CARELESS On a dusty day in September Amory arrived in Princeton and joined the sweltering crowd of conditioned men who thronged the streets. It seemed a stupid way to commence his upper-class years, to spend four hours a morning in the stuffy room of a tutoring school, imbibing the infinite boredom of conic sections. Mr. Rooney, pander to the dull, conducted the class and smoked innumerable Pall Malls as he drew diagrams and worked equations from six in the morning until midnight. "Now, Langueduc, if I used that formula, where would my A point be?" Langueduc lazily shifts his six-foot-three of football material and tries to concentrate. "Oh--ah--I'm damned if I know, Mr. Rooney." "Oh, why of course, of course you can't _use_ that formula. _That's_ what I wanted you to say." "Why, sure, of course." "Do you see why?" "You bet--I suppose so." "If you don't see, tell me. I'm here to show you." "Well, Mr. Rooney, if you don't mind, I wish you'd go over that again." "Gladly. Now here's 'A'..." The room was a study in stupidity--two huge stands for paper, Mr. Rooney in his shirt-sleeves in front of them, and slouched around on chairs, a dozen men: Fred Sloane, the pitcher, who absolutely _had_ to get eligible; "Slim" Langueduc, who would beat Yale this fall, if only he could master a poor fifty per cent; McDowell, gay young sophomore, who thought it was quite a sporting thing to be tutoring here with all these prominent athletes. "Those poor birds who haven't a cent to tutor, and have to study during the term are the ones I pity," he announced to Amory one day, with a flaccid camaraderie in the droop of the cigarette from his pale lips. "I should think it would be such a bore, there's so much else to do in New York during the term. I suppose they don't know what they miss, anyhow." There was such an air of "you and I" about Mr. McDowell that Amory very nearly pushed him out of the open window when he said this. ... Next February his mother would wonder why he didn't make a club and increase his allowance... simple little nut.... Through the smoke and the air of solemn, dense earnestness that filled the room would come the inevitable helpless cry: "I don't get it! Repeat that, Mr. Rooney!" Most of them were so stupid or careless that they wouldn't admit when they didn't understand, and Amory was of the latter. He found it impossible to study conic sections; something in their calm and tantalizing respectability breathing defiantly through Mr. Rooney's fetid parlors distorted their equations into insoluble anagrams. He made a last night's effort with the proverbial wet towel, and then blissfully took the exam, wondering unhappily why all the color and ambition of the spring before had faded out. Somehow, with the defection of Isabelle the idea of undergraduate success had loosed its grasp on his imagination, and he contemplated a possible failure to pass off his condition with equanimity, even though it would arbitrarily mean his removal from the Princetonian board and the slaughter of his chances for the Senior Council. There was always his luck. He yawned, scribbled his honor pledge on the cover, and sauntered from the room. "If you don't pass it," said the newly arrived Alec as they sat on the window-seat of Amory's room and mused upon a scheme of wall decoration, "you're the world's worst goopher. Your stock will go down like an elevator at the club and on the campus." "Oh, hell, I know it. Why rub it in?" "'Cause you deserve it. Anybody that'd risk what you were in line for _ought_ to be ineligible for Princetonian chairman." "Oh, drop the subject," Amory protested. "Watch and wait and shut up. I don't want every one at the club asking me about it, as if I were a prize potato being fattened for a vegetable show." One evening a week later Amory stopped below his own window on the way to Renwick's, and, seeing a light, called up: "Oh, Tom, any mail?" Alec's head appeared against the yellow square of light. "Yes, your result's here." His heart clamored violently. "What is it, blue or pink?" "Don't know. Better come up." He walked into the room and straight over to the table, and then suddenly noticed that there were other people in the room. "'Lo, Kerry." He was most polite. "Ah, men of Princeton." They seemed to be mostly friends, so he picked up the envelope marked "Registrar's Office," and weighed it nervously. "We have here quite a slip of paper." "Open it, Amory." "Just to be dramatic, I'll let you know that if it's blue, my name is withdrawn from the editorial board of the Prince, and my short career is over." He paused, and then saw for the first time Ferrenby's eyes, wearing a hungry look and watching him eagerly. Amory returned the gaze pointedly. "Watch my face, gentlemen, for the primitive emotions." He tore it open and held the slip up to the light. "Well?" "Pink or blue?" "Say what it is." "We're all ears, Amory." "Smile or swear--or something." There was a pause... a small crowd of seconds swept by... then he looked again and another crowd went on into time. "Blue as the sky, gentlemen...." ***** AFTERMATH What Amory did that year from early September to late in the spring was so purposeless and inconsecutive that it seems scarcely worth recording. He was, of course, immediately sorry for what he had lost. His philosophy of success had tumbled down upon him, and he looked for the reasons. "Your own laziness," said Alec later. "No--something deeper than that. I've begun to feel that I was meant to lose this chance." "They're rather off you at the club, you know; every man that doesn't come through makes our crowd just so much weaker." "I hate that point of view." "Of course, with a little effort you could still stage a comeback." "No--I'm through--as far as ever being a power in college is concerned." "But, Amory, honestly, what makes me the angriest isn't the fact that you won't be chairman of the Prince and on the Senior Council, but just that you didn't get down and pass that exam." "Not me," said Amory slowly; "I'm mad at the concrete thing. My own idleness was quite in accord with my system, but the luck broke." "Your system broke, you mean." "Maybe." "Well, what are you going to do? Get a better one quick, or just bum around for two more years as a has-been?" "I don't know yet..." "Oh, Amory, buck up!" "Maybe." Amory's point of view, though dangerous, was not far from the true one. If his reactions to his environment could be tabulated, the chart would have appeared like this, beginning with his earliest years: 1. The fundamental Amory. 2. Amory plus Beatrice. 3. Amory plus Beatrice plus Minneapolis. Then St. Regis' had pulled him to pieces and started him over again: 4. Amory plus St. Regis'. 5. Amory plus St. Regis' plus Princeton. That had been his nearest approach to success through conformity. The fundamental Amory, idle, imaginative, rebellious, had been nearly snowed under. He had conformed, he had succeeded, but as his imagination was neither satisfied nor grasped by his own success, he had listlessly, half-accidentally chucked the whole thing and become again: 6. ***** FINANCIAL His father died quietly and inconspicuously at Thanksgiving. The incongruity of death with either the beauties of Lake Geneva or with his mother's dignified, reticent attitude diverted him, and he looked at the funeral with an amused tolerance. He decided that burial was after all preferable to cremation, and he smiled at his old boyhood choice, slow oxidation in the top of a tree. The day after the ceremony he was amusing himself in the great library by sinking back on a couch in graceful mortuary attitudes, trying to determine whether he would, when his day came, be found with his arms crossed piously over his chest (Monsignor Darcy had once advocated this posture as being the most distinguished), or with his hands clasped behind his head, a more pagan and Byronic attitude. What interested him much more than the final departure of his father from things mundane was a tri-cornered conversation between Beatrice, Mr. Barton, of Barton and Krogman, their lawyers, and himself, that took place several days after the funeral. For the first time he came into actual cognizance of the family finances, and realized what a tidy fortune had once been under his father's management. He took a ledger labelled "1906" and ran through it rather carefully. The total expenditure that year had come to something over one hundred and ten thousand dollars. Forty thousand of this had been Beatrice's own income, and there had been no attempt to account for it: it was all under the heading, "Drafts, checks, and letters of credit forwarded to Beatrice Blaine." The dispersal of the rest was rather minutely itemized: the taxes and improvements on the Lake Geneva estate had come to almost nine thousand dollars; the general up-keep, including Beatrice's electric and a French car, bought that year, was over thirty-five thousand dollars. The rest was fully taken care of, and there were invariably items which failed to balance on the right side of the ledger. In the volume for 1912 Amory was shocked to discover the decrease in the number of bond holdings and the great drop in the income. In the case of Beatrice's money this was not so pronounced, but it was obvious that his father had devoted the previous year to several unfortunate gambles in oil. Very little of the oil had been burned, but Stephen Blaine had been rather badly singed. The next year and the next and the next showed similar decreases, and Beatrice had for the first time begun using her own money for keeping up the house. Yet her doctor's bill for 1913 had been over nine thousand dollars. About the exact state of things Mr. Barton was quite vague and confused. There had been recent investments, the outcome of which was for the present problematical, and he had an idea there were further speculations and exchanges concerning which he had not been consulted. It was not for several months that Beatrice wrote Amory the full situation. The entire residue of the Blaine and O'Hara fortunes consisted of the place at Lake Geneva and approximately a half million dollars, invested now in fairly conservative six-per-cent holdings. In fact, Beatrice wrote that she was putting the money into railroad and street-car bonds as fast as she could conveniently transfer it. "I am quite sure," she wrote to Amory, "that if there is one thing we can be positive of, it is that people will not stay in one place. This Ford person has certainly made the most of that idea. So I am instructing Mr. Barton to specialize on such things as Northern Pacific and these Rapid Transit Companies, as they call the street-cars. I shall never forgive myself for not buying Bethlehem Steel. I've heard the most fascinating stories. You must go into finance, Amory. I'm sure you would revel in it. You start as a messenger or a teller, I believe, and from that you go up--almost indefinitely. I'm sure if I were a man I'd love the handling of money; it has become quite a senile passion with me. Before I get any farther I want to discuss something. A Mrs. Bispam, an overcordial little lady whom I met at a tea the other day, told me that her son, he is at Yale, wrote her that all the boys there wore their summer underwear all during the winter, and also went about with their heads wet and in low shoes on the coldest days. Now, Amory, I don't know whether that is a fad at Princeton too, but I don't want you to be so foolish. It not only inclines a young man to pneumonia and infantile paralysis, but to all forms of lung trouble, to which you are particularly inclined. You cannot experiment with your health. I have found that out. I will not make myself ridiculous as some mothers no doubt do, by insisting that you wear overshoes, though I remember one Christmas you wore them around constantly without a single buckle latched, making such a curious swishing sound, and you refused to buckle them because it was not the thing to do. The very next Christmas you would not wear even rubbers, though I begged you. You are nearly twenty years old now, dear, and I can't be with you constantly to find whether you are doing the sensible thing. "This has been a very _practical_ letter. I warned you in my last that the lack of money to do the things one wants to makes one quite prosy and domestic, but there is still plenty for everything if we are not too extravagant. Take care of yourself, my dear boy, and do try to write at least _once_ a week, because I imagine all sorts of horrible things if I don't hear from you. Affectionately, MOTHER." ***** FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE TERM "PERSONAGE" Monsignor Darcy invited Amory up to the Stuart palace on the Hudson for a week at Christmas, and they had enormous conversations around the open fire. Monsignor was growing a trifle stouter and his personality had expanded even with that, and Amory felt both rest and security in sinking into a squat, cushioned chair and joining him in the middle-aged sanity of a cigar. "I've felt like leaving college, Monsignor." "Why?" "All my career's gone up in smoke; you think it's petty and all that, but--" "Not at all petty. I think it's most important. I want to hear the whole thing. Everything you've been doing since I saw you last." Amory talked; he went thoroughly into the destruction of his egotistic highways, and in a half-hour the listless quality had left his voice. "What would you do if you left college?" asked Monsignor. "Don't know. I'd like to travel, but of course this tiresome war prevents that. Anyways, mother would hate not having me graduate. I'm just at sea. Kerry Holiday wants me to go over with him and join the Lafayette Esquadrille." "You know you wouldn't like to go." "Sometimes I would--to-night I'd go in a second." "Well, you'd have to be very much more tired of life than I think you are. I know you." "I'm afraid you do," agreed Amory reluctantly. "It just seemed an easy way out of everything--when I think of another useless, draggy year." "Yes, I know; but to tell you the truth, I'm not worried about you; you seem to me to be progressing perfectly naturally." "No," Amory objected. "I've lost half my personality in a year." "Not a bit of it!" scoffed Monsignor. "You've lost a great amount of vanity and that's all." "Lordy! I feel, anyway, as if I'd gone through another fifth form at St. Regis's." "No." Monsignor shook his head. "That was a misfortune; this has been a good thing. Whatever worth while comes to you, won't be through the channels you were searching last year." "What could be more unprofitable than my present lack of pep?" "Perhaps in itself... but you're developing. This has given you time to think and you're casting off a lot of your old luggage about success and the superman and all. People like us can't adopt whole theories, as you did. If we can do the next thing, and have an hour a day to think in, we can accomplish marvels, but as far as any high-handed scheme of blind dominance is concerned--we'd just make asses of ourselves." "But, Monsignor, I can't do the next thing." "Amory, between you and me, I have only just learned to do it myself. I can do the one hundred things beyond the next thing, but I stub my toe on that, just as you stubbed your toe on mathematics this fall." "Why do we have to do the next thing? It never seems the sort of thing I should do." "We have to do it because we're not personalities, but personages." "That's a good line--what do you mean?" "A personality is what you thought you were, what this Kerry and Sloane you tell me of evidently are. Personality is a physical matter almost entirely; it lowers the people it acts on--I've seen it vanish in a long sickness. But while a personality is active, it overrides 'the next thing.' Now a personage, on the other hand, gathers. He is never thought of apart from what he's done. He's a bar on which a thousand things have been hung--glittering things sometimes, as ours are; but he uses those things with a cold mentality back of them." "And several of my most glittering possessions had fallen off when I needed them." Amory continued the simile eagerly. "Yes, that's it; when you feel that your garnered prestige and talents and all that are hung out, you need never bother about anybody; you can cope with them without difficulty." "But, on the other hand, if I haven't my possessions, I'm helpless!" "Absolutely." "That's certainly an idea." "Now you've a clean start--a start Kerry or Sloane can constitutionally never have. You brushed three or four ornaments down, and, in a fit of pique, knocked off the rest of them. The thing now is to collect some new ones, and the farther you look ahead in the collecting the better. But remember, do the next thing!" "How clear you can make things!" So they talked, often about themselves, sometimes of philosophy and religion, and life as respectively a game or a mystery. The priest seemed to guess Amory's thoughts before they were clear in his own head, so closely related were their minds in form and groove. "Why do I make lists?" Amory asked him one night. "Lists of all sorts of things?" "Because you're a mediaevalist," Monsignor answered. "We both are. It's the passion for classifying and finding a type." "It's a desire to get something definite." "It's the nucleus of scholastic philosophy." "I was beginning to think I was growing eccentric till I came up here. It was a pose, I guess." "Don't worry about that; for you not posing may be the biggest pose of all. Pose--" "Yes?" "But do the next thing." After Amory returned to college he received several letters from Monsignor which gave him more egotistic food for consumption. I am afraid that I gave you too much assurance of your inevitable safety, and you must remember that I did that through faith in your springs of effort; not in the silly conviction that you will arrive without struggle. Some nuances of character you will have to take for granted in yourself, though you must be careful in confessing them to others. You are unsentimental, almost incapable of affection, astute without being cunning and vain without being proud. Don't let yourself feel worthless; often through life you will really be at your worst when you seem to think best of yourself; and don't worry about losing your "personality," as you persist in calling it; at fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon, and when you are my age you will give out, as I do, the genial golden warmth of 4 P.M. If you write me letters, please let them be natural ones. Your last, that dissertation on architecture, was perfectly awful-- so "highbrow" that I picture you living in an intellectual and emotional vacuum; and beware of trying to classify people too definitely into types; you will find that all through their youth they will persist annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and by pasting a supercilious label on every one you meet you are merely packing a Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer at you when you begin to come into really antagonistic contact with the world. An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present. You are bound to go up and down, just as I did in my youth, but do keep your clarity of mind, and if fools or sages dare to criticise don't blame yourself too much. You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight in this "woman proposition"; but it's more than that, Amory; it's the fear that what you begin you can't stop; you would run amuck, and I know whereof I speak; it's that half-miraculous sixth sense by which you detect evil, it's the half-realized fear of God in your heart. Whatever your metier proves to be--religion, architecture, literature--I'm sure you would be much safer anchored to the Church, but I won't risk my influence by arguing with you even though I am secretly sure that the "black chasm of Romanism" yawns beneath you. Do write me soon. With affectionate regards, THAYER DARCY. Even Amory's reading paled during this period; he delved further into the misty side streets of literature: Huysmans, Walter Pater, Theophile Gautier, and the racier sections of Rabelais, Boccaccio, Petronius, and Suetonius. One week, through general curiosity, he inspected the private libraries of his classmates and found Sloane's as typical as any: sets of Kipling, O. Henry, John Fox, Jr., and Richard Harding Davis; "What Every Middle-Aged Woman Ought to Know," "The Spell of the Yukon"; a "gift" copy of James Whitcomb Riley, an assortment of battered, annotated schoolbooks, and, finally, to his surprise, one of his own late discoveries, the collected poems of Rupert Brooke. Together with Tom D'Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition. The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that year than had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years before. Things had livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the spontaneous charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie. Tanaduke was a sophomore, with tremendous ears and a way of saying, "The earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations!" that made them vaguely wonder why it did not sound quite clear, but never question that it was the utterance of a supersoul. At least so Tom and Amory took him. They told him in all earnestness that he had a mind like Shelley's, and featured his ultrafree free verse and prose poetry in the Nassau Literary Magazine. But Tanaduke's genius absorbed the many colors of the age, and he took to the Bohemian life, to their great disappointment. He talked of Greenwich Village now instead of "noon-swirled moons," and met winter muses, unacademic, and cloistered by Forty-second Street and Broadway, instead of the Shelleyan dream-children with whom he had regaled their expectant appreciation. So they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding that he and his flaming ties would do better there. Tom gave him the final advice that he should stop writing for two years and read the complete works of Alexander Pope four times, but on Amory's suggestion that Pope for Tanaduke was like foot-ease for stomach trouble, they withdrew in laughter, and called it a coin's toss whether this genius was too big or too petty for them. Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular professors who dispensed easy epigrams and thimblefuls of Chartreuse to groups of admirers every night. He was disappointed, too, at the air of general uncertainty on every subject that seemed linked with the pedantic temperament; his opinions took shape in a miniature satire called "In a Lecture-Room," which he persuaded Tom to print in the Nassau Lit. "Good-morning, Fool... Three times a week You hold us helpless while you speak, Teasing our thirsty souls with the Sleek 'yeas' of your philosophy... Well, here we are, your hundred sheep, Tune up, play on, pour forth... we sleep... You are a student, so they say; You hammered out the other day A syllabus, from what we know Of some forgotten folio; You'd sniffled through an era's must, Filling your nostrils up with dust, And then, arising from your knees, Published, in one gigantic sneeze... But here's a neighbor on my right, An Eager Ass, considered bright; Asker of questions.... How he'll stand, With earnest air and fidgy hand, After this hour, telling you He sat all night and burrowed through Your book.... Oh, you'll be coy and he Will simulate precosity, And pedants both, you'll smile and smirk, And leer, and hasten back to work.... 'Twas this day week, sir, you returned A theme of mine, from which I learned (Through various comment on the side Which you had scrawled) that I defied The _highest rules of criticism_ For _cheap_ and _careless_ witticism.... 'Are you quite sure that this could be?' And 'Shaw is no authority!' But Eager Ass, with what he's sent, Plays havoc with your best per cent. Still--still I meet you here and there... When Shakespeare's played you hold a chair, And some defunct, moth-eaten star Enchants the mental prig you are... A radical comes down and shocks The atheistic orthodox? You're representing Common Sense, Mouth open, in the audience. And, sometimes, even chapel lures That conscious tolerance of yours, That broad and beaming view of truth (Including Kant and General Booth...) And so from shock to shock you live, A hollow, pale affirmative... The hour's up... and roused from rest One hundred children of the blest Cheat you a word or two with feet That down the noisy aisle-ways beat... Forget on _narrow-minded earth_ The Mighty Yawn that gave you birth." In April, Kerry Holiday left college and sailed for France to enroll in the Lafayette Esquadrille. Amory's envy and admiration of this step was drowned in an experience of his own to which he never succeeded in giving an appropriate value, but which, nevertheless, haunted him for three years afterward. ***** THE DEVIL Healy's they left at twelve and taxied to Bistolary's. There were Axia Marlowe and Phoebe Column, from the Summer Garden show, Fred Sloane and Amory. The evening was so very young that they felt ridiculous with surplus energy, and burst into the cafe like Dionysian revellers. "Table for four in the middle of the floor," yelled Phoebe. "Hurry, old dear, tell 'em we're here!" "Tell 'em to play 'Admiration'!" shouted Sloane. "You two order; Phoebe and I are going to shake a wicked calf," and they sailed off in the muddled crowd. Axia and Amory, acquaintances of an hour, jostled behind a waiter to a table at a point of vantage; there they took seats and watched. "There's Findle Margotson, from New Haven!" she cried above the uproar. "'Lo, Findle! Whoo-ee!" "Oh, Axia!" he shouted in salutation. "C'mon over to our table." "No!" Amory whispered. "Can't do it, Findle; I'm with somebody else! Call me up to-morrow about one o'clock!" Findle, a nondescript man-about-Bisty's, answered incoherently and turned back to the brilliant blonde whom he was endeavoring to steer around the room. "There's a natural damn fool," commented Amory. "Oh, he's all right. Here's the old jitney waiter. If you ask me, I want a double Daiquiri." "Make it four." The crowd whirled and changed and shifted. They were mostly from the colleges, with a scattering of the male refuse of Broadway, and women of two types, the higher of which was the chorus girl. On the whole it was a typical crowd, and their party as typical as any. About three-fourths of the whole business was for effect and therefore harmless, ended at the door of the cafe, soon enough for the five-o'clock train back to Yale or Princeton; about one-fourth continued on into the dimmer hours and gathered strange dust from strange places. Their party was scheduled to be one of the harmless kind. Fred Sloane and Phoebe Column were old friends; Axia and Amory new ones. But strange things are prepared even in the dead of night, and the unusual, which lurks least in the cafe, home of the prosaic and inevitable, was preparing to spoil for him the waning romance of Broadway. The way it took was so inexpressibly terrible, so unbelievable, that afterward he never thought of it as experience; but it was a scene from a misty tragedy, played far behind the veil, and that it meant something definite he knew. About one o'clock they moved to Maxim's, and two found them in Deviniere's. Sloane had been drinking consecutively and was in a state of unsteady exhilaration, but Amory was quite tiresomely sober; they had run across none of those ancient, corrupt buyers of champagne who usually assisted their New York parties. They were just through dancing and were making their way back to their chairs when Amory became aware that some one at a near-by table was looking at him. He turned and glanced casually... a middle-aged man dressed in a brown sack suit, it was, sitting a little apart at a table by himself and watching their party intently. At Amory's glance he smiled faintly. Amory turned to Fred, who was just sitting down. "Who's that pale fool watching us?" he complained indignantly. "Where?" cried Sloane. "We'll have him thrown out!" He rose to his feet and swayed back and forth, clinging to his chair. "Where is he?" Axia and Phoebe suddenly leaned and whispered to each other across the table, and before Amory realized it they found themselves on their way to the door. "Where now?" "Up to the flat," suggested Phoebe. "We've got brandy and fizz--and everything's slow down here to-night." Amory considered quickly. He hadn't been drinking, and decided that if he took no more, it would be reasonably discreet for him to trot along in the party. In fact, it would be, perhaps, the thing to do in order to keep an eye on Sloane, who was not in a state to do his own thinking. So he took Axia's arm and, piling intimately into a taxicab, they drove out over the hundreds and drew up at a tall, white-stone apartment-house. ... Never would he forget that street.... It was a broad street, lined on both sides with just such tall, white-stone buildings, dotted with dark windows; they stretched along as far as the eye could see, flooded with a bright moonlight that gave them a calcium pallor. He imagined each one to have an elevator and a colored hall-boy and a key-rack; each one to be eight stories high and full of three and four room suites. He was rather glad to walk into the cheeriness of Phoebe's living-room and sink onto a sofa, while the girls went rummaging for food. "Phoebe's great stuff," confided Sloane, sotto voce. "I'm only going to stay half an hour," Amory said sternly. He wondered if it sounded priggish. "Hell y' say," protested Sloane. "We're here now--don't le's rush." "I don't like this place," Amory said sulkily, "and I don't want any food." Phoebe reappeared with sandwiches, brandy bottle, siphon, and four glasses. "Amory, pour 'em out," she said, "and we'll drink to Fred Sloane, who has a rare, distinguished edge." "Yes," said Axia, coming in, "and Amory. I like Amory." She sat down beside him and laid her yellow head on his shoulder. "I'll pour," said Sloane; "you use siphon, Phoebe." They filled the tray with glasses. "Ready, here she goes!" Amory hesitated, glass in hand. There was a minute while temptation crept over him like a warm wind, and his imagination turned to fire, and he took the glass from Phoebe's hand. That was all; for at the second that his decision came, he looked up and saw, ten yards from him, the man who had been in the cafe, and with his jump of astonishment the glass fell from his uplifted hand. There the man half sat, half leaned against a pile of pillows on the corner divan. His face was cast in the same yellow wax as in the cafe, neither the dull, pasty color of a dead man--rather a sort of virile pallor--nor unhealthy, you'd have called it; but like a strong man who'd worked in a mine or done night shifts in a damp climate. Amory looked him over carefully and later he could have drawn him after a fashion, down to the merest details. His mouth was the kind that is called frank, and he had steady gray eyes that moved slowly from one to the other of their group, with just the shade of a questioning expression. Amory noticed his hands; they weren't fine at all, but they had versatility and a tenuous strength... they were nervous hands that sat lightly along the cushions and moved constantly with little jerky openings and closings. Then, suddenly, Amory perceived the feet, and with a rush of blood to the head he realized he was afraid. The feet were all wrong ... with a sort of wrongness that he felt rather than knew.... It was like weakness in a good woman, or blood on satin; one of those terrible incongruities that shake little things in the back of the brain. He wore no shoes, but, instead, a sort of half moccasin, pointed, though, like the shoes they wore in the fourteenth century, and with the little ends curling up. They were a darkish brown and his toes seemed to fill them to the end.... They were unutterably terrible.... He must have said something, or looked something, for Axia's voice came out of the void with a strange goodness. "Well, look at Amory! Poor old Amory's sick--old head going 'round?" "Look at that man!" cried Amory, pointing toward the corner divan. "You mean that purple zebra!" shrieked Axia facetiously. "Ooo-ee! Amory's got a purple zebra watching him!" Sloane laughed vacantly. "Ole zebra gotcha, Amory?" There was a silence.... The man regarded Amory quizzically.... Then the human voices fell faintly on his ear: "Thought you weren't drinking," remarked Axia sardonically, but her voice was good to hear; the whole divan that held the man was alive; alive like heat waves over asphalt, like wriggling worms.... "Come back! Come back!" Axia's arm fell on his. "Amory, dear, you aren't going, Amory!" He was half-way to the door. "Come on, Amory, stick 'th us!" "Sick, are you?" "Sit down a second!" "Take some water." "Take a little brandy...." The elevator was close, and the colored boy was half asleep, paled to a livid bronze... Axia's beseeching voice floated down the shaft. Those feet... those feet... As they settled to the lower floor the feet came into view in the sickly electric light of the paved hall. ***** IN THE ALLEY Down the long street came the moon, and Amory turned his back on it and walked. Ten, fifteen steps away sounded the footsteps. They were like a slow dripping, with just the slightest insistence in their fall. Amory's shadow lay, perhaps, ten feet ahead of him, and soft shoes was presumably that far behind. With the instinct of a child Amory edged in under the blue darkness of the white buildings, cleaving the moonlight for haggard seconds, once bursting into a slow run with clumsy stumblings. After that he stopped suddenly; he must keep hold, he thought. His lips were dry and he licked them. If he met any one good--were there any good people left in the world or did they all live in white apartment-houses now? Was every one followed in the moonlight? But if he met some one good who'd know what he meant and hear this damned scuffle... then the scuffling grew suddenly nearer, and a black cloud settled over the moon. When again the pale sheen skimmed the cornices, it was almost beside him, and Amory thought he heard a quiet breathing. Suddenly he realized that the footsteps were not behind, had never been behind, they were ahead and he was not eluding but following... following. He began to run, blindly, his heart knocking heavily, his hands clinched. Far ahead a black dot showed itself, resolved slowly into a human shape. But Amory was beyond that now; he turned off the street and darted into an alley, narrow and dark and smelling of old rottenness. He twisted down a long, sinuous blackness, where the moonlight was shut away except for tiny glints and patches... then suddenly sank panting into a corner by a fence, exhausted. The steps ahead stopped, and he could hear them shift slightly with a continuous motion, like waves around a dock. He put his face in his hands and covered eyes and ears as well as he could. During all this time it never occurred to him that he was delirious or drunk. He had a sense of reality such as material things could never give him. His intellectual content seemed to submit passively to it, and it fitted like a glove everything that had ever preceded it in his life. It did not muddle him. It was like a problem whose answer he knew on paper, yet whose solution he was unable to grasp. He was far beyond horror. He had sunk through the thin surface of that, now moved in a region where the feet and the fear of white walls were real, living things, things he must accept. Only far inside his soul a little fire leaped and cried that something was pulling him down, trying to get him inside a door and slam it behind him. After that door was slammed there would be only footfalls and white buildings in the moonlight, and perhaps he would be one of the footfalls. During the five or ten minutes he waited in the shadow of the fence, there was somehow this fire... that was as near as he could name it afterward. He remembered calling aloud: "I want some one stupid. Oh, send some one stupid!" This to the black fence opposite him, in whose shadows the footsteps shuffled ... shuffled. He supposed "stupid" and "good" had become somehow intermingled through previous association. When he called thus it was not an act of will at all--will had turned him away from the moving figure in the street; it was almost instinct that called, just the pile on pile of inherent tradition or some wild prayer from way over the night. Then something clanged like a low gong struck at a distance, and before his eyes a face flashed over the two feet, a face pale and distorted with a sort of infinite evil that twisted it like flame in the wind; _but he knew, for the half instant that the gong tanged and hummed, that it was the face of Dick Humbird._ Minutes later he sprang to his feet, realizing dimly that there was no more sound, and that he was alone in the graying alley. It was cold, and he started on a steady run for the light that showed the street at the other end. ***** AT THE WINDOW It was late morning when he woke and found the telephone beside his bed in the hotel tolling frantically, and remembered that he had left word to be called at eleven. Sloane was snoring heavily, his clothes in a pile by his bed. They dressed and ate breakfast in silence, and then sauntered out to get some air. Amory's mind was working slowly, trying to assimilate what had happened and separate from the chaotic imagery that stacked his memory the bare shreds of truth. If the morning had been cold and gray he could have grasped the reins of the past in an instant, but it was one of those days that New York gets sometimes in May, when the air on Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine. How much or how little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; he apparently had none of the nervous tension that was gripping Amory and forcing his mind back and forth like a shrieking saw. Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory. "For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of this--this place!" Sloane looked at him in amazement. "What do you mean?" "This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!" "Do you mean to say," said Sloane stolidly, "that 'cause you had some sort of indigestion that made you act like a maniac last night, you're never coming on Broadway again?" Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, and he seemed no longer Sloane of the debonair humor and the happy personality, but only one of the evil faces that whirled along the turbid stream. "Man!" he shouted so loud that the people on the corner turned and followed them with their eyes, "it's filthy, and if you can't see it, you're filthy, too!" "I can't help it," said Sloane doggedly. "What's the matter with you? Old remorse getting you? You'd be in a fine state if you'd gone through with our little party." "I'm going, Fred," said Amory slowly. His knees were shaking under him, and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would keel over where he stood. "I'll be at the Vanderbilt for lunch." And he strode rapidly off and turned over to Fifth Avenue. Back at the hotel he felt better, but as he walked into the barber-shop, intending to get a head massage, the smell of the powders and tonics brought back Axia's sidelong, suggestive smile, and he left hurriedly. In the doorway of his room a sudden blackness flowed around him like a divided river. When he came to himself he knew that several hours had passed. He pitched onto the bed and rolled over on his face with a deadly fear that he was going mad. He wanted people, people, some one sane and stupid and good. He lay for he knew not how long without moving. He could feel the little hot veins on his forehead standing out, and his terror had hardened on him like plaster. He felt he was passing up again through the thin crust of horror, and now only could he distinguish the shadowy twilight he was leaving. He must have fallen asleep again, for when he next recollected himself he had paid the hotel bill and was stepping into a taxi at the door. It was raining torrents. On the train for Princeton he saw no one he knew, only a crowd of fagged-looking Philadelphians. The presence of a painted woman across the aisle filled him with a fresh burst of sickness and he changed to another car, tried to concentrate on an article in a popular magazine. He found himself reading the same paragraphs over and over, so he abandoned this attempt and leaning over wearily pressed his hot forehead against the damp window-pane. The car, a smoker, was hot and stuffy with most of the smells of the state's alien population; he opened a window and shivered against the cloud of fog that drifted in over him. The two hours' ride were like days, and he nearly cried aloud with joy when the towers of Princeton loomed up beside him and the yellow squares of light filtered through the blue rain. Tom was standing in the centre of the room, pensively relighting a cigar-stub. Amory fancied he looked rather relieved on seeing him. "Had a hell of a dream about you last night," came in the cracked voice through the cigar smoke. "I had an idea you were in some trouble." "Don't tell me about it!" Amory almost shrieked. "Don't say a word; I'm tired and pepped out." Tom looked at him queerly and then sank into a chair and opened his Italian note-book. Amory threw his coat and hat on the floor, loosened his collar, and took a Wells novel at random from the shelf. "Wells is sane," he thought, "and if he won't do I'll read Rupert Brooke." Half an hour passed. Outside the wind came up, and Amory started as the wet branches moved and clawed with their finger-nails at the window-pane. Tom was deep in his work, and inside the room only the occasional scratch of a match or the rustle of leather as they shifted in their chairs broke the stillness. Then like a zigzag of lightning came the change. Amory sat bolt upright, frozen cold in his chair. Tom was looking at him with his mouth drooping, eyes fixed. "God help us!" Amory cried. "Oh, my heavens!" shouted Tom, "look behind!" Quick as a flash Amory whirled around. He saw nothing but the dark window-pane. "It's gone now," came Tom's voice after a second in a still terror. "Something was looking at you." Trembling violently, Amory dropped into his chair again. "I've got to tell you," he said. "I've had one hell of an experience. I think I've--I've seen the devil or--something like him. What face did you just see?--or no," he added quickly, "don't tell me!" And he gave Tom the story. It was midnight when he finished, and after that, with all lights burning, two sleepy, shivering boys read to each other from "The New Machiavelli," until dawn came up out of Witherspoon Hall, and the Princetonian fell against the door, and the May birds hailed the sun on last night's rain. CHAPTER 4. Narcissus Off Duty During Princeton's transition period, that is, during Amory's last two years there, while he saw it change and broaden and live up to its Gothic beauty by better means than night parades, certain individuals arrived who stirred it to its plethoric depths. Some of them had been freshmen, and wild freshmen, with Amory; some were in the class below; and it was in the beginning of his last year and around small tables at the Nassau Inn that they began questioning aloud the institutions that Amory and countless others before him had questioned so long in secret. First, and partly by accident, they struck on certain books, a definite type of biographical novel that Amory christened "quest" books. In the "quest" book the hero set off in life armed with the best weapons and avowedly intending to use them as such weapons are usually used, to push their possessors ahead as selfishly and blindly as possible, but the heroes of the "quest" books discovered that there might be a more magnificent use for them. "None Other Gods," "Sinister Street," and "The Research Magnificent" were examples of such books; it was the latter of these three that gripped Burne Holiday and made him wonder in the beginning of senior year how much it was worth while being a diplomatic autocrat around his club on Prospect Avenue and basking in the high lights of class office. It was distinctly through the channels of aristocracy that Burne found his way. Amory, through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance with him, but not until January of senior year did their friendship commence. "Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening with that triumphant air he always wore after a successful conversational bout. "No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?" "Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going to resign from their clubs." "What!" "Actual fact!" "Why!" "Spirit of reform and all that. Burne Holiday is behind it. The club presidents are holding a meeting to-night to see if they can find a joint means of combating it." "Well, what's the idea of the thing?" "Oh, clubs injurious to Princeton democracy; cost a lot; draw social lines, take time; the regular line you get sometimes from disappointed sophomores. Woodrow thought they should be abolished and all that." "But this is the real thing?" "Absolutely. I think it'll go through." "For Pete's sake, tell me more about it." "Well," began Tom, "it seems that the idea developed simultaneously in several heads. I was talking to Burne awhile ago, and he claims that it's a logical result if an intelligent person thinks long enough about the social system. They had a 'discussion crowd' and the point of abolishing the clubs was brought up by some one--everybody there leaped at it--it had been in each one's mind, more or less, and it just needed a spark to bring it out." "Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. How do they feel up at Cap and Gown?" "Wild, of course. Every one's been sitting and arguing and swearing and getting mad and getting sentimental and getting brutal. It's the same at all the clubs; I've been the rounds. They get one of the radicals in the corner and fire questions at him." "How do the radicals stand up?" "Oh, moderately well. Burne's a damn good talker, and so obviously sincere that you can't get anywhere with him. It's so evident that resigning from his club means so much more to him than preventing it does to us that I felt futile when I argued; finally took a position that was brilliantly neutral. In fact, I believe Burne thought for a while that he'd converted me." "And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?" "Call it a fourth and be safe." "Lord--who'd have thought it possible!" There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. "Hello, Amory--hello, Tom." Amory rose. "'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; I'm going to Renwick's." Burne turned to him quickly. "You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn't a bit private. I wish you'd stay." "I'd be glad to." Amory sat down again, and as Burne perched on a table and launched into argument with Tom, he looked at this revolutionary more carefully than he ever had before. Broad-browed and strong-chinned, with a fineness in the honest gray eyes that were like Kerry's, Burne was a man who gave an immediate impression of bigness and security--stubborn, that was evident, but his stubbornness wore no stolidity, and when he had talked for five minutes Amory knew that this keen enthusiasm had in it no quality of dilettantism. The intense power Amory felt later in Burne Holiday differed from the admiration he had had for Humbird. This time it began as purely a mental interest. With other men of whom he had thought as primarily first-class, he had been attracted first by their personalities, and in Burne he missed that immediate magnetism to which he usually swore allegiance. But that night Amory was struck by Burne's intense earnestness, a quality he was accustomed to associate only with the dread stupidity, and by the great enthusiasm that struck dead chords in his heart. Burne stood vaguely for a land Amory hoped he was drifting toward--and it was almost time that land was in sight. Tom and Amory and Alec had reached an impasse; never did they seem to have new experiences in common, for Tom and Alec had been as blindly busy with their committees and boards as Amory had been blindly idling, and the things they had for dissection--college, contemporary personality and the like--they had hashed and rehashed for many a frugal conversational meal. That night they discussed the clubs until twelve, and, in the main, they agreed with Burne. To the roommates it did not seem such a vital subject as it had in the two years before, but the logic of Burne's objections to the social system dovetailed so completely with everything they had thought, that they questioned rather than argued, and envied the sanity that enabled this man to stand out so against all traditions. Then Amory branched off and found that Burne was deep in other things as well. Economics had interested him and he was turning socialist. Pacifism played in the back of his mind, and he read The Masses and Lyoff Tolstoi faithfully. "How about religion?" Amory asked him. "Don't know. I'm in a muddle about a lot of things--I've just discovered that I've a mind, and I'm starting to read." "Read what?" "Everything. I have to pick and choose, of course, but mostly things to make me think. I'm reading the four gospels now, and the 'Varieties of Religious Experience.'" "What chiefly started you?" "Wells, I guess, and Tolstoi, and a man named Edward Carpenter. I've been reading for over a year now--on a few lines, on what I consider the essential lines." "Poetry?" "Well, frankly, not what you call poetry, or for your reasons--you two write, of course, and look at things differently. Whitman is the man that attracts me." "Whitman?" "Yes; he's a definite ethical force." "Well, I'm ashamed to say that I'm a blank on the subject of Whitman. How about you, Tom?" Tom nodded sheepishly. "Well," continued Burne, "you may strike a few poems that are tiresome, but I mean the mass of his work. He's tremendous--like Tolstoi. They both look things in the face, and, somehow, different as they are, stand for somewhat the same things." "You have me stumped, Burne," Amory admitted. "I've read 'Anna Karenina' and the 'Kreutzer Sonata' of course, but Tolstoi is mostly in the original Russian as far as I'm concerned." "He's the greatest man in hundreds of years," cried Burne enthusiastically. "Did you ever see a picture of that shaggy old head of his?" They talked until three, from biology to organized religion, and when Amory crept shivering into bed it was with his mind aglow with ideas and a sense of shock that some one else had discovered the path he might have followed. Burne Holiday was so evidently developing--and Amory had considered that he was doing the same. He had fallen into a deep cynicism over what had crossed his path, plotted the imperfectability of man and read Shaw and Chesterton enough to keep his mind from the edges of decadence--now suddenly all his mental processes of the last year and a half seemed stale and futile--a petty consummation of himself... and like a sombre background lay that incident of the spring before, that filled half his nights with a dreary terror and made him unable to pray. He was not even a Catholic, yet that was the only ghost of a code that he had, the gaudy, ritualistic, paradoxical Catholicism whose prophet was Chesterton, whose claqueurs were such reformed rakes of literature as Huysmans and Bourget, whose American sponsor was Ralph Adams Cram, with his adulation of thirteenth-century cathedrals--a Catholicism which Amory found convenient and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or sacrifice. He could not sleep, so he turned on his reading-lamp and, taking down the "Kreutzer Sonata," searched it carefully for the germs of Burne's enthusiasm. Being Burne was suddenly so much realler than being clever. Yet he sighed... here were other possible clay feet. He thought back through two years, of Burne as a hurried, nervous freshman, quite submerged in his brother's personality. Then he remembered an incident of sophomore year, in which Burne had been suspected of the leading role. Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group arguing with a taxi-driver, who had driven him from the junction. In the course of the altercation the dean remarked that he "might as well buy the taxicab." He paid and walked off, but next morning he entered his private office to find the taxicab itself in the space usually occupied by his desk, bearing a sign which read "Property of Dean Hollister. Bought and Paid for."... It took two expert mechanics half a day to dissemble it into its minutest parts and remove it, which only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore humor under efficient leadership. Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton game. Jesse Ferrenby had brought her to a smaller game a few weeks before, and had pressed Burne into service--to the ruination of the latter's misogyny. "Are you coming to the Harvard game?" Burne had asked indiscreetly, merely to make conversation. "If you ask me," cried Phyllis quickly. "Of course I do," said Burne feebly. He was unversed in the arts of Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding. Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved. Phyllis had pinned him down and served him up, informed him the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard friends. "She'll see," he informed a delegation who arrived in his room to josh him. "This will be the last game she ever persuades any young innocent to take her to!" "But, Burne--why did you _invite_ her if you didn't want her?" "Burne, you _know_ you're secretly mad about her--that's the _real_ trouble." "What can _you_ do, Burne? What can _you_ do against Phyllis?" But Burne only shook his head and muttered threats which consisted largely of the phrase: "She'll see, she'll see!" The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers gayly from the train, but on the platform a ghastly sight met her eyes. There were Burne and Fred Sloane arrayed to the last dot like the lurid figures on college posters. They had bought flaring suits with huge peg-top trousers and gigantic padded shoulders. On their heads were rakish college hats, pinned up in front and sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from their celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties. They wore black arm-bands with orange "P's," and carried canes flying Princeton pennants, the effect completed by socks and peeping handkerchiefs in the same color motifs. On a clanking chain they led a large, angry tom-cat, painted to represent a tiger. A good half of the station crowd was already staring at them, torn between horrified pity and riotous mirth, and as Phyllis, with her svelte jaw dropping, approached, the pair bent over and emitted a college cheer in loud, far-carrying voices, thoughtfully adding the name "Phyllis" to the end. She was vociferously greeted and escorted enthusiastically across the campus, followed by half a hundred village urchins--to the stifled laughter of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had no idea that this was a practical joke, but thought that Burne and Fred were two varsity sports showing their girl a collegiate time. Phyllis's feelings as she was paraded by the Harvard and Princeton stands, where sat dozens of her former devotees, can be imagined. She tried to walk a little ahead, she tried to walk a little behind--but they stayed close, that there should be no doubt whom she was with, talking in loud voices of their friends on the football team, until she could almost hear her acquaintances whispering: "Phyllis Styles must be _awfully hard up_ to have to come with _those two_." That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with progress.... So the weeks passed and March came and the clay feet that Amory looked for failed to appear. About a hundred juniors and seniors resigned from their clubs in a final fury of righteousness, and the clubs in helplessness turned upon Burne their finest weapon: ridicule. Every one who knew him liked him--but what he stood for (and he began to stand for more all the time) came under the lash of many tongues, until a frailer man than he would have been snowed under. "Don't you mind losing prestige?" asked Amory one night. They had taken to exchanging calls several times a week. "Of course I don't. What's prestige, at best?" "Some people say that you're just a rather original politician." He roared with laughter. "That's what Fred Sloane told me to-day. I suppose I have it coming." One afternoon they dipped into a subject that had interested Amory for a long time--the matter of the bearing of physical attributes on a man's make-up. Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then: "Of course health counts--a healthy man has twice the chance of being good," he said. "I don't agree with you--I don't believe in 'muscular Christianity.'" "I do--I believe Christ had great physical vigor." "Oh, no," Amory protested. "He worked too hard for that. I imagine that when he died he was a broken-down man--and the great saints haven't been strong." "Half of them have." "Well, even granting that, I don't think health has anything to do with goodness; of course, it's valuable to a great saint to be able to stand enormous strains, but this fad of popular preachers rising on their toes in simulated virility, bellowing that calisthenics will save the world--no, Burne, I can't go that." "Well, let's waive it--we won't get anywhere, and besides I haven't quite made up my mind about it myself. Now, here's something I _do_ know--personal appearance has a lot to do with it." "Coloring?" Amory asked eagerly. "Yes." "That's what Tom and I figured," Amory agreed. "We took the year-books for the last ten years and looked at the pictures of the senior council. I know you don't think much of that august body, but it does represent success here in a general way. Well, I suppose only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are blonds, are really light--yet _two-thirds_ of every senior council are light. We looked at pictures of ten years of them, mind you; that means that out of every _fifteen_ light-haired men in the senior class _one_ is on the senior council, and of the dark-haired men it's only one in _fifty_." "It's true," Burne agreed. "The light-haired man _is_ a higher type, generally speaking. I worked the thing out with the Presidents of the United States once, and found that way over half of them were light-haired--yet think of the preponderant number of brunettes in the race." "People unconsciously admit it," said Amory. "You'll notice a blond person is _expected_ to talk. If a blond girl doesn't talk we call her a 'doll'; if a light-haired man is silent he's considered stupid. Yet the world is full of 'dark silent men' and 'languorous brunettes' who haven't a brain in their heads, but somehow are never accused of the dearth." "And the large mouth and broad chin and rather big nose undoubtedly make the superior face." "I'm not so sure." Amory was all for classical features. "Oh, yes--I'll show you," and Burne pulled out of his desk a photographic collection of heavily bearded, shaggy celebrities--Tolstoi, Whitman, Carpenter, and others. "Aren't they wonderful?" Amory tried politely to appreciate them, and gave up laughingly. "Burne, I think they're the ugliest-looking crowd I ever came across. They look like an old man's home." "Oh, Amory, look at that forehead on Emerson; look at Tolstoi's eyes." His tone was reproachful. "No! Call them remarkable-looking or anything you want--but ugly they certainly are." Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk. Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he persuaded Amory to accompany him. "I hate the dark," Amory objected. "I didn't use to--except when I was particularly imaginative, but now, I really do--I'm a regular fool about it." "That's useless, you know." "Quite possibly." "We'll go east," Burne suggested, "and down that string of roads through the woods." "Doesn't sound very appealing to me," admitted Amory reluctantly, "but let's go." They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung along in a brisk argument until the lights of Princeton were luminous white blots behind them. "Any person with any imagination is bound to be afraid," said Burne earnestly. "And this very walking at night is one of the things I was afraid about. I'm going to tell you why I can walk anywhere now and not be afraid." "Go on," Amory urged eagerly. They were striding toward the woods, Burne's nervous, enthusiastic voice warming to his subject. "I used to come out here alone at night, oh, three months ago, and I always stopped at that cross-road we just passed. There were the woods looming up ahead, just as they do now, there were dogs howling and the shadows and no human sound. Of course, I peopled the woods with everything ghastly, just like you do; don't you?" "I do," Amory admitted. "Well, I began analyzing it--my imagination persisted in sticking horrors into the dark--so I stuck my imagination into the dark instead, and let it look out at me--I let it play stray dog or escaped convict or ghost, and then saw myself coming along the road. That made it all right--as it always makes everything all right to project yourself completely into another's place. I knew that if I were the dog or the convict or the ghost I wouldn't be a menace to Burne Holiday any more than he was a menace to me. Then I thought of my watch. I'd better go back and leave it and then essay the woods. No; I decided, it's better on the whole that I should lose a watch than that I should turn back--and I did go into them--not only followed the road through them, but walked into them until I wasn't frightened any more--did it until one night I sat down and dozed off in there; then I knew I was through being afraid of the dark." "Lordy," Amory breathed. "I couldn't have done that. I'd have come out half-way, and the first time an automobile passed and made the dark thicker when its lamps disappeared, I'd have come in." "Well," Burne said suddenly, after a few moments' silence, "we're half-way through, let's turn back." On the return he launched into a discussion of will. "It's the whole thing," he asserted. "It's the one dividing line between good and evil. I've never met a man who led a rotten life and didn't have a weak will." "How about great criminals?" "They're usually insane. If not, they're weak. There is no such thing as a strong, sane criminal." "Burne, I disagree with you altogether; how about the superman?" "Well?" "He's evil, I think, yet he's strong and sane." "I've never met him. I'll bet, though, that he's stupid or insane." "I've met him over and over and he's neither. That's why I think you're wrong." "I'm sure I'm not--and so I don't believe in imprisonment except for the insane." On this point Amory could not agree. It seemed to him that life and history were rife with the strong criminal, keen, but often self-deluding; in politics and business one found him and among the old statesmen and kings and generals; but Burne never agreed and their courses began to split on that point. Burne was drawing farther and farther away from the world about him. He resigned the vice-presidency of the senior class and took to reading and walking as almost his only pursuits. He voluntarily attended graduate lectures in philosophy and biology, and sat in all of them with a rather pathetically intent look in his eyes, as if waiting for something the lecturer would never quite come to. Sometimes Amory would see him squirm in his seat; and his face would light up; he was on fire to debate a point. He grew more abstracted on the street and was even accused of becoming a snob, but Amory knew it was nothing of the sort, and once when Burne passed him four feet off, absolutely unseeingly, his mind a thousand miles away, Amory almost choked with the romantic joy of watching him. Burne seemed to be climbing heights where others would be forever unable to get a foothold. "I tell you," Amory declared to Tom, "he's the first contemporary I've ever met whom I'll admit is my superior in mental capacity." "It's a bad time to admit it--people are beginning to think he's odd." "He's way over their heads--you know you think so yourself when you talk to him--Good Lord, Tom, you _used_ to stand out against 'people.' Success has completely conventionalized you." Tom grew rather annoyed. "What's he trying to do--be excessively holy?" "No! not like anybody you've ever seen. Never enters the Philadelphian Society. He has no faith in that rot. He doesn't believe that public swimming-pools and a kind word in time will right the wrongs of the world; moreover, he takes a drink whenever he feels like it." "He certainly is getting in wrong." "Have you talked to him lately?" "No." "Then you haven't any conception of him." The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how the sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. "It's odd," Amory said to Tom one night when they had grown more amicable on the subject, "that the people who violently disapprove of Burne's radicalism are distinctly the Pharisee class--I mean they're the best-educated men in college--the editors of the papers, like yourself and Ferrenby, the younger professors.... The illiterate athletes like Langueduc think he's getting eccentric, but they just say, 'Good old Burne has got some queer ideas in his head,' and pass on--the Pharisee class--Gee! they ridicule him unmercifully." The next morning he met Burne hurrying along McCosh walk after a recitation. "Whither bound, Tsar?" "Over to the Prince office to see Ferrenby," he waved a copy of the morning's Princetonian at Amory. "He wrote this editorial." "Going to flay him alive?" "No--but he's got me all balled up. Either I've misjudged him or he's suddenly become the world's worst radical." Burne hurried on, and it was several days before Amory heard an account of the ensuing conversation. Burne had come into the editor's sanctum displaying the paper cheerfully. "Hello, Jesse." "Hello there, Savonarola." "I just read your editorial." "Good boy--didn't know you stooped that low." "Jesse, you startled me." "How so?" "Aren't you afraid the faculty'll get after you if you pull this irreligious stuff?" "What?" "Like this morning." "What the devil--that editorial was on the coaching system." "Yes, but that quotation--" Jesse sat up. "What quotation?" "You know: 'He who is not with me is against me.'" "Well--what about it?" Jesse was puzzled but not alarmed. "Well, you say here--let me see." Burne opened the paper and read: "'_He who is not with me is against me_, as that gentleman said who was notoriously capable of only coarse distinctions and puerile generalities.'" "What of it?" Ferrenby began to look alarmed. "Oliver Cromwell said it, didn't he? or was it Washington, or one of the saints? Good Lord, I've forgotten." Burne roared with laughter. "Oh, Jesse, oh, good, kind Jesse." "Who said it, for Pete's sake?" "Well," said Burne, recovering his voice, "St. Matthew attributes it to Christ." "My God!" cried Jesse, and collapsed backward into the waste-basket. ***** AMORY WRITES A POEM The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the chance of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy glamour might penetrate his disposition. One day he ventured into a stock-company revival of a play whose name was faintly familiar. The curtain rose--he watched casually as a girl entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched a faint chord of memory. Where--? When--? Then he seemed to hear a voice whispering beside him, a very soft, vibrant voice: "Oh, I'm such a poor little fool; _do_ tell me when I do wrong." The solution came in a flash and he had a quick, glad memory of Isabelle. He found a blank space on his programme, and began to scribble rapidly: "Here in the figured dark I watch once more, There, with the curtain, roll the years away; Two years of years--there was an idle day Of ours, when happy endings didn't bore Our unfermented souls; I could adore Your eager face beside me, wide-eyed, gay, Smiling a repertoire while the poor play Reached me as a faint ripple reaches shore. "Yawning and wondering an evening through, I watch alone... and chatterings, of course, Spoil the one scene which, somehow, _did_ have charms; You wept a bit, and I grew sad for you Right here! Where Mr. X defends divorce And What's-Her-Name falls fainting in his arms." ***** STILL CALM "Ghosts are such dumb things," said Alec, "they're slow-witted. I can always outguess a ghost." "How?" asked Tom. "Well, it depends where. Take a bedroom, for example. If you use _any_ discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom." "Go on, s'pose you think there's maybe a ghost in your bedroom--what measures do you take on getting home at night?" demanded Amory, interested. "Take a stick" answered Alec, with ponderous reverence, "one about the length of a broom-handle. Now, the first thing to do is to get the room _cleared_--to do this you rush with your eyes closed into your study and turn on the lights--next, approaching the closet, carefully run the stick in the door three or four times. Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. _Always, always_ run the stick in viciously first--_never_ look first!" "Of course, that's the ancient Celtic school," said Tom gravely. "Yes--but they usually pray first. Anyway, you use this method to clear the closets and also for behind all doors--" "And the bed," Amory suggested. "Oh, Amory, no!" cried Alec in horror. "That isn't the way--the bed requires different tactics--let the bed alone, as you value your reason--if there is a ghost in the room and that's only about a third of the time, it is _almost always_ under the bed." "Well" Amory began. Alec waved him into silence. "Of _course_ you never look. You stand in the middle of the floor and before he knows what you're going to do make a sudden leap for the bed--never walk near the bed; to a ghost your ankle is your most vulnerable part--once in bed, you're safe; he may lie around under the bed all night, but you're safe as daylight. If you still have doubts pull the blanket over your head." "All that's very interesting, Tom." "Isn't it?" Alec beamed proudly. "All my own, too--the Sir Oliver Lodge of the new world." Amory was enjoying college immensely again. The sense of going forward in a direct, determined line had come back; youth was stirring and shaking out a few new feathers. He had even stored enough surplus energy to sally into a new pose. "What's the idea of all this 'distracted' stuff, Amory?" asked Alec one day, and then as Amory pretended to be cramped over his book in a daze: "Oh, don't try to act Burne, the mystic, to me." Amory looked up innocently. "What?" "What?" mimicked Alec. "Are you trying to read yourself into a rhapsody with--let's see the book." He snatched it; regarded it derisively. "Well?" said Amory a little stiffly. "'The Life of St. Teresa,'" read Alec aloud. "Oh, my gosh!" "Say, Alec." "What?" "Does it bother you?" "Does what bother me?" "My acting dazed and all that?" "Why, no--of course it doesn't _bother_ me." "Well, then, don't spoil it. If I enjoy going around telling people guilelessly that I think I'm a genius, let me do it." "You're getting a reputation for being eccentric," said Alec, laughing, "if that's what you mean." Amory finally prevailed, and Alec agreed to accept his face value in the presence of others if he was allowed rest periods when they were alone; so Amory "ran it out" at a great rate, bringing the most eccentric characters to dinner, wild-eyed grad students, preceptors with strange theories of God and government, to the cynical amazement of the supercilious Cottage Club. As February became slashed by sun and moved cheerfully into March, Amory went several times to spend week-ends with Monsignor; once he took Burne, with great success, for he took equal pride and delight in displaying them to each other. Monsignor took him several times to see Thornton Hancock, and once or twice to the house of a Mrs. Lawrence, a type of Rome-haunting American whom Amory liked immediately. Then one day came a letter from Monsignor, which appended an interesting P. S.: "Do you know," it ran, "that your third cousin, Clara Page, widowed six months and very poor, is living in Philadelphia? I don't think you've ever met her, but I wish, as a favor to me, you'd go to see her. To my mind, she's rather a remarkable woman, and just about your age." Amory sighed and decided to go, as a favor.... ***** CLARA She was immemorial.... Amory wasn't good enough for Clara, Clara of ripply golden hair, but then no man was. Her goodness was above the prosy morals of the husband-seeker, apart from the dull literature of female virtue. Sorrow lay lightly around her, and when Amory found her in Philadelphia he thought her steely blue eyes held only happiness; a latent strength, a realism, was brought to its fullest development by the facts that she was compelled to face. She was alone in the world, with two small children, little money, and, worst of all, a host of friends. He saw her that winter in Philadelphia entertaining a houseful of men for an evening, when he knew she had not a servant in the house except the little colored girl guarding the babies overhead. He saw one of the greatest libertines in that city, a man who was habitually drunk and notorious at home and abroad, sitting opposite her for an evening, discussing _girls' boarding-schools_ with a sort of innocent excitement. What a twist Clara had to her mind! She could make fascinating and almost brilliant conversation out of the thinnest air that ever floated through a drawing-room. The idea that the girl was poverty-stricken had appealed to Amory's sense of situation. He arrived in Philadelphia expecting to be told that 921 Ark Street was in a miserable lane of hovels. He was even disappointed when it proved to be nothing of the sort. It was an old house that had been in her husband's family for years. An elderly aunt, who objected to having it sold, had put ten years' taxes with a lawyer and pranced off to Honolulu, leaving Clara to struggle with the heating-problem as best she could. So no wild-haired woman with a hungry baby at her breast and a sad Amelia-like look greeted him. Instead, Amory would have thought from his reception that she had not a care in the world. A calm virility and a dreamy humor, marked contrasts to her level-headedness--into these moods she slipped sometimes as a refuge. She could do the most prosy things (though she was wise enough never to stultify herself with such "household arts" as _knitting_ and _embroidery_), yet immediately afterward pick up a book and let her imagination rove as a formless cloud with the wind. Deepest of all in her personality was the golden radiance that she diffused around her. As an open fire in a dark room throws romance and pathos into the quiet faces at its edge, so she cast her lights and shadows around the rooms that held her, until she made of her prosy old uncle a man of quaint and meditative charm, metamorphosed the stray telegraph boy into a Puck-like creature of delightful originality. At first this quality of hers somehow irritated Amory. He considered his own uniqueness sufficient, and it rather embarrassed him when she tried to read new interests into him for the benefit of what other adorers were present. He felt as if a polite but insistent stage-manager were attempting to make him give a new interpretation of a part he had conned for years. But Clara talking, Clara telling a slender tale of a hatpin and an inebriated man and herself.... People tried afterward to repeat her anecdotes but for the life of them they could make them sound like nothing whatever. They gave her a sort of innocent attention and the best smiles many of them had smiled for long; there were few tears in Clara, but people smiled misty-eyed at her. Very occasionally Amory stayed for little half-hours after the rest of the court had gone, and they would have bread and jam and tea late in the afternoon or "maple-sugar lunches," as she called them, at night. "You _are_ remarkable, aren't you!" Amory was becoming trite from where he perched in the centre of the dining-room table one six o'clock. "Not a bit," she answered. She was searching out napkins in the sideboard. "I'm really most humdrum and commonplace. One of those people who have no interest in anything but their children." "Tell that to somebody else," scoffed Amory. "You know you're perfectly effulgent." He asked her the one thing that he knew might embarrass her. It was the remark that the first bore made to Adam. "Tell me about yourself." And she gave the answer that Adam must have given. "There's nothing to tell." But eventually Adam probably told the bore all the things he thought about at night when the locusts sang in the sandy grass, and he must have remarked patronizingly how _different_ he was from Eve, forgetting how different she was from him... at any rate, Clara told Amory much about herself that evening. She had had a harried life from sixteen on, and her education had stopped sharply with her leisure. Browsing in her library, Amory found a tattered gray book out of which fell a yellow sheet that he impudently opened. It was a poem that she had written at school about a gray convent wall on a gray day, and a girl with her cloak blown by the wind sitting atop of it and thinking about the many-colored world. As a rule such sentiment bored him, but this was done with so much simplicity and atmosphere, that it brought a picture of Clara to his mind, of Clara on such a cool, gray day with her keen blue eyes staring out, trying to see her tragedies come marching over the gardens outside. He envied that poem. How he would have loved to have come along and seen her on the wall and talked nonsense or romance to her, perched above him in the air. He began to be frightfully jealous of everything about Clara: of her past, of her babies, of the men and women who flocked to drink deep of her cool kindness and rest their tired minds as at an absorbing play. "_Nobody_ seems to bore you," he objected. "About half the world do," she admitted, "but I think that's a pretty good average, don't you?" and she turned to find something in Browning that bore on the subject. She was the only person he ever met who could look up passages and quotations to show him in the middle of the conversation, and yet not be irritating to distraction. She did it constantly, with such a serious enthusiasm that he grew fond of watching her golden hair bent over a book, brow wrinkled ever so little at hunting her sentence. Through early March he took to going to Philadelphia for week-ends. Almost always there was some one else there and she seemed not anxious to see him alone, for many occasions presented themselves when a word from her would have given him another delicious half-hour of adoration. But he fell gradually in love and began to speculate wildly on marriage. Though this design flowed through his brain even to his lips, still he knew afterward that the desire had not been deeply rooted. Once he dreamt that it had come true and woke up in a cold panic, for in his dream she had been a silly, flaxen Clara, with the gold gone out of her hair and platitudes falling insipidly from her changeling tongue. But she was the first fine woman he ever knew and one of the few good people who ever interested him. She made her goodness such an asset. Amory had decided that most good people either dragged theirs after them as a liability, or else distorted it to artificial geniality, and of course there were the ever-present prig and Pharisee--(but Amory never included _them_ as being among the saved). ***** ST. CECILIA "Over her gray and velvet dress, Under her molten, beaten hair, Color of rose in mock distress Flushes and fades and makes her fair; Fills the air from her to him With light and languor and little sighs, Just so subtly he scarcely knows... Laughing lightning, color of rose." "Do you like me?" "Of course I do," said Clara seriously. "Why?" "Well, we have some qualities in common. Things that are spontaneous in each of us--or were originally." "You're implying that I haven't used myself very well?" Clara hesitated. "Well, I can't judge. A man, of course, has to go through a lot more, and I've been sheltered." "Oh, don't stall, please, Clara," Amory interrupted; "but do talk about me a little, won't you?" "Surely, I'd adore to." She didn't smile. "That's sweet of you. First answer some questions. Am I painfully conceited?" "Well--no, you have tremendous vanity, but it'll amuse the people who notice its preponderance." "I see." "You're really humble at heart. You sink to the third hell of depression when you think you've been slighted. In fact, you haven't much self-respect." "Centre of target twice, Clara. How do you do it? You never let me say a word." "Of course not--I can never judge a man while he's talking. But I'm not through; the reason you have so little real self-confidence, even though you gravely announce to the occasional philistine that you think you're a genius, is that you've attributed all sorts of atrocious faults to yourself and are trying to live up to them. For instance, you're always saying that you are a slave to high-balls." "But I am, potentially." "And you say you're a weak character, that you've no will." "Not a bit of will--I'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires--" "You are not!" She brought one little fist down onto the other. "You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination." "You certainly interest me. If this isn't boring you, go on." "I notice that when you want to stay over an extra day from college you go about it in a sure way. You never decide at first while the merits of going or staying are fairly clear in your mind. You let your imagination shinny on the side of your desires for a few hours, and then you decide. Naturally your imagination, after a little freedom, thinks up a million reasons why you should stay, so your decision when it comes isn't true. It's biassed." "Yes," objected Amory, "but isn't it lack of will-power to let my imagination shinny on the wrong side?" "My dear boy, there's your big mistake. This has nothing to do with will-power; that's a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack judgment--the judgment to decide at once when you know your imagination will play you false, given half a chance." "Well, I'll be darned!" exclaimed Amory in surprise, "that's the last thing I expected." Clara didn't gloat. She changed the subject immediately. But she had started him thinking and he believed she was partly right. He felt like a factory-owner who after accusing a clerk of dishonesty finds that his own son, in the office, is changing the books once a week. His poor, mistreated will that he had been holding up to the scorn of himself and his friends, stood before him innocent, and his judgment walked off to prison with the unconfinable imp, imagination, dancing in mocking glee beside him. Clara's was the only advice he ever asked without dictating the answer himself--except, perhaps, in his talks with Monsignor Darcy. How he loved to do any sort of thing with Clara! Shopping with her was a rare, epicurean dream. In every store where she had ever traded she was whispered about as the beautiful Mrs. Page. "I'll bet she won't stay single long." "Well, don't scream it out. She ain't lookin' for no advice." "_Ain't_ she beautiful!" (Enter a floor-walker--silence till he moves forward, smirking.) "Society person, ain't she?" "Yeah, but poor now, I guess; so they say." "Gee! girls, _ain't_ she some kid!" And Clara beamed on all alike. Amory believed that tradespeople gave her discounts, sometimes to her knowledge and sometimes without it. He knew she dressed very well, had always the best of everything in the house, and was inevitably waited upon by the head floor-walker at the very least. Sometimes they would go to church together on Sunday and he would walk beside her and revel in her cheeks moist from the soft water in the new air. She was very devout, always had been, and God knows what heights she attained and what strength she drew down to herself when she knelt and bent her golden hair into the stained-glass light. "St. Cecelia," he cried aloud one day, quite involuntarily, and the people turned and peered, and the priest paused in his sermon and Clara and Amory turned to fiery red. That was the last Sunday they had, for he spoiled it all that night. He couldn't help it. They were walking through the March twilight where it was as warm as June, and the joy of youth filled his soul so that he felt he must speak. "I think," he said and his voice trembled, "that if I lost faith in you I'd lose faith in God." She looked at him with such a startled face that he asked her the matter. "Nothing," she said slowly, "only this: five men have said that to me before, and it frightens me." "Oh, Clara, is that your fate!" She did not answer. "I suppose love to you is--" he began. She turned like a flash. "I have never been in love." They walked along, and he realized slowly how much she had told him... never in love.... She seemed suddenly a daughter of light alone. His entity dropped out of her plane and he longed only to touch her dress with almost the realization that Joseph must have had of Mary's eternal significance. But quite mechanically he heard himself saying: "And I love you--any latent greatness that I've got is... oh, I can't talk, but Clara, if I come back in two years in a position to marry you--" She shook her head. "No," she said; "I'd never marry again. I've got my two children and I want myself for them. I like you--I like all clever men, you more than any--but you know me well enough to know that I'd never marry a clever man--" She broke off suddenly. "Amory." "What?" "You're not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?" "It was the twilight," he said wonderingly. "I didn't feel as though I were speaking aloud. But I love you--or adore you--or worship you--" "There you go--running through your catalogue of emotions in five seconds." He smiled unwillingly. "Don't make me out such a light-weight, Clara; you _are_ depressing sometimes." "You're not a light-weight, of all things," she said intently, taking his arm and opening wide her eyes--he could see their kindliness in the fading dusk. "A light-weight is an eternal nay." "There's so much spring in the air--there's so much lazy sweetness in your heart." She dropped his arm. "You're all fine now, and I feel glorious. Give me a cigarette. You've never seen me smoke, have you? Well, I do, about once a month." And then that wonderful girl and Amory raced to the corner like two mad children gone wild with pale-blue twilight. "I'm going to the country for to-morrow," she announced, as she stood panting, safe beyond the flare of the corner lamp-post. "These days are too magnificent to miss, though perhaps I feel them more in the city." "Oh, Clara!" Amory said; "what a devil you could have been if the Lord had just bent your soul a little the other way!" "Maybe," she answered; "but I think not. I'm never really wild and never have been. That little outburst was pure spring." "And you are, too," said he. They were walking along now. "No--you're wrong again, how can a person of your own self-reputed brains be so constantly wrong about me? I'm the opposite of everything spring ever stood for. It's unfortunate, if I happen to look like what pleased some soppy old Greek sculptor, but I assure you that if it weren't for my face I'd be a quiet nun in the convent without"--then she broke into a run and her raised voice floated back to him as he followed--"my precious babies, which I must go back and see." She was the only girl he ever knew with whom he could understand how another man might be preferred. Often Amory met wives whom he had known as debutantes, and looking intently at them imagined that he found something in their faces which said: "Oh, if I could only have gotten _you!_" Oh, the enormous conceit of the man! But that night seemed a night of stars and singing and Clara's bright soul still gleamed on the ways they had trod. "Golden, golden is the air--" he chanted to the little pools of water. ... "Golden is the air, golden notes from golden mandolins, golden frets of golden violins, fair, oh, wearily fair.... Skeins from braided basket, mortals may not hold; oh, what young extravagant God, who would know or ask it?... who could give such gold..." ***** AMORY IS RESENTFUL Slowly and inevitably, yet with a sudden surge at the last, while Amory talked and dreamed, war rolled swiftly up the beach and washed the sands where Princeton played. Every night the gymnasium echoed as platoon after platoon swept over the floor and shuffled out the basket-ball markings. When Amory went to Washington the next week-end he caught some of the spirit of crisis which changed to repulsion in the Pullman car coming back, for the berths across from him were occupied by stinking aliens--Greeks, he guessed, or Russians. He thought how much easier patriotism had been to a homogeneous race, how much easier it would have been to fight as the Colonies fought, or as the Confederacy fought. And he did no sleeping that night, but listened to the aliens guffaw and snore while they filled the car with the heavy scent of latest America. In Princeton every one bantered in public and told themselves privately that their deaths at least would be heroic. The literary students read Rupert Brooke passionately; the lounge-lizards worried over whether the government would permit the English-cut uniform for officers; a few of the hopelessly lazy wrote to the obscure branches of the War Department, seeking an easy commission and a soft berth. Then, after a week, Amory saw Burne and knew at once that argument would be futile--Burne had come out as a pacifist. The socialist magazines, a great smattering of Tolstoi, and his own intense longing for a cause that would bring out whatever strength lay in him, had finally decided him to preach peace as a subjective ideal. "When the German army entered Belgium," he began, "if the inhabitants had gone peaceably about their business, the German army would have been disorganized in--" "I know," Amory interrupted, "I've heard it all. But I'm not going to talk propaganda with you. There's a chance that you're right--but even so we're hundreds of years before the time when non-resistance can touch us as a reality." "But, Amory, listen--" "Burne, we'd just argue--" "Very well." "Just one thing--I don't ask you to think of your family or friends, because I know they don't count a picayune with you beside your sense of duty--but, Burne, how do you know that the magazines you read and the societies you join and these idealists you meet aren't just plain _German?_" "Some of them are, of course." "How do you know they aren't _all_ pro-German--just a lot of weak ones--with German-Jewish names." "That's the chance, of course," he said slowly. "How much or how little I'm taking this stand because of propaganda I've heard, I don't know; naturally I think that it's my most innermost conviction--it seems a path spread before me just now." Amory's heart sank. "But think of the cheapness of it--no one's really going to martyr you for being a pacifist--it's just going to throw you in with the worst--" "I doubt it," he interrupted. "Well, it all smells of Bohemian New York to me." "I know what you mean, and that's why I'm not sure I'll agitate." "You're one man, Burne--going to talk to people who won't listen--with all God's given you." "That's what Stephen must have thought many years ago. But he preached his sermon and they killed him. He probably thought as he was dying what a waste it all was. But you see, I've always felt that Stephen's death was the thing that occurred to Paul on the road to Damascus, and sent him to preach the word of Christ all over the world." "Go on." "That's all--this is my particular duty. Even if right now I'm just a pawn--just sacrificed. God! Amory--you don't think I like the Germans!" "Well, I can't say anything else--I get to the end of all the logic about non-resistance, and there, like an excluded middle, stands the huge spectre of man as he is and always will be. And this spectre stands right beside the one logical necessity of Tolstoi's, and the other logical necessity of Nietzsche's--" Amory broke off suddenly. "When are you going?" "I'm going next week." "I'll see you, of course." As he walked away it seemed to Amory that the look in his face bore a great resemblance to that in Kerry's when he had said good-by under Blair Arch two years before. Amory wondered unhappily why he could never go into anything with the primal honesty of those two. "Burne's a fanatic," he said to Tom, "and he's dead wrong and, I'm inclined to think, just an unconscious pawn in the hands of anarchistic publishers and German-paid rag wavers--but he haunts me--just leaving everything worth while--" Burne left in a quietly dramatic manner a week later. He sold all his possessions and came down to the room to say good-by, with a battered old bicycle, on which he intended to ride to his home in Pennsylvania. "Peter the Hermit bidding farewell to Cardinal Richelieu," suggested Alec, who was lounging in the window-seat as Burne and Amory shook hands. But Amory was not in a mood for that, and as he saw Burne's long legs propel his ridiculous bicycle out of sight beyond Alexander Hall, he knew he was going to have a bad week. Not that he doubted the war--Germany stood for everything repugnant to him; for materialism and the direction of tremendous licentious force; it was just that Burne's face stayed in his memory and he was sick of the hysteria he was beginning to hear. "What on earth is the use of suddenly running down Goethe," he declared to Alec and Tom. "Why write books to prove he started the war--or that that stupid, overestimated Schiller is a demon in disguise?" "Have you ever read anything of theirs?" asked Tom shrewdly. "No," Amory admitted. "Neither have I," he said laughing. "People will shout," said Alec quietly, "but Goethe's on his same old shelf in the library--to bore any one that wants to read him!" Amory subsided, and the subject dropped. "What are you going to do, Amory?" "Infantry or aviation, I can't make up my mind--I hate mechanics, but then of course aviation's the thing for me--" "I feel as Amory does," said Tom. "Infantry or aviation--aviation sounds like the romantic side of the war, of course--like cavalry used to be, you know; but like Amory I don't know a horse-power from a piston-rod." Somehow Amory's dissatisfaction with his lack of enthusiasm culminated in an attempt to put the blame for the whole war on the ancestors of his generation... all the people who cheered for Germany in 1870.... All the materialists rampant, all the idolizers of German science and efficiency. So he sat one day in an English lecture and heard "Locksley Hall" quoted and fell into a brown study with contempt for Tennyson and all he stood for--for he took him as a representative of the Victorians. Victorians, Victorians, who never learned to weep Who sowed the bitter harvest that your children go to reap-- scribbled Amory in his note-book. The lecturer was saying something about Tennyson's solidity and fifty heads were bent to take notes. Amory turned over to a fresh page and began scrawling again. "They shuddered when they found what Mr. Darwin was about, They shuddered when the waltz came in and Newman hurried out--" But the waltz came in much earlier; he crossed that out. "And entitled A Song in the Time of Order," came the professor's voice, droning far away. "Time of Order"--Good Lord! Everything crammed in the box and the Victorians sitting on the lid smiling serenely.... With Browning in his Italian villa crying bravely: "All's for the best." Amory scribbled again. "You knelt up in the temple and he bent to hear you pray, You thanked him for your 'glorious gains'--reproached him for 'Cathay.'" Why could he never get more than a couplet at a time? Now he needed something to rhyme with: "You would keep Him straight with science, tho He had gone wrong before..." Well, anyway.... "You met your children in your home--'I've fixed it up!' you cried, Took your fifty years of Europe, and then virtuously--died." "That was to a great extent Tennyson's idea," came the lecturer's voice. "Swinburne's Song in the Time of Order might well have been Tennyson's title. He idealized order against chaos, against waste." At last Amory had it. He turned over another page and scrawled vigorously for the twenty minutes that was left of the hour. Then he walked up to the desk and deposited a page torn out of his note-book. "Here's a poem to the Victorians, sir," he said coldly. The professor picked it up curiously while Amory backed rapidly through the door. Here is what he had written: "Songs in the time of order You left for us to sing, Proofs with excluded middles, Answers to life in rhyme, Keys of the prison warder And ancient bells to ring, Time was the end of riddles, We were the end of time... Here were domestic oceans And a sky that we might reach, Guns and a guarded border, Gantlets--but not to fling, Thousands of old emotions And a platitude for each, Songs in the time of order-- And tongues, that we might sing." ***** THE END OF MANY THINGS Early April slipped by in a haze--a haze of long evenings on the club veranda with the graphophone playing "Poor Butterfly" inside... for "Poor Butterfly" had been the song of that last year. The war seemed scarcely to touch them and it might have been one of the senior springs of the past, except for the drilling every other afternoon, yet Amory realized poignantly that this was the last spring under the old regime. "This is the great protest against the superman," said Amory. "I suppose so," Alec agreed. "He's absolutely irreconcilable with any Utopia. As long as he occurs, there's trouble and all the latent evil that makes a crowd list and sway when he talks." "And of course all that he is is a gifted man without a moral sense." "That's all. I think the worst thing to contemplate is this--it's all happened before, how soon will it happen again? Fifty years after Waterloo Napoleon was as much a hero to English school children as Wellington. How do we know our grandchildren won't idolize Von Hindenburg the same way?" "What brings it about?" "Time, damn it, and the historian. If we could only learn to look on evil as evil, whether it's clothed in filth or monotony or magnificence." "God! Haven't we raked the universe over the coals for four years?" Then the night came that was to be the last. Tom and Amory, bound in the morning for different training-camps, paced the shadowy walks as usual and seemed still to see around them the faces of the men they knew. "The grass is full of ghosts to-night." "The whole campus is alive with them." They paused by Little and watched the moon rise, to make silver of the slate roof of Dodd and blue the rustling trees. "You know," whispered Tom, "what we feel now is the sense of all the gorgeous youth that has rioted through here in two hundred years." A last burst of singing flooded up from Blair Arch--broken voices for some long parting. "And what we leave here is more than this class; it's the whole heritage of youth. We're just one generation--we're breaking all the links that seemed to bind us here to top-booted and high-stocked generations. We've walked arm and arm with Burr and Light-Horse Harry Lee through half these deep-blue nights." "That's what they are," Tom tangented off, "deep blue--a bit of color would spoil them, make them exotic. Spires, against a sky that's a promise of dawn, and blue light on the slate roofs--it hurts... rather--" "Good-by, Aaron Burr," Amory called toward deserted Nassau Hall, "you and I knew strange corners of life." His voice echoed in the stillness. "The torches are out," whispered Tom. "Ah, Messalina, the long shadows are building minarets on the stadium--" For an instant the voices of freshman year surged around them and then they looked at each other with faint tears in their eyes. "Damn!" "Damn!" The last light fades and drifts across the land--the low, long land, the sunny land of spires; the ghosts of evening tune again their lyres and wander singing in a plaintive band down the long corridors of trees; pale fires echo the night from tower top to tower: Oh, sleep that dreams, and dream that never tires, press from the petals of the lotus flower something of this to keep, the essence of an hour. No more to wait the twilight of the moon in this sequestered vale of star and spire, for one eternal morning of desire passes to time and earthy afternoon. Here, Heraclitus, did you find in fire and shifting things the prophecy you hurled down the dead years; this midnight my desire will see, shadowed among the embers, furled in flame, the splendor and the sadness of the world. INTERLUDE May, 1917-February, 1919 A letter dated January, 1918, written by Monsignor Darcy to Amory, who is a second lieutenant in the 171st Infantry, Port of Embarkation, Camp Mills, Long Island. MY DEAR BOY: All you need tell me of yourself is that you still are; for the rest I merely search back in a restive memory, a thermometer that records only fevers, and match you with what I was at your age. But men will chatter and you and I will still shout our futilities to each other across the stage until the last silly curtain falls _plump!_ upon our bobbing heads. But you are starting the spluttering magic-lantern show of life with much the same array of slides as I had, so I need to write you if only to shriek the colossal stupidity of people.... This is the end of one thing: for better or worse you will never again be quite the Amory Blaine that I knew, never again will we meet as we have met, because your generation is growing hard, much harder than mine ever grew, nourished as they were on the stuff of the nineties. Amory, lately I reread Aeschylus and there in the divine irony of the "Agamemnon" I find the only answer to this bitter age--all the world tumbled about our ears, and the closest parallel ages back in that hopeless resignation. There are times when I think of the men out there as Roman legionaries, miles from their corrupt city, stemming back the hordes... hordes a little more menacing, after all, than the corrupt city... another blind blow at the race, furies that we passed with ovations years ago, over whose corpses we bleated triumphantly all through the Victorian era.... And afterward an out-and-out materialistic world--and the Catholic Church. I wonder where you'll fit in. Of one thing I'm sure--Celtic you'll live and Celtic you'll die; so if you don't use heaven as a continual referendum for your ideas you'll find earth a continual recall to your ambitions. Amory, I've discovered suddenly that I'm an old man. Like all old men, I've had dreams sometimes and I'm going to tell you of them. I've enjoyed imagining that you were my son, that perhaps when I was young I went into a state of coma and begat you, and when I came to, had no recollection of it... it's the paternal instinct, Amory--celibacy goes deeper than the flesh.... Sometimes I think that the explanation of our deep resemblance is some common ancestor, and I find that the only blood that the Darcys and the O'Haras have in common is that of the O'Donahues... Stephen was his name, I think.... When the lightning strikes one of us it strikes both: you had hardly arrived at the port of embarkation when I got my papers to start for Rome, and I am waiting every moment to be told where to take ship. Even before you get this letter I shall be on the ocean; then will come your turn. You went to war as a gentleman should, just as you went to school and college, because it was the thing to do. It's better to leave the blustering and tremulo-heroism to the middle classes; they do it so much better. Do you remember that week-end last March when you brought Burne Holiday from Princeton to see me? What a magnificent boy he is! It gave me a frightful shock afterward when you wrote that he thought me splendid; how could he be so deceived? Splendid is the one thing that neither you nor I are. We are many other things--we're extraordinary, we're clever, we could be said, I suppose, to be brilliant. We can attract people, we can make atmosphere, we can almost lose our Celtic souls in Celtic subtleties, we can almost always have our own way; but splendid--rather not! I am going to Rome with a wonderful dossier and letters of introduction that cover every capital in Europe, and there will be "no small stir" when I get there. How I wish you were with me! This sounds like a rather cynical paragraph, not at all the sort of thing that a middle-aged clergyman should write to a youth about to depart for the war; the only excuse is that the middle-aged clergyman is talking to himself. There are deep things in us and you know what they are as well as I do. We have great faith, though yours at present is uncrystallized; we have a terrible honesty that all our sophistry cannot destroy and, above all, a childlike simplicity that keeps us from ever being really malicious. I have written a keen for you which follows. I am sorry your cheeks are not up to the description I have written of them, but you _will_ smoke and read all night-- At any rate here it is: A Lament for a Foster Son, and He going to the War Against the King of Foreign. "Ochone He is gone from me the son of my mind And he in his golden youth like Angus Oge Angus of the bright birds And his mind strong and subtle like the mind of Cuchulin on Muirtheme. Awirra sthrue His brow is as white as the milk of the cows of Maeve And his cheeks like the cherries of the tree And it bending down to Mary and she feeding the Son of God. Aveelia Vrone His hair is like the golden collar of the Kings at Tara And his eyes like the four gray seas of Erin. And they swept with the mists of rain. Mavrone go Gudyo He to be in the joyful and red battle Amongst the chieftains and they doing great deeds of valor His life to go from him It is the chords of my own soul would be loosed. A Vich Deelish My heart is in the heart of my son And my life is in his life surely A man can be twice young In the life of his sons only. Jia du Vaha Alanav May the Son of God be above him and beneath him, before him and behind him May the King of the elements cast a mist over the eyes of the King of Foreign, May the Queen of the Graces lead him by the hand the way he can go through the midst of his enemies and they not seeing him May Patrick of the Gael and Collumb of the Churches and the five thousand Saints of Erin be better than a shield to him And he got into the fight. Och Ochone." Amory--Amory--I feel, somehow, that this is all; one or both of us is not going to last out this war.... I've been trying to tell you how much this reincarnation of myself in you has meant in the last few years... curiously alike we are... curiously unlike. Good-by, dear boy, and God be with you. THAYER DARCY. ***** EMBARKING AT NIGHT Amory moved forward on the deck until he found a stool under an electric light. He searched in his pocket for note-book and pencil and then began to write, slowly, laboriously: "We leave to-night... Silent, we filled the still, deserted street, A column of dim gray, And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat Along the moonless way; The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet That turned from night and day. And so we linger on the windless decks, See on the spectre shore Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks... Oh, shall we then deplore Those futile years! See how the sea is white! The clouds have broken and the heavens burn To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light The churning of the waves about the stern Rises to one voluminous nocturne, ... We leave to-night." A letter from Amory, headed "Brest, March 11th, 1919," to Lieutenant T. P. D'Invilliers, Camp Gordon, Ga. DEAR BAUDELAIRE:-- We meet in Manhattan on the 30th of this very mo. ; we then proceed to take a very sporty apartment, you and I and Alec, who is at me elbow as I write. I don't know what I'm going to do but I have a vague dream of going into politics. Why is it that the pick of the young Englishmen from Oxford and Cambridge go into politics and in the U. S. A. we leave it to the muckers?--raised in the ward, educated in the assembly and sent to Congress, fat-paunched bundles of corruption, devoid of "both ideas and ideals" as the debaters used to say. Even forty years ago we had good men in politics, but we, we are brought up to pile up a million and "show what we are made of." Sometimes I wish I'd been an Englishman; American life is so damned dumb and stupid and healthy. Since poor Beatrice died I'll probably have a little money, but very darn little. I can forgive mother almost everything except the fact that in a sudden burst of religiosity toward the end, she left half of what remained to be spent in stained-glass windows and seminary endowments. Mr. Barton, my lawyer, writes me that my thousands are mostly in street railways and that the said Street R.R. s are losing money because of the five-cent fares. Imagine a salary list that gives $350 a month to a man that can't read and write!--yet I believe in it, even though I've seen what was once a sizable fortune melt away between speculation, extravagance, the democratic administration, and the income tax--modern, that's me all over, Mabel. At any rate we'll have really knock-out rooms--you can get a job on some fashion magazine, and Alec can go into the Zinc Company or whatever it is that his people own--he's looking over my shoulder and he says it's a brass company, but I don't think it matters much, do you? There's probably as much corruption in zinc-made money as brass-made money. As for the well-known Amory, he would write immortal literature if he were sure enough about anything to risk telling any one else about it. There is no more dangerous gift to posterity than a few cleverly turned platitudes. Tom, why don't you become a Catholic? Of course to be a good one you'd have to give up those violent intrigues you used to tell me about, but you'd write better poetry if you were linked up to tall golden candlesticks and long, even chants, and even if the American priests are rather burgeois, as Beatrice used to say, still you need only go to the sporty churches, and I'll introduce you to Monsignor Darcy who really is a wonder. Kerry's death was a blow, so was Jesse's to a certain extent. And I have a great curiosity to know what queer corner of the world has swallowed Burne. Do you suppose he's in prison under some false name? I confess that the war instead of making me orthodox, which is the correct reaction, has made me a passionate agnostic. The Catholic Church has had its wings clipped so often lately that its part was timidly negligible, and they haven't any good writers any more. I'm sick of Chesterton. I've only discovered one soldier who passed through the much-advertised spiritual crisis, like this fellow, Donald Hankey, and the one I knew was already studying for the ministry, so he was ripe for it. I honestly think that's all pretty much rot, though it seemed to give sentimental comfort to those at home; and may make fathers and mothers appreciate their children. This crisis-inspired religion is rather valueless and fleeting at best. I think four men have discovered Paris to one that discovered God. But us--you and me and Alec--oh, we'll get a Jap butler and dress for dinner and have wine on the table and lead a contemplative, emotionless life until we decide to use machine-guns with the property owners--or throw bombs with the Bolshevik God! Tom, I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic. The place at Lake Geneva is now for rent but when I land I'm going West to see Mr. Barton and get some details. Write me care of the Blackstone, Chicago. S'ever, dear Boswell, SAMUEL JOHNSON. BOOK TWO--The Education of a Personage CHAPTER 1. The Debutante The time is February. The place is a large, dainty bedroom in the Connage house on Sixty-eighth Street, New York. A girl's room: pink walls and curtains and a pink bedspread on a cream-colored bed. Pink and cream are the motifs of the room, but the only article of furniture in full view is a luxurious dressing-table with a glass top and a three-sided mirror. On the walls there is an expensive print of "Cherry Ripe," a few polite dogs by Landseer, and the "King of the Black Isles," by Maxfield Parrish. Great disorder consisting of the following items: (1) seven or eight empty cardboard boxes, with tissue-paper tongues hanging panting from their mouths; (2) an assortment of street dresses mingled with their sisters of the evening, all upon the table, all evidently new; (3) a roll of tulle, which has lost its dignity and wound itself tortuously around everything in sight, and (4) upon the two small chairs, a collection of lingerie that beggars description. One would enjoy seeing the bill called forth by the finery displayed and one is possessed by a desire to see the princess for whose benefit--Look! There's some one! Disappointment! This is only a maid hunting for something--she lifts a heap from a chair--Not there; another heap, the dressing-table, the chiffonier drawers. She brings to light several beautiful chemises and an amazing pajama but this does not satisfy her--she goes out. An indistinguishable mumble from the next room. Now, we are getting warm. This is Alec's mother, Mrs. Connage, ample, dignified, rouged to the dowager point and quite worn out. Her lips move significantly as she looks for IT. Her search is less thorough than the maid's but there is a touch of fury in it, that quite makes up for its sketchiness. She stumbles on the tulle and her "damn" is quite audible. She retires, empty-handed. More chatter outside and a girl's voice, a very spoiled voice, says: "Of all the stupid people--" After a pause a third seeker enters, not she of the spoiled voice, but a younger edition. This is Cecelia Connage, sixteen, pretty, shrewd, and constitutionally good-humored. She is dressed for the evening in a gown the obvious simplicity of which probably bores her. She goes to the nearest pile, selects a small pink garment and holds it up appraisingly. CECELIA: Pink? ROSALIND: (Outside) Yes! CECELIA: _Very_ snappy? ROSALIND: Yes! CECELIA: I've got it! (She sees herself in the mirror of the dressing-table and commences to shimmy enthusiastically.) ROSALIND: (Outside) What are you doing--trying it on? (CECELIA ceases and goes out carrying the garment at the right shoulder. From the other door, enters ALEC CONNAGE. He looks around quickly and in a huge voice shouts: Mama! There is a chorus of protest from next door and encouraged he starts toward it, but is repelled by another chorus.) ALEC: So _that's_ where you all are! Amory Blaine is here. CECELIA: (Quickly) Take him down-stairs. ALEC: Oh, he _is_ down-stairs. MRS. CONNAGE: Well, you can show him where his room is. Tell him I'm sorry that I can't meet him now. ALEC: He's heard a lot about you all. I wish you'd hurry. Father's telling him all about the war and he's restless. He's sort of temperamental. (This last suffices to draw CECELIA into the room.) CECELIA: (Seating herself high upon lingerie) How do you mean--temperamental? You used to say that about him in letters. ALEC: Oh, he writes stuff. CECELIA: Does he play the piano? ALEC: Don't think so. CECELIA: (Speculatively) Drink? ALEC: Yes--nothing queer about him. CECELIA: Money? ALEC: Good Lord--ask him, he used to have a lot, and he's got some income now. (MRS. CONNAGE appears.) MRS. CONNAGE: Alec, of course we're glad to have any friend of yours-- ALEC: You certainly ought to meet Amory. MRS. CONNAGE: Of course, I want to. But I think it's so childish of you to leave a perfectly good home to go and live with two other boys in some impossible apartment. I hope it isn't in order that you can all drink as much as you want. (She pauses.) He'll be a little neglected to-night. This is Rosalind's week, you see. When a girl comes out, she needs _all_ the attention. ROSALIND: (Outside) Well, then, prove it by coming here and hooking me. (MRS. CONNAGE goes.) ALEC: Rosalind hasn't changed a bit. CECELIA: (In a lower tone) She's awfully spoiled. ALEC: She'll meet her match to-night. CECELIA: Who--Mr. Amory Blaine? (ALEC nods.) CECELIA: Well, Rosalind has still to meet the man she can't outdistance. Honestly, Alec, she treats men terribly. She abuses them and cuts them and breaks dates with them and yawns in their faces--and they come back for more. ALEC: They love it. CECELIA: They hate it. She's a--she's a sort of vampire, I think--and she can make girls do what she wants usually--only she hates girls. ALEC: Personality runs in our family. CECELIA: (Resignedly) I guess it ran out before it got to me. ALEC: Does Rosalind behave herself? CECELIA: Not particularly well. Oh, she's average--smokes sometimes, drinks punch, frequently kissed--Oh, yes--common knowledge--one of the effects of the war, you know. (Emerges MRS. CONNAGE.) MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind's almost finished so I can go down and meet your friend. (ALEC and his mother go out.) ROSALIND: (Outside) Oh, mother-- CECELIA: Mother's gone down. (And now ROSALIND enters. ROSALIND is--utterly ROSALIND. She is one of those girls who need never make the slightest effort to have men fall in love with them. Two types of men seldom do: dull men are usually afraid of her cleverness and intellectual men are usually afraid of her beauty. All others are hers by natural prerogative. If ROSALIND could be spoiled the process would have been complete by this time, and as a matter of fact, her disposition is not all it should be; she wants what she wants when she wants it and she is prone to make every one around her pretty miserable when she doesn't get it--but in the true sense she is not spoiled. Her fresh enthusiasm, her will to grow and learn, her endless faith in the inexhaustibility of romance, her courage and fundamental honesty--these things are not spoiled. There are long periods when she cordially loathes her whole family. She is quite unprincipled; her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others. She loves shocking stories: she has that coarse streak that usually goes with natures that are both fine and big. She wants people to like her, but if they do not it never worries her or changes her. She is by no means a model character. The education of all beautiful women is the knowledge of men. ROSALIND had been disappointed in man after man as individuals, but she had great faith in man as a sex. Women she detested. They represented qualities that she felt and despised in herself--incipient meanness, conceit, cowardice, and petty dishonesty. She once told a roomful of her mother's friends that the only excuse for women was the necessity for a disturbing element among men. She danced exceptionally well, drew cleverly but hastily, and had a startling facility with words, which she used only in love-letters. But all criticism of ROSALIND ends in her beauty. There was that shade of glorious yellow hair, the desire to imitate which supports the dye industry. There was the eternal kissable mouth, small, slightly sensual, and utterly disturbing. There were gray eyes and an unimpeachable skin with two spots of vanishing color. She was slender and athletic, without underdevelopment, and it was a delight to watch her move about a room, walk along a street, swing a golf club, or turn a "cartwheel." A last qualification--her vivid, instant personality escaped that conscious, theatrical quality that AMORY had found in ISABELLE. MONSIGNOR DARCY would have been quite up a tree whether to call her a personality or a personage. She was perhaps the delicious, inexpressible, once-in-a-century blend. On the night of her debut she is, for all her strange, stray wisdom, quite like a happy little girl. Her mother's maid has just done her hair, but she has decided impatiently that she can do a better job herself. She is too nervous just now to stay in one place. To that we owe her presence in this littered room. She is going to speak. ISABELLE'S alto tones had been like a violin, but if you could hear ROSALIND, you would say her voice was musical as a waterfall.) ROSALIND: Honestly, there are only two costumes in the world that I really enjoy being in--(Combing her hair at the dressing-table.) One's a hoop skirt with pantaloons; the other's a one-piece bathing-suit. I'm quite charming in both of them. CECELIA: Glad you're coming out? ROSALIND: Yes; aren't you? CECELIA: (Cynically) You're glad so you can get married and live on Long Island with the _fast younger married set_. You want life to be a chain of flirtation with a man for every link. ROSALIND: _Want_ it to be one! You mean I've _found_ it one. CECELIA: Ha! ROSALIND: Cecelia, darling, you don't know what a trial it is to be--like me. I've got to keep my face like steel in the street to keep men from winking at me. If I laugh hard from a front row in the theatre, the comedian plays to me for the rest of the evening. If I drop my voice, my eyes, my handkerchief at a dance, my partner calls me up on the 'phone every day for a week. CECELIA: It must be an awful strain. ROSALIND: The unfortunate part is that the only men who interest me at all are the totally ineligible ones. Now--if I were poor I'd go on the stage. CECELIA: Yes, you might as well get paid for the amount of acting you do. ROSALIND: Sometimes when I've felt particularly radiant I've thought, why should this be wasted on one man? CECELIA: Often when you're particularly sulky, I've wondered why it should all be wasted on just one family. (Getting up.) I think I'll go down and meet Mr. Amory Blaine. I like temperamental men. ROSALIND: There aren't any. Men don't know how to be really angry or really happy--and the ones that do, go to pieces. CECELIA: Well, I'm glad I don't have all your worries. I'm engaged. ROSALIND: (With a scornful smile) Engaged? Why, you little lunatic! If mother heard you talking like that she'd send you off to boarding-school, where you belong. CECELIA: You won't tell her, though, because I know things I could tell--and you're too selfish! ROSALIND: (A little annoyed) Run along, little girl! Who are you engaged to, the iceman? the man that keeps the candy-store? CECELIA: Cheap wit--good-by, darling, I'll see you later. ROSALIND: Oh, be _sure_ and do that--you're such a help. (Exit CECELIA. ROSALIND finished her hair and rises, humming. She goes up to the mirror and starts to dance in front of it on the soft carpet. She watches not her feet, but her eyes--never casually but always intently, even when she smiles. The door suddenly opens and then slams behind AMORY, very cool and handsome as usual. He melts into instant confusion.) HE: Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-- SHE: (Smiling radiantly) Oh, you're Amory Blaine, aren't you? HE: (Regarding her closely) And you're Rosalind? SHE: I'm going to call you Amory--oh, come in--it's all right--mother'll be right in--(under her breath) unfortunately. HE: (Gazing around) This is sort of a new wrinkle for me. SHE: This is No Man's Land. HE: This is where you--you--(pause) SHE: Yes--all those things. (She crosses to the bureau.) See, here's my rouge--eye pencils. HE: I didn't know you were that way. SHE: What did you expect? HE: I thought you'd be sort of--sort of--sexless, you know, swim and play golf. SHE: Oh, I do--but not in business hours. HE: Business? SHE: Six to two--strictly. HE: I'd like to have some stock in the corporation. SHE: Oh, it's not a corporation--it's just "Rosalind, Unlimited." Fifty-one shares, name, good-will, and everything goes at $25,000 a year. HE: (Disapprovingly) Sort of a chilly proposition. SHE: Well, Amory, you don't mind--do you? When I meet a man that doesn't bore me to death after two weeks, perhaps it'll be different. HE: Odd, you have the same point of view on men that I have on women. SHE: I'm not really feminine, you know--in my mind. HE: (Interested) Go on. SHE: No, you--you go on--you've made me talk about myself. That's against the rules. HE: Rules? SHE: My own rules--but you--Oh, Amory, I hear you're brilliant. The family expects _so_ much of you. HE: How encouraging! SHE: Alec said you'd taught him to think. Did you? I didn't believe any one could. HE: No. I'm really quite dull. (He evidently doesn't intend this to be taken seriously.) SHE: Liar. HE: I'm--I'm religious--I'm literary. I've--I've even written poems. SHE: Vers libre--splendid! (She declaims.) "The trees are green, The birds are singing in the trees, The girl sips her poison The bird flies away the girl dies." HE: (Laughing) No, not that kind. SHE: (Suddenly) I like you. HE: Don't. SHE: Modest too-- HE: I'm afraid of you. I'm always afraid of a girl--until I've kissed her. SHE: (Emphatically) My dear boy, the war is over. HE: So I'll always be afraid of you. SHE: (Rather sadly) I suppose you will. (A slight hesitation on both their parts.) HE: (After due consideration) Listen. This is a frightful thing to ask. SHE: (Knowing what's coming) After five minutes. HE: But will you--kiss me? Or are you afraid? SHE: I'm never afraid--but your reasons are so poor. HE: Rosalind, I really _want_ to kiss you. SHE: So do I. (They kiss--definitely and thoroughly.) HE: (After a breathless second) Well, is your curiosity satisfied? SHE: Is yours? HE: No, it's only aroused. (He looks it.) SHE: (Dreamily) I've kissed dozens of men. I suppose I'll kiss dozens more. HE: (Abstractedly) Yes, I suppose you could--like that. SHE: Most people like the way I kiss. HE: (Remembering himself) Good Lord, yes. Kiss me once more, Rosalind. SHE: No--my curiosity is generally satisfied at one. HE: (Discouraged) Is that a rule? SHE: I make rules to fit the cases. HE: You and I are somewhat alike--except that I'm years older in experience. SHE: How old are you? HE: Almost twenty-three. You? SHE: Nineteen--just. HE: I suppose you're the product of a fashionable school. SHE: No--I'm fairly raw material. I was expelled from Spence--I've forgotten why. HE: What's your general trend? SHE: Oh, I'm bright, quite selfish, emotional when aroused, fond of admiration-- HE: (Suddenly) I don't want to fall in love with you-- SHE: (Raising her eyebrows) Nobody asked you to. HE: (Continuing coldly) But I probably will. I love your mouth. SHE: Hush! Please don't fall in love with my mouth--hair, eyes, shoulders, slippers--but _not_ my mouth. Everybody falls in love with my mouth. HE: It's quite beautiful. SHE: It's too small. HE: No it isn't--let's see. (He kisses her again with the same thoroughness.) SHE: (Rather moved) Say something sweet. HE: (Frightened) Lord help me. SHE: (Drawing away) Well, don't--if it's so hard. HE: Shall we pretend? So soon? SHE: We haven't the same standards of time as other people. HE: Already it's--other people. SHE: Let's pretend. HE: No--I can't--it's sentiment. SHE: You're not sentimental? HE: No, I'm romantic--a sentimental person thinks things will last--a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't. Sentiment is emotional. SHE: And you're not? (With her eyes half-closed.) You probably flatter yourself that that's a superior attitude. HE: Well--Rosalind, Rosalind, don't argue--kiss me again. SHE: (Quite chilly now) No--I have no desire to kiss you. HE: (Openly taken aback) You wanted to kiss me a minute ago. SHE: This is now. HE: I'd better go. SHE: I suppose so. (He goes toward the door.) SHE: Oh! (He turns.) SHE: (Laughing) Score--Home Team: One hundred--Opponents: Zero. (He starts back.) SHE: (Quickly) Rain--no game. (He goes out.) (She goes quietly to the chiffonier, takes out a cigarette-case and hides it in the side drawer of a desk. Her mother enters, note-book in hand.) MRS. CONNAGE: Good--I've been wanting to speak to you alone before we go down-stairs. ROSALIND: Heavens! you frighten me! MRS. CONNAGE: Rosalind, you've been a very expensive proposition. ROSALIND: (Resignedly) Yes. MRS. CONNAGE: And you know your father hasn't what he once had. ROSALIND: (Making a wry face) Oh, please don't talk about money. MRS. CONNAGE: You can't do anything without it. This is our last year in this house--and unless things change Cecelia won't have the advantages you've had. ROSALIND: (Impatiently) Well--what is it? MRS. CONNAGE: So I ask you to please mind me in several things I've put down in my note-book. The first one is: don't disappear with young men. There may be a time when it's valuable, but at present I want you on the dance-floor where I can find you. There are certain men I want to have you meet and I don't like finding you in some corner of the conservatory exchanging silliness with any one--or listening to it. ROSALIND: (Sarcastically) Yes, listening to it _is_ better. MRS. CONNAGE: And don't waste a lot of time with the college set--little boys nineteen and twenty years old. I don't mind a prom or a football game, but staying away from advantageous parties to eat in little cafes down-town with Tom, Dick, and Harry-- ROSALIND: (Offering her code, which is, in its way, quite as high as her mother's) Mother, it's done--you can't run everything now the way you did in the early nineties. MRS. CONNAGE: (Paying no attention) There are several bachelor friends of your father's that I want you to meet to-night--youngish men. ROSALIND: (Nodding wisely) About forty-five? MRS. CONNAGE: (Sharply) Why not? ROSALIND: Oh, _quite_ all right--they know life and are so adorably tired looking (shakes her head)--but they _will_ dance. MRS. CONNAGE: I haven't met Mr. Blaine--but I don't think you'll care for him. He doesn't sound like a money-maker. ROSALIND: Mother, I never _think_ about money. MRS. CONNAGE: You never keep it long enough to think about it. ROSALIND: (Sighs) Yes, I suppose some day I'll marry a ton of it--out of sheer boredom. MRS. CONNAGE: (Referring to note-book) I had a wire from Hartford. Dawson Ryder is coming up. Now there's a young man I like, and he's floating in money. It seems to me that since you seem tired of Howard Gillespie you might give Mr. Ryder some encouragement. This is the third time he's been up in a month. ROSALIND: How did you know I was tired of Howard Gillespie? MRS. CONNAGE: The poor boy looks so miserable every time he comes. ROSALIND: That was one of those romantic, pre-battle affairs. They're all wrong. MRS. CONNAGE: (Her say said) At any rate, make us proud of you to-night. ROSALIND: Don't you think I'm beautiful? MRS. CONNAGE: You know you are. (From down-stairs is heard the moan of a violin being tuned, the roll of a drum. MRS. CONNAGE turns quickly to her daughter.) MRS. CONNAGE: Come! ROSALIND: One minute! (Her mother leaves. ROSALIND goes to the glass where she gazes at herself with great satisfaction. She kisses her hand and touches her mirrored mouth with it. Then she turns out the lights and leaves the room. A few chords from the piano, the discreet patter of faint drums, the rustle of new silk, all blend on the staircase outside and drift in through the partly opened door. Bundled figures pass in the lighted hall. The laughter heard below becomes doubled and multiplied. Then some one comes in, closes the door, and switches on the lights. It is CECELIA. She goes to the chiffonier, looks in the drawers, hesitates--then to the desk whence she takes the cigarette-case and extracts one. She lights it and then, puffing and blowing, walks toward the mirror.) CECELIA: (In tremendously sophisticated accents) Oh, yes, coming out is _such_ a farce nowadays, you know. One really plays around so much before one is seventeen, that it's positively anticlimax. (Shaking hands with a visionary middle-aged nobleman.) Yes, your grace--I b'lieve I've heard my sister speak of you. Have a puff--they're very good. They're--they're Coronas. You don't smoke? What a pity! The king doesn't allow it, I suppose. Yes, I'll dance. (So she dances around the room to a tune from down-stairs, her arms outstretched to an imaginary partner, the cigarette waving in her hand.) ***** SEVERAL HOURS LATER The corner of a den down-stairs, filled by a very comfortable leather lounge. A small light is on each side above, and in the middle, over the couch hangs a painting of a very old, very dignified gentleman, period 1860. Outside the music is heard in a fox-trot. ROSALIND is seated on the lounge and on her left is HOWARD GILLESPIE, a vapid youth of about twenty-four. He is obviously very unhappy, and she is quite bored. GILLESPIE: (Feebly) What do you mean I've changed. I feel the same toward you. ROSALIND: But you don't look the same to me. GILLESPIE: Three weeks ago you used to say that you liked me because I was so blas, so indifferent--I still am. ROSALIND: But not about me. I used to like you because you had brown eyes and thin legs. GILLESPIE: (Helplessly) They're still thin and brown. You're a vampire, that's all. ROSALIND: The only thing I know about vamping is what's on the piano score. What confuses men is that I'm perfectly natural. I used to think you were never jealous. Now you follow me with your eyes wherever I go. GILLESPIE: I love you. ROSALIND: (Coldly) I know it. GILLESPIE: And you haven't kissed me for two weeks. I had an idea that after a girl was kissed she was--was--won. ROSALIND: Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me. GILLESPIE: Are you serious? ROSALIND: About as usual. There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there's a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he'd kissed a girl, every one knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same every one knows it's because he can't kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays. GILLESPIE: Then why do you play with men? ROSALIND: (Leaning forward confidentially) For that first moment, when he's interested. There is a moment--Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word--something that makes it worth while. GILLESPIE: And then? ROSALIND: Then after that you make him talk about himself. Pretty soon he thinks of nothing but being alone with you--he sulks, he won't fight, he doesn't want to play--Victory! (Enter DAWSON RYDER, twenty-six, handsome, wealthy, faithful to his own, a bore perhaps, but steady and sure of success.) RYDER: I believe this is my dance, Rosalind. ROSALIND: Well, Dawson, so you recognize me. Now I know I haven't got too much paint on. Mr. Ryder, this is Mr. Gillespie. (They shake hands and GILLESPIE leaves, tremendously downcast.) RYDER: Your party is certainly a success. ROSALIND: Is it--I haven't seen it lately. I'm weary--Do you mind sitting out a minute? RYDER: Mind--I'm delighted. You know I loathe this "rushing" idea. See a girl yesterday, to-day, to-morrow. ROSALIND: Dawson! RYDER: What? ROSALIND: I wonder if you know you love me. RYDER: (Startled) What--Oh--you know you're remarkable! ROSALIND: Because you know I'm an awful proposition. Any one who marries me will have his hands full. I'm mean--mighty mean. RYDER: Oh, I wouldn't say that. ROSALIND: Oh, yes, I am--especially to the people nearest to me. (She rises.) Come, let's go. I've changed my mind and I want to dance. Mother is probably having a fit. (Exeunt. Enter ALEC and CECELIA.) CECELIA: Just my luck to get my own brother for an intermission. ALEC: (Gloomily) I'll go if you want me to. CECELIA: Good heavens, no--with whom would I begin the next dance? (Sighs.) There's no color in a dance since the French officers went back. ALEC: (Thoughtfully) I don't want Amory to fall in love with Rosalind. CECELIA: Why, I had an idea that that was just what you did want. ALEC: I did, but since seeing these girls--I don't know. I'm awfully attached to Amory. He's sensitive and I don't want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn't care about him. CECELIA: He's very good looking. ALEC: (Still thoughtfully) She won't marry him, but a girl doesn't have to marry a man to break his heart. CECELIA: What does it? I wish I knew the secret. ALEC: Why, you cold-blooded little kitty. It's lucky for some that the Lord gave you a pug nose. (Enter MRS. CONNAGE.) MRS. CONNAGE: Where on earth is Rosalind? ALEC: (Brilliantly) Of course you've come to the best people to find out. She'd naturally be with us. MRS. CONNAGE: Her father has marshalled eight bachelor millionaires to meet her. ALEC: You might form a squad and march through the halls. MRS. CONNAGE: I'm perfectly serious--for all I know she may be at the Cocoanut Grove with some football player on the night of her debut. You look left and I'll-- ALEC: (Flippantly) Hadn't you better send the butler through the cellar? MRS. CONNAGE: (Perfectly serious) Oh, you don't think she'd be there? CECELIA: He's only joking, mother. ALEC: Mother had a picture of her tapping a keg of beer with some high hurdler. MRS. CONNAGE: Let's look right away. (They go out. ROSALIND comes in with GILLESPIE.) GILLESPIE: Rosalind--Once more I ask you. Don't you care a blessed thing about me? (AMORY walks in briskly.) AMORY: My dance. ROSALIND: Mr. Gillespie, this is Mr. Blaine. GILLESPIE: I've met Mr. Blaine. From Lake Geneva, aren't you? AMORY: Yes. GILLESPIE: (Desperately) I've been there. It's in the--the Middle West, isn't it? AMORY: (Spicily) Approximately. But I always felt that I'd rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning. GILLESPIE: What! AMORY: Oh, no offense. (GILLESPIE bows and leaves.) ROSALIND: He's too much _people_. AMORY: I was in love with a _people_ once. ROSALIND: So? AMORY: Oh, yes--her name was Isabelle--nothing at all to her except what I read into her. ROSALIND: What happened? AMORY: Finally I convinced her that she was smarter than I was--then she threw me over. Said I was critical and impractical, you know. ROSALIND: What do you mean impractical? AMORY: Oh--drive a car, but can't change a tire. ROSALIND: What are you going to do? AMORY: Can't say--run for President, write-- ROSALIND: Greenwich Village? AMORY: Good heavens, no--I said write--not drink. ROSALIND: I like business men. Clever men are usually so homely. AMORY: I feel as if I'd known you for ages. ROSALIND: Oh, are you going to commence the "pyramid" story? AMORY: No--I was going to make it French. I was Louis XIV and you were one of my--my--(Changing his tone.) Suppose--we fell in love. ROSALIND: I've suggested pretending. AMORY: If we did it would be very big. ROSALIND: Why? AMORY: Because selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves. ROSALIND: (Turning her lips up) Pretend. (Very deliberately they kiss.) AMORY: I can't say sweet things. But you _are_ beautiful. ROSALIND: Not that. AMORY: What then? ROSALIND: (Sadly) Oh, nothing--only I want sentiment, real sentiment--and I never find it. AMORY: I never find anything else in the world--and I loathe it. ROSALIND: It's so hard to find a male to gratify one's artistic taste. (Some one has opened a door and the music of a waltz surges into the room. ROSALIND rises.) ROSALIND: Listen! they're playing "Kiss Me Again." (He looks at her.) AMORY: Well? ROSALIND: Well? AMORY: (Softly--the battle lost) I love you. ROSALIND: I love you--now. (They kiss.) AMORY: Oh, God, what have I done? ROSALIND: Nothing. Oh, don't talk. Kiss me again. AMORY: I don't know why or how, but I love you--from the moment I saw you. ROSALIND: Me too--I--I--oh, to-night's to-night. (Her brother strolls in, starts and then in a loud voice says: "Oh, excuse me," and goes.) ROSALIND: (Her lips scarcely stirring) Don't let me go--I don't care who knows what I do. AMORY: Say it! (They part.) Oh--I am very youthful, thank God--and rather beautiful, thank God--and happy, thank God, thank God--(She pauses and then, in an odd burst of prophecy, adds) Poor Amory! (He kisses her again.) ***** KISMET Within two weeks Amory and Rosalind were deeply and passionately in love. The critical qualities which had spoiled for each of them a dozen romances were dulled by the great wave of emotion that washed over them. "It may be an insane love-affair," she told her anxious mother, "but it's not inane." The wave swept Amory into an advertising agency early in March, where he alternated between astonishing bursts of rather exceptional work and wild dreams of becoming suddenly rich and touring Italy with Rosalind. They were together constantly, for lunch, for dinner, and nearly every evening--always in a sort of breathless hush, as if they feared that any minute the spell would break and drop them out of this paradise of rose and flame. But the spell became a trance, seemed to increase from day to day; they began to talk of marrying in July--in June. All life was transmitted into terms of their love, all experience, all desires, all ambitions, were nullified--their senses of humor crawled into corners to sleep; their former love-affairs seemed faintly laughable and scarcely regretted juvenalia. For the second time in his life Amory had had a complete bouleversement and was hurrying into line with his generation. ***** A LITTLE INTERLUDE Amory wandered slowly up the avenue and thought of the night as inevitably his--the pageantry and carnival of rich dusk and dim streets ... it seemed that he had closed the book of fading harmonies at last and stepped into the sensuous vibrant walks of life. Everywhere these countless lights, this promise of a night of streets and singing--he moved in a half-dream through the crowd as if expecting to meet Rosalind hurrying toward him with eager feet from every corner.... How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. Even his dreams now were faint violins drifting like summer sounds upon the summer air. The room was in darkness except for the faint glow of Tom's cigarette where he lounged by the open window. As the door shut behind him, Amory stood a moment with his back against it. "Hello, Benvenuto Blaine. How went the advertising business to-day?" Amory sprawled on a couch. "I loathed it as usual!" The momentary vision of the bustling agency was displaced quickly by another picture. "My God! She's wonderful!" Tom sighed. "I can't tell you," repeated Amory, "just how wonderful she is. I don't want you to know. I don't want any one to know." Another sigh came from the window--quite a resigned sigh. "She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now." He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid. "Oh, _Golly_, Tom!" ***** BITTER SWEET "Sit like we do," she whispered. He sat in the big chair and held out his arms so that she could nestle inside them. "I knew you'd come to-night," she said softly, "like summer, just when I needed you most... darling... darling..." His lips moved lazily over her face. "You _taste_ so good," he sighed. "How do you mean, lover?" "Oh, just sweet, just sweet..." he held her closer. "Amory," she whispered, "when you're ready for me I'll marry you." "We won't have much at first." "Don't!" she cried. "It hurts when you reproach yourself for what you can't give me. I've got your precious self--and that's enough for me." "Tell me..." "You know, don't you? Oh, you know." "Yes, but I want to hear you say it." "I love you, Amory, with all my heart." "Always, will you?" "All my life--Oh, Amory--" "What?" "I want to belong to you. I want your people to be my people. I want to have your babies." "But I haven't any people." "Don't laugh at me, Amory. Just kiss me." "I'll do what you want," he said. "No, I'll do what _you_ want. We're _you_--not me. Oh, you're so much a part, so much all of me..." He closed his eyes. "I'm so happy that I'm frightened. Wouldn't it be awful if this was--was the high point?..." She looked at him dreamily. "Beauty and love pass, I know.... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses--" "Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony...." "And, Amory, we're beautiful, I know. I'm sure God loves us--" "He loves you. You're his most precious possession." "I'm not his, I'm yours. Amory, I belong to you. For the first time I regret all the other kisses; now I know how much a kiss can mean." Then they would smoke and he would tell her about his day at the office--and where they might live. Sometimes, when he was particularly loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he loved that Rosalind--all Rosalinds--as he had never in the world loved any one else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours. ***** AQUATIC INCIDENT One day Amory and Howard Gillespie meeting by accident down-town took lunch together, and Amory heard a story that delighted him. Gillespie after several cocktails was in a talkative mood; he began by telling Amory that he was sure Rosalind was slightly eccentric. He had gone with her on a swimming party up in Westchester County, and some one mentioned that Annette Kellerman had been there one day on a visit and had dived from the top of a rickety, thirty-foot summer-house. Immediately Rosalind insisted that Howard should climb up with her to see what it looked like. A minute later, as he sat and dangled his feet on the edge, a form shot by him; Rosalind, her arms spread in a beautiful swan dive, had sailed through the air into the clear water. "Of course _I_ had to go, after that--and I nearly killed myself. I thought I was pretty good to even try it. Nobody else in the party tried it. Well, afterward Rosalind had the nerve to ask me why I stooped over when I dove. 'It didn't make it any easier,' she said, 'it just took all the courage out of it.' I ask you, what can a man do with a girl like that? Unnecessary, I call it." Gillespie failed to understand why Amory was smiling delightedly all through lunch. He thought perhaps he was one of these hollow optimists. ***** FIVE WEEKS LATER Again the library of the Connage house. ROSALIND is alone, sitting on the lounge staring very moodily and unhappily at nothing. She has changed perceptibly--she is a trifle thinner for one thing; the light in her eyes is not so bright; she looks easily a year older. Her mother comes in, muffled in an opera-cloak. She takes in ROSALIND with a nervous glance. MRS. CONNAGE: Who is coming to-night? (ROSALIND fails to hear her, at least takes no notice.) MRS. CONNAGE: Alec is coming up to take me to this Barrie play, "Et tu, Brutus." (She perceives that she is talking to herself.) Rosalind! I asked you who is coming to-night? ROSALIND: (Starting) Oh--what--oh--Amory-- MRS. CONNAGE: (Sarcastically) You have so _many_ admirers lately that I couldn't imagine _which_ one. (ROSALIND doesn't answer.) Dawson Ryder is more patient than I thought he'd be. You haven't given him an evening this week. ROSALIND: (With a very weary expression that is quite new to her face.) Mother--please-- MRS. CONNAGE: Oh, _I_ won't interfere. You've already wasted over two months on a theoretical genius who hasn't a penny to his name, but _go_ ahead, waste your life on him. _I_ won't interfere. ROSALIND: (As if repeating a tiresome lesson) You know he has a little income--and you know he's earning thirty-five dollars a week in advertising-- MRS. CONNAGE: And it wouldn't buy your clothes. (She pauses but ROSALIND makes no reply.) I have your best interests at heart when I tell you not to take a step you'll spend your days regretting. It's not as if your father could help you. Things have been hard for him lately and he's an old man. You'd be dependent absolutely on a dreamer, a nice, well-born boy, but a dreamer--merely _clever_. (She implies that this quality in itself is rather vicious.) ROSALIND: For heaven's sake, mother-- (A maid appears, announces Mr. Blaine who follows immediately. AMORY'S friends have been telling him for ten days that he "looks like the wrath of God," and he does. As a matter of fact he has not been able to eat a mouthful in the last thirty-six hours.) AMORY: Good evening, Mrs. Connage. MRS. CONNAGE: (Not unkindly) Good evening, Amory. (AMORY and ROSALIND exchange glances--and ALEC comes in. ALEC'S attitude throughout has been neutral. He believes in his heart that the marriage would make AMORY mediocre and ROSALIND miserable, but he feels a great sympathy for both of them.) ALEC: Hi, Amory! AMORY: Hi, Alec! Tom said he'd meet you at the theatre. ALEC: Yeah, just saw him. How's the advertising to-day? Write some brilliant copy? AMORY: Oh, it's about the same. I got a raise--(Every one looks at him rather eagerly)--of two dollars a week. (General collapse.) MRS. CONNAGE: Come, Alec, I hear the car. (A good night, rather chilly in sections. After MRS. CONNAGE and ALEC go out there is a pause. ROSALIND still stares moodily at the fireplace. AMORY goes to her and puts his arm around her.) AMORY: Darling girl. (They kiss. Another pause and then she seizes his hand, covers it with kisses and holds it to her breast.) ROSALIND: (Sadly) I love your hands, more than anything. I see them often when you're away from me--so tired; I know every line of them. Dear hands! (Their eyes meet for a second and then she begins to cry--a tearless sobbing.) AMORY: Rosalind! ROSALIND: Oh, we're so darned pitiful! AMORY: Rosalind! ROSALIND: Oh, I want to die! AMORY: Rosalind, another night of this and I'll go to pieces. You've been this way four days now. You've got to be more encouraging or I can't work or eat or sleep. (He looks around helplessly as if searching for new words to clothe an old, shopworn phrase.) We'll have to make a start. I like having to make a start together. (His forced hopefulness fades as he sees her unresponsive.) What's the matter? (He gets up suddenly and starts to pace the floor.) It's Dawson Ryder, that's what it is. He's been working on your nerves. You've been with him every afternoon for a week. People come and tell me they've seen you together, and I have to smile and nod and pretend it hasn't the slightest significance for me. And you won't tell me anything as it develops. ROSALIND: Amory, if you don't sit down I'll scream. AMORY: (Sitting down suddenly beside her) Oh, Lord. ROSALIND: (Taking his hand gently) You know I love you, don't you? AMORY: Yes. ROSALIND: You know I'll always love you-- AMORY: Don't talk that way; you frighten me. It sounds as if we weren't going to have each other. (She cries a little and rising from the couch goes to the armchair.) I've felt all afternoon that things were worse. I nearly went wild down at the office--couldn't write a line. Tell me everything. ROSALIND: There's nothing to tell, I say. I'm just nervous. AMORY: Rosalind, you're playing with the idea of marrying Dawson Ryder. ROSALIND: (After a pause) He's been asking me to all day. AMORY: Well, he's got his nerve! ROSALIND: (After another pause) I like him. AMORY: Don't say that. It hurts me. ROSALIND: Don't be a silly idiot. You know you're the only man I've ever loved, ever will love. AMORY: (Quickly) Rosalind, let's get married--next week. ROSALIND: We can't. AMORY: Why not? ROSALIND: Oh, we can't. I'd be your squaw--in some horrible place. AMORY: We'll have two hundred and seventy-five dollars a month all told. ROSALIND: Darling, I don't even do my own hair, usually. AMORY: I'll do it for you. ROSALIND: (Between a laugh and a sob) Thanks. AMORY: Rosalind, you _can't_ be thinking of marrying some one else. Tell me! You leave me in the dark. I can help you fight it out if you'll only tell me. ROSALIND: It's just--us. We're pitiful, that's all. The very qualities I love you for are the ones that will always make you a failure. AMORY: (Grimly) Go on. ROSALIND: Oh--it _is_ Dawson Ryder. He's so reliable, I almost feel that he'd be a--a background. AMORY: You don't love him. ROSALIND: I know, but I respect him, and he's a good man and a strong one. AMORY: (Grudgingly) Yes--he's that. ROSALIND: Well--here's one little thing. There was a little poor boy we met in Rye Tuesday afternoon--and, oh, Dawson took him on his lap and talked to him and promised him an Indian suit--and next day he remembered and bought it--and, oh, it was so sweet and I couldn't help thinking he'd be so nice to--to our children--take care of them--and I wouldn't have to worry. AMORY: (In despair) Rosalind! Rosalind! ROSALIND: (With a faint roguishness) Don't look so consciously suffering. AMORY: What power we have of hurting each other! ROSALIND: (Commencing to sob again) It's been so perfect--you and I. So like a dream that I'd longed for and never thought I'd find. The first real unselfishness I've ever felt in my life. And I can't see it fade out in a colorless atmosphere! AMORY: It won't--it won't! ROSALIND: I'd rather keep it as a beautiful memory--tucked away in my heart. AMORY: Yes, women can do that--but not men. I'd remember always, not the beauty of it while it lasted, but just the bitterness, the long bitterness. ROSALIND: Don't! AMORY: All the years never to see you, never to kiss you, just a gate shut and barred--you don't dare be my wife. ROSALIND: No--no--I'm taking the hardest course, the strongest course. Marrying you would be a failure and I never fail--if you don't stop walking up and down I'll scream! (Again he sinks despairingly onto the lounge.) AMORY: Come over here and kiss me. ROSALIND: No. AMORY: Don't you _want_ to kiss me? ROSALIND: To-night I want you to love me calmly and coolly. AMORY: The beginning of the end. ROSALIND: (With a burst of insight) Amory, you're young. I'm young. People excuse us now for our poses and vanities, for treating people like Sancho and yet getting away with it. They excuse us now. But you've got a lot of knocks coming to you-- AMORY: And you're afraid to take them with me. ROSALIND: No, not that. There was a poem I read somewhere--you'll say Ella Wheeler Wilcox and laugh--but listen: "For this is wisdom--to love and live, To take what fate or the gods may give, To ask no question, to make no prayer, To kiss the lips and caress the hair, Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow, To have and to hold, and, in time--let go." AMORY: But we haven't had. ROSALIND: Amory, I'm yours--you know it. There have been times in the last month I'd have been completely yours if you'd said so. But I can't marry you and ruin both our lives. AMORY: We've got to take our chance for happiness. ROSALIND: Dawson says I'd learn to love him. (AMORY with his head sunk in his hands does not move. The life seems suddenly gone out of him.) ROSALIND: Lover! Lover! I can't do with you, and I can't imagine life without you. AMORY: Rosalind, we're on each other's nerves. It's just that we're both high-strung, and this week-- (His voice is curiously old. She crosses to him and taking his face in her hands, kisses him.) ROSALIND: I can't, Amory. I can't be shut away from the trees and flowers, cooped up in a little flat, waiting for you. You'd hate me in a narrow atmosphere. I'd make you hate me. (Again she is blinded by sudden uncontrolled tears.) AMORY: Rosalind-- ROSALIND: Oh, darling, go--Don't make it harder! I can't stand it-- AMORY: (His face drawn, his voice strained) Do you know what you're saying? Do you mean forever? (There is a difference somehow in the quality of their suffering.) ROSALIND: Can't you see-- AMORY: I'm afraid I can't if you love me. You're afraid of taking two years' knocks with me. ROSALIND: I wouldn't be the Rosalind you love. AMORY: (A little hysterically) I can't give you up! I can't, that's all! I've got to have you! ROSALIND: (A hard note in her voice) You're being a baby now. AMORY: (Wildly) I don't care! You're spoiling our lives! ROSALIND: I'm doing the wise thing, the only thing. AMORY: Are you going to marry Dawson Ryder? ROSALIND: Oh, don't ask me. You know I'm old in some ways--in others--well, I'm just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness--and I dread responsibility. I don't want to think about pots and kitchens and brooms. I want to worry whether my legs will get slick and brown when I swim in the summer. AMORY: And you love me. ROSALIND: That's just why it has to end. Drifting hurts too much. We can't have any more scenes like this. (She draws his ring from her finger and hands it to him. Their eyes blind again with tears.) AMORY: (His lips against her wet cheek) Don't! Keep it, please--oh, don't break my heart! (She presses the ring softly into his hand.) ROSALIND: (Brokenly) You'd better go. AMORY: Good-by-- (She looks at him once more, with infinite longing, infinite sadness.) ROSALIND: Don't ever forget me, Amory-- AMORY: Good-by-- (He goes to the door, fumbles for the knob, finds it--she sees him throw back his head--and he is gone. Gone--she half starts from the lounge and then sinks forward on her face into the pillows.) ROSALIND: Oh, God, I want to die! (After a moment she rises and with her eyes closed feels her way to the door. Then she turns and looks once more at the room. Here they had sat and dreamed: that tray she had so often filled with matches for him; that shade that they had discreetly lowered one long Sunday afternoon. Misty-eyed she stands and remembers; she speaks aloud.) Oh, Amory, what have I done to you? (And deep under the aching sadness that will pass in time, Rosalind feels that she has lost something, she knows not what, she knows not why.) CHAPTER 2. Experiments in Convalescence The Knickerbocker Bar, beamed upon by Maxfield Parrish's jovial, colorful "Old King Cole," was well crowded. Amory stopped in the entrance and looked at his wrist-watch; he wanted particularly to know the time, for something in his mind that catalogued and classified liked to chip things off cleanly. Later it would satisfy him in a vague way to be able to think "that thing ended at exactly twenty minutes after eight on Thursday, June 10, 1919." This was allowing for the walk from her house--a walk concerning which he had afterward not the faintest recollection. He was in rather grotesque condition: two days of worry and nervousness, of sleepless nights, of untouched meals, culminating in the emotional crisis and Rosalind's abrupt decision--the strain of it had drugged the foreground of his mind into a merciful coma. As he fumbled clumsily with the olives at the free-lunch table, a man approached and spoke to him, and the olives dropped from his nervous hands. "Well, Amory..." It was some one he had known at Princeton; he had no idea of the name. "Hello, old boy--" he heard himself saying. "Name's Jim Wilson--you've forgotten." "Sure, you bet, Jim. I remember." "Going to reunion?" "You know!" Simultaneously he realized that he was not going to reunion. "Get overseas?" Amory nodded, his eyes staring oddly. Stepping back to let some one pass, he knocked the dish of olives to a crash on the floor. "Too bad," he muttered. "Have a drink?" Wilson, ponderously diplomatic, reached over and slapped him on the back. "You've had plenty, old boy." Amory eyed him dumbly until Wilson grew embarrassed under the scrutiny. "Plenty, hell!" said Amory finally. "I haven't had a drink to-day." Wilson looked incredulous. "Have a drink or not?" cried Amory rudely. Together they sought the bar. "Rye high." "I'll just take a Bronx." Wilson had another; Amory had several more. They decided to sit down. At ten o'clock Wilson was displaced by Carling, class of '15. Amory, his head spinning gorgeously, layer upon layer of soft satisfaction setting over the bruised spots of his spirit, was discoursing volubly on the war. "'S a mental was'e," he insisted with owl-like wisdom. "Two years my life spent inalleshual vacuity. Los' idealism, got be physcal anmal," he shook his fist expressively at Old King Cole, "got be Prussian 'bout ev'thing, women 'specially. Use' be straight 'bout women college. Now don'givadam." He expressed his lack of principle by sweeping a seltzer bottle with a broad gesture to noisy extinction on the floor, but this did not interrupt his speech. "Seek pleasure where find it for to-morrow die. 'At's philos'phy for me now on." Carling yawned, but Amory, waxing brilliant, continued: "Use' wonder 'bout things--people satisfied compromise, fif'y-fif'y att'tude on life. Now don' wonder, don' wonder--" He became so emphatic in impressing on Carling the fact that he didn't wonder that he lost the thread of his discourse and concluded by announcing to the bar at large that he was a "physcal anmal." "What are you celebrating, Amory?" Amory leaned forward confidentially. "Cel'brating blowmylife. Great moment blow my life. Can't tell you 'bout it--" He heard Carling addressing a remark to the bartender: "Give him a bromo-seltzer." Amory shook his head indignantly. "None that stuff!" "But listen, Amory, you're making yourself sick. You're white as a ghost." Amory considered the question. He tried to look at himself in the mirror but even by squinting up one eye could only see as far as the row of bottles behind the bar. "Like som'n solid. We go get some--some salad." He settled his coat with an attempt at nonchalance, but letting go of the bar was too much for him, and he slumped against a chair. "We'll go over to Shanley's," suggested Carling, offering an elbow. With this assistance Amory managed to get his legs in motion enough to propel him across Forty-second Street. Shanley's was very dim. He was conscious that he was talking in a loud voice, very succinctly and convincingly, he thought, about a desire to crush people under his heel. He consumed three club sandwiches, devouring each as though it were no larger than a chocolate-drop. Then Rosalind began popping into his mind again, and he found his lips forming her name over and over. Next he was sleepy, and he had a hazy, listless sense of people in dress suits, probably waiters, gathering around the table.... ... He was in a room and Carling was saying something about a knot in his shoe-lace. "Nemmine," he managed to articulate drowsily. "Sleep in 'em...." ***** STILL ALCOHOLIC He awoke laughing and his eyes lazily roamed his surroundings, evidently a bedroom and bath in a good hotel. His head was whirring and picture after picture was forming and blurring and melting before his eyes, but beyond the desire to laugh he had no entirely conscious reaction. He reached for the 'phone beside his bed. "Hello--what hotel is this--? "Knickerbocker? All right, send up two rye high-balls--" He lay for a moment and wondered idly whether they'd send up a bottle or just two of those little glass containers. Then, with an effort, he struggled out of bed and ambled into the bathroom. When he emerged, rubbing himself lazily with a towel, he found the bar boy with the drinks and had a sudden desire to kid him. On reflection he decided that this would be undignified, so he waved him away. As the new alcohol tumbled into his stomach and warmed him, the isolated pictures began slowly to form a cinema reel of the day before. Again he saw Rosalind curled weeping among the pillows, again he felt her tears against his cheek. Her words began ringing in his ears: "Don't ever forget me, Amory--don't ever forget me--" "Hell!" he faltered aloud, and then he choked and collapsed on the bed in a shaken spasm of grief. After a minute he opened his eyes and regarded the ceiling. "Damned fool!" he exclaimed in disgust, and with a voluminous sigh rose and approached the bottle. After another glass he gave way loosely to the luxury of tears. Purposely he called up into his mind little incidents of the vanished spring, phrased to himself emotions that would make him react even more strongly to sorrow. "We were so happy," he intoned dramatically, "so very happy." Then he gave way again and knelt beside the bed, his head half-buried in the pillow. "My own girl--my own--Oh--" He clinched his teeth so that the tears streamed in a flood from his eyes. "Oh... my baby girl, all I had, all I wanted!... Oh, my girl, come back, come back! I need you... need you... we're so pitiful ... just misery we brought each other.... She'll be shut away from me.... I can't see her; I can't be her friend. It's got to be that way--it's got to be--" And then again: "We've been so happy, so very happy...." He rose to his feet and threw himself on the bed in an ecstasy of sentiment, and then lay exhausted while he realized slowly that he had been very drunk the night before, and that his head was spinning again wildly. He laughed, rose, and crossed again to Lethe.... At noon he ran into a crowd in the Biltmore bar, and the riot began again. He had a vague recollection afterward of discussing French poetry with a British officer who was introduced to him as "Captain Corn, of his Majesty's Foot," and he remembered attempting to recite "Clair de Lune" at luncheon; then he slept in a big, soft chair until almost five o'clock when another crowd found and woke him; there followed an alcoholic dressing of several temperaments for the ordeal of dinner. They selected theatre tickets at Tyson's for a play that had a four-drink programme--a play with two monotonous voices, with turbid, gloomy scenes, and lighting effects that were hard to follow when his eyes behaved so amazingly. He imagined afterward that it must have been "The Jest."... ... Then the Cocoanut Grove, where Amory slept again on a little balcony outside. Out in Shanley's, Yonkers, he became almost logical, and by a careful control of the number of high-balls he drank, grew quite lucid and garrulous. He found that the party consisted of five men, two of whom he knew slightly; he became righteous about paying his share of the expense and insisted in a loud voice on arranging everything then and there to the amusement of the tables around him.... Some one mentioned that a famous cabaret star was at the next table, so Amory rose and, approaching gallantly, introduced himself... this involved him in an argument, first with her escort and then with the headwaiter--Amory's attitude being a lofty and exaggerated courtesy... he consented, after being confronted with irrefutable logic, to being led back to his own table. "Decided to commit suicide," he announced suddenly. "When? Next year?" "Now. To-morrow morning. Going to take a room at the Commodore, get into a hot bath and open a vein." "He's getting morbid!" "You need another rye, old boy!" "We'll all talk it over to-morrow." But Amory was not to be dissuaded, from argument at least. "Did you ever get that way?" he demanded confidentially fortaccio. "Sure!" "Often?" "My chronic state." This provoked discussion. One man said that he got so depressed sometimes that he seriously considered it. Another agreed that there was nothing to live for. "Captain Corn," who had somehow rejoined the party, said that in his opinion it was when one's health was bad that one felt that way most. Amory's suggestion was that they should each order a Bronx, mix broken glass in it, and drink it off. To his relief no one applauded the idea, so having finished his high-ball, he balanced his chin in his hand and his elbow on the table--a most delicate, scarcely noticeable sleeping position, he assured himself--and went into a deep stupor.... He was awakened by a woman clinging to him, a pretty woman, with brown, disarranged hair and dark blue eyes. "Take me home!" she cried. "Hello!" said Amory, blinking. "I like you," she announced tenderly. "I like you too." He noticed that there was a noisy man in the background and that one of his party was arguing with him. "Fella I was with's a damn fool," confided the blue-eyed woman. "I hate him. I want to go home with you." "You drunk?" queried Amory with intense wisdom. She nodded coyly. "Go home with him," he advised gravely. "He brought you." At this point the noisy man in the background broke away from his detainers and approached. "Say!" he said fiercely. "I brought this girl out here and you're butting in!" Amory regarded him coldly, while the girl clung to him closer. "You let go that girl!" cried the noisy man. Amory tried to make his eyes threatening. "You go to hell!" he directed finally, and turned his attention to the girl. "Love first sight," he suggested. "I love you," she breathed and nestled close to him. She _did_ have beautiful eyes. Some one leaned over and spoke in Amory's ear. "That's just Margaret Diamond. She's drunk and this fellow here brought her. Better let her go." "Let him take care of her, then!" shouted Amory furiously. "I'm no W. Y. C. A. worker, am I?--am I?" "Let her go!" "It's _her_ hanging on, damn it! Let her hang!" The crowd around the table thickened. For an instant a brawl threatened, but a sleek waiter bent back Margaret Diamond's fingers until she released her hold on Amory, whereupon she slapped the waiter furiously in the face and flung her arms about her raging original escort. "Oh, Lord!" cried Amory. "Let's go!" "Come on, the taxis are getting scarce!" "Check, waiter." "C'mon, Amory. Your romance is over." Amory laughed. "You don't know how true you spoke. No idea. 'At's the whole trouble." ***** AMORY ON THE LABOR QUESTION Two mornings later he knocked at the president's door at Bascome and Barlow's advertising agency. "Come in!" Amory entered unsteadily. "'Morning, Mr. Barlow." Mr. Barlow brought his glasses to the inspection and set his mouth slightly ajar that he might better listen. "Well, Mr. Blaine. We haven't seen you for several days." "No," said Amory. "I'm quitting." "Well--well--this is--" "I don't like it here." "I'm sorry. I thought our relations had been quite--ah--pleasant. You seemed to be a hard worker--a little inclined perhaps to write fancy copy--" "I just got tired of it," interrupted Amory rudely. "It didn't matter a damn to me whether Harebell's flour was any better than any one else's. In fact, I never ate any of it. So I got tired of telling people about it--oh, I know I've been drinking--" Mr. Barlow's face steeled by several ingots of expression. "You asked for a position--" Amory waved him to silence. "And I think I was rottenly underpaid. Thirty-five dollars a week--less than a good carpenter." "You had just started. You'd never worked before," said Mr. Barlow coolly. "But it took about ten thousand dollars to educate me where I could write your darned stuff for you. Anyway, as far as length of service goes, you've got stenographers here you've paid fifteen a week for five years." "I'm not going to argue with you, sir," said Mr. Barlow rising. "Neither am I. I just wanted to tell you I'm quitting." They stood for a moment looking at each other impassively and then Amory turned and left the office. ***** A LITTLE LULL Four days after that he returned at last to the apartment. Tom was engaged on a book review for The New Democracy on the staff of which he was employed. They regarded each other for a moment in silence. "Well?" "Well?" "Good Lord, Amory, where'd you get the black eye--and the jaw?" Amory laughed. "That's a mere nothing." He peeled off his coat and bared his shoulders. "Look here!" Tom emitted a low whistle. "What hit you?" Amory laughed again. "Oh, a lot of people. I got beaten up. Fact." He slowly replaced his shirt. "It was bound to come sooner or later and I wouldn't have missed it for anything." "Who was it?" "Well, there were some waiters and a couple of sailors and a few stray pedestrians, I guess. It's the strangest feeling. You ought to get beaten up just for the experience of it. You fall down after a while and everybody sort of slashes in at you before you hit the ground--then they kick you." Tom lighted a cigarette. "I spent a day chasing you all over town, Amory. But you always kept a little ahead of me. I'd say you've been on some party." Amory tumbled into a chair and asked for a cigarette. "You sober now?" asked Tom quizzically. "Pretty sober. Why?" "Well, Alec has left. His family had been after him to go home and live, so he--" A spasm of pain shook Amory. "Too bad." "Yes, it is too bad. We'll have to get some one else if we're going to stay here. The rent's going up." "Sure. Get anybody. I'll leave it to you, Tom." Amory walked into his bedroom. The first thing that met his glance was a photograph of Rosalind that he had intended to have framed, propped up against a mirror on his dresser. He looked at it unmoved. After the vivid mental pictures of her that were his portion at present, the portrait was curiously unreal. He went back into the study. "Got a cardboard box?" "No," answered Tom, puzzled. "Why should I have? Oh, yes--there may be one in Alec's room." Eventually Amory found what he was looking for and, returning to his dresser, opened a drawer full of letters, notes, part of a chain, two little handkerchiefs, and some snap-shots. As he transferred them carefully to the box his mind wandered to some place in a book where the hero, after preserving for a year a cake of his lost love's soap, finally washed his hands with it. He laughed and began to hum "After you've gone" ... ceased abruptly... The string broke twice, and then he managed to secure it, dropped the package into the bottom of his trunk, and having slammed the lid returned to the study. "Going out?" Tom's voice held an undertone of anxiety. "Uh-huh." "Where?" "Couldn't say, old keed." "Let's have dinner together." "Sorry. I told Sukey Brett I'd eat with him." "Oh." "By-by." Amory crossed the street and had a high-ball; then he walked to Washington Square and found a top seat on a bus. He disembarked at Forty-third Street and strolled to the Biltmore bar. "Hi, Amory!" "What'll you have?" "Yo-ho! Waiter!" ***** TEMPERATURE NORMAL The advent of prohibition with the "thirsty-first" put a sudden stop to the submerging of Amory's sorrows, and when he awoke one morning to find that the old bar-to-bar days were over, he had neither remorse for the past three weeks nor regret that their repetition was impossible. He had taken the most violent, if the weakest, method to shield himself from the stabs of memory, and while it was not a course he would have prescribed for others, he found in the end that it had done its business: he was over the first flush of pain. Don't misunderstand! Amory had loved Rosalind as he would never love another living person. She had taken the first flush of his youth and brought from his unplumbed depths tenderness that had surprised him, gentleness and unselfishness that he had never given to another creature. He had later love-affairs, but of a different sort: in those he went back to that, perhaps, more typical frame of mind, in which the girl became the mirror of a mood in him. Rosalind had drawn out what was more than passionate admiration; he had a deep, undying affection for Rosalind. But there had been, near the end, so much dramatic tragedy, culminating in the arabesque nightmare of his three weeks' spree, that he was emotionally worn out. The people and surroundings that he remembered as being cool or delicately artificial, seemed to promise him a refuge. He wrote a cynical story which featured his father's funeral and despatched it to a magazine, receiving in return a check for sixty dollars and a request for more of the same tone. This tickled his vanity, but inspired him to no further effort. He read enormously. He was puzzled and depressed by "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man"; intensely interested by "Joan and Peter" and "The Undying Fire," and rather surprised by his discovery through a critic named Mencken of several excellent American novels: "Vandover and the Brute," "The Damnation of Theron Ware," and "Jennie Gerhardt." Mackenzie, Chesterton, Galsworthy, Bennett, had sunk in his appreciation from sagacious, life-saturated geniuses to merely diverting contemporaries. Shaw's aloof clarity and brilliant consistency and the gloriously intoxicated efforts of H. G. Wells to fit the key of romantic symmetry into the elusive lock of truth, alone won his rapt attention. He wanted to see Monsignor Darcy, to whom he had written when he landed, but he had not heard from him; besides he knew that a visit to Monsignor would entail the story of Rosalind, and the thought of repeating it turned him cold with horror. In his search for cool people he remembered Mrs. Lawrence, a very intelligent, very dignified lady, a convert to the church, and a great devotee of Monsignor's. He called her on the 'phone one day. Yes, she remembered him perfectly; no, Monsignor wasn't in town, was in Boston she thought; he'd promised to come to dinner when he returned. Couldn't Amory take luncheon with her? "I thought I'd better catch up, Mrs. Lawrence," he said rather ambiguously when he arrived. "Monsignor was here just last week," said Mrs. Lawrence regretfully. "He was very anxious to see you, but he'd left your address at home." "Did he think I'd plunged into Bolshevism?" asked Amory, interested. "Oh, he's having a frightful time." "Why?" "About the Irish Republic. He thinks it lacks dignity." "So?" "He went to Boston when the Irish President arrived and he was greatly distressed because the receiving committee, when they rode in an automobile, _would_ put their arms around the President." "I don't blame him." "Well, what impressed you more than anything while you were in the army? You look a great deal older." "That's from another, more disastrous battle," he answered, smiling in spite of himself. "But the army--let me see--well, I discovered that physical courage depends to a great extent on the physical shape a man is in. I found that I was as brave as the next man--it used to worry me before." "What else?" "Well, the idea that men can stand anything if they get used to it, and the fact that I got a high mark in the psychological examination." Mrs. Lawrence laughed. Amory was finding it a great relief to be in this cool house on Riverside Drive, away from more condensed New York and the sense of people expelling great quantities of breath into a little space. Mrs. Lawrence reminded him vaguely of Beatrice, not in temperament, but in her perfect grace and dignity. The house, its furnishings, the manner in which dinner was served, were in immense contrast to what he had met in the great places on Long Island, where the servants were so obtrusive that they had positively to be bumped out of the way, or even in the houses of more conservative "Union Club" families. He wondered if this air of symmetrical restraint, this grace, which he felt was continental, was distilled through Mrs. Lawrence's New England ancestry or acquired in long residence in Italy and Spain. Two glasses of sauterne at luncheon loosened his tongue, and he talked, with what he felt was something of his old charm, of religion and literature and the menacing phenomena of the social order. Mrs. Lawrence was ostensibly pleased with him, and her interest was especially in his mind; he wanted people to like his mind again--after a while it might be such a nice place in which to live. "Monsignor Darcy still thinks that you're his reincarnation, that your faith will eventually clarify." "Perhaps," he assented. "I'm rather pagan at present. It's just that religion doesn't seem to have the slightest bearing on life at my age." When he left her house he walked down Riverside Drive with a feeling of satisfaction. It was amusing to discuss again such subjects as this young poet, Stephen Vincent Benet, or the Irish Republic. Between the rancid accusations of Edward Carson and Justice Cohalan he had completely tired of the Irish question; yet there had been a time when his own Celtic traits were pillars of his personal philosophy. There seemed suddenly to be much left in life, if only this revival of old interests did not mean that he was backing away from it again--backing away from life itself. ***** RESTLESSNESS "I'm tres old and tres bored, Tom," said Amory one day, stretching himself at ease in the comfortable window-seat. He always felt most natural in a recumbent position. "You used to be entertaining before you started to write," he continued. "Now you save any idea that you think would do to print." Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normality. They had decided that with economy they could still afford the apartment, which Tom, with the domesticity of an elderly cat, had grown fond of. The old English hunting prints on the wall were Tom's, and the large tapestry by courtesy, a relic of decadent days in college, and the great profusion of orphaned candlesticks and the carved Louis XV chair in which no one could sit more than a minute without acute spinal disorders--Tom claimed that this was because one was sitting in the lap of Montespan's wraith--at any rate, it was Tom's furniture that decided them to stay. They went out very little: to an occasional play, or to dinner at the Ritz or the Princeton Club. With prohibition the great rendezvous had received their death wounds; no longer could one wander to the Biltmore bar at twelve or five and find congenial spirits, and both Tom and Amory had outgrown the passion for dancing with mid-Western or New Jersey debbies at the Club-de-Vingt (surnamed the "Club de Gink") or the Plaza Rose Room--besides even that required several cocktails "to come down to the intellectual level of the women present," as Amory had once put it to a horrified matron. Amory had lately received several alarming letters from Mr. Barton--the Lake Geneva house was too large to be easily rented; the best rent obtainable at present would serve this year to little more than pay for the taxes and necessary improvements; in fact, the lawyer suggested that the whole property was simply a white elephant on Amory's hands. Nevertheless, even though it might not yield a cent for the next three years, Amory decided with a vague sentimentality that for the present, at any rate, he would not sell the house. This particular day on which he announced his ennui to Tom had been quite typical. He had risen at noon, lunched with Mrs. Lawrence, and then ridden abstractedly homeward atop one of his beloved buses. "Why shouldn't you be bored," yawned Tom. "Isn't that the conventional frame of mind for the young man of your age and condition?" "Yes," said Amory speculatively, "but I'm more than bored; I am restless." "Love and war did for you." "Well," Amory considered, "I'm not sure that the war itself had any great effect on either you or me--but it certainly ruined the old backgrounds, sort of killed individualism out of our generation." Tom looked up in surprise. "Yes it did," insisted Amory. "I'm not sure it didn't kill it out of the whole world. Oh, Lord, what a pleasure it used to be to dream I might be a really great dictator or writer or religious or political leader--and now even a Leonardo da Vinci or Lorenzo de Medici couldn't be a real old-fashioned bolt in the world. Life is too huge and complex. The world is so overgrown that it can't lift its own fingers, and I was planning to be such an important finger--" "I don't agree with you," Tom interrupted. "There never were men placed in such egotistic positions since--oh, since the French Revolution." Amory disagreed violently. "You're mistaking this period when every nut is an individualist for a period of individualism. Wilson has only been powerful when he has represented; he's had to compromise over and over again. Just as soon as Trotsky and Lenin take a definite, consistent stand they'll become merely two-minute figures like Kerensky. Even Foch hasn't half the significance of Stonewall Jackson. War used to be the most individualistic pursuit of man, and yet the popular heroes of the war had neither authority nor responsibility: Guynemer and Sergeant York. How could a schoolboy make a hero of Pershing? A big man has no time really to do anything but just sit and be big." "Then you don't think there will be any more permanent world heroes?" "Yes--in history--not in life. Carlyle would have difficulty getting material for a new chapter on 'The Hero as a Big Man.'" "Go on. I'm a good listener to-day." "People try so hard to believe in leaders now, pitifully hard. But we no sooner get a popular reformer or politician or soldier or writer or philosopher--a Roosevelt, a Tolstoi, a Wood, a Shaw, a Nietzsche, than the cross-currents of criticism wash him away. My Lord, no man can stand prominence these days. It's the surest path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing the same name over and over." "Then you blame it on the press?" "Absolutely. Look at you; you're on The New Democracy, considered the most brilliant weekly in the country, read by the men who do things and all that. What's your business? Why, to be as clever, as interesting, and as brilliantly cynical as possible about every man, doctrine, book, or policy that is assigned you to deal with. The more strong lights, the more spiritual scandal you can throw on the matter, the more money they pay you, the more the people buy the issue. You, Tom d'Invilliers, a blighted Shelley, changing, shifting, clever, unscrupulous, represent the critical consciousness of the race--Oh, don't protest, I know the stuff. I used to write book reviews in college; I considered it rare sport to refer to the latest honest, conscientious effort to propound a theory or a remedy as a 'welcome addition to our light summer reading.' Come on now, admit it." Tom laughed, and Amory continued triumphantly. "We _want_ to believe. Young students try to believe in older authors, constituents try to believe in their Congressmen, countries try to believe in their statesmen, but they _can't_. Too many voices, too much scattered, illogical, ill-considered criticism. It's worse in the case of newspapers. Any rich, unprogressive old party with that particularly grasping, acquisitive form of mentality known as financial genius can own a paper that is the intellectual meat and drink of thousands of tired, hurried men, men too involved in the business of modern living to swallow anything but predigested food. For two cents the voter buys his politics, prejudices, and philosophy. A year later there is a new political ring or a change in the paper's ownership, consequence: more confusion, more contradiction, a sudden inrush of new ideas, their tempering, their distillation, the reaction against them--" He paused only to get his breath. "And that is why I have sworn not to put pen to paper until my ideas either clarify or depart entirely; I have quite enough sins on my soul without putting dangerous, shallow epigrams into people's heads; I might cause a poor, inoffensive capitalist to have a vulgar liaison with a bomb, or get some innocent little Bolshevik tangled up with a machine-gun bullet--" Tom was growing restless under this lampooning of his connection with The New Democracy. "What's all this got to do with your being bored?" Amory considered that it had much to do with it. "How'll I fit in?" he demanded. "What am I for? To propagate the race? According to the American novels we are led to believe that the 'healthy American boy' from nineteen to twenty-five is an entirely sexless animal. As a matter of fact, the healthier he is the less that's true. The only alternative to letting it get you is some violent interest. Well, the war is over; I believe too much in the responsibilities of authorship to write just now; and business, well, business speaks for itself. It has no connection with anything in the world that I've ever been interested in, except a slim, utilitarian connection with economics. What I'd see of it, lost in a clerkship, for the next and best ten years of my life would have the intellectual content of an industrial movie." "Try fiction," suggested Tom. "Trouble is I get distracted when I start to write stories--get afraid I'm doing it instead of living--get thinking maybe life is waiting for me in the Japanese gardens at the Ritz or at Atlantic City or on the lower East Side. "Anyway," he continued, "I haven't the vital urge. I wanted to be a regular human being but the girl couldn't see it that way." "You'll find another." "God! Banish the thought. Why don't you tell me that 'if the girl had been worth having she'd have waited for you'? No, sir, the girl really worth having won't wait for anybody. If I thought there'd be another I'd lose my remaining faith in human nature. Maybe I'll play--but Rosalind was the only girl in the wide world that could have held me." "Well," yawned Tom, "I've played confidant a good hour by the clock. Still, I'm glad to see you're beginning to have violent views again on something." "I am," agreed Amory reluctantly. "Yet when I see a happy family it makes me sick at my stomach--" "Happy families try to make people feel that way," said Tom cynically. ***** TOM THE CENSOR There were days when Amory listened. These were when Tom, wreathed in smoke, indulged in the slaughter of American literature. Words failed him. "Fifty thousand dollars a year," he would cry. "My God! Look at them, look at them--Edna Ferber, Gouverneur Morris, Fanny Hurst, Mary Roberts Rinehart--not producing among 'em one story or novel that will last ten years. This man Cobb--I don't tink he's either clever or amusing--and what's more, I don't think very many people do, except the editors. He's just groggy with advertising. And--oh Harold Bell Wright oh Zane Grey--" "They try." "No, they don't even try. Some of them _can_ write, but they won't sit down and do one honest novel. Most of them _can't_ write, I'll admit. I believe Rupert Hughes tries to give a real, comprehensive picture of American life, but his style and perspective are barbarous. Ernest Poole and Dorothy Canfield try but they're hindered by their absolute lack of any sense of humor; but at least they crowd their work instead of spreading it thin. Every author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it." "Is that double entente?" "Don't slow me up! Now there's a few of 'em that seem to have some cultural background, some intelligence and a good deal of literary felicity but they just simply won't write honestly; they'd all claim there was no public for good stuff. Then why the devil is it that Wells, Conrad, Galsworthy, Shaw, Bennett, and the rest depend on America for over half their sales?" "How does little Tommy like the poets?" Tom was overcome. He dropped his arms until they swung loosely beside the chair and emitted faint grunts. "I'm writing a satire on 'em now, calling it 'Boston Bards and Hearst Reviewers.'" "Let's hear it," said Amory eagerly. "I've only got the last few lines done." "That's very modern. Let's hear 'em, if they're funny." Tom produced a folded paper from his pocket and read aloud, pausing at intervals so that Amory could see that it was free verse: "So Walter Arensberg, Alfred Kreymborg, Carl Sandburg, Louis Untermeyer, Eunice Tietjens, Clara Shanafelt, James Oppenheim, Maxwell Bodenheim, Richard Glaenzer, Scharmel Iris, Conrad Aiken, I place your names here So that you may live If only as names, Sinuous, mauve-colored names, In the Juvenalia Of my collected editions." Amory roared. "You win the iron pansy. I'll buy you a meal on the arrogance of the last two lines." Amory did not entirely agree with Tom's sweeping damnation of American novelists and poets. He enjoyed both Vachel Lindsay and Booth Tarkington, and admired the conscientious, if slender, artistry of Edgar Lee Masters. "What I hate is this idiotic drivel about 'I am God--I am man--I ride the winds--I look through the smoke--I am the life sense.'" "It's ghastly!" "And I wish American novelists would give up trying to make business romantically interesting. Nobody wants to read about it, unless it's crooked business. If it was an entertaining subject they'd buy the life of James J. Hill and not one of these long office tragedies that harp along on the significance of smoke--" "And gloom," said Tom. "That's another favorite, though I'll admit the Russians have the monopoly. Our specialty is stories about little girls who break their spines and get adopted by grouchy old men because they smile so much. You'd think we were a race of cheerful cripples and that the common end of the Russian peasant was suicide--" "Six o'clock," said Amory, glancing at his wrist-watch. "I'll buy you a grea' big dinner on the strength of the Juvenalia of your collected editions." ***** LOOKING BACKWARD July sweltered out with a last hot week, and Amory in another surge of unrest realized that it was just five months since he and Rosalind had met. Yet it was already hard for him to visualize the heart-whole boy who had stepped off the transport, passionately desiring the adventure of life. One night while the heat, overpowering and enervating, poured into the windows of his room he struggled for several hours in a vague effort to immortalize the poignancy of that time. The February streets, wind-washed by night, blow full of strange half-intermittent damps, bearing on wasted walks in shining sight wet snow plashed into gleams under the lamps, like golden oil from some divine machine, in an hour of thaw and stars. Strange damps--full of the eyes of many men, crowded with life borne in upon a lull.... Oh, I was young, for I could turn again to you, most finite and most beautiful, and taste the stuff of half-remembered dreams, sweet and new on your mouth. ... There was a tanging in the midnight air--silence was dead and sound not yet awoken--Life cracked like ice!--one brilliant note and there, radiant and pale, you stood... and spring had broken. (The icicles were short upon the roofs and the changeling city swooned.) Our thoughts were frosty mist along the eaves; our two ghosts kissed, high on the long, mazed wires--eerie half-laughter echoes here and leaves only a fatuous sigh for young desires; regret has followed after things she loved, leaving the great husk. ***** ANOTHER ENDING In mid-August came a letter from Monsignor Darcy, who had evidently just stumbled on his address: MY DEAR BOY:-- Your last letter was quite enough to make me worry about you. It was not a bit like yourself. Reading between the lines I should imagine that your engagement to this girl is making you rather unhappy, and I see you have lost all the feeling of romance that you had before the war. You make a great mistake if you think you can be romantic without religion. Sometimes I think that with both of us the secret of success, when we find it, is the mystical element in us: something flows into us that enlarges our personalities, and when it ebbs out our personalities shrink; I should call your last two letters rather shrivelled. Beware of losing yourself in the personality of another being, man or woman. His Eminence Cardinal O'Neill and the Bishop of Boston are staying with me at present, so it is hard for me to get a moment to write, but I wish you would come up here later if only for a week-end. I go to Washington this week. What I shall do in the future is hanging in the balance. Absolutely between ourselves I should not be surprised to see the red hat of a cardinal descend upon my unworthy head within the next eight months. In any event, I should like to have a house in New York or Washington where you could drop in for week-ends. Amory, I'm very glad we're both alive; this war could easily have been the end of a brilliant family. But in regard to matrimony, you are now at the most dangerous period of your life. You might marry in haste and repent at leisure, but I think you won't. From what you write me about the present calamitous state of your finances, what you want is naturally impossible. However, if I judge you by the means I usually choose, I should say that there will be something of an emotional crisis within the next year. Do write me. I feel annoyingly out of date on you. With greatest affection, THAYER DARCY. Within a week after the receipt of this letter their little household fell precipitously to pieces. The immediate cause was the serious and probably chronic illness of Tom's mother. So they stored the furniture, gave instructions to sublet and shook hands gloomily in the Pennsylvania Station. Amory and Tom seemed always to be saying good-by. Feeling very much alone, Amory yielded to an impulse and set off southward, intending to join Monsignor in Washington. They missed connections by two hours, and, deciding to spend a few days with an ancient, remembered uncle, Amory journeyed up through the luxuriant fields of Maryland into Ramilly County. But instead of two days his stay lasted from mid-August nearly through September, for in Maryland he met Eleanor. CHAPTER 3. Young Irony For years afterward when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still to hear the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills into the places beside his heart. The night when they rode up the slope and watched the cold moon float through the clouds, he lost a further part of him that nothing could restore; and when he lost it he lost also the power of regretting it. Eleanor was, say, the last time that evil crept close to Amory under the mask of beauty, the last weird mystery that held him with wild fascination and pounded his soul to flakes. With her his imagination ran riot and that is why they rode to the highest hill and watched an evil moon ride high, for they knew then that they could see the devil in each other. But Eleanor--did Amory dream her? Afterward their ghosts played, yet both of them hoped from their souls never to meet. Was it the infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind? She will have no other adventure like Amory, and if she reads this she will say: "And Amory will have no other adventure like me." Nor will she sigh, any more than he would sigh. Eleanor tried to put it on paper once: "The fading things we only know We'll have forgotten... Put away... Desires that melted with the snow, And dreams begotten This to-day: The sudden dawns we laughed to greet, That all could see, that none could share, Will be but dawns... and if we meet We shall not care. Dear... not one tear will rise for this... A little while hence No regret Will stir for a remembered kiss-- Not even silence, When we've met, Will give old ghosts a waste to roam, Or stir the surface of the sea... If gray shapes drift beneath the foam We shall not see." They quarrelled dangerously because Amory maintained that _sea_ and _see_ couldn't possibly be used as a rhyme. And then Eleanor had part of another verse that she couldn't find a beginning for: "... But wisdom passes... still the years Will feed us wisdom.... Age will go Back to the old-- For all our tears We shall not know." Eleanor hated Maryland passionately. She belonged to the oldest of the old families of Ramilly County and lived in a big, gloomy house with her grandfather. She had been born and brought up in France.... I see I am starting wrong. Let me begin again. Amory was bored, as he usually was in the country. He used to go for far walks by himself--and wander along reciting "Ulalume" to the corn-fields, and congratulating Poe for drinking himself to death in that atmosphere of smiling complacency. One afternoon he had strolled for several miles along a road that was new to him, and then through a wood on bad advice from a colored woman... losing himself entirely. A passing storm decided to break out, and to his great impatience the sky grew black as pitch and the rain began to splatter down through the trees, become suddenly furtive and ghostly. Thunder rolled with menacing crashes up the valley and scattered through the woods in intermittent batteries. He stumbled blindly on, hunting for a way out, and finally, through webs of twisted branches, caught sight of a rift in the trees where the unbroken lightning showed open country. He rushed to the edge of the woods and then hesitated whether or not to cross the fields and try to reach the shelter of the little house marked by a light far down the valley. It was only half past five, but he could see scarcely ten steps before him, except when the lightning made everything vivid and grotesque for great sweeps around. Suddenly a strange sound fell on his ears. It was a song, in a low, husky voice, a girl's voice, and whoever was singing was very close to him. A year before he might have laughed, or trembled; but in his restless mood he only stood and listened while the words sank into his consciousness: "Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone." The lightning split the sky, but the song went on without a quaver. The girl was evidently in the field and the voice seemed to come vaguely from a haystack about twenty feet in front of him. Then it ceased: ceased and began again in a weird chant that soared and hung and fell and blended with the rain: "Tout suffocant Et bleme quand Sonne l'heure Je me souviens Des jours anciens Et je pleure...." "Who the devil is there in Ramilly County," muttered Amory aloud, "who would deliver Verlaine in an extemporaneous tune to a soaking haystack?" "Somebody's there!" cried the voice unalarmed. "Who are you?--Manfred, St. Christopher, or Queen Victoria?" "I'm Don Juan!" Amory shouted on impulse, raising his voice above the noise of the rain and the wind. A delighted shriek came from the haystack. "I know who you are--you're the blond boy that likes 'Ulalume'--I recognize your voice." "How do I get up?" he cried from the foot of the haystack, whither he had arrived, dripping wet. A head appeared over the edge--it was so dark that Amory could just make out a patch of damp hair and two eyes that gleamed like a cat's. "Run back!" came the voice, "and jump and I'll catch your hand--no, not there--on the other side." He followed directions and as he sprawled up the side, knee-deep in hay, a small, white hand reached out, gripped his, and helped him onto the top. "Here you are, Juan," cried she of the damp hair. "Do you mind if I drop the Don?" "You've got a thumb like mine!" he exclaimed. "And you're holding my hand, which is dangerous without seeing my face." He dropped it quickly. As if in answer to his prayers came a flash of lightning and he looked eagerly at her who stood beside him on the soggy haystack, ten feet above the ground. But she had covered her face and he saw nothing but a slender figure, dark, damp, bobbed hair, and the small white hands with the thumbs that bent back like his. "Sit down," she suggested politely, as the dark closed in on them. "If you'll sit opposite me in this hollow you can have half of the raincoat, which I was using as a water-proof tent until you so rudely interrupted me." "I was asked," Amory said joyfully; "you asked me--you know you did." "Don Juan always manages that," she said, laughing, "but I shan't call you that any more, because you've got reddish hair. Instead you can recite 'Ulalume' and I'll be Psyche, your soul." Amory flushed, happily invisible under the curtain of wind and rain. They were sitting opposite each other in a slight hollow in the hay with the raincoat spread over most of them, and the rain doing for the rest. Amory was trying desperately to see Psyche, but the lightning refused to flash again, and he waited impatiently. Good Lord! supposing she wasn't beautiful--supposing she was forty and pedantic--heavens! Suppose, only suppose, she was mad. But he knew the last was unworthy. Here had Providence sent a girl to amuse him just as it sent Benvenuto Cellini men to murder, and he was wondering if she was mad, just because she exactly filled his mood. "I'm not," she said. "Not what?" "Not mad. I didn't think you were mad when I first saw you, so it isn't fair that you should think so of me." "How on earth--" As long as they knew each other Eleanor and Amory could be "on a subject" and stop talking with the definite thought of it in their heads, yet ten minutes later speak aloud and find that their minds had followed the same channels and led them each to a parallel idea, an idea that others would have found absolutely unconnected with the first. "Tell me," he demanded, leaning forward eagerly, "how do you know about 'Ulalume'--how did you know the color of my hair? What's your name? What were you doing here? Tell me all at once!" Suddenly the lightning flashed in with a leap of overreaching light and he saw Eleanor, and looked for the first time into those eyes of hers. Oh, she was magnificent--pale skin, the color of marble in starlight, slender brows, and eyes that glittered green as emeralds in the blinding glare. She was a witch, of perhaps nineteen, he judged, alert and dreamy and with the tell-tale white line over her upper lip that was a weakness and a delight. He sank back with a gasp against the wall of hay. "Now you've seen me," she said calmly, "and I suppose you're about to say that my green eyes are burning into your brain." "What color is your hair?" he asked intently. "It's bobbed, isn't it?" "Yes, it's bobbed. I don't know what color it is," she answered, musing, "so many men have asked me. It's medium, I suppose--No one ever looks long at my hair. I've got beautiful eyes, though, haven't I. I don't care what you say, I have beautiful eyes." "Answer my question, Madeline." "Don't remember them all--besides my name isn't Madeline, it's Eleanor." "I might have guessed it. You _look_ like Eleanor--you have that Eleanor look. You know what I mean." There was a silence as they listened to the rain. "It's going down my neck, fellow lunatic," she offered finally. "Answer my questions." "Well--name of Savage, Eleanor; live in big old house mile down road; nearest living relation to be notified, grandfather--Ramilly Savage; height, five feet four inches; number on watch-case, 3077 W; nose, delicate aquiline; temperament, uncanny--" "And me," Amory interrupted, "where did you see me?" "Oh, you're one of _those_ men," she answered haughtily, "must lug old self into conversation. Well, my boy, I was behind a hedge sunning myself one day last week, and along comes a man saying in a pleasant, conceited way of talking: "'And now when the night was senescent' (says he) 'And the star dials pointed to morn At the end of the path a liquescent' (says he) 'And nebulous lustre was born.' "So I poked my eyes up over the hedge, but you had started to run, for some unknown reason, and so I saw but the back of your beautiful head. 'Oh!' says I, 'there's a man for whom many of us might sigh,' and I continued in my best Irish--" "All right," Amory interrupted. "Now go back to yourself." "Well, I will. I'm one of those people who go through the world giving other people thrills, but getting few myself except those I read into men on such nights as these. I have the social courage to go on the stage, but not the energy; I haven't the patience to write books; and I never met a man I'd marry. However, I'm only eighteen." The storm was dying down softly and only the wind kept up its ghostly surge and made the stack lean and gravely settle from side to side. Amory was in a trance. He felt that every moment was precious. He had never met a girl like this before--she would never seem quite the same again. He didn't at all feel like a character in a play, the appropriate feeling in an unconventional situation--instead, he had a sense of coming home. "I have just made a great decision," said Eleanor after another pause, "and that is why I'm here, to answer another of your questions. I have just decided that I don't believe in immortality." "Really! how banal!" "Frightfully so," she answered, "but depressing with a stale, sickly depression, nevertheless. I came out here to get wet--like a wet hen; wet hens always have great clarity of mind," she concluded. "Go on," Amory said politely. "Well--I'm not afraid of the dark, so I put on my slicker and rubber boots and came out. You see I was always afraid, before, to say I didn't believe in God--because the lightning might strike me--but here I am and it hasn't, of course, but the main point is that this time I wasn't any more afraid of it than I had been when I was a Christian Scientist, like I was last year. So now I know I'm a materialist and I was fraternizing with the hay when you came out and stood by the woods, scared to death." "Why, you little wretch--" cried Amory indignantly. "Scared of what?" "_Yourself!_" she shouted, and he jumped. She clapped her hands and laughed. "See--see! Conscience--kill it like me! Eleanor Savage, materiologist--no jumping, no starting, come early--" "But I _have_ to have a soul," he objected. "I can't be rational--and I won't be molecular." She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and whispered with a sort of romantic finality: "I thought so, Juan, I feared so--you're sentimental. You're not like me. I'm a romantic little materialist." "I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic person has a desperate confidence that they won't." (This was an ancient distinction of Amory's.) "Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's get off the haystack and walk to the cross-roads." They slowly descended from their perch. She would not let him help her down and motioning him away arrived in a graceful lump in the soft mud where she sat for an instant, laughing at herself. Then she jumped to her feet and slipped her hand into his, and they tiptoed across the fields, jumping and swinging from dry spot to dry spot. A transcendent delight seemed to sparkle in every pool of water, for the moon had risen and the storm had scurried away into western Maryland. When Eleanor's arm touched his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he should lose the shadow brush with which his imagination was painting wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he did when he walked with her--she was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her green eyes. His paganism soared that night and when she faded out like a gray ghost down the road, a deep singing came out of the fields and filled his way homeward. All night the summer moths flitted in and out of Amory's window; all night large looming sounds swayed in mystic revery through the silver grain--and he lay awake in the clear darkness. ***** SEPTEMBER Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically. "I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered. "When then?" "Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist." "Easter!" She turned up her nose. "Huh! Spring in corsets!" "Easter _would_ bore spring, wouldn't she? Easter has her hair braided, wears a tailored suit." "Bind on thy sandals, oh, thou most fleet. Over the splendor and speed of thy feet--" quoted Eleanor softly, and then added: "I suppose Hallowe'en is a better day for autumn than Thanksgiving." "Much better--and Christmas eve does very well for winter, but summer..." "Summer has no day," she said. "We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without growth.... It has no day." "Fourth of July," Amory suggested facetiously. "Don't be funny!" she said, raking him with her eyes. "Well, what could fulfil the promise of spring?" She thought a moment. "Oh, I suppose heaven would, if there was one," she said finally, "a sort of pagan heaven--you ought to be a materialist," she continued irrelevantly. "Why?" "Because you look a good deal like the pictures of Rupert Brooke." To some extent Amory tried to play Rupert Brooke as long as he knew Eleanor. What he said, his attitude toward life, toward her, toward himself, were all reflexes of the dead Englishman's literary moods. Often she sat in the grass, a lazy wind playing with her short hair, her voice husky as she ran up and down the scale from Grantchester to Waikiki. There was something most passionate in Eleanor's reading aloud. They seemed nearer, not only mentally, but physically, when they read, than when she was in his arms, and this was often, for they fell half into love almost from the first. Yet was Amory capable of love now? He could, as always, run through the emotions in a half hour, but even while they revelled in their imaginations, he knew that neither of them could care as he had cared once before--I suppose that was why they turned to Brooke, and Swinburne, and Shelley. Their chance was to make everything fine and finished and rich and imaginative; they must bend tiny golden tentacles from his imagination to hers, that would take the place of the great, deep love that was never so near, yet never so much of a dream. One poem they read over and over; Swinburne's "Triumph of Time," and four lines of it rang in his memory afterward on warm nights when he saw the fireflies among dusky tree trunks and heard the low drone of many frogs. Then Eleanor seemed to come out of the night and stand by him, and he heard her throaty voice, with its tone of a fleecy-headed drum, repeating: "Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, To think of things that are well outworn; Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, The dream foregone and the deed foreborne?" They were formally introduced two days later, and his aunt told him her history. The Ramillys were two: old Mr. Ramilly and his granddaughter, Eleanor. She had lived in France with a restless mother whom Amory imagined to have been very like his own, on whose death she had come to America, to live in Maryland. She had gone to Baltimore first to stay with a bachelor uncle, and there she insisted on being a debutante at the age of seventeen. She had a wild winter and arrived in the country in March, having quarrelled frantically with all her Baltimore relatives, and shocked them into fiery protest. A rather fast crowd had come out, who drank cocktails in limousines and were promiscuously condescending and patronizing toward older people, and Eleanor with an esprit that hinted strongly of the boulevards, led many innocents still redolent of St. Timothy's and Farmington, into paths of Bohemian naughtiness. When the story came to her uncle, a forgetful cavalier of a more hypocritical era, there was a scene, from which Eleanor emerged, subdued but rebellious and indignant, to seek haven with her grandfather who hovered in the country on the near side of senility. That's as far as her story went; she told him the rest herself, but that was later. Often they swam and as Amory floated lazily in the water he shut his mind to all thoughts except those of hazy soap-bubble lands where the sun splattered through wind-drunk trees. How could any one possibly think or worry, or do anything except splash and dive and loll there on the edge of time while the flower months failed. Let the days move over--sadness and memory and pain recurred outside, and here, once more, before he went on to meet them he wanted to drift and be young. There were days when Amory resented that life had changed from an even progress along a road stretching ever in sight, with the scenery merging and blending, into a succession of quick, unrelated scenes--two years of sweat and blood, that sudden absurd instinct for paternity that Rosalind had stirred; the half-sensual, half-neurotic quality of this autumn with Eleanor. He felt that it would take all time, more than he could ever spare, to glue these strange cumbersome pictures into the scrap-book of his life. It was all like a banquet where he sat for this half-hour of his youth and tried to enjoy brilliant epicurean courses. Dimly he promised himself a time where all should be welded together. For months it seemed that he had alternated between being borne along a stream of love or fascination, or left in an eddy, and in the eddies he had not desired to think, rather to be picked up on a wave's top and swept along again. "The despairing, dying autumn and our love--how well they harmonize!" said Eleanor sadly one day as they lay dripping by the water. "The Indian summer of our hearts--" he ceased. "Tell me," she said finally, "was she light or dark?" "Light." "Was she more beautiful than I am?" "I don't know," said Amory shortly. One night they walked while the moon rose and poured a great burden of glory over the garden until it seemed fairyland with Amory and Eleanor, dim phantasmal shapes, expressing eternal beauty in curious elfin love moods. Then they turned out of the moonlight into the trellised darkness of a vine-hung pagoda, where there were scents so plaintive as to be nearly musical. "Light a match," she whispered. "I want to see you." Scratch! Flare! The night and the scarred trees were like scenery in a play, and to be there with Eleanor, shadowy and unreal, seemed somehow oddly familiar. Amory thought how it was only the past that ever seemed strange and unbelievable. The match went out. "It's black as pitch." "We're just voices now," murmured Eleanor, "little lonesome voices. Light another." "That was my last match." Suddenly he caught her in his arms. "You _are_ mine--you know you're mine!" he cried wildly... the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened... the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes. ***** THE END OF SUMMER "No wind is stirring in the grass; not one wind stirs... the water in the hidden pools, as glass, fronts the full moon and so inters the golden token in its icy mass," chanted Eleanor to the trees that skeletoned the body of the night. "Isn't it ghostly here? If you can hold your horse's feet up, let's cut through the woods and find the hidden pools." "It's after one, and you'll get the devil," he objected, "and I don't know enough about horses to put one away in the pitch dark." "Shut up, you old fool," she whispered irrelevantly, and, leaning over, she patted him lazily with her riding-crop. "You can leave your old plug in our stable and I'll send him over to-morrow." "But my uncle has got to drive me to the station with this old plug at seven o'clock." "Don't be a spoil-sport--remember, you have a tendency toward wavering that prevents you from being the entire light of my life." Amory drew his horse up close beside, and, leaning toward her, grasped her hand. "Say I am--_quick_, or I'll pull you over and make you ride behind me." She looked up and smiled and shook her head excitedly. "Oh, do!--or rather, don't! Why are all the exciting things so uncomfortable, like fighting and exploring and ski-ing in Canada? By the way, we're going to ride up Harper's Hill. I think that comes in our programme about five o'clock." "You little devil," Amory growled. "You're going to make me stay up all night and sleep in the train like an immigrant all day to-morrow, going back to New York." "Hush! some one's coming along the road--let's go! Whoo-ee-oop!" And with a shout that probably gave the belated traveller a series of shivers, she turned her horse into the woods and Amory followed slowly, as he had followed her all day for three weeks. The summer was over, but he had spent the days in watching Eleanor, a graceful, facile Manfred, build herself intellectual and imaginative pyramids while she revelled in the artificialities of the temperamental teens and they wrote poetry at the dinner-table. When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered o'er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: "Thru Time I'll save my love!" he said... yet Beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead... --Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: "Who'd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet there"... So all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth June, and no one ever _know_ that you were Beauty for an afternoon. So he wrote one day, when he pondered how coldly we thought of the "Dark Lady of the Sonnets," and how little we remembered her as the great man wanted her remembered. For what Shakespeare _must_ have desired, to have been able to write with such divine despair, was that the lady should live... and now we have no real interest in her.... The irony of it is that if he had cared _more_ for the poem than for the lady the sonnet would be only obvious, imitative rhetoric and no one would ever have read it after twenty years.... This was the last night Amory ever saw Eleanor. He was leaving in the morning and they had agreed to take a long farewell trot by the cold moonlight. She wanted to talk, she said--perhaps the last time in her life that she could be rational (she meant pose with comfort). So they had turned into the woods and rode for half an hour with scarcely a word, except when she whispered "Damn!" at a bothersome branch--whispered it as no other girl was ever able to whisper it. Then they started up Harper's Hill, walking their tired horses. "Good Lord! It's quiet here!" whispered Eleanor; "much more lonesome than the woods." "I hate woods," Amory said, shuddering. "Any kind of foliage or underbrush at night. Out here it's so broad and easy on the spirit." "The long slope of a long hill." "And the cold moon rolling moonlight down it." "And thee and me, last and most important." It was quiet that night--the straight road they followed up to the edge of the cliff knew few footsteps at any time. Only an occasional negro cabin, silver-gray in the rock-ribbed moonlight, broke the long line of bare ground; behind lay the black edge of the woods like a dark frosting on white cake, and ahead the sharp, high horizon. It was much colder--so cold that it settled on them and drove all the warm nights from their minds. "The end of summer," said Eleanor softly. "Listen to the beat of our horses' hoofs--'tump-tump-tump-a-tump.' Have you ever been feverish and had all noises divide into 'tump-tump-tump' until you could swear eternity was divisible into so many tumps? That's the way I feel--old horses go tump-tump.... I guess that's the only thing that separates horses and clocks from us. Human beings can't go 'tump-tump-tump' without going crazy." The breeze freshened and Eleanor pulled her cape around her and shivered. "Are you very cold?" asked Amory. "No, I'm thinking about myself--my black old inside self, the real one, with the fundamental honesty that keeps me from being absolutely wicked by making me realize my own sins." They were riding up close by the cliff and Amory gazed over. Where the fall met the ground a hundred feet below, a black stream made a sharp line, broken by tiny glints in the swift water. "Rotten, rotten old world," broke out Eleanor suddenly, "and the wretchedest thing of all is me--oh, _why_ am I a girl? Why am I not a stupid--? Look at you; you're stupider than I am, not much, but some, and you can lope about and get bored and then lope somewhere else, and you can play around with girls without being involved in meshes of sentiment, and you can do anything and be justified--and here am I with the brains to do everything, yet tied to the sinking ship of future matrimony. If I were born a hundred years from now, well and good, but now what's in store for me--I have to marry, that goes without saying. Who? I'm too bright for most men, and yet I have to descend to their level and let them patronize my intellect in order to get their attention. Every year that I don't marry I've got less chance for a first-class man. At the best I can have my choice from one or two cities and, of course, I have to marry into a dinner-coat. "Listen," she leaned close again, "I like clever men and good-looking men, and, of course, no one cares more for personality than I do. Oh, just one person in fifty has any glimmer of what sex is. I'm hipped on Freud and all that, but it's rotten that every bit of _real_ love in the world is ninety-nine per cent passion and one little soupcon of jealousy." She finished as suddenly as she began. "Of course, you're right," Amory agreed. "It's a rather unpleasant overpowering force that's part of the machinery under everything. It's like an actor that lets you see his mechanics! Wait a minute till I think this out...." He paused and tried to get a metaphor. They had turned the cliff and were riding along the road about fifty feet to the left. "You see every one's got to have some cloak to throw around it. The mediocre intellects, Plato's second class, use the remnants of romantic chivalry diluted with Victorian sentiment--and we who consider ourselves the intellectuals cover it up by pretending that it's another side of us, has nothing to do with our shining brains; we pretend that the fact that we realize it is really absolving us from being a prey to it. But the truth is that sex is right in the middle of our purest abstractions, so close that it obscures vision.... I can kiss you now and will. ..." He leaned toward her in his saddle, but she drew away. "I can't--I can't kiss you now--I'm more sensitive." "You're more stupid then," he declared rather impatiently. "Intellect is no protection from sex any more than convention is..." "What is?" she fired up. "The Catholic Church or the maxims of Confucius?" Amory looked up, rather taken aback. "That's your panacea, isn't it?" she cried. "Oh, you're just an old hypocrite, too. Thousands of scowling priests keeping the degenerate Italians and illiterate Irish repentant with gabble-gabble about the sixth and ninth commandments. It's just all cloaks, sentiment and spiritual rouge and panaceas. I'll tell you there is no God, not even a definite abstract goodness; so it's all got to be worked out for the individual by the individual here in high white foreheads like mine, and you're too much the prig to admit it." She let go her reins and shook her little fists at the stars. "If there's a God let him strike me--strike me!" "Talking about God again after the manner of atheists," Amory said sharply. His materialism, always a thin cloak, was torn to shreds by Eleanor's blasphemy.... She knew it and it angered him that she knew it. "And like most intellectuals who don't find faith convenient," he continued coldly, "like Napoleon and Oscar Wilde and the rest of your type, you'll yell loudly for a priest on your death-bed." Eleanor drew her horse up sharply and he reined in beside her. "Will I?" she said in a queer voice that scared him. "Will I? Watch! _I'm going over the cliff!_" And before he could interfere she had turned and was riding breakneck for the end of the plateau. He wheeled and started after her, his body like ice, his nerves in a vast clangor. There was no chance of stopping her. The moon was under a cloud and her horse would step blindly over. Then some ten feet from the edge of the cliff she gave a sudden shriek and flung herself sideways--plunged from her horse and, rolling over twice, landed in a pile of brush five feet from the edge. The horse went over with a frantic whinny. In a minute he was by Eleanor's side and saw that her eyes were open. "Eleanor!" he cried. She did not answer, but her lips moved and her eyes filled with sudden tears. "Eleanor, are you hurt?" "No; I don't think so," she said faintly, and then began weeping. "My horse dead?" "Good God--Yes!" "Oh!" she wailed. "I thought I was going over. I didn't know--" He helped her gently to her feet and boosted her onto his saddle. So they started homeward; Amory walking and she bent forward on the pommel, sobbing bitterly. "I've got a crazy streak," she faltered, "twice before I've done things like that. When I was eleven mother went--went mad--stark raving crazy. We were in Vienna--" All the way back she talked haltingly about herself, and Amory's love waned slowly with the moon. At her door they started from habit to kiss good night, but she could not run into his arms, nor were they stretched to meet her as in the week before. For a minute they stood there, hating each other with a bitter sadness. But as Amory had loved himself in Eleanor, so now what he hated was only a mirror. Their poses were strewn about the pale dawn like broken glass. The stars were long gone and there were left only the little sighing gusts of wind and the silences between... but naked souls are poor things ever, and soon he turned homeward and let new lights come in with the sun. ***** A POEM THAT ELEANOR SENT AMORY SEVERAL YEARS LATER "Here, Earth-born, over the lilt of the water, Lisping its music and bearing a burden of light, Bosoming day as a laughing and radiant daughter... Here we may whisper unheard, unafraid of the night. Walking alone... was it splendor, or what, we were bound with, Deep in the time when summer lets down her hair? Shadows we loved and the patterns they covered the ground with Tapestries, mystical, faint in the breathless air. That was the day... and the night for another story, Pale as a dream and shadowed with pencilled trees-- Ghosts of the stars came by who had sought for glory, Whispered to us of peace in the plaintive breeze, Whispered of old dead faiths that the day had shattered, Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon; That was the urge that we knew and the language that mattered That was the debt that we paid to the usurer June. Here, deepest of dreams, by the waters that bring not Anything back of the past that we need not know, What if the light is but sun and the little streams sing not, We are together, it seems... I have loved you so... What did the last night hold, with the summer over, Drawing us back to the home in the changing glade? _What leered out of the dark in the ghostly clover?_ God!... till you stirred in your sleep... and were wild afraid... Well... we have passed... we are chronicle now to the eerie. Curious metal from meteors that failed in the sky; Earth-born the tireless is stretched by the water, quite weary, Close to this ununderstandable changeling that's I... Fear is an echo we traced to Security's daughter; Now we are faces and voices... and less, too soon, Whispering half-love over the lilt of the water... Youth the penny that bought delight of the moon." ***** A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED "SUMMER STORM" "Faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling, Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter... And the rain and over the fields a voice calling... Our gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above, Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her Sisters on. The shadow of a dove Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings; And down the valley through the crying trees The body of the darker storm flies; brings With its new air the breath of sunken seas And slender tenuous thunder... But I wait... Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain-- Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate, Happier winds that pile her hair; Again They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air Upon me, winds that I know, and storm. There was a summer every rain was rare; There was a season every wind was warm.... And now you pass me in the mist... your hair Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more In that wild irony, that gay despair That made you old when we have met before; Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain, Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers, With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again-- Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours (Whispers will creep into the growing dark... Tumult will die over the trees) Now night Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright, To cover with her hair the eerie green... Love for the dusk... Love for the glistening after; Quiet the trees to their last tops... serene... Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter..." CHAPTER 4. The Supercilious Sacrifice Atlantic City. Amory paced the board walk at day's end, lulled by the everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of the salt breeze. The sea, he thought, had treasured its memories deeper than the faithless land. It seemed still to whisper of Norse galleys ploughing the water world under raven-figured flags, of the British dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks of civilization steaming up through the fog of one dark July into the North Sea. "Well--Amory Blaine!" Amory looked down into the street below. A low racing car had drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the driver's seat. "Come on down, goopher!" cried Alec. Amory called a greeting and descending a flight of wooden steps approached the car. He and Alec had been meeting intermittently, but the barrier of Rosalind lay always between them. He was sorry for this; he hated to lose Alec. "Mr. Blaine, this is Miss Waterson, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Tully." "How d'y do?" "Amory," said Alec exuberantly, "if you'll jump in we'll take you to some secluded nook and give you a wee jolt of Bourbon." Amory considered. "That's an idea." "Step in--move over, Jill, and Amory will smile very handsomely at you." Amory squeezed into the back seat beside a gaudy, vermilion-lipped blonde. "Hello, Doug Fairbanks," she said flippantly. "Walking for exercise or hunting for company?" "I was counting the waves," replied Amory gravely. "I'm going in for statistics." "Don't kid me, Doug." When they reached an unfrequented side street Alec stopped the car among deep shadows. "What you doing down here these cold days, Amory?" he demanded, as he produced a quart of Bourbon from under the fur rug. Amory avoided the question. Indeed, he had had no definite reason for coming to the coast. "Do you remember that party of ours, sophomore year?" he asked instead. "Do I? When we slept in the pavilions up in Asbury Park--" "Lord, Alec! It's hard to think that Jesse and Dick and Kerry are all three dead." Alec shivered. "Don't talk about it. These dreary fall days depress me enough." Jill seemed to agree. "Doug here is sorta gloomy anyways," she commented. "Tell him to drink deep--it's good and scarce these days." "What I really want to ask you, Amory, is where you are--" "Why, New York, I suppose--" "I mean to-night, because if you haven't got a room yet you'd better help me out." "Glad to." "You see, Tully and I have two rooms with bath between at the Ranier, and he's got to go back to New York. I don't want to have to move. Question is, will you occupy one of the rooms?" Amory was willing, if he could get in right away. "You'll find the key in the office; the rooms are in my name." Declining further locomotion or further stimulation, Amory left the car and sauntered back along the board walk to the hotel. He was in an eddy again, a deep, lethargic gulf, without desire to work or write, love or dissipate. For the first time in his life he rather longed for death to roll over his generation, obliterating their petty fevers and struggles and exultations. His youth seemed never so vanished as now in the contrast between the utter loneliness of this visit and that riotous, joyful party of four years before. Things that had been the merest commonplaces of his life then, deep sleep, the sense of beauty around him, all desire, had flown away and the gaps they left were filled only with the great listlessness of his disillusion. "To hold a man a woman has to appeal to the worst in him." This sentence was the thesis of most of his bad nights, of which he felt this was to be one. His mind had already started to play variations on the subject. Tireless passion, fierce jealousy, longing to possess and crush--these alone were left of all his love for Rosalind; these remained to him as payment for the loss of his youth--bitter calomel under the thin sugar of love's exaltation. In his room he undressed and wrapping himself in blankets to keep out the chill October air drowsed in an armchair by the open window. He remembered a poem he had read months before: "Oh staunch old heart who toiled so long for me, I waste my years sailing along the sea--" Yet he had no sense of waste, no sense of the present hope that waste implied. He felt that life had rejected him. "Rosalind! Rosalind!" He poured the words softly into the half-darkness until she seemed to permeate the room; the wet salt breeze filled his hair with moisture, the rim of a moon seared the sky and made the curtains dim and ghostly. He fell asleep. When he awoke it was very late and quiet. The blanket had slipped partly off his shoulders and he touched his skin to find it damp and cold. Then he became aware of a tense whispering not ten feet away. He became rigid. "Don't make a sound!" It was Alec's voice. "Jill--do you hear me?" "Yes--" breathed very low, very frightened. They were in the bathroom. Then his ears caught a louder sound from somewhere along the corridor outside. It was a mumbling of men's voices and a repeated muffled rapping. Amory threw off the blankets and moved close to the bathroom door. "My God!" came the girl's voice again. "You'll have to let them in." "Sh!" Suddenly a steady, insistent knocking began at Amory's hall door and simultaneously out of the bathroom came Alec, followed by the vermilion-lipped girl. They were both clad in pajamas. "Amory!" an anxious whisper. "What's the trouble?" "It's house detectives. My God, Amory--they're just looking for a test-case--" "Well, better let them in." "You don't understand. They can get me under the Mann Act." The girl followed him slowly, a rather miserable, pathetic figure in the darkness. Amory tried to plan quickly. "You make a racket and let them in your room," he suggested anxiously, "and I'll get her out by this door." "They're here too, though. They'll watch this door." "Can't you give a wrong name?" "No chance. I registered under my own name; besides, they'd trail the auto license number." "Say you're married." "Jill says one of the house detectives knows her." The girl had stolen to the bed and tumbled upon it; lay there listening wretchedly to the knocking which had grown gradually to a pounding. Then came a man's voice, angry and imperative: "Open up or we'll break the door in!" In the silence when this voice ceased Amory realized that there were other things in the room besides people... over and around the figure crouched on the bed there hung an aura, gossamer as a moonbeam, tainted as stale, weak wine, yet a horror, diffusively brooding already over the three of them... and over by the window among the stirring curtains stood something else, featureless and indistinguishable, yet strangely familiar.... Simultaneously two great cases presented themselves side by side to Amory; all that took place in his mind, then, occupied in actual time less than ten seconds. The first fact that flashed radiantly on his comprehension was the great impersonality of sacrifice--he perceived that what we call love and hate, reward and punishment, had no more to do with it than the date of the month. He quickly recapitulated the story of a sacrifice he had heard of in college: a man had cheated in an examination; his roommate in a gust of sentiment had taken the entire blame--due to the shame of it the innocent one's entire future seemed shrouded in regret and failure, capped by the ingratitude of the real culprit. He had finally taken his own life--years afterward the facts had come out. At the time the story had both puzzled and worried Amory. Now he realized the truth; that sacrifice was no purchase of freedom. It was like a great elective office, it was like an inheritance of power--to certain people at certain times an essential luxury, carrying with it not a guarantee but a responsibility, not a security but an infinite risk. Its very momentum might drag him down to ruin--the passing of the emotional wave that made it possible might leave the one who made it high and dry forever on an island of despair. ... Amory knew that afterward Alec would secretly hate him for having done so much for him.... ... All this was flung before Amory like an opened scroll, while ulterior to him and speculating upon him were those two breathless, listening forces: the gossamer aura that hung over and about the girl and that familiar thing by the window. Sacrifice by its very nature was arrogant and impersonal; sacrifice should be eternally supercilious. _Weep not for me but for thy children._ That--thought Amory--would be somehow the way God would talk to me. Amory felt a sudden surge of joy and then like a face in a motion-picture the aura over the bed faded out; the dynamic shadow by the window, that was as near as he could name it, remained for the fraction of a moment and then the breeze seemed to lift it swiftly out of the room. He clinched his hands in quick ecstatic excitement... the ten seconds were up.... "Do what I say, Alec--do what I say. Do you understand?" Alec looked at him dumbly--his face a tableau of anguish. "You have a family," continued Amory slowly. "You have a family and it's important that you should get out of this. Do you hear me?" He repeated clearly what he had said. "Do you hear me?" "I hear you." The voice was curiously strained, the eyes never for a second left Amory's. "Alec, you're going to lie down here. If any one comes in you act drunk. You do what I say--if you don't I'll probably kill you." There was another moment while they stared at each other. Then Amory went briskly to the bureau and, taking his pocket-book, beckoned peremptorily to the girl. He heard one word from Alec that sounded like "penitentiary," then he and Jill were in the bathroom with the door bolted behind them. "You're here with me," he said sternly. "You've been with me all evening." She nodded, gave a little half cry. In a second he had the door of the other room open and three men entered. There was an immediate flood of electric light and he stood there blinking. "You've been playing a little too dangerous a game, young man!" Amory laughed. "Well?" The leader of the trio nodded authoritatively at a burly man in a check suit. "All right, Olson." "I got you, Mr. O'May," said Olson, nodding. The other two took a curious glance at their quarry and then withdrew, closing the door angrily behind them. The burly man regarded Amory contemptuously. "Didn't you ever hear of the Mann Act? Coming down here with her," he indicated the girl with his thumb, "with a New York license on your car--to a hotel like _this_." He shook his head implying that he had struggled over Amory but now gave him up. "Well," said Amory rather impatiently, "what do you want us to do?" "Get dressed, quick--and tell your friend not to make such a racket." Jill was sobbing noisily on the bed, but at these words she subsided sulkily and, gathering up her clothes, retired to the bathroom. As Amory slipped into Alec's B. V. D.'s he found that his attitude toward the situation was agreeably humorous. The aggrieved virtue of the burly man made him want to laugh. "Anybody else here?" demanded Olson, trying to look keen and ferret-like. "Fellow who had the rooms," said Amory carelessly. "He's drunk as an owl, though. Been in there asleep since six o'clock." "I'll take a look at him presently." "How did you find out?" asked Amory curiously. "Night clerk saw you go up-stairs with this woman." Amory nodded; Jill reappeared from the bathroom, completely if rather untidily arrayed. "Now then," began Olson, producing a note-book, "I want your real names--no damn John Smith or Mary Brown." "Wait a minute," said Amory quietly. "Just drop that big-bully stuff. We merely got caught, that's all." Olson glared at him. "Name?" he snapped. Amory gave his name and New York address. "And the lady?" "Miss Jill--" "Say," cried Olson indignantly, "just ease up on the nursery rhymes. What's your name? Sarah Murphy? Minnie Jackson?" "Oh, my God!" cried the girl cupping her tear-stained face in her hands. "I don't want my mother to know. "Come on now!" "Shut up!" cried Amory at Olson. An instant's pause. "Stella Robbins," she faltered finally. "General Delivery, Rugway, New Hampshire." Olson snapped his note-book shut and looked at them very ponderously. "By rights the hotel could turn the evidence over to the police and you'd go to penitentiary, you would, for bringin' a girl from one State to 'nother f'r immoral purp'ses--" He paused to let the majesty of his words sink in. "But--the hotel is going to let you off." "It doesn't want to get in the papers," cried Jill fiercely. "Let us off! Huh!" A great lightness surrounded Amory. He realized that he was safe and only then did he appreciate the full enormity of what he might have incurred. "However," continued Olson, "there's a protective association among the hotels. There's been too much of this stuff, and we got a 'rangement with the newspapers so that you get a little free publicity. Not the name of the hotel, but just a line sayin' that you had a little trouble in 'lantic City. See?" "I see." "You're gettin' off light--damn light--but--" "Come on," said Amory briskly. "Let's get out of here. We don't need a valedictory." Olson walked through the bathroom and took a cursory glance at Alec's still form. Then he extinguished the lights and motioned them to follow him. As they walked into the elevator Amory considered a piece of bravado--yielded finally. He reached out and tapped Olson on the arm. "Would you mind taking off your hat? There's a lady in the elevator." Olson's hat came off slowly. There was a rather embarrassing two minutes under the lights of the lobby while the night clerk and a few belated guests stared at them curiously; the loudly dressed girl with bent head, the handsome young man with his chin several points aloft; the inference was quite obvious. Then the chill outdoors--where the salt air was fresher and keener still with the first hints of morning. "You can get one of those taxis and beat it," said Olson, pointing to the blurred outline of two machines whose drivers were presumably asleep inside. "Good-by," said Olson. He reached in his pocket suggestively, but Amory snorted, and, taking the girl's arm, turned away. "Where did you tell the driver to go?" she asked as they whirled along the dim street. "The station." "If that guy writes my mother--" "He won't. Nobody'll ever know about this--except our friends and enemies." Dawn was breaking over the sea. "It's getting blue," she said. "It does very well," agreed Amory critically, and then as an after-thought: "It's almost breakfast-time--do you want something to eat?" "Food--" she said with a cheerful laugh. "Food is what queered the party. We ordered a big supper to be sent up to the room about two o'clock. Alec didn't give the waiter a tip, so I guess the little bastard snitched." Jill's low spirits seemed to have gone faster than the scattering night. "Let me tell you," she said emphatically, "when you want to stage that sorta party stay away from liquor, and when you want to get tight stay away from bedrooms." "I'll remember." He tapped suddenly at the glass and they drew up at the door of an all-night restaurant. "Is Alec a great friend of yours?" asked Jill as they perched themselves on high stools inside, and set their elbows on the dingy counter. "He used to be. He probably won't want to be any more--and never understand why." "It was sorta crazy you takin' all that blame. Is he pretty important? Kinda more important than you are?" Amory laughed. "That remains to be seen," he answered. "That's the question." ***** THE COLLAPSE OF SEVERAL PILLARS Two days later back in New York Amory found in a newspaper what he had been searching for--a dozen lines which announced to whom it might concern that Mr. Amory Blaine, who "gave his address" as, etc., had been requested to leave his hotel in Atlantic City because of entertaining in his room a lady _not_ his wife. Then he started, and his fingers trembled, for directly above was a longer paragraph of which the first words were: "Mr. and Mrs. Leland R. Connage are announcing the engagement of their daughter, Rosalind, to Mr. J. Dawson Ryder, of Hartford, Connecticut--" He dropped the paper and lay down on his bed with a frightened, sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. She was gone, definitely, finally gone. Until now he had half unconsciously cherished the hope deep in his heart that some day she would need him and send for him, cry that it had been a mistake, that her heart ached only for the pain she had caused him. Never again could he find even the sombre luxury of wanting her--not this Rosalind, harder, older--nor any beaten, broken woman that his imagination brought to the door of his forties--Amory had wanted her youth, the fresh radiance of her mind and body, the stuff that she was selling now once and for all. So far as he was concerned, young Rosalind was dead. A day later came a crisp, terse letter from Mr. Barton in Chicago, which informed him that as three more street-car companies had gone into the hands of receivers he could expect for the present no further remittances. Last of all, on a dazed Sunday night, a telegram told him of Monsignor Darcy's sudden death in Philadelphia five days before. He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the room in Atlantic City. CHAPTER 5. The Egotist Becomes a Personage "A fathom deep in sleep I lie With old desires, restrained before, To clamor lifeward with a cry, As dark flies out the greying door; And so in quest of creeds to share I seek assertive day again... But old monotony is there: Endless avenues of rain. Oh, might I rise again! Might I Throw off the heat of that old wine, See the new morning mass the sky With fairy towers, line on line; Find each mirage in the high air A symbol, not a dream again... Under the glass portcullis of a theatre Amory stood, watching the first great drops of rain splatter down and flatten to dark stains on the sidewalk. The air became gray and opalescent; a solitary light suddenly outlined a window over the way; then another light; then a hundred more danced and glimmered into vision. Under his feet a thick, iron-studded skylight turned yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out glistening sheens along the already black pavement. The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night. The silence of the theatre behind him ended with a curious snapping sound, followed by the heavy roaring of a rising crowd and the interlaced clatter of many voices. The matinee was over. He stood aside, edged a little into the rain to let the throng pass. A small boy rushed out, sniffed in the damp, fresh air and turned up the collar of his coat; came three or four couples in a great hurry; came a further scattering of people whose eyes as they emerged glanced invariably, first at the wet street, then at the rain-filled air, finally at the dismal sky; last a dense, strolling mass that depressed him with its heavy odor compounded of the tobacco smell of the men and the fetid sensuousness of stale powder on women. After the thick crowd came another scattering; a stray half-dozen; a man on crutches; finally the rattling bang of folding seats inside announced that the ushers were at work. New York seemed not so much awakening as turning over in its bed. Pallid men rushed by, pinching together their coat-collars; a great swarm of tired, magpie girls from a department-store crowded along with shrieks of strident laughter, three to an umbrella; a squad of marching policemen passed, already miraculously protected by oilskin capes. The rain gave Amory a feeling of detachment, and the numerous unpleasant aspects of city life without money occurred to him in threatening procession. There was the ghastly, stinking crush of the subway--the car cards thrusting themselves at one, leering out like dull bores who grab your arm with another story; the querulous worry as to whether some one isn't leaning on you; a man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, hating her for it; the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst a squalid phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on human bodies and the smells of the food men ate--at best just people--too hot or too cold, tired, worried. He pictured the rooms where these people lived--where the patterns of the blistered wall-papers were heavy reiterated sunflowers on green and yellow backgrounds, where there were tin bathtubs and gloomy hallways and verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of the buildings; where even love dressed as seduction--a sordid murder around the corner, illicit motherhood in the flat above. And always there was the economical stuffiness of indoor winter, and the long summers, nightmares of perspiration between sticky enveloping walls... dirty restaurants where careless, tired people helped themselves to sugar with their own used coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl. It was not so bad where there were only men or else only women; it was when they were vilely herded that it all seemed so rotten. It was some shame that women gave off at having men see them tired and poor--it was some disgust that men had for women who were tired and poor. It was dirtier than any battle-field he had seen, harder to contemplate than any actual hardship moulded of mire and sweat and danger, it was an atmosphere wherein birth and marriage and death were loathsome, secret things. He remembered one day in the subway when a delivery boy had brought in a great funeral wreath of fresh flowers, how the smell of it had suddenly cleared the air and given every one in the car a momentary glow. "I detest poor people," thought Amory suddenly. "I hate them for being poor. Poverty may have been beautiful once, but it's rotten now. It's the ugliest thing in the world. It's essentially cleaner to be corrupt and rich than it is to be innocent and poor." He seemed to see again a figure whose significance had once impressed him--a well-dressed young man gazing from a club window on Fifth Avenue and saying something to his companion with a look of utter disgust. Probably, thought Amory, what he said was: "My God! Aren't people horrible!" Never before in his life had Amory considered poor people. He thought cynically how completely he was lacking in all human sympathy. O. Henry had found in these people romance, pathos, love, hate--Amory saw only coarseness, physical filth, and stupidity. He made no self-accusations: never any more did he reproach himself for feelings that were natural and sincere. He accepted all his reactions as a part of him, unchangeable, unmoral. This problem of poverty transformed, magnified, attached to some grander, more dignified attitude might some day even be his problem; at present it roused only his profound distaste. He walked over to Fifth Avenue, dodging the blind, black menace of umbrellas, and standing in front of Delmonico's hailed an auto-bus. Buttoning his coat closely around him he climbed to the roof, where he rode in solitary state through the thin, persistent rain, stung into alertness by the cool moisture perpetually reborn on his cheek. Somewhere in his mind a conversation began, rather resumed its place in his attention. It was composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted alike as questioner and answerer: Question.--Well--what's the situation? Answer.--That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name. Q.--You have the Lake Geneva estate. A.--But I intend to keep it. Q.--Can you live? A.--I can't imagine not being able to. People make money in books and I've found that I can always do the things that people do in books. Really they are the only things I can do. Q.--Be definite. A.--I don't know what I'll do--nor have I much curiosity. To-morrow I'm going to leave New York for good. It's a bad town unless you're on top of it. Q.--Do you want a lot of money? A.--No. I am merely afraid of being poor. Q.--Very afraid? A.--Just passively afraid. Q.--Where are you drifting? A.--Don't ask _me!_ Q.--Don't you care? A.--Rather. I don't want to commit moral suicide. Q.--Have you no interests left? A.--None. I've no more virtue to lose. Just as a cooling pot gives off heat, so all through youth and adolescence we give off calories of virtue. That's what's called ingenuousness. Q.--An interesting idea. A.--That's why a "good man going wrong" attracts people. They stand around and literally _warm themselves_ at the calories of virtue he gives off. Sarah makes an unsophisticated remark and the faces simper in delight--"How _innocent_ the poor child is!" They're warming themselves at her virtue. But Sarah sees the simper and never makes that remark again. Only she feels a little colder after that. Q.--All your calories gone? A.--All of them. I'm beginning to warm myself at other people's virtue. Q.--Are you corrupt? A.--I think so. I'm not sure. I'm not sure about good and evil at all any more. Q.--Is that a bad sign in itself? A.--Not necessarily. Q.--What would be the test of corruption? A.--Becoming really insincere--calling myself "not such a bad fellow," thinking I regretted my lost youth when I only envy the delights of losing it. Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don't. They just want the fun of eating it all over again. The matron doesn't want to repeat her girlhood--she wants to repeat her honeymoon. I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again. This dialogue merged grotesquely into his mind's most familiar state--a grotesque blending of desires, worries, exterior impressions and physical reactions. One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street--or One Hundred and Thirty-seventh Street.... Two and three look alike--no, not much. Seat damp... are clothes absorbing wetness from seat, or seat absorbing dryness from clothes?... Sitting on wet substance gave appendicitis, so Froggy Parker's mother said. Well, he'd had it--I'll sue the steamboat company, Beatrice said, and my uncle has a quarter interest--did Beatrice go to heaven?... probably not--He represented Beatrice's immortality, also love-affairs of numerous dead men who surely had never thought of him... if it wasn't appendicitis, influenza maybe. What? One Hundred and Twentieth Street? That must have been One Hundred and Twelfth back there. One O Two instead of One Two Seven. Rosalind not like Beatrice, Eleanor like Beatrice, only wilder and brainier. Apartments along here expensive--probably hundred and fifty a month--maybe two hundred. Uncle had only paid hundred a month for whole great big house in Minneapolis. Question--were the stairs on the left or right as you came in? Anyway, in 12 Univee they were straight back and to the left. What a dirty river--want to go down there and see if it's dirty--French rivers all brown or black, so were Southern rivers. Twenty-four dollars meant four hundred and eighty doughnuts. He could live on it three months and sleep in the park. Wonder where Jill was--Jill Bayne, Fayne, Sayne--what the devil--neck hurts, darned uncomfortable seat. No desire to sleep with Jill, what could Alec see in her? Alec had a coarse taste in women. Own taste the best; Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were all-American. Eleanor would pitch, probably southpaw. Rosalind was outfield, wonderful hitter, Clara first base, maybe. Wonder what Humbird's body looked like now. If he himself hadn't been bayonet instructor he'd have gone up to line three months sooner, probably been killed. Where's the darned bell-- The street numbers of Riverside Drive were obscured by the mist and dripping trees from anything but the swiftest scrutiny, but Amory had finally caught sight of one--One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. He got off and with no distinct destination followed a winding, descending sidewalk and came out facing the river, in particular a long pier and a partitioned litter of shipyards for miniature craft: small launches, canoes, rowboats, and catboats. He turned northward and followed the shore, jumped a small wire fence and found himself in a great disorderly yard adjoining a dock. The hulls of many boats in various stages of repair were around him; he smelled sawdust and paint and the scarcely distinguishable fiat odor of the Hudson. A man approached through the heavy gloom. "Hello," said Amory. "Got a pass?" "No. Is this private?" "This is the Hudson River Sporting and Yacht Club." "Oh! I didn't know. I'm just resting." "Well--" began the man dubiously. "I'll go if you want me to." The man made non-committal noises in his throat and passed on. Amory seated himself on an overturned boat and leaned forward thoughtfully until his chin rested in his hand. "Misfortune is liable to make me a damn bad man," he said slowly. ***** IN THE DROOPING HOURS While the rain drizzled on Amory looked futilely back at the stream of his life, all its glitterings and dirty shallows. To begin with, he was still afraid--not physically afraid any more, but afraid of people and prejudice and misery and monotony. Yet, deep in his bitter heart, he wondered if he was after all worse than this man or the next. He knew that he could sophisticate himself finally into saying that his own weakness was just the result of circumstances and environment; that often when he raged at himself as an egotist something would whisper ingratiatingly: "No. Genius!" That was one manifestation of fear, that voice which whispered that he could not be both great and good, that genius was the exact combination of those inexplicable grooves and twists in his mind, that any discipline would curb it to mediocrity. Probably more than any concrete vice or failing Amory despised his own personality--he loathed knowing that to-morrow and the thousand days after he would swell pompously at a compliment and sulk at an ill word like a third-rate musician or a first-class actor. He was ashamed of the fact that very simple and honest people usually distrusted him; that he had been cruel, often, to those who had sunk their personalities in him--several girls, and a man here and there through college, that he had been an evil influence on; people who had followed him here and there into mental adventures from which he alone rebounded unscathed. Usually, on nights like this, for there had been many lately, he could escape from this consuming introspection by thinking of children and the infinite possibilities of children--he leaned and listened and he heard a startled baby awake in a house across the street and lend a tiny whimper to the still night. Quick as a flash he turned away, wondering with a touch of panic whether something in the brooding despair of his mood had made a darkness in its tiny soul. He shivered. What if some day the balance was overturned, and he became a thing that frightened children and crept into rooms in the dark, approached dim communion with those phantoms who whispered shadowy secrets to the mad of that dark continent upon the moon.... ***** Amory smiled a bit. "You're too much wrapped up in yourself," he heard some one say. And again-- "Get out and do some real work--" "Stop worrying--" He fancied a possible future comment of his own. "Yes--I was perhaps an egotist in youth, but I soon found it made me morbid to think too much about myself." ***** Suddenly he felt an overwhelming desire to let himself go to the devil--not to go violently as a gentleman should, but to sink safely and sensuously out of sight. He pictured himself in an adobe house in Mexico, half-reclining on a rug-covered couch, his slender, artistic fingers closed on a cigarette while he listened to guitars strumming melancholy undertones to an age-old dirge of Castile and an olive-skinned, carmine-lipped girl caressed his hair. Here he might live a strange litany, delivered from right and wrong and from the hound of heaven and from every God (except the exotic Mexican one who was pretty slack himself and rather addicted to Oriental scents)--delivered from success and hope and poverty into that long chute of indulgence which led, after all, only to the artificial lake of death. There were so many places where one might deteriorate pleasantly: Port Said, Shanghai, parts of Turkestan, Constantinople, the South Seas--all lands of sad, haunting music and many odors, where lust could be a mode and expression of life, where the shades of night skies and sunsets would seem to reflect only moods of passion: the colors of lips and poppies. ***** STILL WEEDING Once he had been miraculously able to scent evil as a horse detects a broken bridge at night, but the man with the queer feet in Phoebe's room had diminished to the aura over Jill. His instinct perceived the fetidness of poverty, but no longer ferreted out the deeper evils in pride and sensuality. There were no more wise men; there were no more heroes; Burne Holiday was sunk from sight as though he had never lived; Monsignor was dead. Amory had grown up to a thousand books, a thousand lies; he had listened eagerly to people who pretended to know, who knew nothing. The mystical reveries of saints that had once filled him with awe in the still hours of night, now vaguely repelled him. The Byrons and Brookes who had defied life from mountain tops were in the end but flaneurs and poseurs, at best mistaking the shadow of courage for the substance of wisdom. The pageantry of his disillusion took shape in a world-old procession of Prophets, Athenians, Martyrs, Saints, Scientists, Don Juans, Jesuits, Puritans, Fausts, Poets, Pacifists; like costumed alumni at a college reunion they streamed before him as their dreams, personalities, and creeds had in turn thrown colored lights on his soul; each had tried to express the glory of life and the tremendous significance of man; each had boasted of synchronizing what had gone before into his own rickety generalities; each had depended after all on the set stage and the convention of the theatre, which is that man in his hunger for faith will feed his mind with the nearest and most convenient food. Women--of whom he had expected so much; whose beauty he had hoped to transmute into modes of art; whose unfathomable instincts, marvellously incoherent and inarticulate, he had thought to perpetuate in terms of experience--had become merely consecrations to their own posterity. Isabelle, Clara, Rosalind, Eleanor, were all removed by their very beauty, around which men had swarmed, from the possibility of contributing anything but a sick heart and a page of puzzled words to write. Amory based his loss of faith in help from others on several sweeping syllogisms. Granted that his generation, however bruised and decimated from this Victorian war, were the heirs of progress. Waving aside petty differences of conclusions which, although they might occasionally cause the deaths of several millions of young men, might be explained away--supposing that after all Bernard Shaw and Bernhardi, Bonar Law and Bethmann-Hollweg were mutual heirs of progress if only in agreeing against the ducking of witches--waiving the antitheses and approaching individually these men who seemed to be the leaders, he was repelled by the discrepancies and contradictions in the men themselves. There was, for example, Thornton Hancock, respected by half the intellectual world as an authority on life, a man who had verified and believed the code he lived by, an educator of educators, an adviser to Presidents--yet Amory knew that this man had, in his heart, leaned on the priest of another religion. And Monsignor, upon whom a cardinal rested, had moments of strange and horrible insecurity--inexplicable in a religion that explained even disbelief in terms of its own faith: if you doubted the devil it was the devil that made you doubt him. Amory had seen Monsignor go to the houses of stolid philistines, read popular novels furiously, saturate himself in routine, to escape from that horror. And this priest, a little wiser, somewhat purer, had been, Amory knew, not essentially older than he. Amory was alone--he had escaped from a small enclosure into a great labyrinth. He was where Goethe was when he began "Faust"; he was where Conrad was when he wrote "Almayer's Folly." Amory said to himself that there were essentially two sorts of people who through natural clarity or disillusion left the enclosure and sought the labyrinth. There were men like Wells and Plato, who had, half unconsciously, a strange, hidden orthodoxy, who would accept for themselves only what could be accepted for all men--incurable romanticists who never, for all their efforts, could enter the labyrinth as stark souls; there were on the other hand sword-like pioneering personalities, Samuel Butler, Renan, Voltaire, who progressed much slower, yet eventually much further, not in the direct pessimistic line of speculative philosophy but concerned in the eternal attempt to attach a positive value to life.... Amory stopped. He began for the first time in his life to have a strong distrust of all generalities and epigrams. They were too easy, too dangerous to the public mind. Yet all thought usually reached the public after thirty years in some such form: Benson and Chesterton had popularized Huysmans and Newman; Shaw had sugar-coated Nietzsche and Ibsen and Schopenhauer. The man in the street heard the conclusions of dead genius through some one else's clever paradoxes and didactic epigrams. Life was a damned muddle... a football game with every one off-side and the referee gotten rid of--every one claiming the referee would have been on his side.... Progress was a labyrinth... people plunging blindly in and then rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it... the invisible king--the elan vital--the principle of evolution... writing a book, starting a war, founding a school.... Amory, even had he not been a selfish man, would have started all inquiries with himself. He was his own best example--sitting in the rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in building up the living consciousness of the race. In self-reproach and loneliness and disillusion he came to the entrance of the labyrinth. ***** Another dawn flung itself across the river, a belated taxi hurried along the street, its lamps still shining like burning eyes in a face white from a night's carouse. A melancholy siren sounded far down the river. ***** MONSIGNOR Amory kept thinking how Monsignor would have enjoyed his own funeral. It was magnificently Catholic and liturgical. Bishop O'Neill sang solemn high mass and the cardinal gave the final absolutions. Thornton Hancock, Mrs. Lawrence, the British and Italian ambassadors, the papal delegate, and a host of friends and priests were there--yet the inexorable shears had cut through all these threads that Monsignor had gathered into his hands. To Amory it was a haunting grief to see him lying in his coffin, with closed hands upon his purple vestments. His face had not changed, and, as he never knew he was dying, it showed no pain or fear. It was Amory's dear old friend, his and the others'--for the church was full of people with daft, staring faces, the most exalted seeming the most stricken. The cardinal, like an archangel in cope and mitre, sprinkled the holy water; the organ broke into sound; the choir began to sing the Requiem Eternam. All these people grieved because they had to some extent depended upon Monsignor. Their grief was more than sentiment for the "crack in his voice or a certain break in his walk," as Wells put it. These people had leaned on Monsignor's faith, his way of finding cheer, of making religion a thing of lights and shadows, making all light and shadow merely aspects of God. People felt safe when he was near. Of Amory's attempted sacrifice had been born merely the full realization of his disillusion, but of Monsignor's funeral was born the romantic elf who was to enter the labyrinth with him. He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always would want--not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable; he remembered the sense of security he had found in Burne. Life opened up in one of its amazing bursts of radiance and Amory suddenly and permanently rejected an old epigram that had been playing listlessly in his mind: "Very few things matter and nothing matters very much." On the contrary, Amory felt an immense desire to give people a sense of security. ***** THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES On the day that Amory started on his walk to Princeton the sky was a colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain. It was a gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the Grecian urn. The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused much annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably or else run him down. So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon--cordiality manifested within fifty miles of Manhattan--when a passing car slowed down beside him and a voice hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent Locomobile in which sat two middle-aged men, one of them small and anxious looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was large and begoggled and imposing. "Do you want a lift?" asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for some habitual, silent corroboration. "You bet I do. Thanks." The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amory settled himself in the middle of the back seat. He took in his companions curiously. The chief characteristic of the big man seemed to be a great confidence in himself set off against a tremendous boredom with everything around him. That part of his face which protruded under the goggles was what is generally termed "strong"; rolls of not undignified fat had collected near his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin mouth and the rough model for a Roman nose, and, below, his shoulders collapsed without a struggle into the powerful bulk of his chest and belly. He was excellently and quietly dressed. Amory noticed that he was inclined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur's head as if speculating steadily but hopelessly some baffling hirsute problem. The smaller man was remarkable only for his complete submersion in the personality of the other. He was of that lower secretarial type who at forty have engraved upon their business cards: "Assistant to the President," and without a sigh consecrate the rest of their lives to second-hand mannerisms. "Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way. "Quite a stretch." "Hiking for exercise?" "No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking because I can't afford to ride." "Oh." Then again: "Are you looking for work? Because there's lots of work," he continued rather testily. "All this talk of lack of work. The West is especially short of labor." He expressed the West with a sweeping, lateral gesture. Amory nodded politely. "Have you a trade?" No--Amory had no trade. "Clerk, eh?" No--Amory was not a clerk. "Whatever your line is," said the little man, seeming to agree wisely with something Amory had said, "now is the time of opportunity and business openings." He glanced again toward the big man, as a lawyer grilling a witness glances involuntarily at the jury. Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could think of only one thing to say. "Of course I want a great lot of money--" The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously. "That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to work for it." "A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to be rich without great effort--except the financiers in problem plays, who want to 'crash their way through.' Don't you want easy money?" "Of course not," said the secretary indignantly. "But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being very poor at present I am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte." Both men glanced at him curiously. "These bomb throwers--" The little man ceased as words lurched ponderously from the big man's chest. "If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the Newark jail. That's what I think of Socialists." Amory laughed. "What are you," asked the big man, "one of these parlor Bolsheviks, one of these idealists? I must say I fail to see the difference. The idealists loaf around and write the stuff that stirs up the poor immigrants." "Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, I might try it." "What's your difficulty? Lost your job?" "Not exactly, but--well, call it that." "What was it?" "Writing copy for an advertising agency." "Lots of money in advertising." Amory smiled discreetly. "Oh, I'll admit there's money in it eventually. Talent doesn't starve any more. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists draw your magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for your theatres. By the great commercializing of printing you've found a harmless, polite occupation for every genius who might have carved his own niche. But beware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist who doesn't fit--the Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel Butler, the Amory Blaine--" "Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously. "Well," said Amory, "he's a--he's an intellectual personage not very well known at present." The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him. "What are you laughing at?" "These _intellectual_ people--" "Do you know what it means?" The little man's eyes twitched nervously. "Why, it _usually_ means--" "It _always_ means brainy and well-educated," interrupted Amory. "It means having an active knowledge of the race's experience." Amory decided to be very rude. He turned to the big man. "The young man," he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one says bell-boy, with no implication of youth, "has the usual muddled connotation of all popular words." "You object to the fact that capital controls printing?" said the big man, fixing him with his goggles. "Yes--and I object to doing their mental work for them. It seemed to me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted in overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it." "Here now," said the big man, "you'll have to admit that the laboring man is certainly highly paid--five and six hour days--it's ridiculous. You can't buy an honest day's work from a man in the trades-unions." "You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. "You people never make concessions until they're wrung out of you." "What people?" "Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed class." "Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he'd be any more willing to give it up?" "No, but what's that got to do with it?" The older man considered. "No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though." "In fact," continued Amory, "he'd be worse. The lower classes are narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfish--certainly more stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question." "Just exactly what is the question?" Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was. ***** AMORY COINS A PHRASE "When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education," began Amory slowly, "that is, when he marries he becomes, nine times out of ten, a conservative as far as existing social conditions are concerned. He may be unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but his first job is to provide and to hold fast. His wife shoos him on, from ten thousand a year to twenty thousand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill that hasn't any windows. He's done! Life's got him! He's no help! He's a spiritually married man." Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase. "Some men," he continued, "escape the grip. Maybe their wives have no social ambitions; maybe they've hit a sentence or two in a 'dangerous book' that pleased them; maybe they started on the treadmill as I did and were knocked off. Anyway, they're the congressmen you can't bribe, the Presidents who aren't politicians, the writers, speakers, scientists, statesmen who aren't just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen women and children." "He's the natural radical?" "Yes," said Amory. "He may vary from the disillusioned critic like old Thornton Hancock, all the way to Trotsky. Now this spiritually unmarried man hasn't direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married man, as a by-product of his money chase, has garnered in the great newspaper, the popular magazine, the influential weekly--so that Mrs. Newspaper, Mrs. Magazine, Mrs. Weekly can have a better limousine than those oil people across the street or those cement people 'round the corner." "Why not?" "It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world's intellectual conscience and, of course, a man who has money under one set of social institutions quite naturally can't risk his family's happiness by letting the clamor for another appear in his newspaper." "But it appears," said the big man. "Where?--in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies." "All right--go on." "Well, my first point is that through a mixture of conditions of which the family is the first, there are these two sorts of brains. One sort takes human nature as it finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and its strength for its own ends. Opposed is the man who, being spiritually unmarried, continually seeks for new systems that will control or counteract human nature. His problem is harder. It is not life that's complicated, it's the struggle to guide and control life. That is his struggle. He is a part of progress--the spiritually married man is not." The big man produced three big cigars, and proffered them on his huge palm. The little man took one, Amory shook his head and reached for a cigarette. "Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been wanting to hear one of you fellows." ***** GOING FASTER "Modern life," began Amory again, "changes no longer century by century, but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has before--populations doubling, civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations, economic interdependence, racial questions, and--we're _dawdling_ along. My idea is that we've got to go very much faster." He slightly emphasized the last words and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the speed of the car. Amory and the big man laughed; the little man laughed, too, after a pause. "Every child," said Amory, "should have an equal start. If his father can endow him with a good physique and his mother with some common sense in his early education, that should be his heritage. If the father can't give him a good physique, if the mother has spent in chasing men the years in which she should have been preparing herself to educate her children, so much the worse for the child. He shouldn't be artificially bolstered up with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools, dragged through college... Every boy ought to have an equal start." "All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval nor objection. "Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries." "That's been proven a failure." "No--it merely failed. If we had government ownership we'd have the best analytical business minds in the government working for something besides themselves. We'd have Mackays instead of Burlesons; we'd have Morgans in the Treasury Department; we'd have Hills running interstate commerce. We'd have the best lawyers in the Senate." "They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo--" "No," said Amory, shaking his head. "Money isn't the only stimulus that brings out the best that's in a man, even in America." "You said a while ago that it was." "It is, right now. But if it were made illegal to have more than a certain amount the best men would all flock for the one other reward which attracts humanity--honor." The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_. "That's the silliest thing you've said yet." "No, it isn't silly. It's quite plausible. If you'd gone to college you'd have been struck by the fact that the men there would work twice as hard for any one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did who were earning their way through." "Kids--child's play!" scoffed his antagonist. "Not by a darned sight--unless we're all children. Did you ever see a grown man when he's trying for a secret society--or a rising family whose name is up at some club? They'll jump when they hear the sound of the word. The idea that to make a man work you've got to hold gold in front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We've done that for so long that we've forgotten there's any other way. We've made a world where that's necessary. Let me tell you"--Amory became emphatic--"if there were ten men insured against either wealth or starvation, and offered a green ribbon for five hours' work a day and a blue ribbon for ten hours' work a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the blue ribbon. That competitive instinct only wants a badge. If the size of their house is the badge they'll sweat their heads off for that. If it's only a blue ribbon, I damn near believe they'll work just as hard. They have in other ages." "I don't agree with you." "I know it," said Amory nodding sadly. "It doesn't matter any more though. I think these people are going to come and take what they want pretty soon." A fierce hiss came from the little man. "_Machine-guns!_" "Ah, but you've taught them their use." The big man shook his head. "In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that sort of thing." Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property owners; he decided to change the subject. But the big man was aroused. "When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous ground." "How can they get it without taking it? For years people have been stalled off with promises. Socialism may not be progress, but the threat of the red flag is certainly the inspiring force of all reform. You've got to be sensational to get attention." "Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?" "Quite possibly," admitted Amory. "Of course, it's overflowing just as the French Revolution did, but I've no doubt that it's really a great experiment and well worth while." "Don't you believe in moderation?" "You won't listen to the moderates, and it's almost too late. The truth is that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things that they do about once in a hundred years. They've seized an idea." "What is it?" "That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs are essentially the same." ***** THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS "If you took all the money in the world," said the little man with much profundity, "and divided it up in equ--" "Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little man's enraged stare, he went on with his argument. "The human stomach--" he began; but the big man interrupted rather impatiently. "I'm letting you talk, you know," he said, "but please avoid stomachs. I've been feeling mine all day. Anyway, I don't agree with one-half you've said. Government ownership is the basis of your whole argument, and it's invariably a beehive of corruption. Men won't work for blue ribbons, that's all rot." When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if resolved this time to have his say out. "There are certain things which are human nature," he asserted with an owl-like look, "which always have been and always will be, which can't be changed." Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly. "Listen to that! _That's_ what makes me discouraged with progress. _Listen_ to that! I can name offhand over one hundred natural phenomena that have been changed by the will of man--a hundred instincts in man that have been wiped out or are now held in check by civilization. What this man here just said has been for thousands of years the last refuge of the associated mutton-heads of the world. It negates the efforts of every scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher that ever gave his life to humanity's service. It's a flat impeachment of all that's worth while in human nature. Every person over twenty-five years old who makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived of the franchise." The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage. Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man. "These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who _think_ they think, every question that comes up, you'll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle. One minute it's 'the brutality and inhumanity of these Prussians'--the next it's 'we ought to exterminate the whole German people.' They always believe that 'things are in a bad way now,' but they 'haven't any faith in these idealists.' One minute they call Wilson 'just a dreamer, not practical'--a year later they rail at him for making his dreams realities. They haven't clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change. They don't think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won't see that if they don't pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and we're going round and round in a circle. That--is the great middle class!" The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the little man. "You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?" The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice. But Amory was not through. "The theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on this man. If he can be educated to think clearly, concisely, and logically, freed of his habit of taking refuge in platitudes and prejudices and sentimentalisms, then I'm a militant Socialist. If he can't, then I don't think it matters much what happens to man or his systems, now or hereafter." "I am both interested and amused," said the big man. "You are very young." "Which may only mean that I have neither been corrupted nor made timid by contemporary experience. I possess the most valuable experience, the experience of the race, for in spite of going to college I've managed to pick up a good education." "You talk glibly." "It's not all rubbish," cried Amory passionately. "This is the first time in my life I've argued Socialism. It's the only panacea I know. I'm restless. My whole generation is restless. I'm sick of a system where the richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist without an income has to sell his talents to a button manufacturer. Even if I had no talents I'd not be content to work ten years, condemned either to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some man's son an automobile." "But, if you're not sure--" "That doesn't matter," exclaimed Amory. "My position couldn't be worse. A social revolution might land me on top. Of course I'm selfish. It seems to me I've been a fish out of water in too many outworn systems. I was probably one of the two dozen men in my class at college who got a decent education; still they'd let any well-tutored flathead play football and _I_ was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we should _all_ profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. I'm in love with change and I've killed my conscience--" "So you'll go along crying that we must go faster." "That, at least, is true," Amory insisted. "Reform won't catch up to the needs of civilization unless it's made to. A laissez-faire policy is like spoiling a child by saying he'll turn out all right in the end. He will--if he's made to." "But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk." "I don't know. Until I talked to you I hadn't thought seriously about it. I wasn't sure of half of what I said." "You puzzle me," said the big man, "but you're all alike. They say Bernard Shaw, in spite of his doctrines, is the most exacting of all dramatists about his royalties. To the last farthing." "Well," said Amory, "I simply state that I'm a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation--with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones. I've thought I was right about life at various times, but faith is difficult. One thing I know. If living isn't a seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing game." For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked: "What was your university?" "Princeton." The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles altered slightly. "I sent my son to Princeton." "Did you?" "Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last year in France." "I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends." "He was--a--quite a fine boy. We were very close." Amory began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the dead son and he told himself that there had been all along a sense of familiarity. Jesse Ferrenby, the man who in college had borne off the crown that he had aspired to. It was all so far away. What little boys they had been, working for blue ribbons-- The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence. "Won't you come in for lunch?" "Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on." The big man held out his hand. Amory saw that the fact that he had known Jesse more than outweighed any disfavor he had created by his opinions. What ghosts were people with which to work! Even the little man insisted on shaking hands. "Good-by!" shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and started up the drive. "Good luck to you and bad luck to your theories." "Same to you, sir," cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand. ***** "OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM" Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the Jersey roadside and looked at the frost-bitten country. Nature as a rather coarse phenomenon composed largely of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared moth-eaten, and of ants that endlessly traversed blades of grass, was always disillusioning; nature represented by skies and waters and far horizons was more likable. Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him now, made him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Groton, ages ago, seven years ago--and of an autumn day in France twelve months before when he had lain in tall grass, his platoon flattened down close around him, waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis gunner. He saw the two pictures together with somewhat the same primitive exaltation--two games he had played, differing in quality of acerbity, linked in a way that differed them from Rosalind or the subject of labyrinths which were, after all, the business of life. "I am selfish," he thought. "This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human suffering' or 'lose my parents' or 'help others.' "This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part. "It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness that I can bring poise and balance into my life. "There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. I can make sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a friend, lay down my life for a friend--all because these things may be the best possible expression of myself; yet I have not one drop of the milk of human kindness." The problem of evil had solidified for Amory into the problem of sex. He was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic worship in Brooke and the early Wells. Inseparably linked with evil was beauty--beauty, still a constant rising tumult; soft in Eleanor's voice, in an old song at night, rioting deliriously through life like superimposed waterfalls, half rhythm, half darkness. Amory knew that every time he had reached toward it longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of evil. Beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the beauty of women. After all, it had too many associations with license and indulgence. Weak things were often beautiful, weak things were never good. And in this new loneness of his that had been selected for what greatness he might achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it would make only a discord. In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second step after his disillusion had been made complete. He felt that he was leaving behind him his chance of being a certain type of artist. It seemed so much more important to be a certain sort of man. His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking of the Catholic Church. The idea was strong in him that there was a certain intrinsic lack in those to whom orthodox religion was necessary, and religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite conceivably it was an empty ritual but it was seemingly the only assimilative, traditionary bulwark against the decay of morals. Until the great mobs could be educated into a moral sense some one must cry: "Thou shalt not!" Yet any acceptance was, for the present, impossible. He wanted time and the absence of ulterior pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without ornaments, realize fully the direction and momentum of this new start. ***** The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o'clock to the golden beauty of four. Afterward he walked through the dull ache of a setting sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight he came to a graveyard. There was a dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a new moon in the sky and shadows everywhere. On an impulse he considered trying to open the door of a rusty iron vault built into the side of a hill; a vault washed clean and covered with late-blooming, weepy watery-blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the touch with a sickening odor. Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864." He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. Somehow he could find nothing hopeless in having lived. All the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels meant romances. He fancied that in a hundred years he would like having young people speculate as to whether his eyes were brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately that his grave would have about it an air of many, many years ago. It seemed strange that out of a row of Union soldiers two or three made him think of dead loves and dead lovers, when they were exactly like the rest, even to the yellowish moss. ***** Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were visible, with here and there a late-burning light--and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken.... Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself--art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria--he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights.... There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth--yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. But--oh, Rosalind! Rosalind!... "It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly. And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed.... He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. "I know myself," he cried, "but that is all." Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11 The primary feature of edition 11 is restoration of em-dashes which are missing from edition 10. (My favorite instance is "I won't belong" rather than "I won't be--long".) Characters which are 8-bit in the printed text were misrepresented in edition 10. Edition 10 had some end-of-paragraph problems. A handful of other minor errors are corrected. Two volumes served as reference for edition 11: a 1960 reprint, and an undated reprint produced sometime after 1948. There are a number of differences between the volumes. Evidence suggests that the 1960 reprint has been somewhat "modernized", and that the undated reprint is a better match for the original 1920 printing. Therefore, when the volumes differ, edition 11 more closely follows the undated reprint. In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases italicized for emphasis. There is a section of text in book 2, chapter 3, beginning with "When Vanity kissed Vanity," which is referred to as "poetry" but is formatted as prose. I considered, but decided against introducing an 8-bit version of edition 11, in large part because the bulk of the 8-bit usage (as found in the 1960 reprint) consists of words commonly used in their 7-bit form: Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include: anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete and the name "Borge". 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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Spanish Wrought-Iron Screens, XII. Century Capitals from the Benedictine Monastery, Monreale Distributed Proofreading Team at THE BROCHURE SERIES Spanish Wrought-Iron Screens XII. Century Capitals from the Benedictine Monastery, Monreale MARCH, 1900 THE BROCHURE SERIES OF ARCHITECTURAL ILLUSTRATION. 1900. MARCH No. 3. SPANISH WROUGHT-IRON SCREENS. From earliest times the numerous iron mines which exist in Spain, especially in the Cantabrian provinces, have been worked, and their presence has developed in that country excellent objects of art in metal at all times; but owing to the perishable character of iron, the slight intrinsic value of the material, and the little care taken of such fabrics, examples of very early specimens, with the exception of a few interesting ones which have reached us from the Spanish Arabs, have disappeared. The most interesting examples of Moorish manufacture which have survived are some iron keys of most delicate tracery. Their perfect state of preservation shows that they were used only as symbols of cities or fortresses, and, on given occasions, offered to kings or great people, and even in the present day in Spain this ceremony is kept up, and a key signifying the freedom of the palace, is offered to the foreign princes who stay at the royal residence in Madrid. In a similar manner, as far back as the middle ages, keys have been presented to Spanish sovereigns on occasions of their visits to such towns as Toledo and Seville; and a ceremony of swearing them to uphold the accorded privilege is gone through with,--a reminiscence probably of what occurred when these towns were conquered from the Moors. One of these keys at Valencia, belonging to Count de Trignona, measures nine and-a-half inches long, and was originally gilt. Its handle is closed and covered with delicate work in relief, and the wards are ornamented in the same manner with a combination of several words written in Cufic letters of difficult interpretation; but around the handle we can read distinctly in arabic the name of the artist: "It was made by Ahmel Ahsan." This key appears to date from the thirteenth or early fourteenth century, and two similar ones exist in the Town Hall of Valencia. Worthy objects of iron work must have been made by Christian artists of this period in Spain, for, although no specimens have come down to us, we have historical information which confirms such a conclusion. In the ordinances of Barcelona we find it recorded that the iron-smiths formed an extensive guild in the thirteenth century, and that in 1257 four of its members were officers of the Chief Municipal Council; and other similar records substantiate the fact that this guild increased in importance during the succeeding centuries. The ordinances of Seville of the fifteenth century, which were reformed in 1502, and those of Toledo, also revised in 1582, will give the student an idea of what was done by workers of metals at this period, the method of workmanship and other interesting details. The ordinances of Seville mention _rejas_ made in Biscay, and give a good idea of the styles adopted by the iron-masters there, and the ordinances of Granada repeat, almost exactly, the former descriptions. The modern history of iron work in Spain begins, however, with the second half of the fifteenth century. From this period on, the art continued to progress, and in the sixteenth century Spain produced works of art in wrought iron which were unrivalled in Europe. The most beautiful and characteristic productions of the Spanish iron-smiths were the openwork screens or grilles, especially the _rejas_, or chancel screens, enclosing the chapels in the cathedrals; and these last deserve special attention, from the beauty of their forms, the quality of their workmanship and the intrinsic variety of their models. The interior arrangement of Spanish cathedrals differs somewhat from that of churches in other parts of Europe. In Spain, the choir proper, or _coro_, is transferred to the nave, of which it commonly occupies the western half, and a passage, usually protected by low iron or brass railings, leads from the eastern gate of the _coro_ to the screen in front of the high altar. This arrangement is necessary because, as the choir proper is deep, the people must be kept from pressing on the clergy as they pass to and fro, during the service, in the long passage from the altar to the _coro_. High metal screens or _rejas_ are also placed across the entrance to the choir or "capilla mayor," as its eastern part is called. Owing to this form of interior arrangement the cathedrals and churches of Spain lent themselves admirably to the construction of objects of all kinds in ornamental iron work; and from the earliest times when such records were kept, we meet with many names of iron-masters who were apparently attached to the different cathedrals in the same manner as were the painters and artists. One of the finest specimens of this artistic industry (and we place it first because it is a typical example) is the splendid _reja_ which divides the nave from the "Royal Chapel" in the Cathedral of Granada (Plate XIX). This Cathedral is, on the whole, the best Renaissance building in Spain, and in plan one of the finest churches in Europe; and the "Royal Chapel" is the most interesting feature of its interior. This Chapel was erected in the late Gothic style, in 1506-17, for the reception of the tombs of the "Catholic Kings," and was afterwards enlarged by Charles V., who found it "too small for so great glory." Besides the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella it contains those of the parents of Charles V. The _reja_ which guards it was completed about 1522, by the celebrated Bartolom of Jaen, who also worked at Seville, and whom the records of the time describe as "sculptor and iron-master." Its important size enabled the artist to carry out a splendid scheme of ornamentation in the "plateresque" style, combined with reliefs, on a large scale, of figures of apostles and saints, terminating at the upper part with a wide ornamental band of conventional floral decoration in relief, crowned with a Crucifixion, with the Virgin and Saint John on either side. The ornamentation was originally gilded and the figures painted in oil colors. The balustrades and supports are forged with the hammer. The figures and circular piers are formed of large plates, _repouss_ and carved in a most admirable manner, and an examination of them will give a good idea of the technical mastery over the material which the artists of this time had attained long before the various mechanical facilities of the present day existed. This _reja_ at Granada is entirely of iron, which most Spanish _rejas_ are not, and is the earliest specimen of anything like equal importance in Spain. It has been chosen as the first specimen to be here described, not only because of the early date of its construction, but because it excellently illustrates the salient merits of the best type of Spanish cathedral screen. The first of these merits is a general transparency,--a highly important quality in a wrought-iron screen so placed, for if such a screen be covered with sufficient ornament to arrest the eye on its surface when viewing the interior of the cathedral as a whole, it detracts from the general architectural effect, serving indeed, to block the nave as a wall where no wall was intended. In such a screen as the present one, however, the slight vertical piers almost disappear unless the sight be focussed upon them, while the ornamental portions seem apparently suspended in mid air and do not in any way injure the general architectural scheme or decrease the apparent space. The rectangularity of the design gives great repose; and the division into departments, which allows of the concentration of strength in skeleton lines, affords sufficient constructional stiffness without involving too much formality. The design is both beautiful and appropriate. At the summit the crucifixion, below the leading incidents of biblical history, and, in a central panel about twenty feet square, grouped in a decorative design, the full heraldic insignia of the monarchs who repose in the tombs which the screen guards. The lock bears a small inscription giving the name of the artist, "Maestro Bartolom me fec." To consider in detail the multitude of similar rich and beautiful railings which happily survive in Spanish cathedrals and churches, would be impossible, even were it possible to illustrate them; but, for the most part, they have never been drawn or photographed, and a brief description of those illustrated in our plates must here suffice. The Cathedral of Seville is undoubtedly one of the largest, handsomest and richest Gothic churches in Christendom, and was once a veritable museum of works of art. An old saying groups the chief churches of Spain together as "_Toledo la rica, Salamanca la fuerte, Leon la bella, Oviedo la sacra, e Sevilla la grande_." It originally contained some very beautiful _rejas_, including two famous ones by Sancho Muoz; but these with many other art treasures, were destroyed by the twice falling of the dome, first in 1511 and again in 1888, due to earthquake shocks. The three chapel screens shown in our illustrations (Plates XX., XXI., and page 41) remain, however, to show how rich in iron work this Cathedral originally must have been. The names of the artists of these screens are not certainly known. The "Altar de la Gamba," shown in Plate XX., derives its curious name, "The Altar of the Leg," from the finely painted leg of Adam in the picture which adorns the shrine, representing our first parents adoring the Virgin. The Cathedral of Barcelona, one of the noblest creations of Spanish Gothic, stands upon the highest point of the ancient city, on a site originally occupied by a Roman temple and later by a Moorish mosque. On the southwest the cathedral is adjoined by magnificent Gothic cloisters, finished in 1448. Along the northwest side of these cloisters is a row of chapels, placed back to back with the chapels of the southwest aisle of the church. The entrances to these chapels are closed by iron grilles of simple but dignified design. One of them is shown in our illustration (Plate XXII.). Although the cathedral of Avila was commenced in 1091 its general character is that of the end of the twelfth or early part of the thirteenth century, though the solemn and dignified interior is designed in a style of a later date. Besides the beautiful _reja_ here shown (Plate XXIII. ), which divides the high altar from the church proper, it contains a fine iron pulpit (page 47.) Iron pulpits, so rare elsewhere, have been made in Spain with great success. The one here illustrated shows a mixture of Gothic and Renaissance detail, but the whole is of contemporary workmanship, and presents an interesting example of the transitional style. The primitive method of working through thin plates superimposed to form tracery is here adhered to, and the whole is applied to a wooden framework. The pulpit was originally gilt. It dates from the end of the fifteenth century, and shows the influence of the Flemish masters who at about that period set so many fashions in Burgos and its vicinity. The wrought-iron screen (shown on page 47), now preserved in the collection of the Louvre, belongs to the same time, and is of the same style of workmanship. The interior of the cathedral of Burgos is, from its lofty spacious proportions, one of the finest in Spain, and is surrounded, unsymmetrically but not unpicturesquely, by fourteen chapels, all distinguished by some particular beauty of construction or ornamentation. The chief of these chapels, situated at the east end of the cathedral, is the gorgeous "Capilla del Condestable," built for Don Pedro Fernandez de Velasco, hereditary Constable of Castile, in 1487. This chapel contains superbly sculptured tombs of the Constable and his wife, and the lofty _reja_ (Plate XXVI.) which guards the entrance to it has been considered one of the finest specimens of its kind, owing to the perfection with which every detail is carried out. It is the master-piece of Cristoval de Andino, and was constructed in 1523. A contemporary writer describing it says: "Good workmen, and those who wish that their work may have authority and be blameless, must endeavor to be guided by ancient models, as was your fellow citizen Cristoval de Andino; and his works are thereby more elegant and excellent than any others which I have seen up to the present time. If you think otherwise, judge of his work by looking at the _reja_ which he is making for your lord, the Constable, which is undoubtedly superior to all those that have hitherto been made in Spain." The centre of the upper part of the _reja_ bears the signature of the artist, "Ab. Andino, A.D. MDXXIII." The famous University of Salamanca was originally built in 1415, but in 1480 the upper part was entirely reconstructed in the most brilliant "plateresque" style, by the "Catholic Kings." The various offices of the University are grouped around a simple, cloister-like court; and on the west side of the second floor is the Library, which contains 80,000 volumes, and is said to have been founded by Alfonso the Learned in 1254. The entrance to this Library is closed by the beautiful wrought grille shown in Plate XXIV. The exact date and the authorship of the grille are unknown. The Church of San Juan de la Penitencia is a jumble of curious styles. Built by the Cardinal Ximenez in 1514, a semi-Moorish palace was partially incorporated with it, and it contains much interesting Moorish decoration. The ceiling of the nave and choir is Moorish, the portal and choir windows are Gothic, several of the altars are baroque, and the elaborate _reja_, here reproduced (Plate XXV.) is a fine specimen of "plateresque" iron-work. The old Cathedral of Saragossa is called "La Seo," par excellence, to distinguish it from the other called "del Pilar," "seo" being the usual term for the principal church. It was erected in 1119-1520 on the site of the principal mosque of the Moors, and the general arrangement of the interior resembles that of a mosque. The sides are flanked with chapels; and the Chapel of Zaporta (Zaporta was a rich citizen of the city who died early in the sixteenth century) is shut off by an iron screen, of excellent workmanship in the less elaborate "plateresque" style, shown in the small engraving on page 45. After the sixteenth century smiths' work in Spain declined in artistic interest and importance. The abilities of the iron-workers were devoted to constructing objects on a smaller scale, such as door locks, clock ornaments and the like; the arts of inlaying iron-work with gold and silver sprung into prominence, and Spanish artists practically ceased to undertake the great carved and chiselled grilles which have formed the subject of this paper. S. F. N. XII. Century Capitals from the Benedictine Monastery, Monreale The Cathedral church of Santa Maria Nuova, with its adjoining Benedictine monastery and cloister, were erected at Monreale (pronounced Mur-ri-a-li by its Sicilian inhabitants) by William II. of Sicily in 1174-82. This splendid work of Norman-Sicilian artists is Latin in its shape, Roman in its colonnade, Byzantine in its mosaics, Greek in its sculpture, Saracenic and Norman in its many mouldings, exhibiting a most curious combination of styles. The names of the architects are unknown (the nive Vasari attributes this to "their stupidity or contempt of fame"), but the evidence afforded by a careful examination of the mosaics, establishes the conclusion that King William intrusted the embellishment to Greek, that is to say, Byzantine, artists or to their Sicilian disciples. At any rate, the artists who embellished Monreale in the latter part of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries were in every way the equals in artistic abilities of the Italian masters who lived and worked a century later; and when we talk of the Renaissance we should not forget that long before its advent these Sicilian artists had here produced work that today challenges the wonder and admiration of critics. "Other cathedrals," says Mr. Symonds, "may surpass that of Monreale in sublimity, bulk, strength or unity of plan. None can surpass it in the strange romance with which the memory of its many artificers invests it. None can exceed it in the richness and glory, the gorgeousness of a thousand decorative elements." Of the original buildings of the Benedictine monastery which formed a part of the church, and were built at the same time, none but the cloister remains. This cloister is in its kind one of the most superb examples of twelfth century architecture to be found in Europe, and is one of the largest as well as one of the most beautiful in the world. The cloisters of St. John Lateran, St. Paul-beyond-the-Walls, Ste. Scholastica, at Subiaco, are all admirable, but they are inferior to that of Monreale, both in detail and in grandeur of total effect. Imagine a vast central space, one hundred and sixty-nine feet square,--not a flat grass-plot scattered with decaying tombs, nor planted with the severe box-wood and funereal cypresses that give so gloomy an aspect to most cloisters, but a blooming garden, adorned with shrubs and flowering vines, laid out in parterres of exquisite verdure, where, in the shade of myrtle and citron trees, fountains play, their jets caught in marble basins, only to overflow and nourish the living green about them. This garden is walled in by four long corridors, sheltered by arcades of small pointed arches with something Oriental in their curves, supported by two hundred and sixteen coupled columns of white marble, with a group of four at each angle, all of them surmounted by carved capitals of different designs, the slender shafts ornamented with mosaics and incrusted with precious marbles, some patterned in lozenges, some curved with floral designs, some fluted after the antique manner, some wound with capricious spirals,--a file of shining columns of fairy-like aspect. And, looking at this perennial garden with its ever-running fountains, surrounded by so Oriental an arcade, one might fancy one's self transported to a monastic Alhambra, or the interior of an Arabian-Night's palace. The capitals of the shafts that uphold the arcade (and from the slenderness of these shafts it is probable that they were inserted some time after the heavier arcade was originally built), are all different. A number of them are here illustrated. In their design the sharp acanthus foliage of the Greeks is commingled with the emblems of Christianity, such as the circle, the cross, the vine and the dove, with infinitely ingenious grotesques of birds and animals, and with human figures. The latter are represented in Byzantine costume, and Greek inscriptions everywhere appear. The workmanship of these capitals, the delicate detail of the carving, showing the constant employment of the circular drill, the almost entire concealment of the background, are tokens of the craftsmanship of the twelfth century Byzantine Greeks Contemporary personages, scenes from the old and new Testaments, real and fantastic animals, leaves, flowers, fruit,--all are represented with a wonderful liveliness of expression and with prodigious fecundity of imagination. They exhibit, as M. Dantier has said: "_Toute la foi, toute la posie du temps sculptes sur la pierre._" The cloister at Monreale has been illustrated, and other examples of its capitals shown, in THE BROCHURE SERIES, Volume 1895, No. 3, and in Volume 1898, No. 1. Transcriber's Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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Distributed Proofreading Team at (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) THE BRITISH ARMY FROM WITHIN THE BRITISH ARMY FROM WITHIN BY E. CHARLES VIVIAN AUTHOR OF PASSION FRUIT, DIVIDED WAYS, ETC. HODDER AND STOUGHTON LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO MCMXIV CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE UBIQUE: THE ARMY AS A WHOLE 9 CHAPTER II THE WAY OF THE RECRUIT 25 CHAPTER III OFFICERS AND NON-COMS. 46 CHAPTER IV INFANTRY 60 CHAPTER V CAVALRY 76 CHAPTER VI ARTILLERY AND ENGINEERS 92 CHAPTER VII IN CAMP 106 CHAPTER VIII MUSKETRY 120 CHAPTER IX THE INTERNAL ECONOMY OF THE ARMY 136 CHAPTER X THE NEW ARMY 158 CHAPTER XI ACTIVE SERVICE 169 CHAPTER I UBIQUE: THE ARMY AS A WHOLE On the badges of the corps of Engineers, and also on those of the Royal Artillery, will be found the word Ubique, but it is a word that might just as well be used with regard to the whole of the British Army, which serves everywhere, does everything, undergoes every kind of climate, and gains contact with every class of people. In this respect, the British soldier enjoys a distinct advantage over the soldiers of continental armies; he has a chance of seeing the world. India, Africa, Egypt, the West Indies, Mauritius, and the Mediterranean stations are open to him, and by the time he leaves the service he has at least had the opportunity of becoming cosmopolitan in his tastes and ways--of becoming a man of larger ideas and better grasp on the problems of life than were his at the time when he took the oath and passed the doctor. Of that phase, more anon. It is of little use, in the present state of the British Army, to attempt to define its extent or composition, for it is in such a state of flux that the numbers of battalions, regiments, and batteries of a year ago are as obsolete as the Snider rifle. There used to be 157 battalions of infantry, 31 regiments of cavalry, and about 180 batteries of horse and field artillery, together with about 100 companies and 9 mountain batteries of Royal Garrison Artillery, forming the principal strength of the British Army. To these must be added the Royal Engineers, the Army Service Corps, the Royal Ordnance Department, the R.A.M.C., the Army Pay Corps, and other non-combatant units necessary to the domestic and general internal working of an army. To-day these various forces are increased to such an extent that no man outside the War Office can tell the strength of infantry, cavalry, and artillery; no man, either, can tell what will be the permanent strength of the Army on a peace footing, when the present urgent need for men no longer exists, and there is only to be considered the maintenance of a force sufficient for the garrisoning of colonial and foreign stations and for ordinary defensive needs at home. Generally speaking, the soldier at home, no matter to what arm or branch of the service he belongs, undergoes a continuous training. It takes three years to make an infantryman fully efficient, five years to make a cavalryman thoroughly conversant with his many duties, and five years or more to teach a gunner his business. The raw material from which the Army is recruited is mixed and sometimes uneducated stuff, and, in addition to this, recruits are enlisted at an age when they must be taught everything--they are past the age of the schoolboy who absorbs tuition readily and with little trouble to his instructors, and they have not attained to such an age as will permit them to take their work really seriously. This, of course, does not apply to a time of great national emergency, when the men coming to the colours are actuated by the highest possible motives, eager to fit themselves for the work in hand, and bent on getting fit for active service in the shortest possible time. In times of peace, recruits join the colours from many motives--pure patriotism is not a common one--and, in consequence, the hard realities of soldiering in peace time disillusion them to such an extent that they are difficult to teach, and thus need the full term of training for full efficiency. Half the work of their instructors consists in getting them into the proper frame of mind and giving them that _esprit de corps_ which is essential to the war fitness of a voluntary army. At the best, there is much in the work that a soldier is called on to do which is beyond his understanding, in the first years of his service. One consequence of this is that he learns to do things without questioning their meaning, and thus acquires a habit of obeying; this, up to a few years ago, was the object of military training--to instil into the soldier unquestioning obedience to orders, and the sentence--obedience is the first duty of the soldier, gained currency and labelled the soldier as a mere cog in a great machine, one whose duty lay in obeying as did that Roman sentinel at Pompeii. One of the chief lessons of the South African war, however, was that such obedience was no longer the first duty of the soldier; he must obey, no less than before, but scientific warfare demands an understanding obedience, and not the unquestioning, die-at-his-post fidelity of old time. The recruit of to-day must be taught not only to obey, but to understand, and by that fact the work of his instructors, and his own work as well, are largely increased. Obedience was the watchword of yesterday. Obedience and initiative is the phrase of to-day. To come down to concrete facts as regards the actual composition and general duties of the Army. The main station in England is Aldershot, headquarters of the first Army Corps. Theoretically, in all cases of national emergency, the Aldershot Command is first to move, and the units composing it are expected to be able to mobilise for active service at twenty-four hours notice. Next in importance are Colchester, Shorncliffe, York, and Bulford--the centre of the Salisbury Plain area under military control. In Ireland the principal stations are Dublin and the Curragh. In these stations, under normal circumstances, the furlough season begins at Christmas time and lasts up to the following March; for this period men are granted leave in batches, and drill and training for those who remain in barracks while the others take their holidays is somewhat relaxed. Serious training begins in March, when the corporals, sergeants, and troop and section officers begin to lick their squads, sections, and troops into shape. Following on this comes company training for the infantry, squadron training for the cavalry, and battery training for the artillery, and this in turn is followed by battalion training for infantry, regimental training for cavalry, and brigade training for artillery. Somewhere during the period taken up before the beginning of regimental and battalion training, musketry has to be fitted in, and, as the ranges cannot accommodate all the men at once, this has to be done by squadrons and companies, while those not engaged in perfecting their shooting continue with their other training. At the conclusion of the training of units--regiments, battalions, and brigades of artillery--brigade and divisional training is begun, and then manuvres follow, in which the troops are given opportunities of learning the working of an army corps, as well as getting practical experience of camp life under conditions as near those obtaining on active service as circumstances will admit. By the time all this has been completed, the furlough season starts again, and the round begins once more with a few more recruits to train, a few old soldiers missing from the ranks. In addition to the regular course of training that lasts through the year and goes on from year to year, there are various courses to be undergone in order to keep the departmental staff of each unit up to strength. Thus, in the infantry, signallers must be specially trained, and pioneers, who do all the sanitary work of their units, must be taught their duties, while musketry instructors and drill instructors have to be selected and taught their duties. Each unit, except as regards medical service and a few things totally out of its range of activity, is self-contained and self-supporting, and thus it is necessary that it should train its own instructors and its own special men for special work, together with understudies to take their places in case of casualties. The cavalry trains its own signallers, scouts, shoeing smiths, cooks, pioneers, and to a certain extent medical orderlies. The artillery does likewise, and in addition keeps up a staff of artificers to attend to minor needs of the guns--men capable of repairing breakages in the field, as far as this is possible. Wherever horses are concerned, too, saddlers must be trained to keep leather work in repair. The Engineers, a body of men who seldom get the recognition their work deserves, have to train in telegraphy, bridge-building, construction and demolition of all things, from a regular defensive fortification to a field kitchen, and many other things incidental to the smooth working of an army in the field. Departmental corps, such as the Army Service, Army Ordnance, and R.A.M.C., not only train but exercise their functions in a practical way, for in peace time an army must be fed, equipped, and doctored, just the same as in war--except that in the latter case its requirements are more strenuous. The ancient belief entertained by civilians to the effect that the Army is a profession of laziness is thoroughly exploded as soon as one passes through the barrack gates, for the Army as a whole works as hard as, if not harder than the average man in equivalent stations of civilian life. In foreign and colonial stations, the work goes on just the same, as far as limitations of climate will permit. In plains stations in India, the heat of the summer months renders training during the day impossible, and men get their work over, for the most part, in the very early morning, or in the cool of the evening. Malta and Gibraltar are subject to the same limitations in a lesser degree, as is South Africa, while Mauritius and minor colonial stations have their own ways. But, no matter where the unit concerned may be, it works--fitness is dependent on work, and no unit is allowed to get rusty, while the variety of work involved prevents men from getting stale. At the same time, there is plenty of relaxation and sport as well as work in the routine of military life. Set a battalion down in a new station, and the chances are ten to one that on the evening of their arrival the men will be kicking a football about. Each company and squadron, and each battery of artillery as well, has its own sports fund and sports club, which keeps going the national games in the unit concerned. Men work hard and play hard, and their play is made to help their work. Infantry units organise cross-country races which help enormously in maintaining the men in fit marching condition; cavalry units get up scouting competitions and other sporting fixtures based on work--to say nothing of tent pegging, lemon cutting, and other forms of military sport of which the Royal Military Tournament annually affords examples, while shooting ranges form fields for weekly competitions at such times as they are not in use for annual musketry courses. The actual composition of the various units composing the British Army differs from that of continental armies, the only units of strength which are identical being those of the army corps, and the division, which is half an army corps. The next unit in the scale is the brigade, which is composed of three batteries of field or two of horse artillery, three regiments of cavalry, or four battalions of infantry. A division is made up of brigades, which vary in number and composition according to the work which that particular division will be expected to accomplish--there is a standard for the composition of the division, but changes now in process of taking place in the composition of the whole army render it unsafe to quote any standard as definite. A normal division, certainly, is composed of cavalry, artillery, and infantry in certain strengths, together with non-combatants and supply units making up its total strength to anywhere between 20,000 and 30,000 men. The unit of strength in which figures become definite is the brigade of artillery, the regiment of cavalry, and the battalion of infantry. The peace strength of each of these units may be regarded, as a rule, as from 10 to 20 per cent. over the war strength, and the war strength is as follows: For cavalry, a regiment consists of about 620 officers and men of all ranks; this body is divided into three service squadrons, each of an approximate strength of 160 officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, the remainder of the strength of the unit forming the reserve squadron, devoted to the headquarters staff--the commanding officer and administrative staff of the regiment, as well as the pom-pom or one-pounder quick-firer, of which one is included in the establishment of every cavalry regiment. In this connection it is probable that the experiences of the present European war will lead to the adoption of a greater number of these quick-firers, and in future each cavalry regiment will probably have at least two pom-poms as part of its regular equipment. The possession of these, of course, involves the training of a gun crew for each weapon--a full complement of gunners and drivers. For artillery, a brigade is divided into three batteries, each of an approximate strength of 150 men and six guns (the artillery battery corresponds to the cavalry squadron and to the infantry company) and, in addition, one ammunition column, together with transport and auxiliary staff, making up a total of about 600 officers, non-commissioned officers, and men. This refers to the field artillery, which forms the bulk of the British artillery strength, and is armed with 18-pounder quick-firing guns. The Royal Horse Artillery is armed with a lighter gun, and is used mainly as support to cavalry in single batteries. It is so constituted as to be more mobile and capable of rendering quicker service than the R.F.A. Horse artillery is hardly ever constituted into brigades, as is the field artillery. Horse artillery, again, has no counterpart in the armies of Continental nations, so far as mobility and quality of armament are in question. Infantry reckons its numbers by battalions, of which the war strength is approximately 1010 officers, non-commissioned officers, and men per battalion. Each battalion is divided into four double companies, the double-company system having been adopted in order to compensate for a certain shortage of officers. The double company may be reckoned at 240 officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, roughly, and the remainder of the total is taken up by two maxim-gun sections and the headquarters staff of the unit. As in the case of the cavalry pom-pom, it is more than likely that the number of maxims or machine-guns per battalion will be increased, as a result of the experiences gained in the present Continental war. Engineers and departmental units are divided into companies of varying strengths, according to the part they are called on to play when the division is constituted. Thus it is self-evident that an average division will require more Engineers, who do all the field work of construction and demolition, than it will Army Ordnance men, who attend to the equipment of the division--fitting out with clothing, provision of transport vehicles, etc. The number of men of departmental corps allotted to each division in the field varies with the strength of the division and with its distance from its base of supplies. There is a permanent and outstanding difference between the British Army as a whole and any Continental army as a whole. In the case of the Continental army--no matter which one is chosen for purposes of comparison, the conscript system renders it a part of the nation concerned, identifies the army with the nation, and incidentally takes out the element of freedom. A man in a conscript army is serving because he must, and, no matter how patriotic he may be, there are times when this is brought home to him very forcibly by the discipline without which no army could exist. In the British Army, on the other hand, the men serving are there by their own choice; this fact gives them a sense that the discipline, no matter how distasteful it may be, is a necessity to their training--by their enlistment they chose to undergo it. But the British Army, until the present war linked it on to the man in the street, was not a part of the nation, but a thing distinct from the nation; it was a profession apart, and none too enviable a profession, in the opinion of many, but something to be avoided by men in equivalent walks of civilian life. There are advantages as well as disadvantages in the voluntary system by which our Army is raised and maintained. As an advantage may be set first the spirit of the men; having enlisted voluntarily, and ascertained by experience that they must make the best of it or be considered utterly worthless, men in a voluntary army gain a spirit that conscripts can never attain. They are soldiers of their own free will, with regimental traditions to maintain, and practice has demonstrated that they form the finest fighting body, as a whole, among all the armies of the world. On the other hand, they have no political significance, and are but little understood, as regards their needs and the constitution of the force to which they belong. In France, for instance, the rule is every citizen a soldier, and it is a rule which is observed with but very few exceptions. The result is that every citizen who has been a soldier is also a voter, and in the matter of army requirements he votes in an understanding way, while the British voter, with the exception of the small percentage who have served in the Army, is as a rule unmoved by Army needs and questions. To this extent the Army suffers from the voluntary system, though the quality of the Army itself under present voluntary conditions may be held to compensate for this. It is doubtful whether it does compensate. Further, the voluntary system makes of life in the ranks a totally different thing from civilian life. In conscript armies the discipline to which men are subjected makes their life different from that of their civilian days, but not to such an extent as in the voluntary British Army. The civilian can never quite understand the soldier; Kipling came nearer than any other civilian in his understanding, but even he failed altogether to appreciate the soldier of to-day--perhaps he had a better understanding of the soldier of the eighties and nineties, before the South African war had come to awaken the Army to the need for individual training and the development of initiative. However that may be, no man has yet written of the soldier as he really is, because the task has been usually attempted by civilians, to whom the soldier rarely shows his real self. Soldiers have themselves given us glimpses of their real life, but usually they have specialised on the dramatic and the picturesque. It is necessary, if one would understand the soldier and his inner life, that one should have a grasp of the monotony of soldiering, the drill and riding school, the barrack-room routine, and all that makes up the daily life, as well as the exceptional and picturesque. In the following chapters, showing as far as possible the inner life of the Army from the point of view of the soldier, an attempt has been made to show the average of life in each branch of the service. Exceptions occur: the quality of the commanding officer makes all the difference in the life of the unit which he commands; again, apart from the influence exercised by the personality of the commanding officer, that of the company or squadron officer is a very potent factor in the lives of the men under his command. The British Army, fine fighting machine though it is, is not perfect, and there are instances of bad commanding officers, bad squadron and company officers, just as there are instances of superlatively good ones. Between these is the influence exerted by the mass on the mass, from which an average picture may be drawn. That picture is the portrait of the British soldier, second to none. CHAPTER II THE WAY OF THE RECRUIT The way of the recruit, though still a hard one, is not so hard as it used to be, for, especially in the cavalry and artillery, various modifications have been introduced by which the youngster is broken in gradually to his work. This is not all to the good, for under the new way of working the training which precedes dismissal from recruits training to the standing of a trained soldier takes longer, and, submitting the recruit to a less strenuous form of life for the period through which it lasts, does not produce quite so handy and quick a man as the one who was kept at it from dawn till dark, with liberty at the end of his official days work to clean up equipment for the next day. Still, the annual training of the dismissed soldier is a more strenuous business now than in old time, so probably the final result is about the same. The recruits first requirements, after he has interviewed the recruiting sergeant on the subject of enlistment is to take the oath--a very quick and simple matter--and then to pass the doctor, which is not so simple. The recruit is stripped, sounded, tested for full physical efficiency, and made to pass tests in eyesight and breathing which, if he emerges satisfactorily, proclaim him as near physical perfection as humanity can get without a course of physical culture--and that course is administered during his first year of service. Kept under the wing of the recruiting sergeant for a matter of hours or days, as the case may be, the recruit is at last drafted off to his depot, or direct to his unit, where his real training begins in earnest. We may take the case of a recruit who had enlisted from mixed motives, arrived at a station whence he had to make his way to barracks in the evening, in order to begin his new life; here are his impressions of beginning life in the Army. He went up a hill, and along a muddy lane, and, arriving at the barracks, inquired, as he had been told to do, for the quartermaster-sergeant of C Squadron. He was directed to the quartermaster-sergeants office, and, on arrival there, was asked his name and the nature of his business by a young corporal who took life as a joke and regarded recruits as a special form of food for amusement. Having ascertained the name of the recruit, the corporal, who was a kindly fellow at heart, took him down to the regimental coffee bar and provided him with a meal of cold meat, bread, and coffee--at the squadrons expense, of course, for the provision of the meal was a matter of duty. The corporal then indicated the room in which the recruit was to sleep, and left him. The recruit opened the door of the room, and looked in. It was a long room, with a row of narrow beds down each side, and in the middle two tables on iron trestles, whereon were several basins. On almost every bed sat a man, busily engaged in cleaning some article of clothing or equipment; some were cleaning buttons, some were pipeclaying belts, some were engaged with sword-hilts and brick-dust, some were cleaning boots--all were cleaning up as if their lives depended on it, for lights out would be sounded at a quarter-past ten, and it was already past nine oclock. When they saw the recruit, they gave him greeting. Heres another one! they cried. Heres another victim! and other phrases which led this particular recruit to think, quite erroneously, that he had come to something very bad indeed. Two or three were singing, with more noise than melody, a song which was very old when Queen Anne died--it was one of the ditties of the regiment, sung by its men on all possible and most impossible occasions. One man shouted to the recruit that he had better flap before he drew his issue, and that he could not understand at all. Translated into civilian language, it meant that he had better desert before he exchanged his civilian clothing for regimental attire, but this he learned later. They seemed a jolly crowd, very fond of flavouring their language with words which, in civilian estimation, were terms of abuse, but passed as common currency here. The recruit stood wondering--out of all these beds, there seemed to be no bed for him. After a minute or two, however, the corporal in charge of the room came up to him, and pointed out to him a bed in one corner of the room; its usual occupant was on guard for twenty-four hours, and the recruit was informed that he could occupy that bed for the night. In the morning he could go to the quartermasters store and draw blankets, sheets, a pillow, and biscuits for his own use. After that, he would be allotted a bed-cot to himself. Biscuits, it must be explained, are square mattresses of coir, of which three, placed end to end, form a full-sized mattress for a military bed-cot. Sitting on the borrowed bed-cot, the recruit was able to take a good look round. The ways of these men, their quickness in cleaning and polishing articles of equipment, were worth watching, he decided. They joked and chaffed each other, they sang scraps of songs, allegedly pathetic and allegedly humorous; they shouted from one end of the room to the other in order to carry on conversations; they called the Army names, they called each other names, and they called individuals who were evidently absent yet more names, none of them complimentary. They made a lot of noise, and in that noise one of them, having finished his cleaning, slept; when he snored, one of his comrades threw a boot at him, and, since the boot hit him, he woke up and looked round, but in vain. Therefore he calmly went to sleep again, but this time he did not snore. The recruit, who had come out of an ordinary civilian home, and hitherto had had only the vaguest of notions as to what the Army was really like, wondered if he were dreaming, and then realised that he himself was one of these men, since he had voluntarily given up certain years of his life to their business. With that reflection he undressed and got into bed. After lights-out had sounded and been promptly obeyed, he went to sleep.... His impressions are typical, and his introduction to the barrack-room may serve to record the view gained by the majority of those who enlist: that first glimpse of military life is something utterly strange and incomprehensible, and the recruit sleeps his first night in barracks--or stays awake--bewildered by the novelty of his surroundings, and a little afraid. In a few days the recruit begins to feel a little more at home in his new surroundings. One of his first ordeals is that of being fitted with clothing, and with few exceptions, all his clothing is ready-made, for the quartermasters store of a unit contains a variety of sizes and fittings of every article required, and from among these a man must be fitted out from head to foot. The regimental master-tailor attends at the clothes fitting, and makes notes of alterations required--shortening or lengthening sleeves, letting out here, and taking in there. When clothes and boots have been fitted, the recruit is issued a small kit, consisting of brushes and cleaning materials for himself and his clothes and equipment, even unto a toothbrush and a comb. As a rule, he omits the ceremony of locking these things away in his box when he returns to the barrack-room, with the result that most of them are missing when he looks on the shelf or in the box where he placed them. For, in a barrack-room, although all things are not common, the property of the recruit is fair game, and he catches who can. Gradually, as the recruit learns the need for taking care of such property as he wishes to retain, he also learns barrack-room slang and phrasing. In the Army, one is never late: one is pushed. One does not eat, but one scoffs. A man who dodges work is said to swing the lead, and there is no such thing as work, for it is graft, or kom. Practically every man, too, has his nickname: all Clarkes are Nobby, all Palmers are Pedlar, all Welshmen in other than Welsh regiments are Taffy, all Robinsons are Jack, and every surname in like fashion has its regular nickname. But, contrary to the belief entertained by the average civilian, the soldier does not readily take to nicknames for his superiors. For his own officers he sometimes finds equivalents to their names through their personal peculiarities, but if one spoke to a soldier of K. of K., the soldier would request an explanation, while Bobs for Lord Roberts might be understood, but would not be appreciated. The general officer and the superior worthy of respect gets his full title from the soldier at all times, and nicknames, except for comrades of the same company or squadron, form a mark of contempt, especially when applied to commissioned officers. Sometimes the soldier finds a nickname for a comrade out of a personal peculiarity, as when one is particularly mean he gets the name of Shonk, or Shonkie, which is equivalent to Jew, with a reference to usury and extortion. If a regimental officer gets a nickname, it may be generally assumed that he is not held in very great respect by his men. Bulgy, of whom more anon, was a very fat young lieutenant with more bulk than brains; Duffer was another lieutenant, and his title explains itself--it was always used in conjunction with his surname; Bouncer was a major who had attained his rank by accident, and left the service because he knew it was hopeless to anticipate further promotion. The officer who commands the respect of his men does not get nicknamed, and the recruit very soon learns to call his superiors by their proper names when he has occasion to mention superior officers in course of conversation with his comrades. As a rule, the recruit is subjected to one or more practical jokes by his comrades in his early days as a soldier. In cavalry regiments, a favourite form of joke is to get the recruit to go to the farrier-major for his shoeing-money, a mythical allowance which, it is alleged, every recruit receives at the beginning of his service. The pretext might appear a bit thin if only one man were concerned in the deception, but the recruit is assured by a whole barrack-roomful of soldiers that its a fact, and no hank, and in about five cases out of ten he goes to the farrier-major, who, entering into the spirit of the thing, sends the victim in to the orderly-room sergeant or the provost-sergeant, and from here the recruit goes to the next official chosen, until he finds out the hoax. If a non-commissioned officer can be found with the same sense of humour as induced the shoeing-money hoax, he--usually a lance-corporal--orders the recruit to go to the sergeant-major or some other highly placed non-com. for the key of the square. As a rule, this request from the recruit provokes the sergeant-major to wrath, and the poor recruit gets a hot time. There is a legend of a recruit having been sent to the quartermasters store to get his mouth measured for a spoon, but it may be regarded as legend pure and simple, for there are limits to the credulity, even, of recruits, though authenticated instances of hoaxes which have been practised show that much may be done by means of an earnest manner and the thorough preservation of gravity in giving recommendations to the victim. Many a man has gone to the armourer to get his spurs fitted, and probably more will go yet. If a civilian takes a thorough dislike to his work, he has always the opportunity of quitting it; if he fails to satisfy his employers, he is either warned or dismissed. In the Army, the man who dislikes his work has to pocket the dislike and go on with the work, while if his employers, the regimental authorities, have any fault to find with him, they do not express it by dismissal until various forms and quantities of punishment for slackness have been resorted to. The recruit gets far more punishments than the old soldier, for the latter has learned what to do and what to avoid, in order to make life simple for himself; his punishments usually arise out of looking on the beer when it is brown to an extent incompatible with the fulfilment of his duties, and, when sober, he generally manages to evade office and its results. But the recruit finds that the corporal in charge of his room, the drill instructor in charge of him at drill, the sergeant in charge of his section or troop, the non-commissioned officer under whose supervision he does his fatigues, and a host of other superiors, are all capable of either placing him in the guard-room to await trial or of informing him that he is under open arrest, and equally liable for trial--and this for offences which would not count as such in civilian life, for three-quarters of the military crimes are not crimes at all in the civil code. Being late on parade, a dirty button--that is, a button not sufficiently brilliant in its polish--the need of a shave, a hasty word to one in authority, and half a hundred other apparent trivialities, form grounds for wheeling a man up or running him in. And the guard-room to which he retires is the clink, while, if he is so persistent in the commission of offences as to merit detention, the military form of imprisonment, he is said to go to the glass house--that is, he is sent to the detention barracks for the term to which he is sentenced--and his punishment is spoken of as cells, and never anything else. A minor form of punishment, confined to barracks, or defaulters, involves the doing of the regiments dirty work in the few hours usually devoted to relaxation, with drill in full marching order for an hour every night, and answering ones name at the guard-room at stated intervals throughout the afternoon and evening, in order to prevent the delinquent from leaving barracks. This the soldier calls doing jankers, and the bugle or trumpet call which orders him out on the defaulters parade is known as Paddy Doyle--heaven only knows for what reason, unless one Paddy Doyle was a notorious offender against military discipline in far-back times, and his reputation has survived his personal characteristics in the memory of the soldier. The accused, whoever he may be, is paraded first before his company, squadron, or battery officer, and the charge against him is read out. First evidence is taken from the superior officer who makes the charge, and second evidence from anyone who may have been witness to the occurrence which has caused the trouble. Then the accused is asked what he has to say in mitigation of his offence, and if he is wise, unless the accusation is very unjust indeed, he answers--Nothing, sir. Then, if the case is a minor one, the company or squadron or battery officer delivers sentence. If, however, the crime is one meriting a punishment exceeding seven days confined to barracks, the case is beyond the jurisdiction of the junior officer, and must be sent to the officer commanding the regiment or battalion or artillery brigade for trial. In that case, the offender is paraded with an escort of a non-commissioned officer and man, and marched on to the verandah of the regimental orderly room when office sounds--almost always at eleven oclock in the morning. When the colonel commanding the unit--or, in case of his absence, his deputy--decrees, the offender is marched into the presence of his judge; the adjutant of the regiment reads the charge, the evidence is stated as in the case of trial by a company or squadron officer, and the colonel pronounces his verdict. Acquittals are rare; not that there is any injustice, but it is assumed, and usually with good reason, that if a man is wheeled up he has been doing something he ought not to have done. Then, too, the soldiers explanations of how he came to get into trouble are far too plausible; officers with experience of the soldier and his ways come to understand that he can explain away anything and find an excuse for everything. It is safe, in the majority of cases, to take a harsh view. However, the punishments inflicted are, in the majority of cases, light: jankers, though uncomfortable, is not degrading to any great extent, and the man who has had a taste or two of this wholesome corrective will usually be a more careful if not a better soldier in future. Cells is a different matter. Not that it lowers a man to any extent in the estimation of his comrades, but it is a painful experience, practically corresponding to the imprisonment with hard labour to which a civilian misdemeanant is subjected. It involves also total loss of pay from the time of arrest to the end of the period of punishment, while confinement to barracks involves only the actual punishment, and, unless the crime is absence, there is no loss of pay. Drunkenness is punished by an officially graded system of fines, as well as by jankers or cells. The average man, however, performs work of average quality, avoids drunkenness, and keeps to time, the result being that he does not undergo punishment. Barrack-room life, for the recruit, is a fairly simple matter. He makes his own bed, and sweeps the floor round it. He folds his blankets and sheets to the prescribed pattern; the way in which he folds his kit and clothing, also, is regulated for him by the company or squadron authorities, and, for the rest, he is kept too busy throughout the day at drill, and too busy throughout the evening in preparing for the next days drill, to get into mischief to any appreciable extent. The recruit who involves himself in crime is, more often than not, looking for trouble. It has already been stated that a full days work for the recruit is a strenuous business. If we take the average day of a recruit in, say, a cavalry regiment, and follow him from rveill to lights out, it will be seen that he is kept quite sufficiently busy. Rveill sounds anywhere between 4.30 and 6.30 a.m., according to the season of the year, and, before the sound of the trumpet has ceased the corporal in charge of the room will be heard inviting his men to Show a leg, there! The invitation is promptly complied with, for in a space of fifteen minutes all the men in the room have to dress, wash if they feel inclined to, and get out on early morning stable parade to answer their names. They are then marched down to stables, where they turn out the stable bedding and groom their horses for about an hour. The horses are then taken out to water, returned to stables, and fed, and the men file back to their rooms to get breakfast and prepare for the mornings drill. This latter involves a complete change of clothing from the rough canvas stable outfit to clean service dress and putties for riding-school use. The riding-school lesson is usually over by half-past ten, and after this the recruit takes his horse back to the stables, off-saddles, and returns to the barrack-room to change into canvas clothing once more, and enjoy the ten minutes, more or less, of relaxation that falls to him before the trumpeter sounds stables. Going to stables again, the men groom their horses, and when these have been passed as clean by the troop sergeant or troop officer the troopers set to work and clean steel work and leather. The way in which this is done in the Army may be judged from the fact that, after a mornings parade, it takes a full hour to clean saddle and head dress and render them fit for inspection. It is one oclock before midday stables is finished with, and then of course it is time for dinner. For this principal meal of the day one hour is allowed; but that hour includes the getting ready for the afternoon parade for foot drill, in which the cavalry recruit is taught the use of the sword and all movements that he will have to perform dismounted. This lasts an hour or thereabouts, and is followed by a return to the barrack-room and another change of clothing, this time into gymnasium outfit. The recruit is then marched to the gymnasium, where, for the space of another hour, the gymnastic instructor has his turn at licking the raw material into shape. Marched back to the barrack-room once more, the recruit is free to devote what remains to him of the minutes before five oclock to cleaning the spurs, sword, etc., which have become soiled by the mornings riding-school work. At five stables sounds again; the orders for the day are read out on parade, and the men march to stables to groom, bed down, water, and feed their horses, a business to which an hour is devoted. Tea follows, and then, unless the recruit has been warned for night guard, he is free to complete the preparation of his equipment for the next days work, and use what little spare time is left in such relaxation as may please him. In the infantry the number of parades done during the day is about the same; there is, of course, no stables, but the time which the cavalryman devotes to this is taken up by musketry instruction, foot drill, and fatigues. In the artillery there is more to learn than in the cavalry, for a driver has to learn to drive the horse he rides, and lead another one as well, while the gunner has plenty to keep him busy in the mechanism of his gun, its cleaning, and the various duties connected with it. To the recruit the perpetual cleaning, polishing, burnishing, and scouring are naturally somewhat irksome; and it is not until a man has undergone the whole of his recruits training that he begins dimly to understand the extreme delicacy and fineness of the instruments of his trade--or profession. He comes gradually to realise that a rifle is a very delicate piece of mechanism; a spot of rust on a sword may impair the efficiency of the blade, if allowed to remain and eat in; while a big gun is a complicated piece of machinery needing as much care as a repeater watch, if it is to work efficiently, and a horse is as helpless and needs as much care as a baby. At first sight there seems no need for the eternal cleaning of buttons, polishing of spurs, and other trivial items of work which enter into the daily life of a soldier, but all these things are directed to the one end of making the man careful of trifles and thoroughly efficient in every detail of his work. Old soldiers, having finished with foot drill (known in the barrack-room as square) and with riding school (which is allowed to keep its name), have a way of looking down on recruits; the chief aim of the recruit, if he be a normal man, is to get dismissed from riding school, square, and gymnasium, and the attitude of the old soldier encourages this ambition. Usually a recruit is placed under an old soldier for tuition in his work, and it depends very much on the quality of the old hands in a barrack-room as to what quality of trained man is turned out therefrom. Service counts more than personal worth, and in fact more than anything else in barrack-room life. The man with two years service will get into trouble sooner or later if he ventures to dictate to the man of three years or more service, whatever the relative mental qualifications of the two men concerned may be. Before you came up, or before you enlisted, are the most crushing phrases that can be applied to a fellow soldier, and no amount of efficiency atones for lack of years to count toward transfer to the Reserve or discharge from the service to pension. So far as the infantry recruit is concerned, foot drill and musketry, together with a certain amount of fatigues, comprise the days routine. With foot drill may be bracketed bayonet drill, in which the recruit is taught the various thrusts and parries which can be made with that weapon for which the British infantryman has been famed since before Wellingtons time. Both in the cavalry and infantry, every man has to fire a musketry course once a year; the recruits course of musketry, however, is a more detailed and, in a way, a more instructive business than the course which the trained man has to undergo. The recruit has to be taught that squeezing motion for the trigger which does not disturb the aim of the rifle; he has to be taught, also, the extreme care with which a rifle must be handled, cleaned, and kept. It may be said that the recruits course is designed to lay the foundation on which the trained mans course of musketry is built, and at the end of the recruits course the men who have undergone it are graded off into first, second, and third class shots, while marksmen are super-firsts. On the whole the first year of a mans service is the hardest of any, so far as peace soldiering is concerned. There is more reason in this than appears on the surface. A recruit joins the army somewhere about the age of twenty--the official limit is from eighteen to twenty-five; it is evident that in his first year of service a man is at such a stage of muscular and mental growth as to render him capable of being moulded much more readily than in the later military years. It is best that he should be shaped, as far as possible, while he is yet not quite formed and set, and, though the process of shaping may involve what looks like an undue amount of physical exertion, it is, in reality, not beyond the capabilities of such men as doctors pass into the service. It is true that the percentage of cases of heart disease occurring in the British Army is rather a high one, but this is due not to the strenuous training, but in many cases to excessive cigarette-smoking and in others to the strained posture of attention, combined with predisposition to the disease. The recruit has a hard time, certainly, but many men work harder, and the years of service which follow on the strenuous period of recruits training are more enjoyable by contrast. CHAPTER III OFFICERS AND NON-COMS. The higher ranks of officers have very little to do with the daily life of the soldier. Two or three times a year the general officer commanding the station comes round on a tour of inspection, while other general officers and inspecting officers pay visits at times. The highest rank, however, with which the soldier is brought in frequent contact is the commanding officer of his own regiment or battalion. This post is usually held by a lieutenant-colonel, as by the time an officer has attained to a full colonelcy he is either posted to the staff or passed out from the service to half-pay under the age limit. By the time a man has reached the rank of lieutenant-colonel he is, as a rule, far more conversant with the ways and habits of the soldier than the soldier himself is willing to admit. It would surprise men, in the majority of cases, if they could be made to realise how intimately the old man knows his regiment. The old man is responsible for the efficiency of the regiment in every detail, since, as its head, he is responsible for the efficiency of the officers controlling the various departments. He is assisted in his work by the second-in-command, who is usually a major, and is not attached to any particular squadron or company, but is responsible for the internal working and domestic arrangements incidental to the life of his unit. These two are assisted in their work by the adjutant, a junior officer, sometimes captain and sometimes lieutenant, who holds his post for a stated term, and during his adjutancy is expected to qualify fully in the headquarters staff work which the conduct of a military unit involves. So far as commissioned officers are concerned, these three form the headquarters staff; it must not be overlooked, however, that the quartermaster, who is either a lieutenant or a captain, and has won his commission from the ranks in the majority of cases, is also unattached to any particular squadron or company. He is, or should be, under the control of the second-in-command, since, as his title indicates, he is concerned with the quarters of the regiment, and with all that pertains to its domestic economy. He cannot, however, be regarded as a part of the headquarters staff; his position is unique, somewhere between commissioned and non-commissioned rank, and it is very rarely that he is accorded the position of the officer who has come to the service through Sandhurst. The colonel and the second-in-command, as a rule, know their regiment thoroughly; they know the special weaknesses of the company or squadron officers; they are conversant with the virtues and the failings of Captain Blank and Lieutenant Dash; they know all about the troubles in the married quarters, and they are fully informed of the happenings in the sergeants mess. Not that there is any system of espionage in the Army, but the man who reaches the rank of colonel is, under the present conditions governing promotion, keen-witted, and in the dissemination of all kinds of news, from matter for legitimate comment to rank scandal, a military unit is about equivalent to a ladies sewing meeting. The colonel and the second-in-command know all about things because, being observant men, they cannot help knowing. To each squadron of cavalry, battery of artillery, or company of infantry is allotted a captain or major as officer commanding, and, in the same way as a colonel is responsible for the efficiency of his regiment, so the captain or major is responsible for the efficiency of the squadron, battery, or company under his charge. The squadron or company officer is usually not quite so conversant with the more intimate details of his work as is the lieutenant-colonel. For one thing, he has not had so much experience; for another, he may not have the mental capacity required in a lieutenant-colonel; the squadron or company officer is usually a jolly good fellow, mindful of discipline and careful of the comfort of his men, but there are cases--exceptions, certainly--of utter incompetency. A battery officer, on the other hand, is of a different stamp. Of the three arms, the artillery demands most in the way of efficiency and knowledge; the mechanism of the guns creates an atmosphere in which officers study and train to a far greater extent than cavalry and infantry officers. The battery officer, in nine cases out of ten, is quite as competent to take charge of an artillery brigade as the cavalry or infantry lieutenant-colonel is to take charge of his regiment or battalion. Next in order of rank are the lieutenants and subalterns, youngsters learning the business. The lieutenant, having won his second star, is a reasonable being; the subaltern, fresh from Sandhurst or Woolwich, and oppressed by the weight of his own importance, is occasionally too big for his boots, a bumptious individual whom his superiors endeavour to restrain, but whom his inferiors in rank must obey, though they have little belief in his judgment or in his capability to command them intelligently. This may appear harsh judgment on the subaltern, but experience of things military confirms it; Sandhurst turns out its pupils in a raw state; they have the theory of their work, but, just as it takes years to make a soldier, so it takes years of actual military work to make an efficient officer, and the trained man in the ranks generally views with extreme disfavour the introduction of a raw subaltern from Sandhurst into the company or squadron to which he belongs, though very often the young officer shapes to his work quickly, wins the respect and confidence of his men, and adds materially to the efficiency and well-being of his troop or section. Again, a young officer may not be popular among his men in time of peace, but may win all their respect and confidence on the field, where values alter and are frequently reversed from peace equivalents. Lieutenants and subalterns are given charge of a troop in the cavalry, a gun or section--according to the number of young officers available--in a battery and of a section of men in an infantry company. Nominally in command of their men, they are in practice largely dependent on their senior non-commissioned officers for the efficiency of the men under their command. An officers real efficiency, in peace service, does not begin until he gets his company or squadron: in other words, until he is promoted to the rank of captain. Next in grade of rank to the commissioned officers stands the regimental sergeant-major, who is termed a warrant-officer, since the warrant which he holds, in virtue of his rank, distinguishes him from non-commissioned officers. He has, usually, sixteen years or more of service; he has even more knowledge of the ways of the regiment than the commanding officer himself, and his place is with the headquarters staff, while his duties lie in the supervision and control of the non-commissioned officers and their messes and training. His position is peculiar; the etiquette of the service prevents him from making close friends among non-commissioned officers, while that same etiquette prevents commissioned officers from making a close friend of him. The only non-commissioned officer who stands near him in rank is the quartermaster-sergeant, who is directly under the control of the quartermaster, and is also a member of the headquarters staff. From this point of rank downward the ways of the different arms of the service diverge. In the infantry, the chief non-commissioned officer of a company is the colour-sergeant, who is responsible both for internal economy and efficiency at drill. In the cavalry and artillery the presence of horses and the far greater amount of equipment involved divide the work that is done in the infantry by the colour-sergeant into two parts. In the cavalry each squadron, and in the artillery each battery, is controlled, so far as drill and efficiency in the field is concerned, by a squadron sergeant-major and a battery sergeant-major, respectively, while the domestic economy of the squadron or battery is managed by squadron quartermaster-sergeant or battery quartermaster-sergeant. Next in order of rank come the sergeants, the non-commissioned equivalent to troop and section officers, but of far more actual importance than these, since parades frequently take place in the absence of the troop or section officer, while the troop or section sergeant is at all times responsible to his superiors for the efficiency of his men. The rank of sergeant is seldom attained in less than seven years, and thus the man of three stripes whom Kipling justly described in his famous phrase as the backbone of the Army is a man of experience and fully entitled to his post. Next in order of rank to the sergeant is the corporal, whose duties lie principally in the maintenance of barrack-room discipline, though he is largely responsible for the training of squads and sections of men in field work. Often in the cavalry he is given charge of a troop temporarily, and in the artillery, though each gun is supposed to be in charge of a sergeant, it happens at times that the corporal has charge of the gun. The lowest rank of all is that of lance-corporal, aptly termed half of nothing. Men resent, as a rule, any assumption of authority by a lance-corporal--and yet the lance-corporal has to exercise his authority at the risk of being told he was a private only five minutes ago. Bearing in mind the material from which the Army is recruited, it is not surprising that a large percentage of lance-corporals, having tried for themselves what non-commissioned rank feels like, give it up and revert to the rank of private. There are certain advantages in being a lance-corporal; there is a distinct advantage, for instance, in being in charge of the guard instead of having to do sentry go; another advantage arises in the matter of fatigues: the lance-corporal--so long as he behaves himself--merely takes his turn on the roll after the full corporals in charge of a fatigue party; he is a superintendent, not a worker, so far as fatigues are concerned. The chief disadvantage consists in the way in which his former comrades regard him. As one concerned in their training and discipline he is no longer to be considered as a comrade and equal by the privates; in many infantry units, lance-corporals are definitely ordered not to fraternise with the men, although they perforce sleep in the same rooms and share the same meals. The sergeants of each unit--taking the regiment or battalion as a unit--have their own mess, in the same way that the officers have theirs. They take all their meals in the mess, and they sleep in bunks; their separateness from the rank and file is thus emphasised and their control over the men rendered more definite and easy by this separateness. In each unit there is also established a corporals mess, but this is merely a recreation room in the same way that the canteen forms a recreation room for the privates. Corporals and lance-corporals take their meals with the men and sleep in the same rooms as the men. This, especially in the case of lance-corporals, diminishes authority, but at the same time it renders easier the maintenance of barrack-room discipline and the control of barrack-room life, for which corporals and lance-corporals are held responsible. Mainly in connection with the development of initiative which arose out of the experience gained from the South African war, a system of understudies has been created among non-commissioned officers and senior privates. Each rank in turn is expected to be able to assume the duties of the rank immediately above it, in case of necessity, and all are trained to this end. It may be remarked that certain certificates of education must be obtained by non-commissioned officers; as soon as a lance-corporal gets his stripe he is expected to go to a military school in the evenings until he has obtained a second-class certificate of education, the qualifications for this being equivalent to those evidenced by the possession of an ordinary fourth-standard school certificate. The higher ranks of non-commissioned officer--that is, all above the rank of sergeant--are expected to qualify for a first-class Army certificate of education, which is quite equivalent to an ex-7th standard council-school certificate. Further, every non-commissioned officer must obtain certificates of proficiency in drill and musketry, showing that he is a capable instructor as well as fully conversant with drill on his own account. The way to promotion is paved with certificates of various kinds. There are courses in signalling, scouting, musketry, drill, and the hundred and one items of a soldiers work; these courses qualify for instructorship, and some of them are open only to non-commissioned officers. The passing of such courses, increasing the efficiency of the non-commissioned officers concerned, is evidence of fitness for further promotion, and is rewarded accordingly. Technically speaking, the post of lance-corporal is an appointment, not a promotion, and therefore the lance-corporal can be deprived of his stripe on the word of his commanding officer. With the exception of the rank of lance-sergeant, which admits a corporal to the sergeants mess and takes him out of the barrack-room without a corresponding increase of pay, all ranks from corporal upward count as promotions, and can only be reduced by way of punishment by the sentence of a court martial. A regimental court martial, which has power to reduce a corporal to the ranks and inflict certain limited punishments on a private, is composed of three officers of the unit concerned. A district court martial, with wider powers, including the reduction of a sergeant to the ranks, is composed of three officers; the president must not in any case be below the rank of captain, and usually is a major, and he and the two junior officers who form the tribunal usually belong to other regiments than that of the accused. Military law differs in many respects from civil law; there is, of course, no such thing as a trial by jury; the adjutant of the regiment to which the accused belongs is always the nominal prosecutor, but in actual practice the witnesses for the prosecution are of far more importance than is he. Evidence for the prosecution is taken first, then the evidence for the defence; the accused, if he wishes, can speak in his own defence; if the court is satisfied of the innocence of the accused, he is at once discharged; if, on the other hand, there is any doubt of his innocence, he is marched out while the court consider their finding and sentence, and the latter is not announced until the two or three days necessary for confirmation of the proceedings by the general officer commanding the station have elapsed. The promulgation of a court-martial sentence is an impressive ceremony. The regiment or battalion to which the accused belongs is formed up to occupy three sides of a square, facing inwards. The accused, under armed escort, together with the regimental sergeant-major and the adjutant of the unit, occupy the fourth side of the square, and the adjutant reads a summary of the proceedings concluding with a recital of the sentence on the accused. In the case of a private the ceremony is then at an end, and the regiment is marched away, while the accused returns to the guard-room under escort. In the case of a non-commissioned officer the regimental sergeant-major formally cuts the stripes from off the arm of the accused. It is to be hoped that in the near future this court-martial parade, degrading to the accused man, and not by any means an edifying spectacle for his comrades, will be abolished, for a record of the court martial and of the punishment inflicted is always inserted in the regimental orders of the day. Fortunately, however, court martials are infrequent occurrences, and, so far as the non-commissioned officer is concerned, life is a fairly pleasant business. There is plenty of hard work to keep him in good health, but there are also many hours that can be spent in pleasant recreation, and the man who takes his profession seriously may now hope to attain to higher rank. Promotions to commissions from the ranks have, in the past, been infrequent; but the prospect is now much more hopeful, and, in any case, the non-commissioned officer can look forward to a pension which will serve as a perpetual reminder that his time has not been wasted. CHAPTER IV INFANTRY The old-time term, light infantry, has little meaning at present as far as difference in the stamp of man and the weight of equipment carried is concerned; one infantry battalion is equal to another in respect of lightness, except that some Highland battalions, recruiting from districts which provide exceptionally brawny specimens of humanity, obtain a taller and weightier average of men. Varieties of equipment in the old days made infantry heavy and light, but the modern infantryman is kept as light as possible in the matter of equipment in all units. Certain battalions possess and are very proud of distinctions awarded them for feats on the field of battle. Thus it is permitted to one infantry regiment, including all its battalions, to wear the regimental badge both on the front and the back of the helmet in review order, also on their field-service caps, to commemorate an action in which the men were surrounded and fought back to back until they had extricated themselves from their perilous position--or rather, until the survivors had extricated themselves. In another regiment, the sergeants are permitted to wear the sash over the same shoulder as the officers, in view of the fact that on one occasion all the officers were killed, and the non-commissioned officers took command, with noteworthy results. Yet another distinction, but of a different kind, is the concession made to Irish regiments in allowing them to wear sprigs of shamrock on St. Patricks days. In the review order or full dress of modern infantrymen--and in fact of all British soldiers--there are certain buttons and fittings which serve no useful purpose, and soldiers themselves, even, sometimes wonder why these things are worn. The reason is that, in old time, all these fittings had a use; the buttons on the back of the tunic supported belts which are no longer worn, or covered pockets which no longer exist. There is a reason also in the officer wearing his sash on one shoulder and the sergeant his on another, and in the same way there is a reason for every seemingly useless fitting in a soldiers review uniform--it perpetuates a tradition of the particular battalion or regiment concerned, or it keeps alive a tradition of the service as a whole. To the outsider, these may appear useless formalities, but they are not so in reality; the soldier is intensely proud of these things, which make for _esprit de corps_ and maintain the spirit of the Army quite as much as material advantages. The actual spirit in which the infantryman views his work is a difficult thing to assess. One noteworthy example of that spirit is the case of Piper Findlater, who, wounded beyond the power of movement at Dargai, sat up and piped--an amazing piece of courage and coolness under fire. Yet that same Piper Findlater, invalided home and out of the service, could display himself on a music-hall stage, an action which was incomprehensible to the civilian mind. But, to the average infantryman, there was nothing incongruous in the two actions--one was as much the right of the man as the other was to his credit, and Findlater was typical of the British infantryman. Under the present system, each infantry regiment is divided into two or more battalions. Under the old system, each battalion was distinguished by a number, but the numbers have been abolished in favour of names of counties or districts, and two or more battalions form the regiment of a county or division of a county. It is very seldom that these two or more portions of the same regiment meet each other, for, in the case of a two-battalion regiment, one battalion is usually on foreign service while the other is domiciled in England, and the home battalion feeds the one on foreign service with recruits as needed to keep the latter up to strength. A notable exception to this rule occurred in the case of the Norfolk Regiment a few years ago, when the first and second battalions met at Bloemfontein, one outward bound at the beginning of its term of foreign service, and the other about to start for home. The infantryman is fitted for what constitutes the greater part of his work, when the seasons training is over, by what is known as route marching. In this, a battalion is started out at the beginning of the route-marching season on a march of a few miles, in light order--carrying rifles and bayonets only, perhaps. The distance covered is gradually increased, and the weight of equipment carried by the men is also increased, until the men concerned are carrying their full packs and marching twelve or fourteen miles a day. Service conditions are maintained as far as possible, so as to make the men fit for long marches at any time; by this means the mens feet are hardened and the men themselves brought thoroughly into condition, while weaklings are picked out and marked down for future reference. Falling out on a route march without good and sufficient reason means days to barracks for the offender, at the least, and cells is a possibility. The work of the infantryman is less complex than that of any other branch of the service: he has to be trained to march well and to know how to use his rifle and bayonet. Principally, given the physical endurance for the marching part of the business, he has to learn to shoot, and the simplicity of his duties is compensated for by the thoroughness with which he is taught. Then, again, discipline is of necessity stricter in infantry units than in other branches of the service; the cavalryman, with a horse to care for as well as himself and his arms and equipment, and the driver or gunner of artillery, with two horses and two sets (of saddlery) or his gun or limber to mind, is kept busy most of the time without an excess of discipline, but the infantryman in time of peace is concerned only with himself, his arms and equipment, and his barrack-room--a small total when compared with the cares of the man in the cavalry or artillery. By way of compensation, the infantryman is made to give more attention to his barrack-room; he is restricted, in a way that would not be possible in the cavalry or artillery, in the way in which he employs his leisure hours, and parades are made to keep his hands out of mischief, as well as to train him to thorough efficiency. A brigade of infantry, consisting of four battalions, looks a perfectly uniform mass of men on, say, a service, dress parade, but intimate knowledge of the characteristics of the men in each battalion reveals a world of difference; each regiment has its own traditions, and each battalion differs widely from the rest in its methods of working, its way of issuing commands, and its internal arrangements. There is a standard of bugle calls for the whole Army, but practically every infantry battalion infuses a certain amount of individuality into the method of sounding the call. The buglers of the Rifle Brigade, for instance, would scorn to sound their calls in the way that the East Surreys or the York and Lancaster battalions sound theirs, and conversely a York and Lancaster or an East Surrey man would smile at the bugle call of the Rifle Brigade battalion. The districts from which men are recruited, too, account for many little peculiarities in the ways of different battalions. There is obviously a world of difference between the way in which a man of the Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry will view a given situation, and the view adopted by a man of the East Surreys, for one is reet Yorkshire, while the other is Cockney all through. Dialects and regimental slang combined make the language of the one almost unintelligible to the other, and, while each arrives at precisely the same end by slightly varying means, each claims superiority over the other. The spirit of the British infantryman, with very few exceptions, consists mainly in his belief that he is a member of the best company in the very best battalion of infantry in the service. As for his particular arm of the service, he points with pride to the fact that he comes in from a march and gets to his food while the poor cavalryman is still fretting about in the horse lines, and _he_ has no two sets of harness to bother about after a field day. He slings his equipment on the shelf and goes off to his meal when the field day is over, while the poor gunner is busy with an oil rag, keeping the rust from eating into his gun and its fittings until the time comes to clean it. Thus the infantryman on his advantages, and with some justice, too. But in the barrack-room the cavalryman and artilleryman have the advantage. They can make down their beds and snooze when work is done, secure from interruption until stables shall sound and turn them out to care for their long-faced chums. The infantryman, on the other hand, has to prepare for barrack-room and kit inspections at all times; he has to wet-scrub and dry-scrub the floors, blacklead the table trestles and legs of forms, whitewash himself tired on articles which, to the civilian eye, appear already sufficiently coated with whitewash, pick grass off the drill ground, and carry out a host of orders which seem designed for his especial irritation, though in reality they are designed to keep him at work and prevent him from being utterly idle. In certain hours, the infantryman must be made to work to keep him in condition, and if the work of a necessary nature is not sufficient to keep him employed, then work is made for him. It must be said that, owing to the existence of undiscerning commanding and other officers, a lot of this work, although undoubtedly it fulfils its purpose, is irritating to the last degree, and might with advantage be exchanged for tasks which would exercise the intelligence of the men instead of rousing their disgust. Grass-picking is an especially detested form of labour which is common in some battalions of the infantry. In most units, however, men are put to useful occupations; in some stations where available ground admits, gardens are allotted to the men, who cultivate creditable supplies of vegetables for the use of their messes and flowers for decorative purposes. Another favourite form of exercise, in which the infantryman is indulged with what appears to him unnecessary frequency, is kit inspection. At first sight, it would seem that the circumstance of an officer inspecting the kit and equipment of his men is not one which would cause an undue amount of trouble, but the reverse of this is the case in practice. Each man has to lay down his kit to a regulation pattern; at the head of the bed, on which the clothing and equipment is laid out, the reds and blues and khaki-coloured squares represent much time spent by the man in folding each article of clothing to the last half-inch of size and form, prescribed by the regulation affecting the way in which kit must be laid down for inspection. Then come the underclothing, knife and fork, razor, Prayer Book and Bible, brushes, and other odds and ends with which every man must be provided. If any article is deficient from the official list, the man is promptly put down for a new article to replace the deficiency--and for this he has to pay. The upkeep of a full kit is most strictly enforced, and, in addition to the completeness of the kit, the amount of polish on the various articles calls for much attention on the part of the inspecting officer. A knife or fork not sufficiently bright, boots not quite as well cleaned and polished as they might be, or brass buttons displaying a suspicion of dullness, lead at the least to an order to show again at a stated hour--not the single article, but the whole kit--while repeated deficiencies, either in the quantity of the articles or in the evident amount of care bestowed on them, will lead to defaulters drill or even cells. Kit inspection counts as a parade, and not as a fatigue. The latter term is used to imply all kinds of actual work in connection with the maintenance of order in the battalion, and varies from washing up in the sergeants mess to carrying coals for the barrack-room or married quarters. To each unit, as a rule, there is a coal-yard attached, and from this a certain amount of coal is issued free each week for cooking purposes, while in the winter months a further amount is allotted to the men to burn in the barrack-room stoves. If the allowance is exceeded--and since it is a small one it is usually exceeded--the men club round among themselves to purchase more, at the rate of a penny or twopence a man. The fetching of this extra coal does not count as a fatigue in the official sense. A roll is kept of all men liable for fatigue duty, and each man takes his turn in alphabetical order in the performance of the various tasks that have to be done. As these tasks differ considerably in nature and extent, it follows that the alphabetical way of ordering the roll is as fair as any, though artful dodgers, getting wind of a stiff fatigue ahead, will get out of doing it by exchanging their turns with those men who would otherwise get an easier task. As a rule, sergeants mess fatigue is one of the least liked, except on Sunday mornings, when it releases the man who does it from church parade--of which more later. For the actual housemaid work of the barrack-room, a roll is usually kept in each room, and the men of the room take turns at orderly man, as it is called. This involves the final sweeping out of the room after each man has swept under his own bed and round the little bit of floor which is his own particular territory. It involves the care of and responsibility for all the kits in the room while the remainder of the men are out at drill, and also the fetching of all meals and washing up of the plates and basins after each meal. The orderly man of the day is not supposed to leave the room during parade hours, except to fetch meals for the rest; it is his duty, after all have gone out, to put the boxes at the foot of the beds in an exact line, that there may be nothing to disturb the symmetry of things when the orderly officer or the colour-sergeant comes round on a morning visit of inspection. In a home station, as far as infantry is concerned, practically all barrack-room inspections take place before one oclock in the day, and in the afternoons such men as are in the barrack-room have it to themselves. It is the rule in some battalions, however, that no beds may be made down before six oclock--a harsh rule, and one which serves no useful purpose, unless it be considered useful to keep a man from lying down to rest. While guard duty is kept as light as possible in mounted branches of the service, it is allowed to assume large proportions in the infantry. In a cavalry regiment, the main guard, which mounts duty for twenty-four hours and has charge of the regimental guard-room and prisoners confined therein, is composed at the most of a corporal and three men, but in the infantry the main guard of a battalion consists of a sergeant, a corporal or lance-corporal, and six men, providing three reliefs of two sentries apiece. Guard duty is done in review order. That is to say, the men dress up in their best clothes, with the last possible polish on metal-work and the best possible pipeclay on all belts and equipment that permit of it; and the inspection to which the guard is submitted before taking over its duties is the most searching form of inspection which the soldier has to undergo after he has been dismissed from recruits training. The men of the guard do turns of two hours sentry-go apiece, and then get four hours rest, except in very inclement weather, when the periods are reduced to one hour of duty and two hours of rest. Experience has placed it beyond doubt that the two hours on and four hours off is the best way of doing duty in reliefs; it imposes less strain on the men, who have to keep up their duty for a day and a night, than any other form in which it could be arranged. Certain men in infantry units--and in fact in all units--are excused from the regular routine of duty in order to fill special posts. Noteworthy among these are the flag-waggers or regimental signallers, a body of men maintained at a certain strength for the purpose of signalling messages with flags, heliograph, or lamps, by means of the Morse telegraphic code, and also with flags at short distances by semaphore. Bearing in mind the average education among the rank and file, it is remarkable with what facility men learn the use of the Morse code. Against this must be set the fact that only selected men are employed as signallers; these are taught the alphabet, and the various signs employed for special purposes, by being grouped in squads, and, after their preliminary instruction is completed, they are sent out to various points from which they send messages to each other, under conditions approximating as nearly as possible to those which obtain on active service. In order to maintain the signallers of a unit in full practice and efficiency, the men are excused from all ordinary parades for a certain part of the year; during manuvres they are attached to the headquarters staff of their unit and carry on their work as signallers, not as ordinary duty-men. The wagging of flags is only a part of their duty, for they have to learn the mechanism and use of the heliograph, since, when sunlight permits of its use, this instrument can be employed for the transmission of messages to a far greater distance than is possible even with large flags. Lamps for signalling by night are operated by a button which alternately obscures and exhibits the light of a lamp placed behind a concentrating lens. The practised signaller is as efficient in the use of flags, lamps, and heliograph as is the post-office operator in the use of the ordinary telegraph instrument, though the exigencies of field service render military signalling a considerably slower business than ordinary wire telegraphy. Another course of instruction which carries with it a certain amount of exemption from duty in the infantry is that of scout. The practised scout is capable of plotting a way across country at night, marching by the compass or by the stars, making a watch serve as a compass, military map-reading--which is not as simple a matter as might be supposed--and of making sketches in conventional military signs of areas of ground, natural defensive positions, and all points likely to be of interest and advantage from a military point of view. The work of the signaller has been going on for many years, but the training of scouts is a movement which has come about and developed almost entirely during the last twelve years, which, as the Army reckons time, is but a very short period. It may be anticipated that the practice of scouting and the training of scouts will develop considerably as time goes on. Needless to say, the orderly-man is excused all parades during his day of duty as such. Only in exceptional circumstances are cooks taken for parades, and such men as the regimental shoemaker, the armourer and his assistants, and other men employed in various capacities, attend the regular duty parades very seldom. On field days occasionally, and also on certain commanding-officers drill parades, the orders of the day announce that the battalion will parade as strong as possible. This means a general sweep up and turning out of men employed in various ways and excused from parades as a rule, and their unhandiness owing to lack of practice sometimes results in their being relieved from their posts and returned to duty, while frequently it involves their doing extra drills in addition to their regular work. The duty-man affects to despise the man on the staff, but this affectation is more often a cloak for envy. Staff jobs, as the various forms of employment in a unit are called, generally mean extra pay; in nineteen cases out of twenty they mean exemption from most ordinary parades and from a good deal of the ordinary routine work of the unit concerned; in almost all cases they mean total exemption from fatigues. Under these circumstances it is not to be wondered at that the secret ambition of the average infantryman at duty, when he has relinquished all hope of promotion, is to get on the staff. CHAPTER V CAVALRY Practically any man of the twenty-eight cavalry regiments of the line will announce with pride that he belongs to the right of the line. By this claim is meant that if the British Army were formed up in line, the regiment for which the claim is made will be on the right of all the rest. As a matter of fact this claim on the part of the cavalryman is incorrect, for when the Royal Horse Artillery parade with their guns, they take precedence of all other units, except the Household Cavalry. British cavalry is divided normally into three regiments of Household Cavalry and twenty-eight cavalry regiments of the line. These latter are subdivided into seven regiments of Dragoon Guards, three of Dragoons, and eighteen regiments of Lancers and Hussars. Theoretically, Lancers take precedence over Hussars, but in actual practice the two classes of cavalry are about equal. Dragoon Guards and Dragoons rank as heavy cavalry; Lancers are supposed to be of medium weight, and Hussars light cavalry. In reality Dragoon Guards and Dragoons are slightly heavier than other corps--except the Household Cavalry, who are heaviest of all--but Lancers and Hussars are of about equal weight, both as regards horses and men. The possession of a horse and the duties involved thereby render the work of a cavalryman vastly different from that of an infantryman. In the matter of guard duties, for instance, it would be possible in time of peace to abolish all infantry guard duties without affecting the well-being of the units concerned. In cavalry regiments, on the other hand, it is absolutely necessary that a certain number of men should be placed on night guard over the stables, since horses are capable of doing themselves a good deal of harm in the course of a night, if left to themselves. This is only one instance of the difference between cavalry and infantry, but it must be apparent to the most superficial observer that a vast difference exists between the two arms of the service. Cavalrymen affect to despise the infantry, whom they term foot sloggers and beetle crushers, while various other uncomplimentary epithets are also applied at times to the men who walk while the cavalry ride. Each section of the cavalry has its own particular prides and prejudices. The Household Cavalry, for instance, consider themselves entitled to look down on the regiments of the line; line cavalrymen, conversely, affect to despise the men of the Household Brigade, who, they say, count it a hardship to go to Windsor and never get nearer to foreign service than Aldershot. Further, a Dragoon Guard considers himself immensely superior to a mere Dragoon; both look down--a long way down--on the thought of service in the Lancers, and all three affect to despise the idea of serving as Hussars. In the meantime the Hussars declare that Dragoons are big, heavy, and useless, while Lancers are not much better, and the Hussar is the only perfect cavalryman. All this, however, is a matter of good-humoured chaff, and in reality Dragoons and Lancers, or Dragoons and Hussars, or any two regiments belonging to different branches of the cavalry, when placed side by side in the same station, respect each others qualities without undue regard to their particular designations. Among the many little legends and traditions of the cavalry, that attaching to the Carabiniers (Sixth Dragoon Guards) is as interesting as any, though not a particularly creditable one. It is alleged that some time during the Peninsular Campaign this regiment misbehaved itself in some way, and the sentence passed on it was to the effect that officers and men alike should no longer wear the red tunic common to Dragoon and Dragoon Guard regiments. Thenceforth a blue tunic was substituted for the more brilliant red, and in addition a mocking tune was substituted for the ordinary cavalry rveill, while the band was ordered to play before rveill each morning--possibly the band was guilty of exceptionally bad behaviour in order to merit this extra-special punishment. In any case the blue tunic, the rveill and the band-playing have persisted unto this day, and even yet it is unsafe to inquire too closely of a Carabinier into the reason of his wearing a blue tunic while all others of his kind wear red, although the regiment elected to retain the blue tunic when a further change of colour was proposed. Another tradition is that of the 11th Hussars, who on one historical occasion were supposed to have covered themselves in gore and glory to such an extent that the original colour of their uniforms, and especially that of their riding-breeches, was no longer visible. For this meritorious feat, which is more or less authentic, the regiment was granted the privilege of wearing cherry-coloured riding-breeches and overalls, and this privilege, like the Carabiniers blue jacket, still survives. It is hardly necessary to add that the Cherry-picker, as the 11th Hussar names himself, is considerably prouder of his cherry-coloured pants than is the Carabinier of his jacket. A different explanation of the colour is that it was adopted in honour of the Prince Consort, and since the regiment still retains as its title The Prince Consorts Own, the latter is more probably correct. From the beginning to the end of his service the cavalryman never gets quite clear of riding school. Riding-school work forms the chief portion of his training as a recruit, when he is taught to ride both with and without stirrups, to take jumps with folded arms, to vault on to a horses back, and, in brief, to do all that can be done with a horse. Supposing him to be an average horseman, he comes back to riding school annually, at least, to refresh his memory with the old riding-school lessons, while, if he is a really good horseman, he is set to training remounts, in the course of which he has to train practically unbroken horses to do their part in the work which he himself has learned on the back of a horse already trained. The best riders of all in a regiment are singled out as rough riders or riding-school instructors, and their duty is to take charge of rides of remounts, to instruct men and horses too, and to pay particular attention to the breaking in of especially unmanageable young horses. The riding-school training adopted in the British cavalry is based on the system inaugurated by Baucher, the famous French riding-master who came over to England and revolutionised all ideas with regard to horsemastership in the early part of the nineteenth century. Under this system a horse is taught to obey pressure of leg and rein to the fullest possible extent, and the bit mouthpiece forms only a part of the riders means of control. By this means the horse is saved a good deal of unnecessary exertion, which is an important thing as far as cavalry riding is concerned, since the object of the cavalryman on active service is to save his horse as far as possible against the need for speed or effective striking power. Following on the work of the riding school the cavalryman is taught on the drill ground to ride in line of troop at close order. Theoretically the interval between men is six inches from knee to knee, but in practice the knees of the men are touching. When a troop of men can keep line perfectly at a gallop, a squadron line is formed; the culminating point of cavalry training is perfection of line in the charge, of which the rate of progression is the fastest pace of the slowest horse. A charge produces its greatest effect when the men ride close together and keep in line, the object being to effect a definite shock by throwing as much weight as possible against a given point at as great a pace as possible. The impact of the charge, in theory, carries the men who make it through and beyond the enemy against whom they have charged, when they are expected to break up their formation and re-form, facing in the direction from whence they have come. The training which a man has to undergo in order to fit him for participating in these shock tactics is necessarily long and severe. In addition to this, cavalry training is directed toward a multiplicity of ends. In any military action infantry have their definite place, which involves bearing the full brunt of attack, maintaining the defensive, or in exceptional circumstances assuming the offensive and charging with the bayonet. Cavalry, however, very rarely bear the full brunt of a sustained attack, as their organisation and equipment render them unfit for prolonged defensive operations. They are used, generally on the flanks of a field force, for making flank attacks and pursuing retreating enemies; they are also used in small bodies, known as patrols, as the eyes and ears of an army. Preceding other arms of the service in the advance, they spy out and bring back information of the position and strength of the enemy, avoiding actual contact as far as possible. Work of this kind calls for such initiative and self-reliance on the part of the rank and file as infantrymen are seldom called on to exercise. Further, all cavalrymen are expected to be as proficient in the use of the rifle as are infantrymen, while they have also to learn the use of the sword, and Lancers still carry and use the lance, which, carried by a certain proportion of the men in the ranks of the Dragoon Guards and Dragoons at the end of the last and beginning of the present century, is no longer used by them. It will be seen from the foregoing that a properly trained cavalryman must be a thoroughly intelligent individual, and must be capable of greater initiative and possessed of more resource than his brother on foot. In many directions, also, he is required to exercise more initiative than the artilleryman, who is always protected by an escort either of cavalry or infantry, and is called on to think for himself and work the gun himself only when all his officers and non-commissioned officers have been shot to stillness. At first sight it would appear that the Lancer has an immense advantage over the man armed only with a sword, but in actual practice the man with the sword is slightly better off; the Lancer gets one effective thrust, but, if this is parried or misses its object, the man with the sword can get in two or three thrusts before the Lancer has the chance for another blow. Thus Dragoons and Dragoon Guards lose little by the absence of the lance, since they, in common with all other cavalry regiments, still carry the sword. The American Army, by the way, is the only one so far which has tried the experiment of arming the rank and file of its mounted units with revolvers or pistols; in the British Army revolvers are carried only by sergeants and those of higher rank, and the rank and file trust to cold steel for mounted work, reserving the rifles which they carry for use on foot. The bane of the cavalrymans life in his own opinion is stables, where he spends about four hours each day in grooming, cleaning, sweeping out, taking out bedding and bringing it in, and various other duties. Grooming in a cavalry regiment is a meticulous business; the writer has personal knowledge of and acquaintance with a troop officer who used to make his morning inspection of the troop horses with white kid gloves on, and the horses were supposed to be groomed to such a state of cleanliness that when the officer rubbed the skin the wrong way his gloves remained unsoiled. Such a state of perfection as this, of course, is possible only in barracks, and it is hardly necessary to say that the officer in question was not exactly idolised by his men. Like most youths fresh from Sandhurst, he was incapable of making allowances. On manuvres and under canvas generally, grooming is not expected to be carried to such a fine point as this; on active service it frequently happens that there is no time at all for grooming; but the general rule is to keep horses in such a state of cleanliness as will avert disease and assist in keeping the animals in condition. During the South African war it was found that grey and white horses were dangerously conspicuous, and animals of this colour were consequently painted khaki. It is not many years since a proposal was made that the 2nd Dragoons, known in the service as the Scots Greys, from the nationality of the men and the colour of the horses, should have their grey horses taken from them and darker coloured animals substituted. From the time of the founding of this regiment its men have been proud of their greys, and the order necessitating their disappearance caused a certain amount of outcry, in spite of the fact that modern military conditions rendered the substitution desirable. Regimental traditions die hard, and the Scots Greys elected to remain Greys in reality, while they will retain their name as long as the regiment exists. The cavalryman, far more than the infantryman, makes a point of wearing posh clothing on every possible occasion--posh being a term used to designate superior clothing, or articles of attire other than those issued by and strictly conforming to the regulations. For walking out in town, a business commonly known as square-pushing, the cavalryman who fancies himself will be found in superfine cloth overalls, wearing nickel spurs instead of the regulation steel pair, and with light, thin-soled boots instead of the Wellingtons with which he is issued. It is a commonplace among the infantry that a cavalryman spends half his pay and more on posh clothing, but probably the accusation is a little unjust. There is in the cavalry a greater percentage of gentleman rankers than in any other branch of the service, and there are more queer histories attaching to men in cavalry regiments than in units of the other arms. The gentleman ranker usually shakes down to a level with the rest of the regiment. It has never yet come within the writers knowledge that any officer accorded to a gentleman ranker different treatment from that enjoyed by the majority of the men, in spite of the assertions of melodrama writers on the subject. Favouritism in the cavalry, as in any branch of the service, is fatal to discipline, and is not indulged in to any great extent, certainly not to the benefit of gentlemen rankers as a whole. Work and efficiency stand first; social position in civilian life counts for nothing, and the gentleman ranker who joins the service with a view to a commission must prove himself fitted to hold it from a military point of view. The gentleman ranker is frequently a remittance man, and in that case he is certain of many friends, for the frequenters of the canteen are usually short of money a day or two before pay-day comes round, and thus the man with a well-lined pocket is of material use to them. Disinterested friendships, however, are too common in the Army to call for comment, and many and many a case occurs of one cavalryman, quick at his work, helping another at cleaning saddlery or equipment after he has finished his own, without thought or hope of reward. The mention of saddlery takes us back to stables, where the cavalryman goes far too often for his own peace of mind, although, as a matter of fact, the three stable parades per day which he has to undergo are absolutely necessary for the well-being of the horses. The really smart cavalryman is conspicuous not only for keeping his horse in exceptionally good condition, but also for the way in which he keeps the leather and steel-work of his saddle and head-dress. Regulations enact that all steel-work in the stables shall be kept free from rust, and slightly oiled, and leather-work shall be cleaned and kept in condition with soft soap and dubbin only. This regulation, however, is honoured in the breach rather than in the observance, for by the use of brick-dust followed by the application of a steel-link burnisher steel-work is given the appearance of brilliantly polished silver, and various patent compositions are used on leather to give it a glossy surface, this latter with very little regard for the preservation of the leather. All this means a lot of extra work in the stable for the cavalryman; it is induced in the first place by one man desiring to give his outfit a better appearance than the rest. The squadron officer approves of the polish and brilliance--or perhaps the troop officer is responsible--and as a result all the men take up what is merely extra work with no real resulting advantage. In some extra-smart units the men are even required by their superiors to scrub the stable wheelbarrows and burnish the forks used for turning over the bedding, but this, it must be confessed, is not a general practice. At the same time, the fetish of polish and burnish is worshipped far too well in cavalry units, with the occasional result that efficiency takes second place in time of peace to mere surface smartness. As has already been stated in a different connection, the barrack-room life of the cavalryman is easier than that of the infantryman. Kit inspections and arms inspections take place at stated intervals, and barrack-rooms are kept clean, though not kept with such fussy exactness as in infantry units. The trained cavalryman in normal times finishes the main part of his work at midday. He then has his dinner, and after this makes down his bed as it will be for the night. Unless it is his turn for fatigue, he generally snoozes through the afternoon until about half-past four, when it is time to get ready for stable parade. In India especially a cavalryman has a light time of it, for there is allotted to each squadron a definite number of syces, or native grooms, who assist the men as well as the non-commissioned officers in the care of their horses, and who do a good deal of the necessary saddle-cleaning. Cavalry serving in Egypt also get a certain amount of assistance in their work, and, on the whole, a cavalryman is far better off on foreign service than he is in a home station. The advantages of the home station consist mainly in the presence of congenial society among the civilians of the station. The soldier abroad is a being apart, and for the most part civilians leave him very much alone. There remains, however, the ever-present football by way of consolation. As in infantry units, bodies of signallers and scouts are necessary to the establishment of every cavalry regiment. Signallers, for the period of their training, are excused from all duties connected with horses and stable work. Cavalry scouts, on the other hand, have to use their horses in the course of their training, and thus attend stables like the rest of the men, although stable discipline in their case is somewhat relaxed. The cavalry scout requires more training than the infantry scout; with his horse he is able to go farther afield, and his work is more definitely that of reconnaissance and the obtaining of information which may be of more use to a brigade or divisional commander than that any infantryman is capable of obtaining without a horse to carry him. To his other accomplishments the cavalryman is expected to add some slight knowledge of veterinary matters, in order that, when forced to depend on himself and his horse, he can find remedies for simple ailments, and keep the horse in a state of fitness. The shoeing-smith and farriers who form a special department of every cavalry regiment are under the control of the veterinary officer included in the establishment of each cavalry unit, and the veterinary officer constitutes the final court of appeal when anything affecting a long-faced chum is in question. Sufficient has been said about the cavalryman on duty to show that his tasks are legion. His fitness to perform them has been attested on recent battlefields as well as on earlier historic occasions. Off duty and in time of peace he is, in the main, a fairly pleasant fellow, often a very shy one, and usually capable of using the Kings English in reasonable fashion. The average cavalryman has a sufficiency of aspirates, and, in the matter of intelligence, the nature of the duties he is called upon to perform voices his claims quite sufficiently. CHAPTER VI ARTILLERY AND ENGINEERS The Royal Artillery of the British Army is divided into three branches, known respectively as Horse, Field, and Garrison Artillery. In normal times the Royal Horse Artillery consists of some twenty-eight batteries, distinguished by the letters of the alphabet, together with a depot and a riding establishment. On parade the Horse Artillery batteries take precedence of all other units, with the exception of Household Cavalry. The Royal Field Artillery consists of 150 batteries and four depots, and the Royal Garrison Artillery consists of 100 companies and nine mountain batteries. A Battery of the Royal Horse is officially designated the Chestnut troop, from the colour of its horses, and the Horse Artillery as a whole is one of the few corps of the service which retains the stable jacket for parade use. In the case of the R.H.A. this garment is of dark blue with yellow braid, and the head-dress of the horse gunner is a busby with white plume and scarlet busby-bag, similar to that of the Hussars. The Field and Garrison Artillery wear tunics in full dress, and their helmets are surmounted by a ball instead of a spike. While the weapon of the Field Artillery is the 18-pounder quick-firing gun, and gunners ride on the gun and limber, the R.H.A. is armed with the 13-pounder quick-firing gun, and its gunners are mounted on horseback. The object of this is to obtain extreme mobility. The Royal Horse are expected to be able to execute all their manuvres at a gallop, and to get into and out of action more quickly than the Field Artillery. They are designed specially to accompany cavalry in flying-column work; their mobility is only achieved by a sacrifice of weight in the projectile which the gun throws, and they are only expected to hold a position supported by cavalry until the heavier guns come into play. The horse gunners may be regarded as the scouts of the artillery, in the sense in which the cavalry are the scouts of the whole army. Since, in the Royal Horse, gunners as well as drivers are mounted, the number of horses to a battery is greater than in the Field Artillery, and work is consequently harder. Officers of the Royal Horse are specially selected from the R.F.A., to which they return on promotion, and the rank and file are picked men, chosen for physique and smartness. It is a maxim of the service that the work of the R.H.A. is never done, and when one takes into account the fact that gunners have a horse and saddle apiece to care for as well as their gun, while drivers have two horses and two sets of harness apiece to keep in condition, it will be seen that there is a certain amount of truth in the statement. In old times, when field-day and manuvre parades were carried through in review order, the horse gunner was eternally in debt over the matter of the yellow braid with which his stable jacket is adorned, for these jackets are particularly difficult to keep clean. The general adoption of service dress for working parade has neutralised this disability. The horse gunner of to-day is a very good soldier indeed in every respect, both by real aptitude for his work and by compulsion. Not that the men of the Field Artillery are not equally good soldiers, for they are. The Field Artillery, however, divides itself naturally into two branches, drivers and gunners. Each driver has two horses and two sets of harness to manage, and, if the cavalryman has reason to grouse at the length of time he spends at stables, the driver of the Field has more than four times as much reason to grouse. Moreover, the cavalryman is permitted to clean his saddlery during the official stable hour, but drivers of the R.F.A. are expected to concentrate their attention on their horses during the time that they are officially at stables; they can stay in the stables and get their sets of harness cleaned and fit for inspection in their own time. They are then at liberty to clean up their own personal equipment, and, until the turn for guard comes round, have the rest of their time to themselves. Gunners of the R.F.A. have all their time taken up by the care of the gun, its fittings and appointments, as well as by the various separate instruments connected with the use of a gun. For instance, all arms of the service possess and make use of range-finding instruments, known as mekometers, but in the artillery the mekometer is a larger and more complicated affair, for the range of the gun is several times greater than that of the rifle, and range finding is consequently a far more complex business. The simple gunner must understand this, just as he must understand the business of laying or adjusting the sights of the gun to the required range, the use of telescopic sights, the delicate mechanism of the breech-block, the method of putting the gun out of action or rendering it useless in ease of emergency, and a hundred and one other things which involve really complicated technical knowledge, and lie in the province of the commissioned officer rather than in that of a private soldier. The reason for teaching these things to the private soldier lies in the accumulated experience which shows that on many occasions all the officers and non-commissioned officers of a battery have been blown to pieces by the enemys fire, and there have remained only a few private soldiers to do their own work and that of their officers as well. It is to the eternal credit of the Army, and especially to that of the artillery, that men thus placed have never once failed to do their duty nobly, and the present war has already afforded more than one instance of single men sticking to their guns to the last. Desertion of the guns has never yet been charged against British artillery, nor is it ever likely to be. Field-guns are always accompanied by an escort, sometimes of cavalry, but more often of infantry, for the gunner is admittedly helpless against infantry at close range or against charging cavalry. The charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava forms an instance of what cavalry can do against unescorted guns, and, though the pattern of gun in use has changed for the better, the projectile being far more powerful, and the number of shells per minute far greater, such feats as that of the immortal Light Brigade are still within the range of possibility. The business of the gunner in an army assuming the offensive is to open the attack. The fuse of the shrapnel shell is so timed that the missile, which contains a quantity of bullets and a bursting charge of powder, shall explode immediately over the position held by the enemy. When a sufficient number of shells have been fired to weaken resistance, the infantry advance in order to drive the enemy from the chosen position. In defensive action the use of the gun lies in retarding the advance of the enemy, and inflicting as much damage as possible before rifles and machine-guns can come into play. For this business ranges must be taken swiftly and accurately. Loading must be performed expeditiously, and, though the pneumatic recoil of the modern field-gun renders it far less liable to shift in action, the sights must be correctly aligned after each shot. A gun crew must work swiftly and without confusion, and peace training is devoted to attaining that quickness and thorough efficiency which renders a battery formidable in war. There is, perhaps, less show about the work of a gunner than in that of any other arm of the service with the exception of the Royal Engineers. A good bit of his work is extremely dirty; cleaning a gun, for instance, after firing practice with smokeless powder, is a hopelessly messy business, and the infantryman, who pulls his rifle through and extracts the fouling in about five minutes, would feel sorry for himself if he were called on to share in the work of cleaning the bore of an 18-pounder after firing practice. There is a considerable amount of drill of a complicated nature which the field-gunner has to learn in addition to ordinary foot-drill; there is all the mechanism of the gun to be understood; there are courses in range-finding, gun-laying, signalling, and other things, and on the whole it is not surprising that it takes at least five years to render a field gunner thoroughly conversant with his work. The finished article is rather a business-like man, quieter as a rule in his ways than his fellows in the cavalry and infantry, rather serious, and little given to boasting about the excellence of service in the Royal Field Artillery. He knows his worth and that of his arm too well to waste breath in declaring them. The driver of the Field Artillery has even more of riding-school work to do than the average cavalryman. It would be idle to say that he is a better rider, for the average cavalryman is as good a rider as it is possible for a man to be. Artillery horses, however, are heavy and unhandy compared with cavalry mounts, and the driver has not only to drive the horse he rides, but has also to lead and control the horse abreast of his own. The principal responsibility for the path which the gun takes lies with the lead or foremost driver, though almost as much responsibility is entailed on the man controlling the wheel or rearmost horses, and, compared with these two, the centre driver has an easy time of it in mounted drill and field work. Notwithstanding the extremely hard work to which drivers of artillery are subjected, the same trouble over harness as obtains over cavalry saddlery is experienced in some batteries. Soft soap and oil are the cleaning materials prescribed by the regulations, but certain battery commanders enforce the use of steel-link burnishers on steel-work, and brilliant polish on leather, the last-named polish being obtained by the use of a mysterious combination of heel-ball, turpentine, harness composition, and, according to legend, old soldiers breath. The mixture is known among the drivers as fake, and fake and burnish is synonymous with unending work in the stables. It is the fetish of smartness, a misdirected enthusiasm, which brings things like this to pass and inflicts extra work on men whose energies should be devoted solely to the attaining of fitness for active service, where fake and burnish have no place. The Royal Horse and Royal Field Artillery are the only branches of the service in which substantial prizes are given annually to encourage men in their work. In each battery three money prizes are offered for competition among the drivers; the amounts offered are substantial, and the general result is a spirit of healthy emulation, though far too often, and with the full sanction of the battery officer, this degenerates into the fake and burnish craze. This, however, is not the fault of the prize-giving system, but of the officers who not only permit, but encourage and even order this unnecessary work, which, while entailing added labour on the men, assists in the deterioration of the leather-work in harness. For all leatherwork requires constant feeding with oil in order to keep it fit and pliant, while the fake dries the fibres of the leather and starves it, rendering it liable to cracking and perishing. The branch of the Artillery of which least is heard is that of the Royal Garrison Artillery, whose hundred companies are scattered about the British Empire in obscure corners, engaged in the work of coast defence and the management of siege guns. It is fortunate for the garrison gunners that they have no long-faced chums to worry about, for they are admittedly the hardest-worked branch of the service as it is. Gibraltar houses several companies; you will find some of them managing the big guns at Dover, and at every protected port. They are big men, all; strong men, and lithe and active, for their work involves the hauling about of heavy weights, combined with cat-like quickness in loading and firing their many-patterned charges. The horse and field gunner have each to learn one pattern of gun thoroughly, but the garrison gunner, employed almost entirely in garrisoning defensive fortifications, has to learn the use of half a hundred patterns, from the little one-pounder quick-firer to the big gun on its disappearing platform, and the 134-inch siege-gun. The horse and field gunner may complete their education some day, for the pattern of field-gun changes but seldom, and the present pattern is not likely to be improved on for some years to come. The garrison gunner, however, is the victim of experiment, for every new gun that comes out, after being tested and passed either at Lydd or Shoeburyness, is handed on to the garrison gunners for use, and there is a new set of equipment and mechanism to be mastered. In order to ascertain the quality of their work, one has only to get permission to visit the nearest fort, when it will be seen that the guns are cared for like babies, nursed and polished and covered away with full appreciation of their power and value. Garrison gunners suffer from worse stations than any other branch of the service. They are planted away on lonely coast stations for two or three years at a time, and Aden, the bane of foreign service in the infantrymans estimation, is a pleasant place compared with some which garrison gunners are compelled to inhabit for a period. Lonely islands in the West Indies, isolated places on the Indian and African coast, forts placed far away from contact with civilians in the British Isles--all these fall to the lot of the garrison gunner, and the nature of his work is such that, unlike his fellows in the field and horse artillery, he gets neither infantry nor cavalry escort. Reckoned in with the Garrison Artillery are the nine Mountain Batteries, which, organised for service on such hilly country as is provided by the Indian frontier, form a not inconspicuous part of the British Army. In these batteries the guns are carried in sections on pack animals; Kipling has immortalised the Mountain Batteries in his verses on The Screw Guns, a title which conveys an allusion to the fact that the guns of the Mountain Batteries screw and fit together for use. The use of these guns can be but local, for they are not sufficiently mobile to oppose to ordinary field-guns on level ground, nor is the projectile that they throw of sufficient weight to give them a chance in a duel with field-guns. They are, however, extremely useful things for the purpose for which they are intended; they form a necessary factor in the maintenance of order on the north-west frontier of India, and, together with their gun crews, they instil a certain measure of respect into the turbulent tribes of that uneasy land. A consideration of the various branches of the service would be incomplete if mention of the Royal Engineers were omitted. The Engineers are looked on as a sister service to the Royal Artillery, and consist of various troops, companies, and sections, according to the technical work they are called on to perform. Thus there are field troops of mounted engineers for service with cavalry, field companies for duty with the field army, fortress companies for service in conjunction with the garrison gunners, balloon sections and telegraph sections for the use of the intelligence department, and pontoon companies for field bridging work. Every engineer of full age is expected to be a trained tradesman when he enlists, and the special qualifications demanded of this branch of the service are acknowledged by a higher rate of pay than that accorded to any other arm. The motto of the Engineers, Ubique, is fully justified, for they are not only expected to be, but are, capable of every class of work, from making a pepper-caster out of a condensed-milk tin to throwing across a river a bridge capable of conveying siege-guns. There is no end to their activities, and no end to their enterprise, and in the opinion of many the Engineers, officers and men alike, are the most capable and efficient body of men in any branch of the Government service. Their work is little seen; to their lot falls the task of constructing the barbed-wire entanglements with the assistance of which infantry battalions can put up a magnificent defence against any kind of attack; the Engineers are responsible for the construction of the bridge by means of which the cavalry arrive unexpectedly on the other side of the river and spoil the enemys plans by getting round his flank; it is the Engineers, again, who repair the blown-up railway line and permit of the transport of trainloads of troops to an unexpected point of vantage, thus again upsetting the plans of the enemy. One hears of the magnificent defence maintained by the infantry; one hears of the brilliant exploits of the cavalry on the flank of the enemy; one hears also of the skill of the commander who moved the troops with such suddenness and disconcerted his enemy; but the work of the Engineers, who made these things possible, generally goes unrecognised outside military circles, and the Engineers themselves have to reap their satisfaction out of the knowledge of work well done. CHAPTER VII IN CAMP In going to camp, transferring from the solid shelter of barracks to the more doubtful comfort of crowding under a canvas roof, the soldier feels that he is getting somewhere near the conditions under which he will be placed on active service. The pitching of camp, especially by an infantry battalion, is a parade movement, and as such is an interesting business. It begins with the laying out of the tents in their bags, and the tent poles beside them, near the positions which the erected tents will occupy. The bags are emptied of their contents; men are told off to poles, guy ropes, mallets and pegs; the tents are fully unfolded, and, at a given word of command, every tent goes up to be pegged into place in the shortest possible space of time. At the beginning of a given ten minutes there will be lying on otherwise unoccupied ground rows of bags and poles; at the end of that same ten minutes a canvas town is in being, and the men who are to occupy that town are thinking of fetching in their kits. Under ordinary circumstances, from four to eight men are told off to occupy each tent, but on manuvres and on active service these numbers are exceeded more often than not. During the South African war the present writer once had the doubtful pleasure of being the twenty-fourth man in an ordinary military bell-tent. The next night and thereafter, wet or fine, half the men allotted to that tent made a point of sleeping in the open air. It was preferable. Life in camp is an enjoyable business so long as the weather continues fine and not too boisterous; discipline is relaxed to a certain extent while under canvas, open-air life renders the appetite keener, and ones enjoyment of life is more thorough than is the case in barracks. Wet weather, however, changes all this. The luxury of floor-boards is a rare one even in a standing camp, and, no matter what one may do in the way of digging trenches round the tent and draining off surplus water by all possible means, a moist unpleasantness renders life a burden and causes equipment and arms to need about twice as much cleaning as under normal circumstances. Camp life breeds yarns unending, and in wet weather, or in the hours after dark, men sit and tell hirsute chestnuts to each other for lack of better occupation. If the weather is fine there are plenty of varieties of sport, including the ubiquitous football to occupy spare minutes, but yarns and tobacco form the principal solace of hours which cannot be filled in more active ways. There is one yarn which, like all yarns, has the merit of being perfectly true, but, unlike most, is not nearly so well known as it ought to be. It concerns a cavalry regiment which settled down for a brief space at Potchefstroom after the signing of peace in South Africa. Some months previous to the signing of peace, a certain lieutenant of this regiment, known to his men and his fellow officers as Bulgy, became possessed of a young baboon, which grew and throve exceedingly at the end of a stout chain that secured the captive to one of the transport wagons of the regiment. Bulgys servant was entrusted with the care of the monkey, which, after the manner of baboons, was a competent thief from infancy, and inclined to be savage if thwarted. On one occasion, in particular, Bulgys monkey got loose, and got at the officers mess wagon; it had a good feed of biscuits and other delicacies, and retired at length, followed by the mess caterer, who expostulated violently both with Bulgys servant and with Bulgys monkey, until a tin of ox-tongues skilfully aimed by the monkey caught him below the belt and winded him. After that, as Bret Harte says, the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. Well, the regiment arrived at Potchefstroom and settled down under canvas, with an average of eight men to a tent and the horse lines of each troop placed at right-angles to the lines of tents. Bulgys monkey was given a place away on the outside of the lines, with the other end of his chain attached to a tree-stump, and there, for a time, he rested, fed sparingly and abused plentifully by Bulgys servant. In the regiment itself money was plentiful at the time, and it was the custom in the tents which housed drinking men for the eight tent-mates to get in a can of beer before the canteen closed. Over the beer they would sit and yarn and play cards until lights out sounded. One night, eight men sat round their can of beer in a tent of A Squadron, to which, by the way, Bulgy belonged. These eight had nearly reached the bottom of the can. They had blown out all the candles in the tent save one, which would remain for illumination until lights out sounded. The last man to unroll his blankets and get to bed had just finished, and was sitting up in order to blow out the last remaining candle, when the flap of the tent was raised from the back, and a hairy, grinning, evil face, which might have been that of the devil himself, looked in on the sleepy warriors. They, for their part, were too startled to investigate the occurrence, and the sight of that face prevented them from stopping to unfasten the tent flap in order to get out. They simply went out, under the flies, anyhow; one man tried to climb the tent pole, possibly with a vague idea of getting out through the ventilating holes at the top, but he finally went out under the fly of the tent like the rest, taking with him the sting of a vicious whack which the hairy devil aimed at him with a chain that it carried. While these eight men were fleeing through the night, the devil with the chain came out from the tent, and, seeing a line of startled horses before it, leaped upon the back of the nearest horse, gave the animal a thundering blow with its chain, and hopped lightly on to the back of the next horse in the row, repeating the performance there. In almost as little time as it takes to tell, a squadron of stampeding horses followed the eight men of the tent on their journey toward the skyline, and in the black and windy dark the remaining men of A Squadron turned out to fetch their terrified horses back to camp, and, when they knew the cause of the disturbance, to curse Bulgys monkey even more fervently than Bulgys servant had cursed it. The end of it all was that eight men of A Squadron signed the pledge, and Bulgy left off keeping the monkey; it was too expensive a form of amusement. This is a typical camp yarn, and a military camp is full of yarns, some better than this, and some worse. In camp, more than anywhere else, the soldier learns to be handy. The South African war taught men to kill and cut up their own meat, to make a cooking fire out of nothing, to cook for themselves, to wash up--though most of them had learned this in barracks--to wash their own underclothing, darn their own socks, and do all necessary mending to their clothes. It taught cavalrymen the value of a horse, in addition to giving them an insight to the foregoing list of accomplishments. It was, for the first year or so, a strenuous business of fighting, but the last twelve months of the war consisted for many men far more of marching and camp experience than actual war service. It was an ideal training school and gave an insight into camp life under the best possible circumstances; its lessons were invaluable, and much of the practice of the Army of to-day is derived from experience obtained during that campaign. One failing to which men--and especially young soldiers--are liable in camp life consists in that when they return to camp, thoroughly tired after a long days manuvring or marching, they will not take the trouble to cook and get ready for themselves the food without which they ought not to be allowed to retire to rest. In the French Army, officers make a point of urging their men to prepare food for themselves immediately on their return to camp, but in the English Army this matter is left to the discretion of the men themselves, with the result that some of them frequently go to bed for the night without being properly fed. This course, if persisted in, almost invariably leads to illness, and it is important that men under canvas should be properly fed at the end of the day as well as at the beginning and during the course of their work. When under canvas in time of peace, the authorities of most units reduce their demands on their men in comparison with barrack life. It is generally understood that a man cannot turn out in review order, or in burnish and fake, with the restrictions of a canvas town about him. In some units, however, this point is not sufficiently considered, and as much is asked of men as when they have the conveniences of barracks all about them. The result of this is sullenness and bad working on the part of the men; the short-sightedness of officers leads them to press their demands while men are in the bad temper caused by too much being put upon them, and the final result is what is known technically in the Army as an excess of crime. A string of men far in excess of the usual number is wheeled up in front of the company or commanding officer to be weighed off, and the number of men on defaulters parade, or undergoing punishment fatigues, steadily increases. Although in theory the soldier has the right of complaint, if he feels himself aggrieved, to successive officers, even up to the general officer commanding the brigade or division in which he is serving, in practice he finds these complaints of so little real use to him that he expresses his discontent by means of incurring crime, or, in other words, by getting into trouble in some way. There is no accounting for this habit; it is the way of the soldier, and no further explanation can be given. Squadrons of cavalry have been known to cut all their saddlery to pieces, and companies of infantry to render their belts and equipment useless, by way of expressing their discontent or disgust at undue harshness. The relaxation of discipline and the absence of barrack-room soldiering when under canvas is a privilege which the soldier values highly, and it ought not to be curtailed in any way. A pleasant form of camping which many units on home service enjoy is the annual musketry camp. It happens often that there is no musketry range within convenient marching distance of the place in which a unit is stationed, and, in that case, the unit sends its men, one or two companies or squadrons at a time, to camp in the vicinity of the musketry range allotted to their use. The firing of the actual musketry course is in itself an interesting business, and it brings out a pleasant spirit of emulation among the men concerned. Keenness is always displayed in the attempt to attain the coveted score which entitles a man to wear crossed guns on his sleeve for the ensuing twelve months, and proclaims him a marksman. In addition to this there is the pleasant sense of freedom engendered by life under canvas, and the access of health induced thereby. The soldier, in common with most healthy men, enjoys roughing it up to a point, and life in a musketry camp seldom takes him beyond the point at which enjoyment ceases. Infantry units serving in foreign and colonial stations are frequently split up into detachments consisting of one or more companies, and serving each at a different place. This detachment duty, as it is called, as often as not involves life under canvas, and it may be understood that life under the tropical or sub-tropical conditions of foreign and colonial stations can be a very pleasant thing. Here, as in home stations, sufficient work is provided to keep the soldier from overmuch meditation. Time is allowed, however, for sport and recreation, and, even when thrown entirely on their own resources for amusement, troops are capable of making the time pass quickly and easily. While on the subject of camping there is one more yarn of South Africa and the war which merits telling, although it only concerns a bad case of nerves. It happened during the last year of the war that a column crossed the Modder River from south to north, going in the direction of Brandfort, and camp was pitched for the night just to the north of the Glen Drift. At this point in its course the Modder runs between steep, cliff-like banks, from which a belt of mimosa scrub stretches out for nearly a quarter of a mile on each side of the river. After camp had been pitched for the night, the sentries round about the camp were finally posted with a special view to guarding the drift, the northward front of the column, and its flanks. Only two or three sentries, however, were considered necessary to protect the rear, which rested on the impenetrable belt of mimosa scrub along the river bank. One of these sentries along the scrub came on duty at midnight, just after the moon had gone down. He took over from the sentry who preceded him on the post, and started to keep watch according to orders, though in his particular position there was little enough to watch. Quite suddenly he grew terribly afraid, not with a natural kind of fear, but with the nightmarish kind of terror that children are known to experience in the dark. His reason told him that in the position that he occupied there was nothing which could possibly harm him, for behind him was the bush, through which a man could not even crawl, while before him and to either side was the chain of sentries, of which he formed a part, surrounding his sleeping comrades. His imagination, however, or possibly his instinct, insisted that something uncanny and evil was watching him from the darkness of the tangled mimosa bushes, and was waiting a chance to strike at him in some horrible fashion. He tried to shake off this childish fear, to assure himself that it could not possibly be other than a trick of nerves brought on by darkness and the need for keeping watch, when--crash!--something struck him with tremendous force in the back and sent him forward on his face. Half stunned, he picked himself up from the ground, and the pain in his back was sufficient to assure him that he had not merely fallen asleep and imagined the whole business. With his loaded rifle at the ready he searched the edge of the mimosa bush as closely as he was able, but could discover nothing; he had an idea of communicating with the sentry next in the line to himself, but, since there was no further disturbance, and nothing to show, he decided to say nothing, but simply to stick to his post until the next relief came round. Suddenly the uncanny sense of terror returned to him, intensified. He felt certain this time that the evil thing which had struck him before would strike again, and he felt certain that he was being watched by unseen eyes. He was new to the country; as an irregular he was new to military ways, and he promised himself that if ever he got safely home he would not volunteer for active service again. The sense of something unseen and watching him grew, and with it grew also the nightmarish terror, until he was actually afraid to move. Then, by means of the same mysterious agency, he was struck again to the ground, and this time he lay only partially conscious and quite helpless until the reliefs came round. The sergeant in charge of the reliefs had an idea at first of making the man a close prisoner for lying down and sleeping at his post, but after a little investigation he changed his mind and sent one of his men for the doctor instead. The doctor announced, after examination, that if the blow which felled the man had struck him a few inches higher up in the back he would not have been alive to remember it, and the man himself was taken into hospital for a few days to recover from the injuries so mysteriously inflicted. In the morning the column moved off on its way, and no satisfactory reason could be adduced for the midnight occurrence. But residents in that district will tell you, unto this day, that one who has the patience to keep quiet and watch in the moonlight can see baboons come up from the mimosa scrub and amuse themselves by throwing clods of earth and rocks at each other. It is a good camp story, and I tell it as it was told to me, without vouching for its truth. Any man who cares to go into a military camp--by permission of the officer commanding, of course--and has the tact and patience to win the confidence of the soldiers in the camp, can hear stories equally good, and plenty of them. For, as previously remarked, camp life breeds yarns. CHAPTER VIII MUSKETRY Although the musket of old time became obsolete before the memory of living man, the term musketry survives yet, and probably will always survive for laconic description of the art and practice of military rifle-shooting. Musketry is the primary business of the infantry soldier, and it also enters largely into the training of the cavalryman, who is expected to be able to dismount and hold a desired position until infantry arrive to relieve him. So far as the recruit is concerned, by far the greater part of the necessary instruction in musketry takes place not on the rifle range, but on the regimental or battalion drill-ground, where the beginner is taught the correct positions for shooting while standing, kneeling, and lying. He is taught the various parts of his weapon and their peculiar uses; he is taught that when a wind gauge is adjusted one division to either side, it makes a lateral difference of a foot for every hundred yards in the ultimate destination of the bullet. He is taught the business of fine adjustment of sights, taught with clips of dummy cartridges how to charge the magazine of his rifle. The extreme effectiveness of the weapon is impressed on him, and the instructor not only tells him that he must not point a loaded rifle at a pal, but also explains the reason for this, and usually draws attention to accidents that have occurred through disregard of elementary rules of caution. For long experience has demonstrated that the unpractised man is liable to be careless in the way in which he handles a rifle, and the recruit, being at a careless age, and often coming from a careless class, is especially prone to make mistakes unless the need for caution is well hammered home. At first glance, a rifle is an extremely simple thing. You pull back the bolt, insert a cartridge, and close the bolt. Then you put the rifle to your shoulder and pull the trigger--and the trick is done. But first impressions are misleading, and the recruit has to be trained in the use of the rifle until he understands that he has been given charge of a very delicate and complex piece of mechanism, of which the parts are so finely adjusted that it will send its bullet accurately for a distance of 2800 yards--considerably over a mile and a half. In order to maintain the accuracy of the instrument the recruit is taught by means of a series of lessons, which seem to him insufferably long and tedious, how to clean, care for, and handle his rifle. An immense amount of time and care is given to the business of teaching him exactly how to press the trigger, for on the method of pressing the quality of the shot depends very largely. The musketry instructor gives individual instruction to each man in this, and the man is made to undergo snapping practice--that is, repeatedly pressing the trigger of the empty rifle until he has gained sufficient experience to have some idea of what will happen when the trigger is pressed with a live cartridge in front of the bolt. When the recruit has been well grounded in the theory of using a rifle, he is taken to the rifle range for actual practice with real ammunition. He starts off at the 200 yards range with a large target before him, and, in all probability, the first shot that he fires scores a bulls-eye. He feels at once that he knows a good bit more about the use of a rifle than the man who is instructing him, and at the given word he aims and fires again. This time he is lucky if he scores an outer; more often than not the bullet either strikes the ground half-way up the range, or goes sailing over the back of the butts, and the recruit, with a nasty painful feeling about his shoulder, has an idea that rifle-shooting is a tricky business, after all. The fact was that, with his experience of snapping, he had learned to pull the trigger--or rather, to press it--without experiencing the kick of the rifle; that kick, felt with the first real firing, caused an instinctive recoil on his part in firing the second time. Later on he learns to stand the kick, and to mitigate its effects by holding the rifle firmly in to his shoulder, and from that time onward he begins to improve in the art of rifle-shooting and to make consistent practice. For the recruits course, the targets are naturally larger and the conditions easier than when the trained man fires. At the conclusion of the recruits course, the men are graded into marksmen, who are the best shots of all, first-class, second-class, and third-class shots, and they have to qualify in each annual duty-mans course of firing in order to retain or improve their positions as shots. Before the new regulations, which made pay dependent on proficiency on the range, came into force, there was a good deal of juggling with scores in the butts; one company or squadron of a unit would provide markers for another, and since the men at the firing point shot in regular order, it was a comparatively easy matter to square the marker and get him to mark up a better score than was actually obtained. Under the present rules governing proficiency pay, however, a mans rate of pay is dependent on his musketry, and third-class shots suffer to the extent of twopence per day for failing to make the requisite number of points for second class. In consequence of this, supervision in the butts is much more severe, and there is little opportunity of putting on a score that is not actually obtained. A case occurred two or three years ago, the 5th Dragoon Guards being the regiment concerned, in which the men of a whole squadron made such an abnormally good score as a whole that, when the returns came to be inspected, it was suspected that the markers had had a hand in compiling what was practically a record. The squadron in question was ordered to fire its course over again, and the markers were carefully chosen with a view to the prevention of fraud in the butts. After two or three days of firing, however, the repeat course was stopped, for the men of the squadron were making even better scores than before. The incident goes to show that there is little likelihood of frauds occurring at the butts under the present system of supervision, and incidentally demonstrates the shooting capabilities of that particular squadron of men. Bad shots are the trial of instructors, who are held more or less responsible for the musketry standard of their units--certainly more, if there are too many bad shots in any particular unit. The bad shot is usually a nervous man, who cannot keep himself and his rifle steady at the moment of firing, though drink--too much of it--plays a large part in the reduction of musketry scores. At any rifle range used by regular troops, during the carrying out of the annual course, one may see the musketry instructor lying beside some man at the firing point, instructing him where to aim, pointing out the error of the last shot, and telling the soldier how to correct his aim for the next--generally helping to keep up the average of the regiment or battalion. As a rule, there is no man more keen on his work than the musketry instructor, who is usually a very good shot himself, as well as being capable of imparting the art of shooting to others. The great musketry school of the British Army, so far as home service goes, is at Hythe, where all instructors have to attend a class to qualify for instructorship. Here the theory and practice of shooting are fully taught; a man at Hythe thinks shooting, dreams shooting, talks shooting, and shoots, all the time of his course. He is initiated into the mysteries of trajectory and wind pressure, taught all about muzzle velocity and danger zone, while the depth of grooving in a rifle barrel is mere childs play to him. He is taught the minuti of the rifle, and comes back to his unit knowing exactly why men shoot well and why they shoot badly. He is then expected to impart his knowledge, or some of it, to the recruits of the unit, and to supervise the shooting of the trained men as well. In course of time, constantly living in an atmosphere of rifle-shooting, and spending more time and ammunition on the range than any other man of his unit, he becomes one of the best shots, though seldom the very best. For rifle-shooting is largely a matter of aptitude, and some men, after their recruits training and a duty-mans course on the range, can very nearly equal the scores compiled by the musketry instructor. Since shooting is a matter of aptitude to a great extent, it follows that the present system, punishing men for bad shooting by deprivation of pay and in other ways, is not a good one. It has not increased the standard of shooting to any appreciable extent; men do not shoot better because they know their rate of pay depends on it, for they were shooting as well as they could before. Certainly the man who can shoot well is of greater value in the firing line than the one who shoots badly, but, apart from this, all men are called on to do the same duty, and the third-class shot, if normally treated, has as much to do, does it just as well, and is entitled to as much pay for it as the marksman. There can be no objection to a system which rewards good shooting, but that is an entirely different matter from penalising bad shooting, as is done at present. The penalties do not always stop at deprivation of pay. In some infantry units a third-class shot is regarded as little better than a defaulter; he has extra drill piled on him--drill which has nothing at all to do with the business of learning to shoot; he is liable for fatigues from which other men are excused, and altogether is regarded to a certain extent as incompetent in other things beside marksmanship. This, naturally, does not improve his shooting capabilities; he gets disgusted with things as they are, knows that, since his commanding officer has determined things shall be no better for him, it is no use hoping for a change, and with a feeling of disgust resolves that, since in his next annual course he cannot possibly put up a better score, he will put up a worse. It is the way in which the soldier reasons, and there is no altering it; the way in which men are disciplined makes them reason so, and the determination to make a worse score since a better is impossible is on a par with the action of a cavalry squadron in cutting its saddlery to pieces because the men are disgusted with the ways of an officer or non-commissioned officer. Thus, in the case of unduly severe action on the part of commanding officers, the pay regulations, which make musketry a factor in the rate of pay, have done little good to shooting among the men. When actually at the firing point, a soldier is taught that he must keep his rifle pointing up the range, for accidents happen easily, and, in spite of the extreme caution of officers and instructors, hardly a year goes by without some accidental shooting to record. The wonder is not that this sort of thing happens, but that it does not happen more often, for, until a soldier has undergone active service and seen how easily fatal results are produced with a rifle, it seems impossible to make him understand the danger attaching to careless use of the weapon. One may find a man, so long as he is not being watched, calmly loading a rifle and closing the bolt with the muzzle pointed at the ear of a comrade; it is not a frequent occurrence, but it happens, all the same. And, in consequence, accidents happen. The range and the annual course are productive of a good deal of amusement, at times. There is a story of an officer who pointed out to a man that every shot he was firing was going three feet to the right of the target, and who, after having pointed this out several times, at last ordered the man to stop firing while he telephoned up to the butts and ordered that that particular target should be moved three feet to the right. Whether the result justified the change is not recorded. Cases are not uncommon in which a man fires on the wrong target by mistake, especially at the long ranges, and there is at least one well-authenticated case of a man who put all his seven shots on to the next mans target, and of course scored nothing for himself. For the law of the range is that if a man plants a shot on another mans target, the other man gets the benefit of the points scored by that shot. The markers in the butts must mark up what they see, for if they were compelled to go by instructions from the firing point and had to disregard the evidence of the targets, a musketry course would be an extremely complicated business, and would last for ever. One oft-told story is that of the recruit who sent shot after shot over the back of the butts, in spite of the repeated instructions of the musketry instructor to take a lower aim. At last, probably being tired of being told to aim low, the recruit dropped his rifle muzzle to such an extent that the bullet struck the ground about half-way up the range and went on its course as a whizzing ricochet. Missed again! said the instructor in disgust. Yes, said the recruit, but I reckon the target felt a draught that time, anyhow. The recruits course of musketry ends on the short ranges, but when the duty-man comes to fire for the year he is taken back, a hundred yards at a time, until he is distant 1000 yards from the target. This distance, 1000 yards, is considered the limit of effective rifle fire, though a good shot can do a considerable amount of damage at 2000 yards, and the limit of range of the Lee-Enfield magazine rifle, the one in use in the British Army, extends to 2800 yards. The weight of the bullet is so small, however, that at the long distances atmospheric conditions, and especially wind, have a great influence on the course of its flight, while the power of human sight is also a factor in limiting the effective range. Even at 1000 yards a man looks a very small thing, while at 2000 yards he is a mere dot, and it is impossible to take more than a general aim. More might be accomplished with more delicately adjusted sights and wind-gauges, but those at present in use are quite sufficiently delicate for purposes of campaigning, and telescopic sights, or appliances of a delicate nature for bettering shooting, are quite out of the question for use by the rank and file. Most of the shooting of the Army is done at ranges between 500 and 1000 yards, and, whatever weapon science may produce for the use of the soldier, it is unlikely that these distances will be greatly increased, since even science cannot overcome the limitations to which humanity is subject. Up to a few years ago, the old-fashioned bulls-eye targets were employed at all ranges and for all purposes, but they have been practically discarded now in favour of targets which reproduce, as accurately as possible, the actual targets at which men have to aim in war. The modern target is made up of a white portion representing the sky, and a shot on this portion counts for nothing at all; the lower part of the target is dull mud-coloured, and in the middle, projecting a little way into the white portion, is a black area corresponding roughly in shape and size to the head and shoulders of a man. Shots on this black portion, which may be considered as a man looking over a bank of earth, count as bulls-eyes, and shots on the mud-coloured portion of the target have also a certain value, for it is considered that if a shot goes sufficiently near the figure of the man to penetrate the earth that the target represents, such a shot under actual conditions would possibly ricochet and kill the man, and in any case would fling up such a cloud of dust or shower of mud and stones as to wound him in some way, or at least put him out of action for a few minutes. Further, rapid individual fire plays a far greater part in modern rifle-shooting than it did a few years ago. The volleys, which used to be so tremendously effective in the days of muzzle loading and slow fire at short ranges, are little considered under present conditions; with the development of initiative, and the introduction of open order in the firing line, men are taught to fire rapidly by means of exposing the targets for a second or two at a time, two shots or more to be got on the target at each exposure. In the musketry course of ten years ago there was very little rapid firing, but now it takes up more than half of the total of exercises on the range. Apart from the annual course of musketry which men are compelled to undergo, they are encouraged to practise shooting throughout the year by means of competitions, financed out of regimental funds, and offering prizes to be won in open competition. Competitors are graded into the respective classes in which their last course left them, and prizes are offered in each class, though why silver spoons should be offered to such an extent as they are is one of the mysteries that no man can explain. Certain it is that in nearly every shooting competition held, silver spoons are offered as prizes--and a soldier has little use for an ordinary teaspoon, silver or otherwise. The scores put on by men of the Army, taken in the average, go to prove that British soldiers have little to learn from those of other nations in the matter of shooting. The marksman, in order to win the right to wear crossed guns on his sleeve, has to put up a score which even a Bisley crack shot would not despise, and yet the number of men to be seen walking out with crossed guns on their sleeves is no inconsiderable one, while first-class shots are plentiful in all units of the cavalry and infantry. Artillerymen, of course, know little about the rifle and its use; their weapon both of offence and defence is the big gun, and in the matter of rifle-shooting they trust to their escort of cavalry or infantry--usually the latter, except in the case of Horse Artillery. Taken in the mass, the British soldier has every reason to congratulate himself on the way in which he uses his rifle, and the present Continental war has proved that he is every whit as good at using the rifle in the field as he is on the range, though, in shooting on active service, the range of the object has to be found, while in all shooting practice in time of peace it is known and the sights correctly adjusted before the man begins to fire. An adjunct to the course of musketry is that of judging distance, in which men are taken out and asked to estimate distances of various objects. Even for this there is a system of training, and men are instructed to consider how many times a hundred yards will fit into the space between them and the given object. They are taught how conditions of light and shade affect the apparent distance; how, with the sun shining from behind the observer on to the object, the distance appears less than when the sun is shining from behind the object on to the observer. They are taught at first to estimate short distances, and the range of objects chosen for experiment is gradually increased. In this, again, aptitude plays a considerable part; some men can judge distance from observation only with marvellous accuracy, while others never get the habit of making correct estimates. An interesting method practised in order to ascertain distance consists in taking the estimates of a number of men, and then striking an average. With any number of men over ten from whom to obtain the average, a correct estimate of the distance is usually obtained. Another method consists in observing how much of an object of known dimensions can be seen when looking through a rifle barrel, after the bolt of the rifle has been withdrawn for the purpose. Since, however, the object of training in judging distance is to enable a man to make an individual estimate, neither of these methods is permitted to be used in the judging when points are awarded. The award of points, by the way, counts toward the total number of points in the annual musketry course. CHAPTER IX THE INTERNAL ECONOMY OF THE ARMY Given such a conscript army as can be seen in working in any Continental nation, there is a very good reason for keeping the rate of pay for the rank and file down to as low a standard as possible, for the State concerned in the upkeep of a conscript army puts all, or in any case the greater part, of its male citizens through the mill of military service, and not only puts them through, but compels them to go through. It thus stands to reason that, as the men serve by compulsion, there is no need to offer good rates of pay as an inducement to serve; further, it is to the interest of the State concerned to keep down the expense attendant on the maintenance of its army as much as possible, and for these two reasons, if for no other, the rate of pay in Continental armies is remarkably small. With a volunteer army, however, the matter must be looked at in a different light. It is in the interest of the State, of course, that expenses in connection with its army should be kept as low as possible, but there the analogy between conscript and volunteer rates of pay ends. If the right class of man is to be induced to volunteer for service, he must be offered a sufficient rate of pay to make military service worth his while--in time of peace, at any rate. The ideal rate of pay would be attained if the State would consider itself, so far as its army is in question, in competition with all other employers of labour, and would offer a rate of pay commensurate with the services demanded of its employees. By that method the right class of man would be persuaded to come forward in sufficient numbers, and the Army could be maintained at strength without trouble. The British Army is the only voluntary one among the armies of the Western world, and for some time past it has experienced difficulty in obtaining a sufficiency of recruits to keep it up to strength, as was evidenced by the series of recruiting advertisements in nearly all daily papers of the kingdom with which the year 1914 opened. Statistics go to prove that recruiting is not altogether a matter of arousing patriotism, but is dependent on the state of the labour market to a very great extent. In the years following on the South African war, there was a larger percentage of unemployed in the kingdom than at normal times, and consequently recruiting flourished; men of the stamp that the Army wants, finding nothing better to do, and often being uncertain where the next meal was to come from, enlisted, and the Army had no trouble in maintaining itself at strength, although the rate of pay that it offered was lower than that earned, in many cases, by the ordinary unskilled labourer. Gradually, however, commercial conditions began to improve, and for the past year or two, in consequence of a very small percentage of unemployment among the labouring classes, recruiting has suffered--the Army does not offer as much as the ordinary civilian employer, either in wages or conditions of life, and consequently men will not enlist as long as they can get something to do in a regular way. Hence the War Office advertisements, which had very little effect on the recruiting statistics, and were wrongly conceived so far as appealing to the right class of man was in question. It was not till Lord Kitchener had assumed control of the War Office that the advertisements emanating from that establishment made a real personal appeal to the recruit; the two events may have been coincidence, for the war has pushed up recruiting as a war always does; again, there may have been something in the fact that Kitchener, as well as being an ideal organiser of men, is a great psychologist. However this may be, the fact remains that, although the War Office by the mere fact of its advertising has entered the labour market as a competitor with civilian employers, it has not yet offered any inducement equal to that offered by civilian employers. The rate of pay for the rank and file is still under two shillings a day, with lodging and partial board, for in time of peace the rations issued to the soldier do not form a complete allowance of food, and even the messing allowance is in many cases insufficient to provide sufficient meals--the soldier has to supplement both rations and messing out of his pay. When all allowances and needs have been accounted for, the amount of pay that a private soldier can fairly call his own, to spend as he likes, is about a shilling a day--and civilian employment, as a rule, offers more than that. Moreover, modern methods of warfare call for a more intelligent and better educated man than was the case fifty years ago; the soldier of to-day, as has already been remarked, has not only to be able to obey, but also to exercise initiative; a better class of man is required, and though the factor of numbers is still the greatest factor in any action that may be fought between opposing armies, the factor of intelligence and elementary scientific knowledge is one that grows in importance year by year. The mass of recruits, in time of peace, is drawn from among the unemployed unskilled labourers of the country; though, by the rate of pay given, the country effects a certain saving, this is more than balanced by the difficulty of educating and training these men--to say nothing of the expense of it. A higher rate of pay would attract a better class of man and provide a more intelligent army, one of greater value to the State. And, even assuming that the class of man obtained at present is as good as need be, still the rate of pay is insufficient; the work men are called on to perform, the responsibilities that are entailed on them in the course of their work, deserve a higher rate of pay than these men obtain at present. An illustration of this will serve far better than mere statement of the fact. It is well known that for years past there has been some difficulty in obtaining a sufficiency of officers for cavalry regiments, but what is not so well known is that, when a troop of cavalry is short of a lieutenant to lead it at drill and assume responsibility for its working, the troop-sergeant takes command and control of the troop. At the best, the pay of the troop-sergeant cannot be reckoned at more than four shillings a day, and on that amount of salary--twenty-eight shillings a week--he is given charge and control of somewhere about thirty men, together with horses, saddlery, and other Government property to the value of not less than 1800. For the safety and good order of this amount of property he is almost entirely responsible, as well as being charged with the superintendence, instruction, and control of the thirty men or more who comprise the troop under his command. The fact is that the world has moved forward tremendously during the past thirty or forty years, while, except for small and inadequate changes in the rates of pay, the Army has stood still. Labour conditions have altered in every way, and the cost of living has increased, forcing up the wage rate. The Army has taken note of none of these things, but has gone on, as regards pay and allowances, in the way of forty years ago. The necessity for an advertising campaign proved that the old ways were beginning to fail, and efforts were being made to overcome the shortage of men without increasing the rates of pay--vain efforts, if statistics of the amount of recruiting done before and after the beginning of the advertising campaign count for anything. We may leave these larger considerations to come down to a view of the interior working of a unit, its pay, feeding, and general life. All arrangements as regards pay for infantrymen are managed by the colour-sergeants of the companies, while in the cavalry and artillery the squadron or battery quartermaster-sergeants have control of the pay-sheets. These non-commissioned officers are charged with the business of drawing weekly the amount of pay required by their respective companies, squadrons, or batteries, and paying out the same to the men under the supervision of the company, squadron, or battery officers. The presence of the officer at the pay-table is a nominal business in most cases, and the non-commissioned officer does all the work, while in every case he is held responsible for any errors that may occur. Each man is given a stated weekly rate of pay, and at the end of each month there is a general settling up, at which the accounts of each man are explained to him; he is told what debts he has incurred to the regimental tailor, the bootmaker, or for new clothing that he has been compelled to purchase to make good deficiencies; in every unit each man is charged two or three pence a month--and sometimes more--by way of barrack damages, which includes the repair of broken windows, etc., and altogether the compulsory stoppages from pay generally amount to not less than two shillings per man per month. The system of pay is a complicated one. As a bed-rock minimum there is a regular rate of pay of a shilling and a penny a day for an infantryman, and a penny or twopence a day more for the other arms of the service. On to this is added the messing allowance of threepence a day, which is spent for the men in supplementing their ration allowance of food, and never reaches them in coin at all; there is a clothing allowance, which goes to defray the expense attendant on the renewal of articles of attire; there is yet another allowance for the upkeep of clothing and kit; there is the proficiency pay to which each man becomes entitled after a certain amount of service, and which consists of varying grades according to the musketry standard and character of the man; this ranges from fourpence to sixpence a day; and then there is badge pay, which adds a penny or twopence a day to old soldiers pay so long as they behave themselves. The colour-sergeant or quartermaster-sergeant has to keep account of all these small items, and it is small matter for wonder that many a worried officer or non-com., puzzling his brains over the intricacies of a pay-sheet, expresses an earnest wish that the whole complicated system may be swept away, and a straightforward rate of pay for each man substituted. The Army Pay Corps, a non-combatant branch of the service, is charged with the business of auditing and keeping accounts straight, and this corps forms the final court of appeal for all matters connected with the pay of the soldier. The Royal Warrant for Pay, a bulky volume published annually, is the manual by which the Pay Corps is guided to its decisions, and from which the harassed colour-sergeant or quartermaster-sergeant derives inspiration for his work. In all units serving at home, and in most of those serving abroad, a system of messing is established regimentally to supplement the ration allowance. Rations for the soldier, by the way, consist in England of one pound of bread and three-quarters of a pound of meat with bone per day, and all else must be bought out of pay and messing allowance. In colonial stations the ration allowance is enlarged to include certain vegetables, and in India the scale is still more liberal, but it is obvious that the English ration of bread and meat is not sufficient for the needs of the soldier, nor will the official messing allowance of threepence per day per man altogether compensate for ration deficiencies. Beyond doubt, however, the provision of necessaries has been brought to a very fine art in the Army, and, with an efficient cook-sergeant in charge of the regimental cookhouses, and capable caterers to supervise purchases for the messing account, with an allowance of fourpence a day per man the rank and file can have a sufficiency of plain, wholesome food. The sergeant-cook in charge of the cookhouses of each unit must have passed through a course at the Aldershot school of cookery before he can undertake the duties of his post, but he is the only trained cook in each unit. Men are chosen as company cooks or squadron cooks haphazard, and often with too little regard to their fitness for their posts. In spite of all disadvantages, though, the average of cooking in the Army is good, especially when one considers the unpromising material with which the cooks have to deal. The contract price for Army meat is not half that paid per pound by the civilian buyers; it is, of course, all foreign meat that is supplied in normal times. While the single men of the Army draw their meat supplies daily, married quarters rations are drawn on stated days, and, as the majority of the occupants of the married quarters are non-commissioned officers and their wives, it follows naturally that, in getting their exact ration with regard to weight, they are given every consideration with regard to the quality of meat cut off from the lump. On married quarters days the troops get a surprisingly small allowance of meat and a surprisingly large allowance of bone, for the regulation governing supply enacts that three-quarters of a pound of meat _with bone_ shall be allowed for each soldier. That with bone may mean that two-thirds of the allowance or more is bone, though the soldier has in this matter as well as in others the right of complaint if he considers that he is being subjected to injustice in any way. The quality of meat supplied, and its correct quantity, is supposed to constitute one of the cares of the orderly officer of the day, for the orderly officer, together with the quartermaster or the representative of the latter, is supposed to attend at the issue of rations of both bread and meat. In this connection a word regarding the duties of the orderly officer will not be out of place. These duties are undertaken by the lieutenants and second lieutenants of each unit, who take turns of a day apiece as orderly officer of the day. It has already been remarked that an officer does not really begin to count in the life of a unit until he has attained to the rank of captain and to the experience gained by such length of service as makes him eligible for captaincy. In no one thing does this fact become so clear as the way in which the duty of orderly officer of the day is performed in the majority of units. It happens as a rule that a lieutenant performs his turn of orderly conscientiously and well; at times, however, it happens that a subaltern, impatient at the fiddling duties involved in the turn of orderly, regards complaints on the part of the men as trivial and annoying, neglects to see that real causes of grievance are properly remedied, and lays the foundations of deep dislike for himself on the part of the men of the unit. One of the duties falling to the orderly officer is that of visiting the dining-rooms of the regiment or battalion and inquiring in each room if the men have any complaints to make with regard to the quality or quantity of the food supplied. If any complaint is made, it should be at once investigated, and, if found justifiable, remedied. But the subaltern doing orderly duty far too often does not know--because he has not troubled to learn--the way to set about remedying a just complaint; a very common form of reply to a complaint by the men is, I will see about it, and that is all that the men ever hear, while they are careful never to make a complaint to that particular officer again, since they know he is not to be depended on. The attitude of some junior officers towards the men making a complaint is at times one of suspicion; the officer seems to imagine that the man is doing it for amusement, and not until he has grown a little, and incidentally passed out from the rank in which he takes his turn as orderly officer, does he come to understand that men only make complaints to their officers about things which are absolutely beyond their own power to remedy. Frivolous or unjustifiable complaints, when proved to be such, are very heavily punished, and consequently men abstain as a rule from making them. The orderly officer is not concerned alone with the food of the men; he is supposed to visit the barrack-rooms and see that everything is correct there; he has to visit the guard of his unit once by day and once by night, and see that the guard is correct and the articles in charge of the guard are complete according to the inventory on the guard-board; he is supposed to visit all the regimental artificers establishments once during the day to see that work is being carried on properly, and he is even concerned with the quality and issue of beer in the canteen, while at the end of his days duty he has to fill in and sign a report to the effect that he has performed all his duties effectively--whether he has or no. His work, correctly carried through, is no sinecure business. Mention of the canteen takes us on to another point of military economy, that of supplies of varying kinds apart from the actual ration bread and meat. In each unit serving at home, a canteen is established for the supply to the troops of articles of the best possible quality at the lowest possible price without limiting the right of the men to purchase in other markets, according to Kings Regulations on the subject. In effect, however, the tenancy of a regimental canteen by a contractor is a virtual monopoly, and, unfortunately for the troops concerned, the monopoly is often made a rigid one. There is a dry bar, or grocery establishment, at which men can purchase cleaning materials for their kits and all articles of food that they require; there is a coffee bar, where suppers are sold to the men and cooked food generally is sold; and there is the wet canteen, whose sales are limited to beer alone, and where the boozers of the unit congregate nightly to drink and yarn. In old time the wet canteen used to be a fruitful source of crime--as crime goes in the Army--and general trouble, but moderation is the rule of to-day, and excessive drinking is rare in comparison with the ways of twenty years or so ago. The wet canteen of to-day is a cheerful place where men get their pints and sit over them, forming schools, as the various groups of chums are called, and drinking not so much as they talk, for they seek company rather than alcohol. For the teetotallers of each unit, the society known as the Royal Army Temperance Association has established a room in practically every unit of the service; at a cost of fourpence a month a man is given the freedom of this room, and at the same time invited to sign the pledge, which he generally does. In any case, if an A.T.A. man is caught drinking to excess, he forfeits his membership of the Association and the right to use its room. In the room itself a bar is set up at which all kinds of temperance drinks are sold, together with buns and light eatables. In the Army, a man refraining from the use of intoxicants is said to be on the tack, and is known as a tack-wallah. Members of the R.A.T.A. are designated wad-wallahs, or bun-scramblers, by the frequenters of the canteen, who are known as canteen-wallahs. The word wallah is a Hindustani one which has passed into currency in the Army, its original meaning being the follower of any branch of trade or employment. In the same way, numbers of Hindustani terms are in general use; roti is almost invariably used in place of bread, char for tea, and pani for water, all being correct Hindustani equivalents. Kampti, meaning small, and bus, equivalent to enough or stop, come from the same language, while scoff in place of eat is derived from South Africa, where it is common currency even among civilian white folks. Married on the strength in the Army carries with it a number of advantages for the married man. It is a little galling, in the first place, to have to satisfy ones commanding officer as to the respectability of the intended wife before marriage, but it is not so many years ago that there was good reason for this. Once married, the soldier is granted free quarters for himself and wife, and the wife is allowed fuel and light up to a certain amount, together with rations, and an additional allowance is made in the event of children being born. Curiously enough, however, the size of the quarters allotted to the married men and their families is not determined by the number of children in the family, but by the rank of the married man; not many private soldiers venture to marry, for their rate of pay is so low as to make the experiment an extremely risky one, although the wife of the soldier gets--if she wishes it--a certain amount of the single mens washing to do, by way of supplementing her husbands pay. Married off the strength--that is, without the permission of the officer commanding the unit--is doubly risky, for the wife of the man who marries thus gets no official recognition; her husband has to occupy a place in the barrack-room, for no separate quarters can be allotted to him; he has at the same time to find lodgings somewhere among the civilian inhabitants of the station for his wife--and children, if there are any--and, if he is a good character, he may be granted a sleeping-out pass, which confers on him the privilege of sleeping out of barracks--and this is a privilege that he must beg, not a right that he can claim. As the married establishment of a regiment or battalion is necessarily small, men frequently get married off the strength, though how they manage to exist and at the same time provide for their wives on military pay is a mystery. The most common explanation is that the wife, whatever work she has been engaged in before her marriage, continues it after; the hardest part of the business is that neither wife nor husband, in these circumstances, can count on the possession of a home as those married on the strength understand it. The private soldier married on the strength usually has entered on his second period of service--that is, he has finished the twelve years for which he first contracted to serve, and has re-enlisted to complete twenty-one years with a view to a pension. Generally he manages to get a staff job of some sort, from employment on the regimental police to barrack sweeper, or anything else that will get him out of attending early morning parades as a rule--though all staff men have to attend early parades when the orders of the day say strong as possible. The rule in most units is that the staff jobs are distributed among the older soldiers, for these are supposed, and with justice, to be better able to dispense with perpetual training than the younger men. As a rule, the appointment of any young soldier to a staff appointment--except such posts as that of orderly-room clerk, for which special aptitude counts before length of service--is the cause of considerable bitterness among the older soldiers who are still at duty, and is usually attributed to rank favouritism, whether it is due to that or no. In cavalry regiments especially, the ordinary duty-men look for amusement when the staff men are dug out to undergo the ordinary routine of duty, either by way of annual training or on the occasion of a strong as possible parade. The duty-man has his horse every day, and horse and man get to know each other, but the staff-man, attending stables only on the occasion of his being warned to attend a duty parade, has as a rule to take any horse that is going spare, as they call it, and usually the horse that nobody else has taken up for riding is not a pleasant beast. And the staff-man may be a bit rusty as regards drill and riding, so that the two things combined produce the effect of involuntary dismounting in the field or at riding school occasionally--or, as the soldier would say, dismounting by order from hind-quarters. Taken on the whole, the staff-mans day at duty is not a pleasant one, while, if he ventures to complain to his comrades or grumble in any way, he gets more ridicule than sympathy. Usually the duty-man affects to consider the staff-man an encumbrance, and in the cavalry even signallers, during the time that they are excused riding and attending stables, are told that it is easy enough to wag a little bit of stick about--why dont you come down to stables and do a bit? The reply generally makes up in forcibility for a deficiency in elegance, for the trooper is capable of maintaining his reputation as regards the use of language--of sorts. A form of staff employment which calls for a particular class of man is the post of officers servant; it amounts to the regular work of a valet for first servant, and that of a groom for second servant, and is not always an enviable post, especially if the officer in question is short-tempered or bad to get on with. Officers servants occupy quarters away from the duty-men, and in the vicinity of the officers mess in the case of single officers; married officers servants are provided with quarters in their masters houses. In addition to the officers servants, there is in each unit a regular staff of mess waiters both for officers and sergeants messes, while all non-commissioned officers from the rank of sergeant upward are permitted to employ a btman from among the men serving under them. The sergeants btman, though, is not excused from duty as is the officers servant, but has to get through all his own work, and then clean the sergeants equipment, keep his bunk in order, groom his horse, and clean his saddle (in cavalry and artillery units), as well as attend all parades from which the sergeant has no power to excuse him. Every staff job carries with it a certain amount of extra-duty pay, and this, in addition to the fact of being excused from at least some of the ordinary parades of the duty soldier, causes a post on the staff to be sought after by most men. There are some, though, who prefer to be at ordinary duty, and the man who is going in for promotion usually avoids staff employ, for the two do not go together. Among non-commissioned officers as well as among the rank and file there is a certain amount of staff employment, but it is a smaller amount, and a good deal of it is unenviable business. The post of provost-sergeant, for instance, although it carries extra-duty pay, is naturally not a popular business, for having control of the regimental police and being responsible for the punishments of delinquents on defaulters drill and punishment fatigues does not tend to increase the popularity of a non-commissioned officer. The business of postman in a regiment is usually entrusted to a corporal; as a rule, the oldest corporal is chosen to fill this berth, and one just concluding his term of military service is practically certain to get it as soon as it falls vacant. But staff jobs for non-coms. are far fewer, relatively, than for the rank and file, and, outside the artificers shops, the regimental orderly room and quartermasters store, practically every non-com. is at duty. CHAPTER X THE NEW ARMY In the course of these pages the remark has already been made that the British Army is in a state of flux; this is true mainly as regards numbers and organisation, but with regard to discipline and training no very great changes are possible. Methods of training may alter, and do alter for the better from time to time, but the basic principles remain, since an army can be trained only in one way: by the use of strict discipline and of means calculated to impart to men the greatest possible amount of instruction in the shortest space of time. The more quickly a man absorbs the main points of his training, the better for him and for the army whose effectiveness he is intended to increase. In the new army of to-day, from which it is intended to draft effective men into the firing line at the earliest possible moment, rapidity of training is a prime essential. At the outset, owing to the enormous numbers of men who flocked to the colours, training was no easy matter, and for some time to come instructors will be scarce when compared with the multitude of men who require training. In order to combat this, instructors have been asked to re-enlist from among ex-soldiers who, past fighting age themselves, are yet quite capable of drilling the new men. A minor drawback arises here, however, in that such of the instructors as left the colours before a certain date are out of touch as regards modern weapons and drill. For instance, the field gun at present in use in the British Army was not generally adopted until after the conclusion of the South African campaign; in the case of the cavalry, again, important modifications have been brought about in drill and formations during the last ten years, while the charger loading rifle with wind gauge is comparatively an innovation both as regards cavalry and infantry. It is not intended to imply that drill instructors who finished their colour service ten or twelve years ago are of no use, for, in the matters of imparting elementary drill and the first principles of discipline to the recruits, they are invaluable and far too few. But, in more advanced matters, it must be conceded that the sooner the new army can instruct itself the better, for the proverb about an old dog and new tricks may be applied to re-enlisted instructors and the new army, which is a whole bag of new tricks. It is essential that the new army should train itself at the earliest possible moment, and for this reason there are endless opportunities for the man with brains who enlists at the present time. The re-enlisted drill instructor will not accompany the men of the new army into the field, and, as an army increases, a relative increase must be made in the number of its non-commissioned officers, while there are also vacancies by the hundred for commissioned officers. For the average man, however, it is useless at the present time to depend on influence and back-door methods for promotion. Worth is all that will count, and an ounce of enlistment to-day is worth a ton of influence that might have been exercised yesterday. It is as true of the new army as of any other profession that there is plenty of room at the top. The way to get there is by enlistment to-day and hard and patient application to ones work for a matter of weeks or months. No man can tell how long the new army will last, or what will be the conditions of service and strength of the army after the proclamation of peace. One thing, however, is certain. Not while a first-class power remains on the continent of Europe will conscription cease altogether between the Urals and the Atlantic, or between Archangel and Brindisi. It is quite probable that when peace comes again, universal conscription will cease, for there will no longer be an embodied threat in central Europe--the Powers will have no more of that, and the burden of armaments on the old scale must cease. On the other hand, however, nations will maintain sufficient forces to enable them to insist on international justice; the threat of the sword will always form the final court of appeal from the decisions of any arbitration body, and, while this is so, a British army must always be maintained. The existence of primal human instinct is fatal to the idea of total disarmament; war may not come again, for that is a contingency with regard to which none can prophesy, but the fact remains that the best provision for peace is ample preparation against the chances of war. Thus the man who looks for a career out of the British Army need not look in vain, for there will always be sufficient of an army, if only for colonial and foreign service, to furnish capable men with all the careers that they may desire. The other reason for enlistment, less selfish and more vital, has been expressed by many voices and by means of many pens; the country has called, and there are ugly names for those who, without sufficient claims of kin to form cause for exemption, refuse to answer the call. With regard to the composition of the new army it may be said that the standing of the men has altered materially since the outbreak of hostilities, though this is in keeping with the trend of thought and feeling that has been evident since the end of the South African campaign. Up to the end of the nineteenth century there still remained obscure provincial centres in which it was supposed that only wastrels would enlist, with a view to getting an easy means of livelihood; farther back, this conception of the Army was a very common one. It is hard to say at what period of British history such an idea gained currency, unless the employment of mercenaries previous to the time of the French Revolution may have given it birth. For, long before Waterloo, the British soldier gave ample proof of the stuff of which he is made, and there is not a battlefield of history from which there has not come some instance of self-denial or devotion to a comrade which attests among the ranks of the British Army the existence of the highest principles by which humanity is actuated. But, up to the end of the nineteenth century, civilians could not understand the Army. Kipling taught them a little, but Kiplings soldiers are all hard drinkers with a tendency to the slaughter of aspirates, and various other linguistic eccentricities. As character studies, Kiplings soldiers are masterly works, but they bear little relation to the soldier of to-day, who, even as an infantryman, is required to be an educated man in certain directions, since he lives in a welter of wind gauges and trajectory, decimal points and mathematical calculations with regard to the accomplishment of his duties. The public as a whole has been waking up to these facts slowly--very slowly--but it has taken the world-catastrophe of a general European war to shake the public entirely from its apathy, and cause it to realise that the Army is an agglomeration of men in the highest sense of that little three-lettered word. There is to-day among all ranks and classes a realisation of the good that is, and always has been in the Army; there is a new interest in soldiers, in military movements, and in all that pertains to the theory and practice of war, and this augurs well for the future of members of the new army, both on duty and among their friends. Counting from the day that the nation wakened to the good that is in the Army, and the possibility of soldiers being at root like other men, military uniform has become a matter for pride to its wearer, and respect from those who from any cause are unable to assume the uniform. As this war has knit together motherland and colonies, so, by means of this war, the soldier has come to his own. The new army is not a thing apart from the nation: it is the nation. The new army means an increase not in numbers alone, for we may accept as a principle that the best will rule in a mass composed of all sorts from best to worst--that is, if we grant relative equality in the numbers of best and worst, and of each intervening grade. Periods of commercial prosperity have left the Army dependent mainly on the unemployed for its recruits, with a corresponding loss in education and moral tone, but the new army is composed of men of all grades, actuated for the most part by the highest possible impulses, and asking only to be allowed to give of their best. Enlisting in this spirit, it is inevitable that these men should look upward, and thus the best will rule. For purposes of rule the Army needs the very best, for its own sake and that of the future of the nations manhood. In gaining the best and their influence, the Army will increase in social standing and moral tone as well as in numbers. No man comes out from the Army as he went in; there are many types, and with the enormous increase in numbers at the present time, the number of types will increase as well as the number of representatives of each type. Country youths, town dwellers, agricultural labourers--who often make the best and keenest soldiers--men who know nothing of what labour is like, skilled artisans, and men from the office--all come to the ranks of the Army, which, shaping them to compliance with discipline, still leaves the stamp of individuality. The soldiers of the new army will come back to their ordinary avocations bearing the stamp of military training, stronger physically, and different in many ways--mainly improved ways. But the metal on which the stamp of the Army is impressed will remain the same, for one is first a man and then a soldier. The instances of Prussian brutality evident to-day, and an eternal disgrace to the German nation, do not prove anything against the Prussian military system, but afford evidence that brutality is ingrained in the Prussian before he goes up as a conscript to begin his training. So, whatever the characteristics of a man may be, the Army cannot make a brave soldier out of a cowardly civilian, and it cannot make a good man into a bad one; it accentuates certain traits of character and drives others into the background, but it neither destroys nor creates. It is a training school which, taken in the right way, brings out all that is best in a man, stiffens him to face the battle of life as well as the battles of military service, and strengthens self-confidence and self-respect. The men who are seen to have suffered in character during their military training are by no means examples from which one can cite the result of discipline and army work, for it is not the training that is at fault, but the inherent weakness of the men themselves. The social standing of the majority of recruits joining the new army renders it ten times more true of the Army of to-day than of the Army of yesterday, that military training gives more than it demands, inculcates habits which, followed in after life, are invaluable, and makes a man--in the best sense of the word--of each one who joins its ranks. One thing that officers and men alike in the new army should be made to realise is that the possession of a good kit carries one half of the way on active service--the things that carry the other half of the way are not to be purchased. But the man who has undergone the rigours of active service understands the value of good boots, good field-glasses, well-fitting and suitable clothing, and really portable accessories to personal comfort. These things, and an intelligent choice of them, go far to make up the difference between the man successful at his work and the failure, for although a bad workman is said to quarrel with his tools a good workman cannot do good work with bad tools. In the peculiarly exacting conditions entailed on men by active service, kit and equipment should be of the best quality obtainable, and the choice of what to take and what to leave behind is evidence, to some extent, of the fitness of the man for his work. The most important item of all is boots, and in fitting boots for active service one should be careful to select a size that will admit of the wearer enjoying a nights sleep without removing his footwear. Care of the feet, and retention of the ability to march, are quite as important as shooting abilities, for the man who cannot march with the rest will not be in it when the shooting begins. For the rest, it is wise to try, if not to follow, as often as possible the tips given, by men who have been on active service, with regard to the choice of kit and the little things that make for comfort--that is, as far as compliance with these tips is compatible with keeping the size of ones outfit down. The seasoned man, when talking of such subjects as kit and comfort, usually speaks out of his own experience, and his advice is worth following. The golden rule in the choice of an outfit for service is simply as little as possible, and that little good. This rule, by the way, used to be applied to the British Army in another way: the new army, however, makes a difference in the matter of size. CHAPTER XI ACTIVE SERVICE The popular conception of active service is of a succession of encounters with the enemy. Desperate deeds of valour, brilliant charges by bodies of troops, men saving other men under fire, the storming of positions, and the flush of victory after strenuous action enter largely into the civilian conception of war. The reality is a sombre business of marching and watching, nights without sleep and days without food; retracing ones steps in order to execute the plan of the brain to which a man is but one effective rifle out of many thousands, marching for days and days, seeing nothing more exciting than a burnt-out house and the marching men on either side and to front and rear--and then the contact with the enemy. A vicious crack from somewhere, or the solid boom of a piece of artillery; somewhere away to the front or flank is the enemy, and his pieces do damage in the ranks; there is a searching for cover, some orders are given, perhaps a comrade lies utterly still, and one knows that that man will not move any more; there is a desperate sense of ineffectiveness, of anger at this cowardly (as it seems) trick of hitting when one cannot hit back. There is the satisfaction of getting the range and firing, with results that may be guessed but cannot be known accurately by the man who fires; there is the curious thrill that comes when an angrily singing bullet passes near, and one realises that one is under fire from the enemy. In a normal action, there is the sense of disaster, even of defeat when ones side may in reality be winning, for one sees men dying, wounded, lying dead--one knows the damage the enemy has inflicted, but has no idea of the damage ones own force has inflicted in return. Often, when it begins to be apparent that the enemy is nearly beaten, there comes the order to retire; one does not understand the order, but, with a sullen sense of resentment at it, retires, ducking at the whizzing of a shell, though not all the ducking in the world would avail if the shell were truly aimed at the one who ducks, or starting back to avoid a bullet that whizzed by--as if by starting back one could get out of the way of a bullet! After a day of action, or after the chance has come to rest for a while after days of action, one gets a sense of the horror of the whole business--the tragedy of lives laid down, in a good cause certainly, but the men are dead, and one questions almost with despair if it is worth while. So many good men with whom one has joked and worked and played in time of peace have gone under--and there are probably more battles yet to fight. It is not until a war has concluded, and men who have served are able to get some idea of the operations as a whole, that they are able to understand what has been done and why it has been done. Men who came back wounded from Mons and Charleroi, away from the magnificent three weeks retreat that was then in progress for the British and French armies, were, in many cases, fully convinced that they had been defeated--that their armies were beaten, and had to retreat to save themselves from destruction. The man in the ranks cannot understand the plan of the staff who control him, for he sees so very little of the whole; at the most, he knows what is happening to a division of men, while engaged in the retreat to the position of the Marne were, at the least, twenty divisions on the side of the Allies. Had one of these been utterly shattered in a set battle, the other nineteen might still have won a decisive victory, and, if news of that victory had not come through for a day or two, the survivors from the shattered division would have spread tidings of a defeat--which it would have been, to them. The man in the ranks sees so little of the whole. Here the war correspondent makes the most egregious mistakes, for, untrained in military service himself, he takes the word of the man in the ranks--the man on the staff of army headquarters is far too busy and far too discreet to talk to war correspondents--and out of what the man in the ranks has to say the war correspondent makes up his story. Though the man in the ranks may believe his own story to be true, though he may tell of the operations as he conceives them, he may be giving an utterly false impression of what is actually happening. The man in the ranks is one cog in a machine, and he cannot tell what all the machine is doing at any time, least of all when a battle is in progress. Every battle fought differs from all other battles, for no opposing forces ever meet under precisely identical conditions twice. Thus it is useless to speak of a typical battle except in the broadest general sense, and useless to attempt to describe a typical battle, or action of any kind. Usually, the artillery get into action after cavalry have reconnoitred the enemys position; the guns shell the enemy until he is considered sufficiently weakened to permit of infantry attack, and then the infantry go forward, even up to the rarely occurring bayonet charge. If their advance dislodges the enemy, the cavalry are set on to turn retreat into rout; if, on the other hand, the attacking force is compelled to retire, the cavalry cover the retreat, and, in order to make good in a retreat, a part of a force is taken back while the remainder hold the enemy in check. In modern actions, artillery fire their shells over the heads of their own infantry at the enemy, distance and trajectory permitting of this. By trajectory is meant the curve that a projectile describes in its flight; both rifles and big guns are so constructed and sighted that they throw their projectiles upward to counteract the pull of gravity, and the missile eventually drops down toward its object--it does not travel in a perfectly straight line. But it is bad for infantry to be in front of their own guns, with their own artillery shells passing over them, for too long--_morale_ suffers from this after a time, since a man cannot distinguish in such a case between his own artillerys shells and those of the enemy. Whenever possible, the artillery in rear of an infantry force are posted slightly to either flank; circumstances, however, do not always admit of this. On mobilisation for active service, the first thing that happens in the British Army is the calling up of the reserves. All men enlist, in the first case, for a certain number of years with the colours and a further period on the reserve. In this latter force, they are free to follow any civilian avocation, but on mobilisation must immediately report themselves at headquarters--wherever their headquarters may be--and take the place appointed to them in the mobilised army. Then comes the business of drawing war kit and equipment from stores. As a battleship clears for action, so the Army rids itself for the time of all things not absolutely necessary on active service, exchanges blank ammunition for ball, sharpens swords and bayonets, and in every way prepares for stern business. Each man is issued with a little aluminium plate which he is compelled to wear, and on which are inscribed such particulars as his name, regimental number, unit, etc., so that in case of his being killed on the field he can be identified and the news of his death transmitted to his next of kin. Each man, too, is issued with an emergency ration, which is a compressed supply of food amply sufficient for one days meals, so that in any tight corner, where provisions are not obtainable, he may be able to hold out for at least one day without being reduced to starvation. The opening and use of this ration, except by permission of an officer, counts as a crime in the Army, unless a man is placed in such a position that no officer is at hand to sanction the opening of the package, when the matter is perforce left to the mans discretion. Marching on service is a different matter from marching in time of peace. Not only is there the strain of ever-possible attack, but there is also, for cavalry and infantry, the weight of service armament and equipment to be considered. Every man carries in his bandoliers 150 rounds of ammunition for his rifle--not a bit too much, when the rate of fire possible with the modern rifle is taken into account. But 150 rounds of ball cartridge is a serious matter when one has to carry it throughout the day, and, when active service opens, it is easy to understand why only really fit men are passed by doctors into the Army. So far as the rank and file are concerned, it is power to endure that makes the soldier on active service; bravery is needed, initiative is needed, but staying power is needed most of all. There may be days of solid marching without a sight of the enemy. One may form part of a flanking force whose business is to march from point to point, fighting but seldom, but always presenting a threat to the enemy or his lines of communication, and thus ever on the move, with very little time for sleep or eating; again, one may be placed with a force which has to march half a day to come in contact with the enemy, and to fight the other half of the day; or yet again, it may be necessary to march all night in order to take a position--or be shot in the attempt--at dawn. In time of peace and on manuvres, officers take care that compensating time is allowed to men, so as to give them the normal amount of rest; on active service, the officer commanding a force spares his men as much as he can, and gives them all the rest possible, but he has to be guided by circumstances, or to rise superior to circumstances and cause himself and his men to undergo far more than normal exertions. War, as carried out to-day, requires all that every man has to give in the way of staying power, and now, as in the days of the battle-axe and long-bow, physical endurance is the greatest asset a man can have on active service. The hard drinker in time of peace and the man who has been looking for soft jobs all the time of his peace service soon go sick and become ineffective; they may be just as brave as the rest, but they lack the staying power requisite to the carrying on of war. Mens impressions of being under fire vary so much that every account is of interest. My principal impression was that Id like to run away, but there was nowhere to run to, so I stuck on, and got used to it after a bit. I felt cold, and horribly thirsty--I never thought to be afraid till afterwards. It was interesting, till I saw the man next to me rolled over with a bullet in his head, and then I wanted to get up and go for the devils who had done that. Thus spoke three men when asked how they felt about it. My own impression was chiefly a fear that I was going to be afraid--I did not want to disgrace myself, but to be as good as the rest. One man, who came back wounded after the day of Mons, described how he felt at first shooting a man and knowing that his bullet had taken effect--for in the majority of cases, with a whole body of men firing, it is difficult to tell which of the bullets take effect. This, however, was a clear case, and the man could not but know that he was responsible for the shot. I had four men with me on rear-guard, he said, and we were holding the end of a village street to let our chaps get away as far as possible before we mounted and caught up with them. We could see German infantry coming on, masses of them, but they couldnt tell whether the village street held five men or a couple of squadrons, so they held back a bit. At last I could see we were in danger of being outflanked, so I got my men to get mounted, and just as they were doing so a German officer put his head round the corner of the house at the end of the street--not ten yards away from me. I raised my rifle, shut both eyes, and pulled the trigger--it was point-blank range, and when I opened my eyes and looked it seemed as if Id blown half his face away. I felt scared at what I had done--it seemed wrong to have shot a man like that, though he and his kind drive women and children in front of their firing lines. It seemed to make such a horrible mess, somehow. I got mounted, and just as I swung my leg over the horse, a fool of a German infantryman aimed a blow at me with the butt end of his rifle--I dont know where he sprung from--and damaged my arm like this. If hed had the sense he could have run me through with a bayonet or shot me, but I suppose he was too flurried. But that officers face after Id shot him stuck to me, and I still dream of it, and shall for some time, probably. He who told this story is a boy of twenty-two or three, and he has gone back to the front to rejoin his regiment, now--with three stripes on his arm, instead of the two that were his at the beginning of the campaign. On forced marches, and often on normal marches as well, all the things that one considers necessities--with the exception of sufficient food to keep one in condition--go by the board. One sleeps under the stars, with no other covering than a coat and blanket; one lies out to sleep in pouring rain, with no more covering; tents are out of the question, for there is no time to pitch and strike them. One goes for days without a wash, and for days, too, without undressing. There were two scamps in the South African campaign who promised each other, for some mysterious reason, that they would not take their boots off for a month, and they ran into such a series of marches and actions that, even if they had not made the compact, they would only have been able to remove their boots three times in the course of that month. The smart soldier of peace service goes unshaven, unwashed, careless of all except getting enough of food and sleep at times; and when a lull comes in the operations, so that he gets a day or even an hour or two to himself, a bath is a luxury undreamed of by the man who can have one every morning and consider it a mere usual thing. If in time of peace the soldier considers a rifle carelessly, and even resents having to carry it about with him, he looks on it differently on service, knowing as he does that his life may depend on the quality of the weapon and his ability to use it at almost any minute of the day or night. The confirmed grouser of peace time, who will make a fuss over having to put twenty rounds of blank ammunition in his bandolier to go out on a field-day, will swing his three bandoliers of ball cartridges on to his person without a word of complaint, for he knows that he may need every round. Values alter amazingly on service; the man with a box of matches, when one has been away from the base for a few days, is a person of importance, and a mere cigarette is worth far more than its weight in gold. In General Rundles column during the South African war, half a biscuit was something to fight for, and the men who thought it such had many a time thrown away the same sort of unpalatable biscuits and bought bread to eat instead. An ant-heap acquired a new significance, for it might be the means of saving a mans life at any time, and among mounted men a fresh horse, which might give its rider some trouble at the time of mounting, was no longer to be avoided, for by its freshness it showed that it had plenty of spirit and go about it, spirit that might take a man out of rifle range at a critical moment, when the slower class of mount might come out of action without its rider. This reversal of the circumstances of ordinary life produces lasting effect on men; no man who has undergone the realities of active service comes back to the average of life unchanged. The difference in him may not be apparent at a casual glance, but it is there, for the rest of his life. He has looked on death at close quarters, and, whatever his intelligence may be--whether he be gutter-snipe or Varsity man, sage or fool--he has a clearer realisation of the ultimate values of things. One may count the Army in peace time as a great training school out of which men come moulded to a definite pattern, and yet retaining their individuality. But active service is a fire through which men pass, emerging on the far side purified of little aims to a greater or less extent, according to the material on which the fire has to work. For many--all honour to them and to those who mourn their loss--it is a destroying fire. So far as the limits of space will permit, there is set down in these pages a record of what military service amounts to for the rank and file, in peace and war. It is necessarily incomplete, for the story of the British Army of to-day, apart from its history of great yesterdays, is not to be told in any one book--there is too much of it for that. There are those who belittle the Army and its ways and influence on the men who serve, but one who has served, with the perspective of time to give him clearness of vision, can always look back on the Army and be glad that he has learned its lessons, accomplished its tasks; the men who would belittle it are themselves very little men, too little to be worthy of serious notice. The British Army is a gathering of brave men, fighting in this year of grace 1914 in a noble cause, and fighting, as the British Army has always fought, bravely and well. WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH Transcribers Notes Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced quotation marks retained. Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. Inconsistent hyphenation was not changed. Page 173: _morale_ was printed as _moral_; changed here. 1.D. 1.E.2. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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The included with this eBook or online at Told to Boys and Girls Proofreading Team at (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) THE STORY OF JOHN WESLEY. Told to Boys and Girls. BY MARIANNE KIRLEW, _Author of "The Red Thread of Honour," etc., etc._ WITH PREFACE BY REV. DINSDALE T. YOUNG. London: ROBERT CULLEY, 2 AND 3 LUDGATE CIRCUS BUILDINGS, FARRINGDON STREET, E.C. ; 2 CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, E.C. TO THE SACRED MEMORY OF THE Dear Mother, WHO BY PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE SOUGHT TO BRING UP HER CHILDREN IN "THE NURTURE AND ADMONITION OF THE LORD"; THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED BY HER DAUGHTER. * * * * * "_That our sons may be as plants grown up in their youth; that our daughters may be as corner stones, polished after the similitude of a palace._"--PSALM CXLIV. 12. PREFACE. THE Story of John Wesley is one of which the world does not easily weary. There is perennial freshness in it. "Age cannot wither it." We may indeed almost affirm that it has an "infinite variety." It is specially important that this remarkable history should be re-told for young people. The youth of England ought to be fully conversant with John Wesley's unique personality and immortal work. John Wesley's name is far above mere denominationalism. He belongs to all the churches, for he belongs to the "Holy Catholic Church." He is a great national and historic figure. It has ever been claimed by some, whose authority is high, that John Wesley was the saviour of modern England. Surely there is large truth in this. The great religious leader was indeed one of the most potent political forces England has known. If there be even an approximation towards fact in such a claim, then how important for young England to know the record of a man so supremely distinguished. Certainly, on any ground, these pages meet a distinct want; and I think it will be the judgment of readers, that they meet it admirably well. Here John Wesley's life is traced clearly, even to the point of vividness. The style in which the story is told, will be found to add to the intrinsic interest of the recital. The author of this life of Wesley is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of her subject, nor does she forget to apply the lessons, with which this wonderful life-story is crowded. If the _children_ of our land could be fired with enthusiasm for the truths John Wesley taught and lived, what a blessed outlook would there be for England! We earnestly pray, that many a young reader may be stirred to the very depths of his being, by the narration here so attractively given. "'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." DINSDALE T. YOUNG. _Manchester, June, 1895._ CONTENTS. _Chapter_ _Page_ I. 1 II. 6 III. 10 IV. 13 V. 19 VI. 23 VII. 28 VIII. 32 IX. 35 X. 38 XI. 45 XII. 49 XIII. 54 XIV. 59 XV. 63 XVI. 68 XVII. 73 XVIII. 77 XIX. 82 XX. 86 XXI. 89 XXII. 92 XXIII. 98 XXIV. 102 XXV. 106 XXVI. 110 XXVII. 116 XXVIII. 120 XXIX. 123 XXX. 128 XXXI. 134 XXXII. 138 XXXIII. 142 XXXIV. 145 XXXV. 149 XXXVI. 152 XXXVII. 156 XXXVIII. 159 XXXIX. 163 THE STORY OF JOHN WESLEY. CHAPTER I. Jacky.--His brothers and sisters.--His cottage home.--What happened to the little pet-dog.--How Jacky's father forgave the wicked men of Epworth.--"Fire! Fire!" LONG, long ago, more than one hundred and fifty years, lived the hero of this book. Because his name was John, everybody called him Jack or Jacky; and by everybody I mean his dear, good father and mother, and his eighteen brothers and sisters. Eighteen, did I say? Yes, indeed, they counted eighteen; and seeing there were so many, I will not trouble you with all their names. I will just tell you three. Samuel was the eldest, he was the "big brother"; Jacky was number fifteen, and Kitty and Charlie came after him. But Jacky did not mind all this houseful, I think he rather liked it, for you see he always had plenty of playmates. His home was in a country village called Epworth, in Lincolnshire. If you look on your map I think you will find it. The house was like a big cottage; the roof had no slates on like ours, but was thatched with straw, the same as some of the cottages you have seen in the country; and the windows had tiny panes of glass, diamond-shaped, and they opened like little doors. The walls of the cottage were covered with pretty climbing plants, and what was best of all, there was a beautiful big garden where apple and pear trees grew, and where there was lots of room for Jacky and Charlie and the others to run about and play "hide and seek." But I must tell you that a great many wicked people lived at Epworth, and Jack's father, who was a minister, tried to teach them how wrong it was to steal and fight, and do so many cruel things. But his preaching only made them very angry with good Mr. Wesley, and one of the men, out of spite, cut off the legs of his little pet-dog. Was not that a dreadfully cruel thing to do? But Jack's father, because he loved Jesus so much, loved these wicked men, and always forgave them. He knew if he could get _them_ to love Jesus, they would soon stop being cruel and unkind. One night in winter, when everybody was fast asleep, Kitty woke up feeling something very hot on her feet. Opening her eyes she was dreadfully frightened to see the bedroom ceiling all on fire. She was only a very little girl, but she jumped out of bed, and ran to the room where her mother and two of her sisters were sleeping. Her father, who was in another room, hearing a great noise outside, and people calling "Fire! Fire!" jumped up and found it was his own house that was in flames. Telling the elder girls to be quick and get dressed and to help their mother, who was very ill, he ran to the nursery, and burst open the door. "Nurse, nurse!" he shouted, "be quick and get the children up, the house is on fire." Snatching up baby Charles in her arms, and calling to the other children to follow her, the nurse hurried down-stairs. But there they found the hall full of flames and smoke, and to get out of the front-door was impossible. So some of the children got through the windows and some through the back-door into the garden. Just as the minister thought he had all his family safe, he heard a cry coming from the nursery, and on looking round, he found Jacky was missing. He rushed into the burning house, and tried to get up the stairs, but they were all on fire. What should he do? He didn't know. So he just knelt down in the hall surrounded by the dreadful flames, and asked God to take care of little Jack, and if he couldn't be saved to take him to heaven. Now I must tell you how it was Jack was still in the burning house. He had been fast asleep when the nurse called, and did not hear her and the other children go out of the room. All at once he woke up, and seeing a bright light in the room, thought it was morning. "Nursie, nursie!" he called, "take me up; I want to get up." Of course there was no answer. Then he put his head out of the curtains which surrounded his little bed, and saw streaks of fire on the top of the room. Oh, how frightened he was! Jacky was only five years old, but he was a brave boy, and instead of lying still and screaming and crying, he jumped up and ran to the door in his night-gown. But the floor and the stairs were all on fire. What should he do? He ran back again into the room, and climbed on a big box that stood near the window. Then some one in the yard saw him and shouted: "Fetch a ladder, quick! I see him." "There's no time," called out somebody else; "the roof is falling in. Look here!" said the same man, "I'll stand against this wall, and let a man that's not very heavy stand on my shoulders, and then we can reach the child." So the strong man fixed himself against the wall, and another man climbed on his shoulders, and Jacky put out his arms as far as he could, and the man lifted him out of the burning room, and he was safe. Two minutes afterwards the roof fell in with a big crash. Jack was carried into a neighbour's house, and they all knelt down while the minister thanked God for taking care of them, and so wonderfully preserving all their lives. Jack never forgot that terrible night, and all his life afterwards he felt that God had saved him from being burnt to death, in order that he might do a great deal of work for Him. You will not be surprised to hear, that it was the wicked people in Epworth who had set the minister's house on fire. But as Jesus forgave His enemies, so Mr. Wesley forgave these men, and tried more than ever to show them how much Christ loved them. CHAPTER II. Jacky learns his A B C.--A wise mother.--Christ's little soldier.--A chatterbox.--The big brother and the little one.--Jacky poorly.--The bravest of the brave.--A proud father. JACK'S father and mother were not rich people, and they could not afford to send all their children to school, so Mrs. Wesley taught them at home, and as there were so many of them it was almost like a proper school. When Jacky was five years old, he became a little scholar. The first day he learnt his alphabet, and in three months could read quite nicely. Mrs. Wesley was a dear, kind mother, and took a great deal of trouble, and often put herself to much pain to train her little boys to be Christian gentlemen, and her little girls to be Christian ladies. As soon as they could speak, they were taught to say their prayers every night and morning, and to keep the Sabbath day holy. They were never allowed to have anything they cried for, and they were always taught to speak kindly and politely to the servants. Bad words were never heard among them, and no loud talking or rough play was allowed. This wise mother also knew that little people are sometimes tempted to tell untruths to hide a fault for fear of punishment, so she made it a rule that if any of the children did what was naughty, and at once confessed and promised not to do it again, they should not be whipped. One of the little boys--I'm afraid it was Jacky--did not always follow this rule, and so he sometimes got what he did not like. But Mrs. Wesley never allowed her children to taunt one another with a fault, especially when they were trying to do better. Another thing the children were taught, was to respect the rights of property; that is, if Jacky wanted Charlie's top, he was not to take it without Charlie's leave; and if Emily wanted Sukey's brooch, she must ask her sister's permission before taking it. "Oh, how dreadfully strict!" I fancy I hear some of my readers say. Not at all, dears, it was a mother's kindness to her children; for it took far more time, and a great deal more trouble to teach them all these things than it would have done to let them do as they liked. And when Emily and Mollie and Jack and Charlie and all the others grew up to be men and women, they thanked God for giving them such a wise mother. Once a week Mrs. Wesley used to take each of the children into her room, separately, for a quiet little talk. They each had their own day for having mother _all to themselves_. Jack had every Thursday, and Saturday was Charlie's day. So helpful were these little talks with mother, that years afterwards when Jack had left home, he wrote and asked his mother if she would spare the same time every Thursday to pray for him. Before Jacky was eight years old he loved Jesus so much that he wanted every one to know he meant to be one of His faithful soldiers. So he asked his father if he might go to the communion, which, you know, is doing what Christ asked all His followers to do, taking bread and drinking wine "_in remembrance of Him_." Though Jack was such a little boy, his father knew, by his conduct, that he meant what he said, and so he admitted him to the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. I wish all my young readers could say, as Jacky could:-- "I am a little soldier, I'm only eight years old, I mean to fight for Jesus And wear a crown of gold. I know He'll make me happy, And help me every day, I'll be His little soldier, The Bible says I may." Mrs. Wesley used to have services in her big kitchen on a Sunday night, for the servants, and the poor people who could not walk all the long way to church; and little Jack used to sit and listen so attentively, while his mother told the people how God's Son was put to death on the cruel cross, to save them from sin, and to gain for them a place in heaven. Jack, like many another little boy, had rather a long tongue, indeed, he was a regular chatterbox. His big brother Sam did not always like Jack putting his word in, and giving his opinion; he would put him down and say: "Child, don't talk so much, when you're older you'll find that nothing much is done in the world by arguing." His father used to stand up for Jack, and would say: "There's one thing, our Jack will never do anything without giving a good reason for doing it, I know." You will be sorry to hear that Jacky had a dreadful illness when he was nine years old. It was a disease that causes a great deal of pain and suffering. But Jack remembered that a soldier must be brave, and, as Christ's little soldier, he must be the bravest of the brave. So Jacky was very patient, and gave his nurse as little trouble as he could. His mother wrote to Mr. Wesley, who was in London at the time, and said, "Jack has borne his illness bravely, like a man, and like a little Christian, he has never uttered a word of complaint;" and the father, as he folded the letter and put it into his pocket, felt proud of his little son. CHAPTER III. Jacky at boarding school.--Bullying.--Hard lines.--A morning run.--A Christ-like schoolboy.--Charlie at Westminster.--Scotch Jamie.--"Bravo, Captain Charlie!" BY and by Jack grew to be a big boy of eleven, and all this time he had only been at the home-school. His parents thought he was now quite old enough to go to a proper boys' school, and through the kindness of a friend, he was sent to a big school in London called the Charterhouse. Here poor Jacky had a very unhappy time for two or three years. The big boys took a delight in bullying the little ones, especially the new-comers; and as Jack had never been from home before, their unkindness was hard to bear. Every meal-time each boy had to go to the cook's house for his allowance of food, and the big boys used to lay wait for the little ones as they came out, and snatch away their meat; so for a long time Jack had nothing but bread to eat at every meal. Those of my readers who know what boarding-school life is to-day, will think this a very funny way of getting your food; and so it was, but, you must remember, this was in 1714, one hundred and eighty years ago, and every thing then was very different to what it is now. Before Jack went to the Charterhouse, his father had said to him: "Jack, I should like you to run round the school garden every morning before breakfast, it will give you an appetite and help to make you grow up a strong man." And all the long years Jack was at school he never failed to obey his father's wish; and, when he grew up, he said this morning run had helped to make him the healthy, strong man he had always been. But, poor little fellow, it was very hard for him, when, feeling dreadfully hungry with the fresh air and exercise, the big boys ran off with his meat, and left him with only some bread for his breakfast. However, by and by, Jack grew old enough to fight for his meat. And when this time came, do you think he took his turn at stealing from the little boys, and bullying them? Of course you will all say: "No, indeed, Jack would never be so mean." You are right; instead of treating others as others had treated him, he just did what he thought Jesus would have done when he was a boy at school. He stood up for the little fellows, and fought the big boys who tried to steal their meat. Jack was so quiet and diligent at school, and so careful to obey rules, that he soon became a favourite with the head-master, Dr. Walker; and when he grew to be a man, he forgot all about the hard times he had had, and never failed to visit the Charterhouse once a year. When Jack had been two years at this school, his brother Charlie was sent to a school at Westminster, where his elder brother Samuel was a teacher. Charlie was then a bright little boy of nine; he was strong, full of spirit and fun, and afraid of nothing. He became a great favourite, and was soon looked upon as the "captain" of the school. Charlie was as generous as he was brave; his great dream was to be a good man, and to help others to be good too. There was a little Scotch laddie at the school whom all the other boys used to tease and mock. The captain wouldn't stand this; he took Jamie under his special protection, shielded him, fought for him, and saved him from what would otherwise have been a life of misery. I fancy I hear you all say: "Bravo, Captain Charlie!" CHAPTER IV. Jack at Westminster.--At Oxford.--Life at College.--Jack a deserter.--His good angel.--"He that goes a borrowing, goes a sorrowing." --A bitter disappointment.--A letter from "Mother." --Jack's decision.--Father's advice. WHEN Jack was sixteen he left the Charterhouse School, and joined Charlie at Westminster. Here too he was so diligent and persevering, that when his brother Samuel wrote home to his father, he said: "Jack is a brave boy, and learning Hebrew as fast as he can." The next year he went to Oxford, where he got on splendidly. He was very witty and lively, and still _very fond of talking_; but his was not foolish talk, and he always took care to stand up for the right. At first he was much shocked at the drinking and gambling, and wickedness of all sorts that went on among the students at the university. But when day after day we witness wrong-doing, gradually we get less and less shocked, and after a time think little about it. This only happens though when we get down from our watch-tower, and the enemy has a chance to get near to us. Jack's temptations to join his fellow students were very great, and I am sorry to say, he got "off his guard," and yielded. For a time he quite disgraced the colours of his regiment, and became a deserter from Christ's army. But it was not for long, he remembered what he had learnt at home, and how his dear mother had prayed for him. He remembered how he had been saved from the burning house, and he felt sure that God had not spared his life for him to grow up a wicked or a worldly man. He had found it hard work to be a Christian at the Charterhouse School, now he found it harder still at Christ Church College. He loved fun and merry company, and this sometimes led him to seek the society of young men who loved their own pleasure better than any thing else; and many times Jack, following their bad example, did things for which he was afterwards very sorry and very much ashamed. I have somewhere read this line of poetry: "The boy that loves his mother Is every inch a man," and if ever boy loved his mother, Jack did. The memory of her loving, holy life was Jack's good angel; and when temptations proved almost too strong for him at Oxford, he wrote and asked her to pray for him, and to pray on every Thursday. For Thursday had been Jacky's day with mother, ever since a little boy he knelt at her knee; and he felt that his mother's prayers on _that_ day could not fail to bring down God's blessing upon him, and give him strength to resist the many evil influences that surrounded his college life--and they did. I told you before, I think, that Jack's parents were not rich; they had never been able to allow him much pocket-money, and now at Oxford, when his expenses were greater, he somehow could never manage to make his money last out. I am afraid he was not always as careful as he might have been, and I am sorry to say when he was spent up--which was very often--he did what so many boys and young fellows do, borrowed money. This is always foolish, for, of course, it cannot make things any better, and indeed only makes them worse; because when the allowance comes, the debts have to be paid, and there is little or no money left. However, neither debt nor being short of money troubled Jack at this time; indeed he said it was just as well to be poor, for there were so many rogues at Oxford, that if you carried anything worth stealing, it was not safe to be out at night. One of his friends was once standing at the door of a coffee-house about seven o'clock in the evening, and happening to look round, in an instant his hat and his wig--they wore wigs in those days--were snatched off his head by a thief, who managed to get clear off with his booty. Jack writing home about this said: "I am safe from these rogues, for all my belongings would not be worth their stealing." When Jack had been four years at Oxford, and was about twenty-one, his brother Samuel wrote to tell him he had had the misfortune to break his leg. He also told him his mother was coming to London, and if he liked he might go and meet her there. It was a long, long time since Jack had seen his mother, and you may imagine his delight when he got this letter. He wrote back: "DEAR BROTHER SAMUEL, "I am sorry for your misfortune, though glad to hear you are getting better. Have you heard of the Dutch sailor who having broken one of his legs by a fall from the mast, thanked God that he had not broken his neck? I expect you are feeling thankful that you did not break both legs. "I cried for joy at the last part of your letter. The two things I most wished for of almost anything in the world were to see my mother and Westminster again. But I have been so often disappointed when I have set my heart on some great pleasure, that I will never again be sure of anything before it comes. "Your affectionate brother, "JACK." Poor Jack! it was well he did not anticipate this treat too much, for when the time came he hadn't enough money to take him to London, and as he was already in debt he could not borrow any more. It was a bitter disappointment; but when his mother got back home again after her visit to London, she wrote one of her bright, loving, encouraging letters, which did something towards comforting the heart of this "mother's boy." This was the letter: "DEAR JACK, "I am uneasy because I have not heard from you. Don't just write letter for letter, but let me hear from you often, and tell me if you are well, and how much you are still in debt. "Dear Jack, don't be discouraged; do your duty; keep close to your studies, and hope for better days. Perhaps we may be able to send you a few pounds before the end of the year. "Dear Jacky, I pray Almighty God to bless thee! "Your mother, "SUSANNA WESLEY." When boys get to be fourteen or sixteen, they begin to think and wonder what they will be when they are men. Very little boys generally mean to be either cab-drivers or engine-drivers; and I did hear of one who meant to have a wild beast show when he grew up. Jack reached the age of twenty-one, and had not decided what he would be. At last the time came when he must make up his mind. After thinking about it very seriously, he thought he would like to be a minister like his father. So he wrote home and told them his decision. His father who had been ill and was unable to use his right hand properly, wrote to him that he must be quite sure that God had called him to this work before he undertook it. "At present," he said, "I think you are too young." Then, referring to his illness, he said: "You see that time has shaken me by the hand; and death is but a little behind him. My eyes and heart are almost all I have left, and I bless God for them." Mrs. Wesley was very glad when she heard that her boy wished to be a minister. "God Almighty direct and bless you," she wrote to him. A few months afterwards, Jack's father wrote, and told him that he had changed his mind about his being too young, and that he would like him to "take Orders," that is, to become a minister, the following summer. "But in the first place," he said, "if you love yourself or me, pray very earnestly about it." To choose to be Christ's minister, a preacher of the gospel, Mr. Wesley knew was a very solemn and responsible choice, and he wished Jack to think very seriously, and to pray very earnestly before he took the important step. CHAPTER V. Books.--Two books that left impressions on Jack.--Must a Christian boy be miserable?--Jack says "No." --So says Jack's mother.--Father gives his opinion.--"The Enchanted Rocks;" a fairy story. I WONDER if any of my readers ever think what the books they read are doing for them, especially the books they are most fond of? Do you know every book you read makes _you_ a little bit different? By _you_, I mean the unseen part of you, your mind and character. I remember, when I was somewhere about the mischievous age of eight or nine, how fond I used to be of getting to the putty round a newly-put-in window pane. It was lovely to press my thimble on it, and see all the pretty little holes it left; or to push a naughty finger deep down into the nice soft stuff. Then, when the putty had dried hard, I used to look with great interest on my work, for every impression was there, and could not now be removed. So it is with books, they make an _impression_ on you; and you are either a little bit better or a little bit worse for every book you read. _Take care only to read those books that will make you better._ The summer after Jack decided to be a minister, he read two books which made some big impressions on his mind, and left him _better_ than he was before reading them. One was called "The Imitation of Christ," and the other "Holy Living and Dying." They taught him that true religion must be in the heart, and that it is not enough for our words and actions, as seen and heard by men, to be right, but our very thoughts must be pure and good, such as would be approved of God. He did not at all agree with Thomas Kempis, the writer of the first book I mentioned, in everything, though, for he made out, according to Jack's idea, that we should always be miserable. I think Jack would never have persevered in his determination to follow Christ, if he had been convinced that "to be good you must be miserable," for he loved fun, and could not help being happy. He felt sure Thomas Kempis was mistaken, especially when he remembered that verse in the Bible which says religion's ways "are ways of _pleasantness_" (Prov. iii. 17). When he wrote home, he asked his mother what she thought, for although he was now a young man of twenty-two, he was still the old Jack that thought father and mother knew better than anybody else. His mother wrote back that she thought Thomas Kempis _was_ mistaken, for so many texts in the Bible show us that God intends us to be happy and full of joy. "And," she said, "if you want to know what pleasures are right and wrong, ask yourself: 'Will it make me love God more, and will it help me to be more like my great example, Jesus Christ?'" Jack's father wrote: "I don't altogether agree with Thomas Kempis; but the world is like a siren, and we must beware of her. If the young man would rejoice in his youth, let him take care that his pleasures are innocent; and in order to do this, remember, my son, that for all these things God will bring us into judgment." Some of my readers will hardly understand what Mr. Wesley meant when he said the world is "like a siren." Most of you have read fairy tales; well, a kind of Greek fairy story tells of some beautiful maidens, called sirens, who used to sit on some dangerous rocks, and play sweetest music. When sailors saw them and heard their singing, they were drawn by magic nearer and nearer to where they were, until at last their boats struck on the rocks, and the poor deluded sailors were dragged by the sirens to the bottom of the sea and were drowned. Now, do you see why the world is like a siren? Its pleasures all look so beautiful that we are tempted to draw nearer and nearer, until at last we are lost to all that is holy and good. CHAPTER VI. Jack a minister.--A letter from father.--Jack's first sermon.--"Mr. John." --Back at college.--Temptations and persecutions.--"For Jesus' sake."--Mr. John's long hair.--Clever, but not proud.--Young soldiers for Christ. WE all love to get letters, do we not? though some of us are not so fond of writing them. It was in the year 1725, when Jack was twenty-two years old, that he became a minister; and just about this time he had a beautiful letter from his father. In it Mr. Wesley said:-- "God fit you for your great work. Watch and pray; believe, love, endure, and be happy, towards which you shall never want the most ardent prayers of "Your affectionate father, "SAMUEL WESLEY." Jack's first sermon was preached at a small town near Oxford, and his second at his dear home-village, Epworth. Mr. Wesley was getting old, and as he had now two churches to look after, the one at Epworth and another at a place called Wroote, where he and Mrs. Wesley had gone to live, he was very glad when his son offered to go and help him. And now that Jack has grown up and got to be a proper minister, I think we must begin to call him Mr. John. Well, Mr. John stayed some time helping his father at Wroote and Epworth, and then went back again to Oxford, to study for a place in a college there--Lincoln College. There were several others trying to get this same place, and they didn't like Mr. John because he would not do the wicked things they did, so they made great fun of him, and laughed at him for being good. Nobody likes being laughed at; and Mr. John didn't, but he bore it bravely; and his father comforted him when he wrote: "Never mind them, Jack; he is a coward that cannot bear being laughed at. Jesus endured a great deal more for us, before He entered glory; and unless we follow His steps we can never hope to share that glory with Him. Bear it patiently, my boy, and be sure you never return evil for evil." His mother, too, sent loving letters to cheer and comfort him. So Mr. John worked hard, and bore his persecutions patiently--_for Jesus' sake_; and in spite of all his enemies he won the coveted place, and became Fellow of Lincoln College. Oh, how glad and thankful he was! And his father and mother were so proud and happy. It was just about this time that Mr. Wesley was afraid he would have to leave Wroote, and it was a great trouble to him. "But," he said, proudly, "wherever I am, my Jacky is Fellow of Lincoln." As for Jack, he felt it was worth everything to give his father and mother such pleasure. Though he was properly grown up, twenty-three years old, Mr. and Mrs. Wesley always thought of him as their "boy." Fathers and mothers always do this. It doesn't matter how old their children grow to be, they love to think of them, and speak of them as their "boys" and "girls." Dear readers, remember there is no one on earth that loves you, or ever will love you with such a big love as father and mother. No matter how tall, or how strong, or how clever you may grow, they will always love you with the same big love they did when you were little boys and girls. And, oh! whatever you do, never, never grieve these dearest of all dear friends. Mrs. Wesley had been longing to see her "boy" again, especially now that he had become Fellow of Lincoln College. At last her wish was granted. There were a great many things that puzzled Jack which he wanted to ask his father and mother about. So he went and spent a long summer at home, getting his hard questions answered, and helping his father with the work that was now almost too much for him. He had such a happy time that he was almost sorry when the autumn came and he had to return to Oxford. Being at school and college costs a great deal of money, and Jack knew that his father was not a rich man, and that he had hard work often to pay his college expenses. Jack had been very sorry to be such a burden to his parents, and tried to be as careful as he could. Have you ever seen a picture of Mr. John Wesley? If you have, you will have noticed his long hair. Every one at Oxford wore their hair short; but having it cut cost money, and John used to say: "I've no money to spend on hair-dressers." So, though his fellow-students made great fun of him, he saved his money and wore his hair long, and in time got so accustomed to it, that he wore it long all his life. Now that he was Fellow of Lincoln College he received enough money to pay his own expenses, and it made him very happy to think he need no longer be an expense to his dear father. But he resolved still to be as careful as he could, and never again to go into debt. When he went back to his new College, after spending the summer at home, he said to himself: "I will give up all the old friends who have so often tempted me to do things that a Christian ought not to do, and I will make new friends of those who will help me on my way to heaven." So, though he was always polite to the many worldly young men who wanted to make his acquaintance, he would not have them for his friends. This made some of them say very unkind things about him; but Mr. John bore it all quietly, and never said unkind things back again. He felt he was only treading the path Jesus had trod before him, the path which all His disciples must follow. Mr. John got to be so clever that soon he was made professor, or teacher of Greek. Some boys and girls--yes, and grown-up people, too--become proud when they get to be clever, but Mr. John did not. He determined, more than ever, to be a faithful and humble follower of the Lord Jesus. He was very patient with his scholars, and tried not only to make them learned, but to make them Christians. "I want these young soldiers of Christ to be burning and shining lights wherever they may go," he said. "If they are not all intended to be clergymen, they are all intended to be Christians." In the beginning of the next year (1727), Mr. John went home again to help his father, who was getting very old, and was often ill. He stayed at Wroote about two years, and then went back again to Oxford. CHAPTER VII. Charlie goes to Oxford.--Won't have his brother interfere with him.--A change in Charlie.--Somebody's prayers.--Charlie's chums, and how he treated them.--Dividing time.--Nickname.--A nickname honoured. BEFORE I tell you any more about Mr. John, I am sure you would like to know how Charlie has been getting on all this long time. We left him, you remember, captain of the school at Westminster, where his eldest brother Samuel was a teacher. He was so clever and brave, and such a generous, loving-hearted boy, that he was a favourite with everybody. He stayed nine years at Westminster, and then, when he was eighteen, went to one of the colleges at Oxford. It was not the one Mr. John was at, but, being in the same town, the two brothers often saw each other. Charlie was not a Christian, and made companions of the worldly young students who spent their time in all sorts of wrong-doings. John was very sorry for this, and spoke to him about it; but Charlie became very angry at what he called his brother's interference, and said: "Do you want me to become a saint all at once?" However, while Mr. John was away at home those two years helping his father, Charlie changed very much. He became steadier and more thoughtful, and even wrote to his brother, and asked for the advice he would not have before. "I don't exactly know how or when I changed," he said in his letter; "but it was soon after you went away. It is owing, I believe, to somebody's prayers (my mother's most likely) that I am come to think as I do." When boys and girls or grown-up people become Christians, those around them soon find it out. Charlie's giddy companions soon saw something was wrong with him. He used to be lazy and shirk his studies, spending his time with them in pleasure and amusement, now he was diligent and worked hard. The next thing they noticed was that he went to church regularly and took the Sacrament. And here I must tell you how he behaved towards these friends, and I know it will make you like Charlie more than ever. I told you before how loving and genial he was, and now he did not at all like to give up his old chums, and yet he knew that if he meant to travel heavenwards he must have companions that were going the same way. He longed for his friends to become Christians, and talked to them so lovingly and so wisely that before very long he got two or three of them to join him in fighting against the evils of their nature, and encouraging and seeking after everything that was good. You have all read in your English history how good King Alfred the Great divided his time; well, Charles and his companions divided theirs in a similar way. So many hours were spent in study, so many in prayer, and so many in sleeping and eating. They made other strict rules for themselves, and lived so much by what we call "method," that at last they got to be called "Methodists." Boys and girls are very fond of giving nicknames to their companions; sometimes it is done in fun, and then there is no harm in it,--but often spite and ill-nature suggest the nickname, then it is very wrong and very unkind. Most of the young men at Oxford thought religion and goodness were only things to make fun of, so Charles and his friends were a butt for their ridicule. Because they read their Bibles a great deal they called them "Bible Bigots," and "Bible Moths," and their meetings they called the "Holy Club." But "Methodists" was the name that fastened most firmly to them, and, as you know, after all these years, this is the name we call ourselves by to-day. Just think; a nickname given to a few young men at Oxford, more than one hundred and fifty years ago, is now held in honour by hundreds of thousands of people all over the world. CHAPTER VIII. The Christian band at Oxford.--How they spent their time.--Mr. John and the little ragged girl.--A very early bird.--Methodist rules, and the Methodist guide-book. WHEN Mr. John came back to Oxford, of course he joined the Christian band, and very soon they made him their leader. He was cleverer and had more experience than the others, and they all looked up to him for help and advice. Others joined the club, and soon there were twenty-five members. Do you remember a verse in the Bible that, speaking of Jesus, says: "He went about doing good"? Well, these young men who were taking Jesus for their copy, just did the same; all their spare time was spent in "doing good." Some of them tried to rescue their fellow-students from bad companions and get them to become Christians; others visited and helped the poor. Some taught the children in the workhouse, and some got leave to go into the prison and read to the prisoners. Very few of them were rich, but they denied themselves things they really wanted in order to buy books, and medicine for the poor. Every night they used to have a meeting to talk over what they had done, and settle their work for the next day. Mr. John started a school for poor little children; he paid a teacher to teach them, and bought clothes for the boys and girls whose parents could not afford to buy them. Once a little girl from the school called to see Mr. John. It was a cold winter's day, and she was very poorly clad. "You seem half starved, dear," he said; "have you nothing to wear but that cotton frock?" "No, sir," she answered; "this is the only frock I have." Mr. John put his hand into his pocket, but, alas! he found no money there, it had all gone. Just then he caught sight of the pictures on the walls of his room, and he thought: "How can I allow these beautiful pictures to hang here while Christ's poor are starving?" We are not told, but I think we can be quite sure that the pictures were sold, and that the little girl got a warm winter's frock. Mr. John was just as careful of his time as his money, he never wasted a moment. He believed in the proverb you have often heard: "Early to bed and early to rise." Some people say: "Get up with the lark," but I think Mr. John was always up before that little bird even awoke. Every morning when the clock struck four he jumped out of bed, and began his work. Wasn't that early? I wonder which of us would like to get up at that time? And he did not do this only when he was young, he did it all his life, even when he was an old, old man. I told you these "Methodists" made rules for themselves. One of them was to set apart special days for special prayer for their friends and pupils. And another one which we all should copy was: NEVER TO SPEAK UNKINDLY OF ANY ONE. The Bible was their Guide Book, and it told them, as it will tell us, all they ought to do, and all they ought not to do. CHAPTER IX. A long walk.--More persecutions.--Mr. John's illness.--Not afraid to die.--Mrs. Wesley scolds.--Home again.--A proud father.--Mr. Wesley's opinion about fasting.--At Wroote once more.--Mr. Wesley's "Good-bye." WILL you look on your map of England and find London? Now find Oxford. The two places are a long way apart, are they not? Well, do you know Mr. John and Mr. Charles Wesley used often to walk all that long way to see a friend. You know there were no railways in those days, and to go by coach cost a great deal of money. This friend's name was Mr. Law; he was a very good man, and encouraged and helped the two brothers very much. He taught them that "religion is the simplest thing in the world." He said: "It is just this, 'We love Jesus, because Jesus first loved us.'" At Oxford, the Methodists were still called all sorts of names and made great fun of, not only by the idle, wicked students, but even by clever and learned men who ought to have known better. Some of their enemies said: "They only make friends with those who are as queer as themselves." But Mr. John showed them this was not true, for in every way he could he helped and showed kindness to those who said the most unkind things. Hard work, close study, and fasting, at last made Mr. John very ill; one night he thought he was going to die. He was not at all afraid, he just prayed, "O God, prepare me for Thy coming." But God had a great deal of work for His servant to do, and did not let him die. With care and a doctor's skill he got quite better. Poor Mrs. Wesley was often anxious about her two Oxford sons, and once wrote them quite a scolding letter. "Unless you take more care of yourselves," she said, "you will both be ill. You ought to know better than to do as you are doing." Mrs. Wesley did not agree with them fasting so much; she believed God meant us to take all the food necessary to support our bodies. Just about this time, Mr. Samuel--the big brother--got an appointment as master of a boys' school somewhere in the West of England; but before he went to his new place he thought he would like to go home, and see his dear father and mother. When his brothers at Oxford heard this, they thought they would go too, so that they might all be together in the old home once more. And, oh, what a happy time they had! Mr. Wesley was getting very old, and he was so proud to have his "boys" with him again. He talked very seriously to John and Charles, and told them he did not at all approve of their way of living. He said he was sure God never meant us to fast so much as to injure our health, or to shut ourselves up and be so much alone. Jesus said: "Let your light shine _before men_;" our light should be where _everybody_ can see it. I am sure old Mr. Wesley was right. A few months later, and the brothers were again at Wroote, standing by the bedside of their dying father. "I am very near heaven," he said, as they gathered round him, "Good-bye!" And "father" went Home. CHAPTER X. A corner in America.--Wanted a missionary.--Mrs. Wesley gives up her sons to God's work.--At the dock-side.--The good ship "Simmonds." --Life on board.--A terrible storm.--The German Christians who were not afraid. IF you look on your map of the United States, you will see in the south-east, a little corner called Georgia. It was to this place that a number of poor people from England had emigrated; people who had been cruelly treated in prison, and on being released had no work to do and nowhere to go. Some kind Christian gentlemen collected money to help them to get to Georgia, where they could have plenty of work and plenty of food. A number of poor Germans, too, who had been persecuted in their own country because of their religion, also went out to this place where they could worship God as they chose, without fear of cruel treatment. When people are driven out of their own country like this, they are called "exiles," and though this little band of exiles found work and food, and freedom to worship God in the new land, they had no minister. So the gentlemen who had raised the money, and who knew what brave, good men Mr. John and Mr. Charles Wesley were, asked them if they would go out and minister to these poor people in Georgia. "You are just the men to comfort and teach them," they said. Then, too, a number of Indians lived in Georgia, and they wanted to be friends with the white strangers, and General Oglethorpe and Dr. Burton, the gentlemen I mentioned, thought it would be a good opportunity to preach the gospel to them. When Mr. John Wesley was first asked, he said: "No, I cannot go, I cannot leave my mother." Then they said: "Will you go if your mother gives her consent?" "Yes," said John, feeling quite sure she would never give it. So he went to Epworth and told his mother all about the matter. Then he waited for her reply. Mrs. Wesley loved her "boy" John very, very dearly, and if he went to America she might never see him again, and yet her answer came: "If I had twenty sons, I would give them all up for such a work." Even after obtaining this unexpected consent, John did not decide to go until he had asked the advice of his brother Samuel and his friend Mr. Law, both of whom advised him to undertake the work. Then both he and his brother sent in their decision to General Oglethorpe, and began making preparations for their long journey across the Atlantic Ocean. Now I want us to imagine ourselves at Gravesend, a place on the river Thames near London. Look at all those ships in the docks! See, there is one that looks just ready to sail! Can you read the name of it? "S-i-m-m-o-n-d-s"--"Simmonds." Yes, that is its name. Let us button up our coats, as it is a sharp October day, and watch the passengers go on board. Look at that little man with the nice face, and a lot of colour in his cheeks! What long hair he has! and how smooth it is! It looks as if he brushed it a great deal. See, he is looking this way, and we can notice his beautiful forehead and his bright eyes. Why that must be Mr. John Wesley! And, of course, that is his brother Charles talking to some gentlemen on the deck. See, he is holding a book close to his eyes--he must be short-sighted. Listen, how the others are laughing! I expect he is making a joke. Now he is walking off arm in arm with one of his companions. He seems to be still loving-hearted and full of fun, the same Charlie he was at Westminster School only grown big. A number of Germans were also on board the "Simmonds," all bound for Georgia. Before they had been many days at sea, John Wesley found out that they were earnest Christians, and he began at once to learn German in order that he might talk to them. The brothers had not taken their father's advice about fasting; they and some other Methodists who were their fellow-passengers still thought they ought to do with as little food as possible, and with as few comforts. They ate nothing but rice, biscuits, and bread, and John Wesley slept on the floor. He was obliged to do it one night, because the waves got into the ship and wet his bed, and because he slept so well that night, he thought the floor was good enough for him, and continued to sleep on it. I expect you wonder how they spent their time during the long, long voyage to Georgia. I will tell you. They made the same strict rules for themselves that they did at Oxford. They got up every morning at four o'clock, and spent the time in private prayer until five o'clock. Then they all read the Bible together until seven. After that they had breakfast, and then public prayers for everybody on the ship who would come. Then from nine to twelve--just your school-time, little readers, is it not?--Mr. John studied his German; somebody else studied Greek, another taught the children on board, and Mr. Charles wrote sermons. Then at twelve o'clock they all met and told each other how they had been getting along, and what they had been doing. At one o'clock they had dinner, and after that they read or preached to those on board until four o'clock. Then they studied and preached and prayed again until nine, when they went to bed. Were not these strict rules? I wonder if they ever had the headache? I am afraid we should, if we studied so hard and so long. Have you ever been to Liverpool, and seen one of those beautiful vessels that go to America? They are as nice and as comfortable as the best of your own homes, and you can get to the other side of the Atlantic in about ten days. But at the time of which I write, more than one hundred and fifty years ago, travelling was very different. The ships were much smaller, and tossed about a great deal more, and the passengers had to put up with a great many discomforts. Then again, it took weeks, instead of days, to get across to America. The passengers on board the "Simmonds" met with some terrible storms; often the great waves would dash over their little ship, until it seemed as if it must sink and never rise again. One of these storms began on a Sunday, about twelve o'clock in the middle of the day. The wind roared round them, and the waves, rising like mountains, kept washing over and over the decks. Every ten minutes came a shock against the side of the boat, that seemed as if it would dash the planks in pieces. During this storm as Mr. Wesley was coming out of the cabin-door, a big wave knocked him down. There he lay stunned and bruised, until some one came to his help. When he felt better, he went and comforted the poor English passengers, who were dreadfully afraid, and were screaming and crying in their fear. Then he went among the Germans, but they needed no comfort from him. He heard them singing as he got near, and found them calm and quiet, not the least bit frightened. "Were you not afraid?" Mr. Wesley asked them when the storm was over. "No," they answered, "we are not afraid to die." "But were not the children frightened?" he said. "No," they said again, "our children are not afraid to die either." During that terrible storm they had remembered how Jesus stilled the tempest on the Lake of Galilee, and His voice seemed to say to them now: "Peace, be still." This reminds me of a piece of poetry, which I dare say some of you have read. It is about a little girl whose father was a captain, and once when there was an awful storm, and even the captain himself was frightened: "----his little daughter Took her father by the hand, And said: 'Is not God upon the water Just the same as on the land?'" "_The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea:_" Psa. xciii. 4. "_He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still:_" Psa. cvii. 29. CHAPTER XI. In the Savannah river.--Landed.--A prayer meeting on the top of a hill.--German Christians.--The Indians.--Tomo Chachi and his squaw.--Their welcome to Mr. Wesley.--A jar of milk and a jar of honey. AT last storms and dangers were over, and the good ship "Simmonds" floated safely in the smooth waters of the Savannah river. You can find this on your map. They cast anchor near a little island called Tybee Island, where beautiful pine trees grew all along the shore. The first thing they did on landing was to go to the top of a hill, kneel down together, and thank God for bringing them safely across the ocean. You remember Noah's first act after leaving the ship that God put him into when the world was drowned, was to offer a sacrifice of thankfulness for God's care over him. And when Abraham got safely into the strange land to which God sent him, the first thing he did was to offer sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. In the same way the little missionary band from England showed their reverence and gratitude to the God who rules earth, sky, and sea. When they got to the town of Savannah they found it a very small place. There were only about forty houses, besides a church, a prison built of logs of wood, and a mill where everybody took their corn to be ground. I told you, if you remember, that besides the poor English exiles there were a number of German Christians. These were called Moravians, and they were so glad to have a minister that they came to meet Mr. Wesley, and told him how pleased they were to see him. Mr. Wesley and one of his friends lived with them in Savannah for a long time, and they soon found what earnest real Christians they were, true followers of the Lord Jesus. You know it is the people you live with that know you the best, and this is what Mr. Wesley wrote about these Moravians. "We were in the same room with them from morning till night, except when we went out for a walk. They were never idle, were always happy, and always kind to one another. They were true copies in all things of their Saviour Jesus Christ." Was not that a splendid character to have, and would it not be nice if those whom we live with could say the same of us? There was something near Savannah that you would have liked to see, especially the boys, and that was an Indian town. If there was one thing more than another that drew Mr. Wesley to Georgia it was the Indians. I expect, like you, he had loved to read and hear about them; now he had a chance to see them. But what he longed for most of all was to tell them about Jesus, and to get them to become Christians. The Indians lived in tents or tepees as they are called, and a number of these tepees all put up close together was called a town; one of these towns was only about twenty minutes' walk from Savannah. After Mr. Wesley had been a week or two in America, who should come to see him but the Indian chief. Think how excited Mr. Wesley would be! The chief's name was Tomo Chachi, and he came looking so grand in all his war paint, with his great feather head-dress, and moccasins made of buffalo skin, ornamented with pretty coloured beads, just as you have seen them in pictures. Mr. Wesley thought he must dress up too, to receive his distinguished visitor, so he put on his gown and cassock, and down he went to see Tomo Chachi. Of course Mr. Wesley did not understand the Indian language, but there was a woman who did, and she acted as interpreter. "I am glad you are come," said Tomo Chachi. "I will go up and speak to the wise men of our nation, and I hope they will come and hear you preach." Then Tomo Chachi's wife, or squaw as she is called, who had come with her husband, presented the missionaries with a jar of milk. She meant by this that she wanted them to make the story of Jesus Christ very plain and simple so that they could understand it, for she said "we are only like children." Then she gave them a jar of honey, and by this she meant that she hoped the missionaries would be very sweet and nice to them. Then Tomo Chachi and his squaw went back to their tepee. A few months after, Mr. Wesley had a long talk with another tribe of Indians, a very wicked tribe called the Chicasaws; but they would not allow him to preach to them. They said: "We don't want to be Christians, and we won't hear about Christ." So Mr. Wesley had to leave them and go back disappointed to Savannah. CHAPTER XII. Proud children.--Edie.--Boys in Georgia.--John and Charles Wesley in the wrong.--Signal failure.--Disappointment.--Return to England.--Mr. Wesley finds out something on the voyage home.--An acrostic. I WONDER if my readers know any boys or girls who sneer and look down upon their school companions because they are not so well dressed as themselves? It is a cruel, unkind, un-Christ-like thing to do. I remember seeing a little girl, and it was in a Sunday School too, who had on a new summer frock and a new summer hat; and oh! Edie did think she looked nice. She kept smoothing her frock down and looking at it, and then tossing her head. By her side sat a sweet-faced little girl about a year younger than Edie. Annie's dress was of print and quite plainly made, but very clean and tidy. After admiring herself a little while, Edie turned to Annie and thinking, I suppose, that she might be wearing a pinafore, and have a frock underneath, she rudely lifted it up, and finding it really was her dress, she turned away with a very ugly, disgusted look on her face, and said, scornfully "What a frock!" Proud, thoughtless boys and girls never know the hurts they give, and the harm they do. The boys in Georgia were no better than some boys in England. At a school where one of the Methodists taught there were some poor boys who wore neither shoes nor stockings, and their companions who were better off taunted them and made their lives miserable. Their teacher did not know what to do, and asked Mr. Wesley for advice. "I'll tell you what we'll do," he said; "we'll change schools"--Mr. Wesley taught a school too--"and I'll see if I can cure them." So the two gentlemen changed schools, and when the boys came the next morning they found they had a new teacher, and this new teacher, to their astonishment, wore neither shoes nor stockings. You can imagine how the boys stared; but Mr. Wesley said nothing, just kept them to their lessons. This went on for a week, and at the end of that time the boys were cured of their pride and vanity. Though Mr. John and Mr. Charles Wesley were so good, they were not perfect. They said and did many unwise things, and only saw their mistake when it was too late. One thing was they expected the people to lead the same strict lives they did, and to believe everything they believed. This, of course, the people of Georgia would not do, they thought their ways were just as good as Mr. Wesley's, and I dare say in some things they were. Instead of trying to persuade them and explaining why one way was better than another, Mr. Wesley told them they _must_ do this, and they mustn't do that, until at last they got to dislike him very much. One woman got so angry that she knocked him down. I am sure you will all feel very sorry when you read this, for Mr. Wesley was working very hard amongst them, and thought he was doing what was right. Mr. Charles did not get on any better at Frederica, where he had gone to work and preach. Like his brother, he was very strict and expected too much from the people. He tried and tried, not seeing where he was to blame, and at last wearied and disappointed he returned to England. After he had gone, Mr. John took his place at Frederica, hoping to get on better than he had done at Savannah. It was of no use; he stayed for twelve weeks, but things only seemed to get worse and worse. At last he had to give up and go back to Savannah. Things, however, were no better there, and before long he too began to see that his mission had been a failure, and he returned to England a sadder and a wiser man. In spite of all their mistakes Mr. John and his brother must have done some good in Georgia, for the missionary who went after them wrote and said: "Mr. Wesley has done much good here, his name is very dear to many of the people." It must have made the brothers glad to read this, for it is hard when you have been doing what you thought was right, and then find it was all wrong. On his return voyage to England Mr. Wesley had time to think about all the things that happened in Georgia. He was feeling dreadfully disappointed and discouraged; he had given up everything at home on purpose to do good to the people out there. He had meant to convert the Indians and comfort and help the Christian exiles, and he was coming back not having done either. Poor Mr. Wesley! And the worst of it was, the more he thought about it all, the more he began to see that the fault was his own. There was another thing he discovered about himself on that voyage home. They encountered a fearful storm, when every one expected to be drowned. During those awful hours Mr. Wesley found out, almost to his own surprise, that the very thought of death was a terror to him. He knew then that there was something wrong, for no Christian ought to fear to die. So Mr. Wesley went down on his knees and told God how wrong he had been, that he had thought too much of his own opinions and trusted too much in himself. He asked God to give him more faith, more peace, more love. He was always glad afterwards that he had gone to Georgia, and thanked God for taking him into that strange land, for his failure there had humbled him and shown him his weakness and his failings. It is a grand thing when we get to know ourselves. Let us be always on the look-out for our own faults, and when we see them, fight them. I would like to close this chapter with an acrostic I once heard on the word "Faith." It is a thing little folks, yes, and big folks often find hard to understand, perhaps this may help you. What is Faith? F ull A ssurance (confidence, having no doubt) I n T rusting H im (Jesus). CHAPTER XIII. George Whitefield, the "boy parson." --The Wesleys back in England.--Long walks.--Preaching by the way-side.--A talk in a stable.--Sermon in Manchester.--Mr. Charles in London.--Wants something he has not got.--Gets it.--Mr. John wants it too.--A top place in the class. YOU remember the Holy Club which the Methodists started at Oxford? Well, one of the youngest members was named George Whitefield; he was a pupil of Mr. John Wesley's, and when he left Oxford he became a preacher. While the two Wesleys were in Georgia, he carried on their work in England. He had learnt to love Jesus very dearly, had felt how wicked and sinful he was, and had gone to the Saviour and told Him all, asking Him to "Create in him a clean heart, and to renew within him a right spirit." Then he was so happy in knowing he was forgiven, that he wanted every one else to be happy and forgiven too. He was so young when he commenced to preach that every one called him the "boy parson;" but he talked so earnestly and kindly to the people that crowds everywhere flocked to hear him. When he heard that the two Wesleys were leaving Georgia he determined to go and take their place, and see what he could do for the poor exiles. Before he left England he preached a good-bye sermon, and told the people that he was going this long and dangerous voyage, and perhaps they might never see his face again. When they heard this, the children and the grown-up people, rich and poor, burst into tears, they loved him so much. But as this book is to be about Mr. John Wesley, we must not follow Mr. Whitefield across the Atlantic. Try to remember his name though, for he and the Wesleys were life-long friends, and you will hear about him again further on. When Mr. John and Mr. Charles got back to England they took up George Whitefield's work, going from town to town telling the people about Jesus Christ. As there were no railways they had to walk a great deal, and they used to speak to the people they met on the roads and in the villages through which they passed. Once, when Mr. Wesley and a friend were on their way to Manchester, they stayed one night in an inn at Stafford. Before they went to bed, Mr. Wesley asked the mistress of the house if they might have family prayer. She was quite willing, and so all the servants were called in. Next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Wesley had a talk with them all again, and even went into the stables and spoke to the men there about their sins and about the love of Jesus Christ. He preached in Manchester the next Sunday, and this was his text: "If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature" (2 Cor. v. 17). He explained to them that when any one begins to love Jesus, and tries to copy His life, they grow more and more like what He was. Then everything becomes different; the things they loved to do before cease to be a pleasure to them, and the places they liked to go to they no longer care to visit; they are "_new creatures_ in Christ Jesus." The next morning (Monday) Mr. Wesley, and the friend who was with him, left Manchester and went on to Knutsford. Here, too, the people listened attentively, while they preached the gospel of Jesus Christ. They visited other towns, and then Mr. Wesley returned to Oxford. He had not been long there when he heard that his brother Charles was very ill in London, and went at once to see him. Charles Wesley had been living and working there with some German Christians, or Moravians, as they were called, and before long he found that these people had something in their lives that he did not possess. Like the Germans he met in Georgia, their religion gave them peace and joy on week-days as well as on Sundays. When he was ill, one of these Moravians, named Peter Bhler, came to see him. During the little talk they had, the visitor said: "What makes you hope you are saved?" "Because I have done my best to serve God," answered Mr. Charles. You see, he was trusting in all the good deeds he had done, and not on Jesus Christ's suffering and death for him. Mr. Bhler shook his head, and did not say any more then. But he left Charles Wesley longing for the something he had not got. When he was a little better, he was carried to the house of a poor working-man named Bray. He was not clever, indeed, he hardly knew how to read, but he was a happy believer in Jesus; and he explained to Mr. Charles that _doing_ was not enough, that we must believe that Jesus Christ died on the cross for us, and that it is only through Him that we can pray to God, and only by His death that we can hope to go to heaven. Then a poor woman came in, and she made him understand better than any one; and at last Mr. Charles saw where he had been in the wrong, and instead of trusting in his own goodness and in all the kind things he had done, he just gave up his faith in these, and trusted alone in the dying love of his Saviour, and ours. I expect all my readers have classes in the schools they go to. Some of you are at the top of your class, some of you are in the middle, and some of you are--well--near the bottom. I think this is very much the way in Christ's school, the only difference is that in your class at school there can only be _one_ at the top. In Christ's school there can be any number at the top. There are a great number of Christians who are only half-way up in the class, and I am afraid there are a still greater number at the bottom. That is a place none of us like to be in at school; then don't let us be content to keep that place in Christ's school; let us all seek and obtain top places. When Mr. John Wesley visited his brother, he found he had got above him in Christ's school; he had taken a top place in the class, and John could not rest until he had got a top place too. So he prayed very earnestly, and got the people that had helped his brother to talk to him, but still he did not seem to understand. Four days after he went to a little service, and while the preacher was explaining the change that comes in us, when we trust in Jesus alone, John Wesley saw it all, took a top place in Christ's school, and joyfully went and told his brother. CHAPTER XIV. Methodist rules.--Pulpits closed against Mr. Wesley.--A visit to Germany.--A walk in Holland.--Christian David, the German carpenter.--The Fellow of Lincoln College takes lessons in a cottage. I DARE say many of my readers go to Wesleyan Chapels, and understand some of the Methodist rules. Most of these rules were made by the two Mr. Wesleys and their friends more than one hundred and fifty years ago, and they have been kept by their followers ever since. I want to tell you about a few of them. The people who attended the Methodist meetings were divided into little bands or companies, no band to have fewer than five persons in it, and none more than ten. They were to meet every week, and each one in turn was to tell the rest what troubles and temptations they had had, and how God, through Jesus Christ, had helped them since the last meeting. Every Wednesday evening, at eight o'clock, all the bands joined together in one large meeting, which began and ended with hymns and prayer. There were many other rules, some of which I will tell you later on, others you can read about when you are older. All this time you must remember that Mr. Wesley was a church clergyman. He loved the Church of England very dearly, though there were a great many things in it with which he did not agree. Wherever he preached he told the people just what he believed, and as very few clergymen thought as he did, they did not like him speaking his opinions so freely. At last, first one and then another said he should never preach in their churches again. Yet the message Mr. Wesley gave to the people, was the very same message that Christ spoke long before on the shores of Galilee. Mr. Wesley still longed to understand his Bible better, and to learn more of Jesus Christ, so he determined to go and visit the Moravians at a place called Herrnhuth in Germany, and see if he could get some help from them. So one June day, he said good-bye to his mother, and with eight of his friends set off. One of these friends was an old member of the Holy Club at Oxford. On their way to Herrnhuth, they had to pass through Holland. This is what Mr. Wesley says about a walk they had in that country: I never saw such a beautiful road. Walnut trees grow in rows on each side, so that it is like walking in a gentleman's garden. We were surprised to find that in this country the people at the inns will not always take in travellers who ask for food and bed. They refused to receive us at several inns. At one of the towns we were asked to go and see their church, and when we went in we took off our hats in reverence, as we do in England, but the people were not pleased, they said: "You must not do so, it is not the custom in this country." After a long, long journey through Germany, the little party at last reached Herrnhuth. Mr. Wesley had only been a few days there, when he wrote to his brother Samuel: "God has given me my wish, I am with those who follow Christ in all things, and who walk as He walked." I must just tell you about one of these Moravians, because he helped Mr. Wesley more than any of the others. His name was Christian David. He was only an ignorant working-man, and when not preaching was always to be found working at his carpenter's bench. But David was Christian in life as well as in name; he "walked with God," and whether he preached and prayed, or worked with chisel and plane, he did all "in the name of the Lord Jesus." He was never tired of telling people about the Saviour he loved, and trying to get them to love Him too. He was a man who often made mistakes, but as some one has said, "the man who never makes mistakes never makes anything;" and Christian David was always ready to own his faults when they were pointed out to him. You remember to what a high position Mr. Wesley had risen at Oxford, and how clever he was? Yet Christian David knew more than he did about Jesus Christ and His love; and the Fellow of Lincoln College was not too proud to go and sit in a cottage and be taught by this humble carpenter, who so closely followed the Holy Carpenter of Nazareth. CHAPTER XV. Fetter Lane.--Popular preachers.--Old friends meet again.--Love-feasts.--1739--Small beginning of a great gathering.--A crowded church.--A lightning thought.--But a shocking thing.--George Whitefield's welcome at Bristol.--"You shall not preach in my pulpit." --"Nor mine." --"Nor mine." --Poor Mr. Whitefield. WHILE Mr. Wesley was in Germany, his brother Charles had been preaching and working in London, and when Mr. John returned he found about thirty-two people had joined the society there. They had hired a room in Fetter Lane, and here they held their meetings. Mr. Wesley had come back so full of love to Jesus Christ, and therefore so full of love to everybody, and so eager for all to be as happy as he was, that he soon got many others to join them. When he wrote to his German friends, he said: "We are trying here, by God's help, to copy you as you copy Christ." He and his brother still preached in any church where they were allowed, and wherever they went crowds of poor people followed to hear them. They used to go, too, to the prisons, and the hospitals, and preach to the sinful and the suffering. They told them how Jesus forgave sins, and how He used to heal the sick; and the sinful were made sorry, and the suffering ones were comforted, and many believed in Jesus and prayed for forgiveness. Mr. Wesley had returned from Germany in September; a few months later Mr. George Whitefield came back from Georgia. He had got on very well with the people there, because he did not try to alter the ways they had been accustomed to, unless it was really necessary. Mr. Wesley went to meet his old friend, and, oh! how pleased they were to see each other again. Mr. Whitefield joined the little society in Fetter Lane, and they all worked together most happily. I dare say most of my Methodist readers will have been to a love-feast; those of you who have not, will at any rate have heard of them. Well, it was just about this time that love-feasts were first started. The little bands or companies that I told you about used to join together, and have a special prayer meeting once a month on a Saturday; and the following day, which, of course, was Sunday, they all used to meet again between seven o'clock and ten in the evening for a love-feast--a meal of bread and water eaten altogether and with prayer. It was a custom of the Moravians, and it was from them Mr. Wesley copied it. I have also heard that the love-feast was provided for the people, who had walked a great many miles to hear Mr. Wesley preach, and were tired and hungry. If this was the idea of the love-feast, they would have to give the people a great deal more bread than they do now, or they would still be hungry when they had done. The year after Mr. Whitefield returned from Georgia, 1739, was a wonderful year for the Methodists. It started with a love-feast and prayer meeting, which lasted half through the night. Then a few days later, on January 5th, the two Mr. Wesleys and Mr. Whitefield, with four other ministers, met together to talk about all they hoped to do during the year, and make rules and plans for their helpers and members. I told you, if you remember, that first one pulpit and then another was closed against these clergymen. At last there were only two or three churches where they were allowed to preach. One day when Mr. Whitefield was preaching in one of these, the people came in such crowds to hear him, that hundreds could not get into the church. Some of them went away, but a great number stood outside. All at once there flashed across Mr. Whitefield's mind this thought: "Jesus preached in the open air to the people, why can't I?" Numbers had often before been turned away when he preached, but he had never thought of having a service outside a church, it seemed a most shocking thing. However, the message seemed to come straight from God. He dared not act on it at once, for you see he was a clergyman, and had always been brought up to believe that inside the church was the only place where people can properly worship God. When he mentioned the matter to his friends, some of them were very much shocked, and thought to preach in the open air would be a very wrong thing. But some said: "We will pray about it, and ask God to show us what we ought to do." So they knelt down and prayed to be guided to do the right thing. Soon after this Mr. Whitefield went to Bristol, where he had been liked so much before he went to America. When he got there he was invited to preach first in one church and then in another, all were open to him. But before very long the clergymen in the place showed that they disapproved of the plain way in which he spoke to the people, and they told him they would not allow him to preach in their pulpits again. By and by all the churches were closed against him, and there was nowhere but the prison where he was allowed to preach. Soon the mayor of Bristol closed that door also. what could he do now? I think I know one thing he would do. He would turn to his Bible, and there he would read: "In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths." In the next chapter you shall hear how God fulfilled His promise to George Whitefield. CHAPTER XVI. Kingswood.--Grimy colliers.--The shocking thing is done.--A beautiful church.--From 200 to 20,000.--John Wesley shocked.--Drawing lots.--To be or not to be.--To be.--Mr. Wesley gets over the shock.--George Whitefield's "good-bye" to the colliers. LONG, long ago, before all this happened that I have been telling you, there was a forest near Bristol where the kings of England used to hunt, Kingswood it was called. But at the time of which I write, most of the trees had been cut down; a great many coal mines had been dug, and the people who lived round about and worked in the mines were a wild and wicked lot. They had no churches, and those in Bristol were three or four miles away. Surely, Mr. Whitefield thought, these people ought to have the gospel of Jesus Christ preached to them; they have no church, it cannot be wrong to preach to them in the open air. So, one Saturday in this year, 1739, Mr. Whitefield set off to Kingswood. It was a cold winter's day, but his heart was warm inside with love for these poor neglected colliers, and he soon got warm outside with his long walk. When he reached Kingswood he found an open space called Rose Green, which he thought was just the place for a service. Standing on a little mound which did for a pulpit, he commenced to preach; and surely that was the grandest church in which a Methodist minister ever held a service. The blue sky of heaven was his roof, the green grass beneath him the floor; and as Mr. Whitefield stood in his FIRST FIELD PULPIT, his thoughts went back, down the ages, to the dear Master whose steps he was seeking to follow--the Preacher of Nazareth, whose pulpit was the mountain-side, and whose hearers were the publicans and sinners. Two hundred grimy colliers stood and listened to that earnest young preacher. Mr. Whitefield continued his visits to Kingswood; the second time, instead of two hundred there were 2,000 eager listeners. The next time over 4,000 came to hear; and so the numbers went on increasing until he had a congregation of 20,000. Once, after he had been preaching, he wrote this: "The trees and the hedges were all in full leaf, and the sun was shining brightly. All the people were silent and still, and God helped me to speak in such a loud voice that everybody could hear me. All in the surrounding fields were thousands and thousands of people, some in coaches and some on horseback, while many had climbed up into the trees to see and hear." As Mr. Whitefield preached, nearly all were in tears. Many of the men had come straight from the coal-pits, and the tears that trickled down their cheeks made little white gutters on their grimy faces. Then, in the gathering twilight, they sang the closing hymn, and when the last echoes died away in the deepening shadows, Mr. Whitefield felt how solemn it all was, and he, too, could hardly keep back the tears. Mr. Whitefield soon found there was more work at Kingswood than he could do alone, so he wrote and asked Mr. John Wesley to come and help him. Being very _proper_ sort of clergymen, John and Charles Wesley could not help thinking it a dreadful, and almost a wrong thing to preach anywhere but in a church, or, at any rate, in a room; and for some time they could not decide what to do. They asked the other members at Fetter Lane what they thought about it; some said Mr. John ought to go, and some said he ought not. So at last they decided to draw lots. You know what that is, don't you? If you look in your Bible, in Acts i. 26, you will see that the disciples drew lots when they wanted to make up their number to twelve, after wicked Judas had killed himself. And in John xix. 24, you can read how the soldiers cast lots for the coat that had belonged to Jesus, which they took away after they had crucified Him. And in many other places in the Bible we read about people casting lots. So the society at Fetter Lane cast lots, and it came out that Mr. John Wesley should go. Everybody was satisfied after this, and even Mr. Charles, who more than any of the others had objected, now felt that it was right. So Mr. John set off for Bristol and joined his friend. The first Sunday he was there he heard Mr. Whitefield preach in the open air, and this is what he wrote about it: "It seemed such a strange thing to preach in the fields, when all my life I had believed in everything being done properly and according to the rules of the Church. Indeed, I should have thought it almost a sin to preach anywhere else." However, because of the lots, he felt it was all right; and he was still more sure of this when he saw the crowds, who would never have gone into a church, listening so intently to God's Word. He very soon got used to open-air preaching, and by and by Mr. Whitefield left the work at Kingswood to him. When the people heard that Mr. Whitefield was going to leave them, they were very, very sorry; and the day he rode out of Bristol, a number of them, about twenty, rode on horseback with him, they could not bear to say "good-bye." As he passed through Kingswood, the poor colliers, who were so grateful for all he had done for them, came out to meet him, and told him they had a great surprise for him. They had been very busy collecting money for a school for poor children, and now they wanted their dear friend, Mr. Whitefield, to lay the corner-stone of their new building. He was surprised and delighted; and when the ceremony was over, he knelt down and prayed that the school might soon be completed, and that God's blessing might ever rest upon it; and all those rough colliers bowed their heads, and uttered a fervent "Amen." At last "good-bye" was said to the dear minister who had brought them the glad tidings of salvation, and leaving them in charge of Mr. Wesley, George Whitefield rode away. CHAPTER XVII. John Wesley's moral courage.--What some carriage people thought of him.--And why.--The fashionable Beau in the big, white hat.--Interrupts Mr. Wesley.--Gets as good as he gives.--And better.--The King of Bath slinks away. DO you know what "moral courage" is, young readers? How shall I explain it? I think you will understand it best if I say it is "courage to do what is right." A boy may have courage to fight a bigger boy than himself, but he may not have the moral courage to own to a fault before his school-fellows, or to side with the right when that side is unpopular. Now, I think John Wesley showed a great deal of moral courage when he started to preach in the open air. Remember, he was born a gentleman, he was educated as a gentleman, and as Fellow of an Oxford College had always mixed with distinguished gentlemen. Then he was brought up a strict Churchman, and had always believed that the ways and rules of the Church were the only right and proper ways. Fancy this most particular Church clergyman, wearing his gown and bands, just as you have seen him in the pictures, and getting upon a table in the open air, or on the stump of a tree, or climbing into a cart and preaching to a lot of dirty, ignorant men and women. This was, indeed, moral courage; he did it because he felt it was the right thing to do, and that God wanted him to do it. Mr. Wesley was quite as much liked by the people as Mr. Whitefield had been, and the sight of him preaching was such a wonderful one, that ladies and gentlemen came in their carriages to see and to hear. In his sermons, Mr. Wesley spoke as plainly to the rich as he did to the poor. He told them how God hated sin, and that it was impossible for a sinner to get to heaven. Some of the ladies and gentlemen did not like this at all, and called Mr. Wesley "rude and ill-mannered," but it made them feel uncomfortable all the same. You have heard of a place called Bath, and that it is noted for its mineral waters. It is a fashionable place now, but it was a great deal more fashionable in Mr. Wesley's time. Not being far from Bristol, Mr. Wesley used sometimes to go and preach there. Once when he went, some of his friends said: "Don't preach to-day, for Beau Nash means to come and oppose you." Beau Nash was a gambler, and in other ways, too, a very bad man. But, somehow, he always managed to get enough money to make a great show, and many of the people looked up to him as a leader of fashion. Indeed, he was quite popular among most of the visitors to Bath. Of course when Mr. Wesley heard that this man was coming to oppose him, instead of being frightened, he was all the more determined to preach. A great number of people had assembled, many of them Nash's friends, who had come to see "the fun." By and by Beau Nash himself came, looking very grand in a big white hat, and riding in a coach drawn by six grey horses, with footmen and coachmen all complete. Soon after Mr. Wesley had commenced his sermon, Beau Nash interrupted him by asking: "Who gave you leave to do what you are doing?" "Jesus Christ," said Mr. Wesley, "through the Archbishop of Canterbury, when he laid his hands upon my head, and said: 'Take thou authority to preach the gospel.'" This answer rather settled Beau Nash. Then he accused Mr. Wesley of frightening the people out of their wits. "Did you ever hear me preach?" said Mr. Wesley. "No," was the reply. "Then how do you know I frighten people?" "By what I have heard." "Oh!" said Mr. Wesley. "Then is not your name Nash?" "It is," said the Beau. "Well, sir, I suppose, then, I must judge you by what I have heard of you." This reply so confounded the young man that he could not say a word, and when an old woman in the congregation stood up and told the Beau what she thought about him, the "King of Bath," as he was called, slunk away, and took himself off. This affair made a great stir in Bath, and when Mr. Wesley went through the town the streets were full of people, hurrying up and down, wanting to see him. CHAPTER XVIII. Good out of evil.--What Mr. Wesley preached.--"Hurrah!" --In the prison.--How the wicked Methodists spoiled the woollen trade.--Emilia Wesley says strong things.--In the sunlight. I KNOW you will have thought it very unkind of the clergymen not allowing such a good man as Mr. Wesley to preach in their churches; and so it was, very unkind, and very wrong. These clergymen thought so themselves after a time; but God often uses the wrong doings of people to bring about a great good, and He did so in this case. Perhaps if the churches had not been closed against Mr. Wesley and Mr. Whitefield they would never have preached in the open air, and thousands of people, who would not go to a church, might never have heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ. You boys and girls love father and mother and home, do you not? And when you have been away at day-school or boarding-school, oh! how glad you always are to get to them again. Well, in the same way we all come from God; He is our Father, and heaven is our home, and all of us, deep down inside of us, have a longing to go home again some day. But Adam and Eve had to be punished for their disobedience; and the punishment was that they and all that were born after them should die, and never go back to home and to God. This was a terrible punishment, was it not? But you know how Jesus Christ, God's Son, in His great love and pity for us said He would come down from heaven, and be a man on earth; that He would go through life just as we have to do, and at last die. Then God said if His dear Son did this, and lived on earth a life that should be a beautiful copy for men and women and boys and girls to follow; and if the people would believe on Him and follow His example, God would forgive them, and they should go back to Him, their Father, and to heaven their home. All this Mr. Wesley explained to the people, and told them if they believed this and loved and followed the Saviour that died for them, they would always be happy, and God would give them His own peace, the peace He has promised to those that love Him. One wonders how the clergymen could disapprove of such preaching, and why they should shut Mr. Wesley out of their pulpit, for if they did not preach this same Gospel they certainly ought to have done. However, Mr. Wesley got much larger congregations outside the churches than they ever got inside, and wherever he went hundreds of people believed the wonderful story he told them, and became true followers of the Lord Jesus Christ. Strange things happened at his services; some of the people were so overjoyed at what they heard they could not help shouting "Hurrah!" and "Hallelujah!" and they poked each other in the ribs, as much as to say: "Isn't that good?" Then, when Mr. Wesley told them how Jesus Christ suffered, and how cruelly Judas betrayed Him, and that He allowed all this in order that we might be saved, the people would burst into tears, and you could hear their sobs all over the great congregation. All sorts of people came to the services, thieves and gamblers, poor people and rich people, and all heard the same glad tidings of salvation. Mr. Wesley did not remain at Bristol; several times he went up to London, and wherever he went crowds came to hear him. One day when he was preaching at Newgate, a prison in London, and was telling the people what would become of them if they did not give up their wicked ways, a woman whom he had known for many years as a very bad character, burst into tears and begged Mr. Wesley to pray for her. Many of the other prisoners did the same, and numbers believed in Jesus Christ as their Saviour, and became Christian men and we men. It was just wonderful; but it is sad to think that if these people had only heard the Gospel before, they might never have been the wicked men and women they were. As soon as ever they heard, they believed. All the magazines and newspapers that were published were full of the doings of the Methodists. They were still called all sorts of names and abused dreadfully. But the good people had got so used to this that they did not mind, indeed, they hardly expected any other treatment. In those days very few of the poor people could read, and one newspaper complained that nearly every one who went to hear the Methodists wanted to learn to read the Bible, and as soon as ever he could spell out a chapter he would go and read it to some one who could not read, and then they would talk about it together. This, the paper said, wasted a great deal of time, for the men were so busy talking and reading their Bibles that they could not get on with their work, and the woollen trade in Yorkshire would soon be ruined. Of course this last was not true, and was only said to stop the Methodists from preaching. It showed, however, how sincere and how much in earnest the people were. But amidst all the persecutions of mobs of ignorant and brutal men and women who knew no better, and of abuse and slander by the rich and the educated, who ought to have known better, nothing pained Mr. Wesley so much as the unkind words of his sister Emilia. She was his favourite sister, and he thought a great deal about her opinion. In an angry letter she wrote him, she said the Methodists were "a lot of bad people." However, John Wesley and his friends calmly went on doing the work they felt God had called them to do. The peace of God was in their hearts, and the sunlight of His love brightened their faces, and made them tender and forgiving to all their enemies. As Jesus Christ prayed for the cruel men who crucified Him, so they prayed: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." CHAPTER XIX. Don't believe all you hear.--Mrs. Wesley finds her "dear Jack" true to his colours.--She joins the Methodists.--And thus dreadfully shocks her eldest son.--Death of Mr. Samuel Wesley.--A loving mother's letter to "her boy." I THINK Mr. Wesley's greatest trouble at this time was, that even his dear mother, whom he had not seen for a long, long time, believed many of the things that people were saying about him, and felt sure he had wandered away from the true religion of Jesus Christ. It does not do for us to believe all we hear, and when at last Mrs. Wesley went to London, and saw and talked with her sons, she found all the tales had been untrue, and that her "dear Jack" was the same loyal soldier and servant of Jesus Christ that he had ever been. Instead of going back to where she had been living, Mrs. Wesley, freed from her fears, remained in London with her "boys," a proud and happy mother. She joined the Society in Fetter Lane, went every Sunday to hear her sons preach, and helped them in every way she could. Once she stood by Mr. Wesley's side when he preached on Kennington Common to a congregation of about 20,000 people, and I don't know which was the prouder, mother or son. You remember Mr. Samuel Wesley, the eldest brother? He was one who strongly disapproved of open-air preaching, and thought John and Charles were very much in the wrong for not behaving like other clergymen. When he heard that even his mother had joined the Methodists he was more indignant than ever, and wrote her what I think was a very rude letter. "I was very much surprised and grieved," he said, "when I heard that you had joined the Methodists, and, indeed, become one of Jack's congregation. My brothers are brothers to me no longer, and now, must my mother follow too?" It is sad to think that two weeks after Mr. Samuel wrote this he was taken ill and died in a few hours. He was a clever and a sensible man, but he did not understand, or even try to understand, the work his brothers were doing, and, therefore, disapproved of it. When Mr. Wesley heard the news of his brother's death he set off at once to Bristol to Mr. Charles, and together they went to Tiverton to comfort and help their sister-in-law. They forgot all the unkind things their brother had said against them, and only thought how they could best show their love and sympathy to those that were left. Poor Mrs. Wesley was very ill when she heard the sad news. She had always dearly-loved her eldest child, and his death was a great sorrow. But she said: "It is God's will, therefore it is all right." You can tell what a real comfort Mr. John was to her at this time, by the letter she wrote to Charles at Bristol about a month after Mr. Samuel's death. This is what she said: "DEAR CHARLES, "You cannot want to see me more than I want to see you. Your brother Jack, whom I shall call son Wesley, now that my dear Sam is gone home, has just been in to see me, and has cheered me up ever so much. Indeed, he never comes but he does me good; his visits are all too seldom and too short. For this I cannot blame him, for I know he is about his Heavenly Father's business. "But, dear Charles, I do so want one of you, for I feel weak as a little child. I do pray that God will bless you both in your work, and keep you from harm; and that He will give you strength and courage to preach the true Gospel of Jesus Christ. "This is the hearty prayer of, dear Charles, "Your loving mother, "SUSANNA WESLEY." Is not that a loving letter? No wonder Mr. Charles prized it very much. Little folks generally take care of all the letters they get. I know I did when I was a little girl, indeed I have some of them now. Grown-up people usually tear theirs up, they get so many. But this letter that Mr. Charles had from his dear old mother was too precious to be so treated; he took great care of it, and after his death it was found among his papers. CHAPTER XX. A very old school.--The first Methodist Chapel.--Well done, Bristol!--Empty purses.--How they were filled.--The penny-a-week rule. YOU remember the school at Kingswood, that the colliers collected the money for and started? Although it is one hundred and fifty years ago since it was opened, there has been a school at Kingswood ever since, and it is the very oldest thing we have in connection with Methodism. If you will listen at chapel some time--in October I think it generally is--you will hear the minister say: "Collections will be taken to-day, morning and evening, on behalf of the Kingswood Schools." When you hear this will you just think, that the money you give is for the same school that was started by those good-hearted colliers near Bristol, more than one hundred and fifty years ago. Now I must tell you of the very first Methodist Chapel that was ever built; for this, too, we have to thank the Bristol people. Having heard about Jesus Christ themselves, they were eager for their friends and neighbours to hear about Him too. They worked very hard, and were so much in earnest inviting people to come to the services, that at last the room where they held their meeting got far too small for all the people who wanted to come. It was only a tumble-down sort of place, and they were afraid the floor might give way or the roof fall in, and somebody be hurt. At last they secured a piece of ground in what was called the Horse Fair in Bristol, and one bright May morning, in 1739, the first stone of the FIRST METHODIST CHAPEL was laid, amidst great shouting of praise and thanksgiving. I have called it a Chapel, but the Methodists called it a "Preaching House." You may think what a great deal of money it took to carry on all the work that the Methodists were doing; sometimes their purses were very empty, and they wondered however they should get them filled again. But it was God's work they were doing, and of course the money always came. Like most Methodist Chapels nowadays, the money to pay for the Bristol Preaching House was not got all at once; but a plan was adopted which, I think, was a very good one. Every Methodist in Bristol promised to pay a penny a week until all the money was raised; and as there were some hundreds of Methodists, the debt was soon paid off. Some of the people, however, were too poor to pay even this small amount, so it was arranged that the richer men should each call upon eleven poorer ones every week, and collect their pennies, and when they could not give them, the rich man was to make it up. This was the beginning of the weekly class money which your fathers and mothers, if they are Methodists, pay in their class-meetings to-day. When Mr. Wesley told the society in Fetter Lane, London, of the good plan the Bristol people had made, they adopted it too, and always after that wherever the Methodists commenced a society, the penny-a-week rule was followed. CHAPTER XXI. An explosion.--A new business at the old Foundry.--Mr. Wesley and his mother at home.--Grand helpers.--Poor little Tom.--The worst man in Bristol.--And one of the best. HOW old would John Wesley be in 1716, if he was born in 1703? Thirteen, would he not? a school-boy at the Charterhouse School. In that year there was a terrible explosion at a cannon foundry, where the guns were made for war. The roof of the building was blown off, and a great many workmen were injured and killed. After this explosion, the machinery and iron were removed to Woolwich, which, as you will learn in your geography is still the great place for making cannon and other weapons of war. All the years from 1716 to 1739 the old foundry had never been touched, there it was, still in ruins. One day in this year, 1739, while Mr. Wesley was in London, two gentlemen came and asked him if he would preach in this old tumble-down place. He consented, and one dreary November morning at eight o'clock, before the grey clouds of night had fled, he preached to about six thousand people in the old King's Foundry. The following week many of those who had listened to him, came and begged him to buy the old place for a meeting-house. After thinking and praying about the matter he consented, and before very long the roof was mended, galleries were made, and the first Methodist preaching-place in London was ready for use. Class-rooms and a school-room were afterwards built, and a house fitted up where Mr. Wesley and his mother could live. At the end of the chapel was another house for his servants and some of his helpers. There was also a coach-house and stable where the travelling preachers could "put up." Though Mr. John and Mr. Charles Wesley were so clever and worked so hard, they could never have got on without their earnest, loving helpers. There was Thomas Maxfield, one of those devoted, go-a-head men of Bristol; then there was John Nelson, a stone-mason, in Yorkshire, who, when his master wanted him to work on Sunday, refused; and, like other Methodists, having become a Christian himself he sought to win others for Christ. Thomas Olivers was another. Poor Thomas, when he was a wee boy, only four years old, both his father and his mother died, and little Tom was left to grow up a wicked boy. He used to swear and gamble and drink, and when he became a man was one of the worst characters in Bristol. But he heard Mr. Whitefield preach, and from that time a change came over him. He felt he was too great a sinner ever to be forgiven, and would kneel down and pray for hours and hours. God saw how sorry he was for all his wickedness, and how much he longed to be different, so He just whispered His forgiveness, bidding him, "Go and sin no more," and Thomas Olivers rose up a converted man, and became as brave a Christian as he had been bold a sinner. CHAPTER XXII. Billy and Polly.--A little sunbeam visits Sandgate.--What happened at seven o'clock in the morning.--And at five o'clock in the evening.--"The Old, Old Story." --Newcastle wants to know more.--But Newcastle has to wait.--John Wesley goes back to Bristol.--The Kingswood of the North. "WHO'S yon man?" "Which man?" "Yon. Him with the long hair, and dressed like a parson." "I dunno. Why there's two on 'em." "I say, Polly, let's go and hear 'em, they're singing. Come on, Bob." Bob and Billy and Polly were very ragged and very dirty children, and they lived in Newcastle. The boys were almost naked, and Polly, though nearly fifteen had no clothes on at all, only a dirty bit of blanket wrapped round her. Their fathers and mothers worked in the coal mines, and because they had never been taught different, they were drunken, swearing, wicked people; even the children cursed and swore. But Bob and Billy and Polly have got to the top of Sandgate, the street where their miserable home is; let us follow. Some of their companions are with them, children as ragged and dirty as themselves. The women, too, have come to their doors to listen. What is it these men are singing? Hark! All people that on earth do dwell Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice; Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell: Come ye before Him and rejoice. It was a lovely May morning, and a kind little sunbeam had left the green fields and the chirping birdlets to peep into Sandgate. I think it must have heard the singing, and wanted to shine its gladness, that God's praises were at last being sung to those poor people. It was quite early, about seven o'clock in the morning, and some of the men and women were still in bed; but little sunbeam went first to one and then to another and kissed them awake, and when they had rubbed their eyes and opened their ears, they heard a strange sound. What could it be? They had never heard anything like it before. They sat up in bed and listened, then they got dressed, and then they went out. The music acted like a magic spell, and drew them to it. One man, two men, three men, four men, five men; oh, dear! there are too many to count. Such a number of women too, why, there must be five hundred people all together, and still they keep coming. One of the gentlemen is now talking. Listen what he is saying! He is preaching a sermon, and this is his text: "_He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed._" He is telling those poor men and women that it was Jesus, the Son of God, who suffered this for them, _because He loved them_. The people, who numbered about twelve hundred, stood gaping and staring, they had never heard anything like this before. "Who are you?" shouted one man. "What do you mean?" called out another. The gentleman with the long hair and beautiful face answered them: "If you want to know who I am, my name is John Wesley, and if you come to yon hill at five o'clock to-night, I'll tell you what I mean." At five o'clock the hill was covered with people from the top to the bottom, and as Mr. Wesley stood with that great crowd round him, all eager to learn about the wonderful Saviour who had died for them, and of whom they had never heard, tears of pity filled his eyes, and a big love for them filled his heart. Oh, so sweetly and tenderly did he read to them God's own words: "_I will heal their back-sliding, I will love them freely_;" and then he told them the "Old, Old Story." He told it very slowly: "'That they might take it in, That wonderful redemption, God's remedy for sin.' He told them the story simply: 'As to a little child, For they were weak and weary, And helpless and defi'ed.' He told them the story softly: 'With earnest tones and grave, For were they not the sinners Whom Jesus came to save?'" When the preacher finished, the people stood as if spell-bound, then they all crowded and pressed round him, full of love and kindness towards the man who had brought them such good news. They nearly trampled him down in their eagerness to speak to him, and he had to slip round a back way in order to escape. When he got to the inn where he was staying, he found some of the people had got there before him; they had come to beg and pray him to stay among them. No, he could not. "Stay a few days," said one. No, he could not do that. "Just one day more," they begged. Poor Mr. Wesley was very loth to leave these eager hearers, but he had promised to be in Bristol on the Tuesday, and this was Sunday night, and it would take him all the time to get to his appointment, and he was a man that could not break his word. So he was sadly obliged to refuse. Before very long, however, Mr. Charles Wesley went to Newcastle, and after a time, Mr. Wesley himself paid a second visit. It was a plan of the Methodists always to go to the poorest and most uncared-for people. These they generally found among the colliers. Wherever there were coal mines, the district round them was sure to be the abode of dirt, ignorance, and sin. You remember what a dreadful place Kingswood was when the Methodists first went? Because they found Newcastle just as bad, they called it "The Kingswood of the North." CHAPTER XXIII. A magic mirror.--And the picture it shows us.--Billy and Polly again.--Hurrah for Newcastle!--John and Charles Wesley put their heads together.--The result.--Strict Rules.--Circuits in Methodism. HAVE you ever heard of the Magic Mirror? It is a mirror I would like to have. You just think of something you would very much like to see; something either in the past, the present, or the future, peep into the mirror and there it is. Let us imagine that we have this mirror, and that we want to look at a particular part of Newcastle in the year 1742. What do we see? A big unfinished building with all the walls standing, but no roof, no doors, and no windows. It is a cold winter's day; but in spite of the biting wind and the frosty air there are hundreds of people crowding inside and outside the walls. Right in the middle stands the gentleman with the long hair and the beautiful face. It is Mr. Wesley opening the first meeting-house in Newcastle. Oh, how hard those poor colliers and their wives, yes, and the children too, worked to get money to build their chapel. On this opening day they were so proud and happy they could not keep still. They kept shouting "Hallelujah!" all the time Mr. Wesley was preaching. Three or four times he had to stop in the middle of his sermon on purpose to let them praise God. Bob, and Billy, and Polly were at that opening; they loved Mr. Wesley, and always tried to get as near to him as they could. They were not ragged now, for their fathers and mothers were converted, and their money was no longer spent in drink. The children, too, had learnt to love Jesus, and were trying to be like Him, and no cursing or swearing was ever heard. Scores of men and women in Newcastle that day, thanked God they had got out of bed that Sunday morning in May, and heard Mr. Wesley sing at the top of Sandgate. The Methodists had now chapels or meeting-houses in Bristol, London, Kingswood, and Newcastle, and societies were being formed in a great many other places. When Mr. Wesley found the work was spreading so fast, he saw it was necessary to draw up some general rules for all the members to follow. His brother Charles helped him in this difficult task. These are some of the rules which together they drew up, and which all who joined the Methodists had to promise to obey. Members of society must not swear. Must keep the Sabbath Day holy. Must not buy or sell intoxicating liquor. Must not drink intoxicating liquor, except as medicine. Must not fight. Must not quarrel. Must return good for evil. Must not speak evil of any one. Must do to others as we would have them do to us. Must not wear a great deal of jewellery or expensive clothes. Must not go to any place of amusement where they would not like to meet Jesus. Must not sing songs or read books that will not help them to love God more. Must not buy anything unless they are quite sure they will be able to pay for it. Must be kind to everybody, and give help to all, as far as they are able; By feeding the hungry; Clothing the naked; Visiting the sick and those in prison; By "running with patience the race that is set before them;" By denying themselves and taking up their cross daily. They must go to chapel regularly. Must take the Sacrament. And, lastly, have family and private prayer every day. But the people were so much in earnest, and had such trust in their leader, Mr. Wesley, that they were quite willing to agree to them. The next thing Mr. Wesley did was to send out his helpers, generally two together, to certain districts where they usually remained for a year. They had to preach in all the places round about, and each particular district or tract of country was called a "circuit." This was the beginning of the "circuits" which we have in Methodism to-day. I dare say you have often heard father or mother say, "Oh, Mr. So and So has gone to another circuit;" or, "Mr. So and So is in our circuit now." London and Bristol always remained the chief circuits; but before very long Newcastle became the next in importance. CHAPTER XXIV. Another peep into the Magic Mirror.--A pretty picture.--At Epworth.--Mr. Wesley is very unkindly treated.--All for the best.--The curate is "done." --A happy ending to a bad beginning.--"Good-bye, Epworth." SHALL we have another peep into the Magic Mirror? See that pretty country church, with the square tower. There are some big trees near, looking as if they were tall giants keeping guard; they have no leaves on them yet, and their bare arms stretch out a long way as if they were trying to reach the church. If you look carefully you will see buds coming out on the trees, baby buds they are, waiting for the sun's kisses. Then they will burst out and grow into great leaves that will cover up the naked old trees. Ivy climbs up the church wall. I see its dark glossy leaves, for the ivy is evergreen. There are many graves in the churchyard, but you can hardly see them because people are sitting on them; such a number of people, hundreds more than could ever have got into the church. They are all looking one way, and seem to be listening very attentively. What are they looking at? They are looking at a gentleman who is standing all alone on a big flat tombstone near the church wall. He wears a gown and white bands like a clergyman, and he has long hair brushed very smoothly, and a beautiful, happy face. Dear me! did I hear a crash then? And did I hear a hundred young voices shouting: "I know who it is, it's Mr. John Wesley"? Why, you must have broken the mirror with your shouts. You are right, dears, but you shouted rather too soon. I wanted to read what it said on the tombstone on which Mr. Wesley was standing. But, never mind, I think I saw some of the words: "SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SAMUEL WESLEY, FOR THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS RECTOR OF EPWORTH." Yes, it was his father's grave on which John Wesley was standing. On his way back from one of his visits to Newcastle he thought he would like to see his dear old home once more. It was a long, long time since he had been there, and he was not quite sure whether the people would have anything to do with him now, for, as leader of the Methodists, he had many enemies. It was Saturday evening in early spring, when he got to the little inn, in the long straggling street that was called Epworth village. He had not been there very long before three or four poor women found him out, one of them an old servant of his mother's. Next morning, which was Sunday, he went to the curate of the church and politely offered to help him with the service. The curate, I am sorry to say, was very rude, and refused to let Mr. Wesley take any part in the service or to preach in the church at all. This was a great disappointment, for Mr. Wesley loved the people of Epworth, and every stone in the old church was dear to him. His father had preached from that pulpit for nearly forty years, and he himself had stood there more times than he could count, and it was very hard that he was forbidden to take his place there now. The people were longing to hear him, and when the afternoon service was over, and all the folks were leaving the church, one of his friends stood in the churchyard and gave out this notice: "MR. WESLEY, NOT BEING ALLOWED TO PREACH IN THE CHURCH, INTENDS TO PREACH HERE AT SIX O'CLOCK THIS EVENING." It was this picture of Mr. Wesley preaching that the Magic Mirror showed us. I expect the curate was very angry at being so "done;" but he could not stop Mr. Wesley preaching _outside_ the church. For a whole week John Wesley preached every evening from his father's tombstone. Crowds came to hear him, and hundreds were converted and turned from their evil ways. They saw how sinful they had been and prayed aloud for forgiveness. Drunkards became sober men, and those who cursed and swore were turned into peace-makers. So dear old Mr. Wesley's prayers were answered, and the people who had treated him so unkindly, and whom he had forgiven and loved, now took his Saviour to be their Saviour, and his God to be their God. Indeed Mr. Wesley's visit to his old home, that began so unpleasantly, ended very happily, and when his last evening came, both he and his dear people found it hard to say "Good-bye." CHAPTER XXV. No one like mother.--Sad days at the Foundry.--Mrs. Wesley goes Home through the Beautiful Gate.--A sorrowing son.--Preaching at the open grave.--At work again.--Satan in opposition.--Fireworks, cows, stones, blood, and broken windows. A GOOD mother is a boy's or a girl's best earthly friend. John Wesley knew this, and thought there was no mother like _his_ mother. You remember how, as a little boy, he always went to her for advice; and when he was quite a young man he used to hope that he would die before her, for he felt he could not live without his mother. You may think, then, how sad he was when, at last, the message came to him that she was dying. He was at Bristol when he received the news, and at once set off for London. Arrived at his home at the Foundry, he found his five sisters watching round the bed of the dear old mother. Though she was too ill to speak to them, they could see she was quite happy and peaceful, just waiting to be taken Home. Before long the call came: "Come up higher." A great number of people came to the funeral; and as Mr. Wesley stood at the graveside, he preached one of his most wonderful sermons. His heart was full; he had lost the friend of his life. But he knew it was not for ever, one day he would meet her again; and as he looked on those hundreds of people gathered there by the open grave, he longed that they should, as surely, some day pass Home through the Beautiful Gate. Work is the best cure for sorrow; and after his dear mother's death, Mr. Wesley began his preaching again. Wherever he went people were converted, and became followers of Jesus Christ; and also wherever he went wicked men and women tried to stop him preaching, and sometimes even wanted to kill him. But he was doing God's work, and God took care of him. Once he was preaching to hundreds of people in an open space somewhere in London. In the middle of his sermon, several men tried to drive a herd of cows among the listeners. They wanted to frighten them, and force them to go away. But the cows were wiser than their masters, and would not go among the people. Then these bad men started throwing stones, and one of them hit Mr. Wesley just between his eyes. What do you think he did? Give up preaching and go home? Indeed he did not; he just wiped the blood off his face, and went on telling the people to repent of their sins and believe on the Son of God. Brave John Wesley! Bristol, you remember, was the first place where Mr. Wesley preached out of doors, and it was at Bristol where there was the first great disturbance. I don't quite know how it was, but just about this time, wherever the Methodists went, they were abused and ill-treated. I think Satan was beginning to find out how much good the Methodists were doing, and thought it was about time he did something to stop it. So, in all the towns where the preachers went, he stirred up the worst men and women to make rows and disturb the services. At Chelsea, the rioters threw fireworks into the room; at another place they broke in the roof, and some of the people were nearly killed. At Bristol, the mob filled the streets, shouting, and cursing, and swearing. When the constables caught the ring-leaders and took them before the mayor, they began to speak against Mr. Wesley, but the mayor stopped them. "Whatever Mr. Wesley is, is nothing to you," he said. "I won't allow any rioting in this city, and you must go to prison." This was the first and last disturbance at Bristol. But the worst of it was, at most of the places, neither the constables nor the mayor would interfere, and so the people did just as they liked. At Wednesbury, in Staffordshire, the Methodists were most cruelly treated. One of the rioters used to blow a horn, and then all the mob gathered together. They went to every house where there was a Methodist, smashed the windows, dragged the furniture out and broke it up, and burnt the beds. If the men or women interfered, they just knocked them down; even the little children they used to beat. But I think I will leave the exciting scenes at Wednesbury for another chapter. CHAPTER XXVI. Brave as a lion.--A protecting angel.--God's magic.--Foes become friends.--An unpleasant walk in rain and darkness.--What the mayor said.--A free fight.--"Knock the parson down! Kill him at once!" --Magic again.--A butcher to the rescue.--Safe back in Wednesbury. WHEN Mr. Wesley heard how his followers were being treated in Wednesbury, he went off at once to their help. Though he was only a little man, he was as brave as a lion; he knew he had God at his back, and like David before Goliath, like Daniel before Darius, and like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego before Nebuchadnezzar, he did not fear what man could do unto him. God sent His angel to close the lions' mouths so they would not harm Daniel; and the same messenger walked in the fiery furnace with the three Hebrew youths. So, when Mr. Wesley went straight into the market-place in Wednesbury, and fearlessly preached to the hundreds assembled there, God's protecting angel breathed silence and calm; not a sound of disturbance was heard. In the evening the mob surrounded the house where Mr. Wesley was staying, shouting out fiercely: "Bring out the minister! We will have the minister!" Mr. Wesley, neither frightened nor excited, quietly asked one of his friends to bring in the ringleader of the mob. The man came in, anger and fierceness in his eyes. But, somehow, as soon as he stood in the presence of that calm, Christ-like man, all his passion went out of him. Mr. Wesley then asked him to bring in two or three of his roughest companions. The angry men came in. They had wanted to get at the minister, now they had the chance. But once inside that room, they found they could not touch him. They felt the presence of God's protecting angel, and peace took the place of passion, and friendliness the place of hatred. Getting Mr. Wesley between them, these strange, new friends made a way for him through the mob outside the house. Then, standing on a chair, Mr. Wesley spoke to the crowd. "You wanted me," he said. "Here I am. Now what do you want me for?" "We want you to go with us to the magistrate," they cried. "I will go with you with all my heart," he replied. So away went the brave ambassador for Christ, accompanied by hundreds of the roughest men and women in Wednesbury. It was two miles to the magistrate's house, and before they had got half-way the night came on, and it began to rain very heavily. This made most of the people turn back and hurry home, but two hundred or more kept together round Mr. Wesley. Some of the men ran on first to tell the magistrate they'd got the Methodist preacher. Instead of seeming pleased, the magistrate said: "What have I to do with Mr. Wesley? Take him back again." So he sent them off, and went to bed. By and by the crowd came up to the house, and knocked at the door. When the magistrate's son went to them and asked what was the matter, they said: "Why, please, sir, these Methodists sing psalms all day, and make folks get up at five o'clock in the morning, and what would your worship advise us to do?" "To go home and be quiet," replied the gentleman. Finding they could get no help from this magistrate, they hurried poor Mr. Wesley off to another. This gentleman, too, had gone to bed, and so the mob could do nothing else but go home. However, before they had got very far they were joined by another rough mob from a neighbouring town; and then, in the rain and the darkness, the two mobs started fighting and knocking each other down. It was no use Mr. Wesley trying to speak, for the shouting and noise was like the roaring of the sea. They dragged him along with them until they reached the town, and then, seeing the door of a large house open, Mr. Wesley tried to get in. But one of the cruel men got him by the hair and pulled him back into the middle of the mob; and then they dragged him from one end of the town to the other. "I talked all the time to those that were within hearing," said Mr. Wesley, afterwards, "and I never felt the least pain or weariness." At last he saw a shop door half open, and tried to get in, but the gentleman to whom the shop belonged would not let him. "Why, the people would pull my house down," he said, "if I let you in." However, Mr. Wesley stood at the door and shouted to the people: "Are you willing to hear me speak?" "No, no; knock him down! Kill him at once!" cried hundreds of voices. "Nay, let's hear him first," shouted others. "What harm have I done any of you?" exclaimed the fearless preacher. "Which of you have I wronged in word or deed?" For a quarter of an hour he talked to them, then his voice suddenly gave way, the strain had been too great. Then the cruel mob cried out again: "Bring him away! Bring him away!" But Mr. Wesley's strength had come back, and he began to pray aloud. That prayer acted like magic; the man who had just before been the leader of that brutal crowd, turning to Mr. Wesley, said: "Sir, I will spend my life for you; follow me, and no one here shall touch a hair of your head." Two or three of his companions said almost the same, and surrounded Mr. Wesley to protect him. Then four or five rough men set upon them, and tried to drag Mr. Wesley away; but a butcher, who was a little further off, shouted, "Shame! shame!" and pulled them back one after another. Some one else shouted, "For shame! For shame! let the good man go!" Then, just as if they had been struck by magic, all the people drew back right and left, and Mr. Wesley was carried safely through. But the danger was not quite over even yet. On the bridge which they had to cross, the mob assembled again; but Mr. Wesley's protectors took him across a mill-dam and then through some fields, and at last brought him safe into Wednesbury, with no other damage than a torn coat and a little skin scraped off one of his hands. CHAPTER XXVII. Mr. Wesley's story of the Wednesbury riot.--How he felt.--The right pocket.--Beautiful hair.--The prize-fighter a good protector.--A brick, a stone, and two hard blows.--Daniel vi. 22. AFTER reading the last exciting chapter, you will all exclaim, "Well, Mr. Wesley _was_ a brave man!" and I am sure you will like to hear what he himself said about his adventures. These are the very words he wrote after the Wednesbury riots: "From the beginning to the end, I felt as calm as if I had been sitting in my study at home. Once it did come into my mind, that if they threw me into the river, it would spoil the papers I had in my pocket. I was not afraid for myself, for I did not doubt but I could swim across to the opposite bank. "Thinking about it all now, I notice some remarkable circumstances. One was, that though several tried to get hold of me, it seemed as if they could not, and when at last one did get hold of my coat and tore the pocket off, it was the right pocket for him to get, for it contained nothing of importance; whereas if he had torn off the other he would have got a bank-note with it. "Another was, a big strong fellow just behind struck at me several times with a large oak stick. One blow had it hit me would have killed me, but somehow every time he struck, the blow was turned aside. I don't know how, for I could not move either to the right hand or to the left. "Another man came rushing through the crowd and raised his arm to strike me. Suddenly he let his arm drop, and only stroked my hair, saying: 'What beautiful hair he has!' "It was strange too, that the very first men whose hearts were softened were always the leaders of the mob--one of them had been a prize-fighter. So that when they took my part I was well protected. "Again, from first to last I heard no one give me a reviling word, or call me by any insolent or disgraceful name whatever. The cry of one and all was: 'The Preacher! The Preacher! The Parson! The Minister!'" Again Mr. Wesley wrote: "By what gentle and gradual steps does God prepare us for His will! Two years ago a brick that was thrown at me grazed my shoulders. Then a year after that, the stone struck me between the eyes when I was preaching in London. This evening I have received two blows; one man struck me on the chest with all his might, and another on the mouth with such force that the blood gushed out immediately. But both were as nothing, I felt no more pain from either of the blows, than if the men had touched me with a straw." Boys and girls, is not this a wonderful story? Get your Bibles, and look in the sixth chapter of the book of Daniel and the twenty-second verse. Wicked men had laid a trap for King Darius, and because they were envious of Daniel, they caused the king to order Daniel to be thrown into the lions' den. This made King Darius very unhappy, for he loved Daniel. But though he was a heathen king, he had such faith in Daniel's God, that he felt sure the lions would not be allowed to hurt him. King Darius could not sleep all night, for thinking of Daniel all alone in the den of those wild beasts; so he got up very early in the morning, and went to the den and called to Daniel to know if he were alive. And from inside that dismal den with hungry beasts prowling round and round, came the bright, cheering voice of the God-protected man: "My God hath sent His angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths, that they have not hurt me." John Wesley was as much among wild beasts at Wednesbury, as ever Daniel was in the den of lions, for when men's passions are roused they are no better than the beasts. But the arm that was raised to strike, gently stroked his hair; the blow that was meant to kill, fell upon an invisible head; the leaders of all that was cruel and wicked, were struck tender and quiet, and became personal protectors. Truly Mr. Wesley could have said with Daniel: "My God hath sent His angel, and hath shut the lions' mouths, that they have not hurt me." CHAPTER XXVIII. The lion-hearted Wesleys.--And their brave, long-suffering followers.--What Munchin thought of John Wesley.--Hymn 276 and how it came to be written.--The mischievous schoolboy becomes the sweet singer of Methodism.--The wall that sat down.--And the people who sat down with it. THE troubles in Wednesbury were not yet ended. The very magistrates who had refused to see Mr. Wesley that night when the mob dragged him to the door, a few days later gave orders for the police to search everywhere for "those Methodist preachers who go about raising riots." Even this failed to frighten the brave-hearted Wesleys, for when John left Wednesbury his brother Charles took his place. He found the poor Methodists still suffering terrible persecutions, but patient and forgiving to their enemies. Christ's own words were their help and comfort: "_Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven_" (Matt. v. 10). Munchin, the man who had been one of the leaders of the mob and afterwards protected Mr. Wesley, had joined the Methodists and become a member of society. One day Mr. Charles said to him: "What did you think of my brother?" "Think of him?" said Munchin; "I think he is a man of God; and God was surely by his side when so many of us could not kill one man." The persecutions of the Methodists in Wednesbury continued for a long time. The windows of their houses were broken, their tables, chairs, and other furniture were smashed to pieces, and their feather-beds were torn into shreds. No craven-hearted man would have dared to go into such a place of danger, and preach to such fiends in human form; but the Wesleys knew no fear when duty called, and again and again they visited their poor, persecuted followers. Christ-like men, indeed, they were, for, like their Holy Leader, "when they were reviled they reviled not again; when they suffered they threatened not." Mr. Charles composed a hymn after one of the dreadful rows, which shows how entirely they trusted in Jesus, and how sure they were that no harm could come to them except what He allowed. Look at number 276 in your Wesley's Hymn-Book, and you will find this very hymn. This is the first verse:-- "Worship and thanks and blessing, And strength ascribe to Jesus! Jesus alone defends His own, When earth and hell oppress us. "Jesus with joy we witness Almighty to deliver, Our seals set to, that God is true, And reigns a King for ever." That reminds me that I must not forget to tell you, by far the greater number of the hymns we sing every Sunday in chapel were written by Mr. Charles Wesley. Yes, the little mischievous Westminster schoolboy became the sweet singer of Methodism. Not only among Methodists are his beautiful hymns sung to-day, but in almost every Christian hymn-book in the world some of his verses will be found. You must not think all places were like Wednesbury. Mr. Wesley had often very attentive congregations, and the people listened to him gladly. Indeed, at an open-air service he once held, the people behaved better than I fear we should have done. Part of the congregation sat on a low wall built of loose stones; all at once, in the middle of the sermon, down came the wall and all the people with it. I think we should have burst out laughing, it must have looked so funny. Instead of which, there was no laughing and no screaming; the people just kept their places, only instead of sitting on the top of the wall they sat at the bottom. There was no interruption of the service at all; Mr. Wesley went on with his sermon, and the people continued reverent and attentive. CHAPTER XXIX. The Magic Mirror again.--Sycamore Farm.--Annie's good news.--A chorister up in a tree.--A long, long journey.--Sixty miles a day on horseback.--A Chapel out of doors.--A hard bed and a funny pillow.--Thanksgiving Street.--Ripe Blackberries. WHY, I do believe that Magic Mirror has mended itself, for here it is, showing us such a lovely picture--nay, two, I declare. Look at that dear old farmhouse; it must surely be called Sycamore Farm, for there are great sycamore trees all round the front and the side. At the back, and only one field away from the house, are the green slopes of the mountain, with a little waterfall tumbling merrily down a crack in its side. In front of the farm, shimmering through the leaves of the trees, you can see the sunlit waters of a calm lake. The farm is a low whitewashed building, and we can see the cows in the distant meadows coming home to be milked. No one is with them; but there is a little group of people standing at the farmyard gate. The farmer and his wife and all the family and servants seem to be there. Whatever is the matter? Oh, see! there is a little girl in the middle of the group, and they are all listening to what she is saying. Let us listen too. "Yes, it is quite true; Mr. Wesley _is_ coming. I went to the village for mother, and old Downs the cobbler told me, and so did Mrs. Wilson at the shop. Everybody is talking about it." "Ay, but that's good news, lassie!" the old farmer says. "I wonder now if he'd come and preach at Sycamore Farm." The picture has gone. Oh, but here's the other one. Why, it is the same old farmhouse, and the sun is shining on the whitewashed walls and funny little windows. There is a great crowd gathered under the shade of the leafy sycamores. See, there is the kind-looking farmer, with his sunburnt face, and sitting on his knee is Annie, the little girl that brought the good news from the village. Right in the midst of the crowd is Mr. Wesley, telling these country-people the story of the Cross. Now that picture has gone too. Should we not have liked to have been at that service? I will tell you what Mr. Wesley said about it. "It was a hot summer day, and we could see the blue, blue sky through the leaves of the old sycamores, which shaded us from the heat. Just as I began to preach, a little bird perched on a branch close by and began to sing. I went on preaching, but its song did not end, it sang on and on, and not until the service was quite over did it cease. It was the best music for such a church and such a congregation, no harp or organ ever sounded half so sweet." From Westmoreland, where this happened, to Cornwall is a long way, but not too far for Mr. Wesley and his horse. He used often to ride sixty miles a day; and most of his reading, and the composing of his sermons was done while he was on horseback. He travelled in this way for more than forty years, and must have gone over 100,000 miles. In Gwennap, a place in Cornwall, Mr. Wesley found a lovely out-of-doors sort of chapel. Some of my readers will have seen the Happy Valley at Llandudno; I think the Gwennap chapel must have been something like that, only a great deal bigger. This is what Mr. Wesley wrote about his first service there: "I stood on a wall, in the calm, still evening, with the setting sun behind, and a great, great multitude before, behind, and on either hand, sitting on the hills all round. All could hear quite distinctly, when I read to them Christ's own words: 'The disciple is not above his Master,' and 'He that taketh not his cross and followeth after Me is not worthy of Me.'" Must it not have been a wonderful sight? Like other places, Cornwall did not always give a kind welcome to the Methodists; indeed, they had sometimes to put up with very rough treatment. Often they had to go without food, and the hard floor was their only bed. Once, at a place called St. Ives, Mr. Wesley and his helper, Mr. Nelson, slept on the floor for a whole fortnight. One of them had an overcoat rolled up for a pillow, and the other a big book. They used to get very sore, and sometimes could not sleep for the pain in their poor aching bones. But these Methodists had never heard of Grumble Corner,--they only knew Thanksgiving Street; and so, instead of murmuring and complaining, one night, when the floor seemed harder than ever, Mr. Wesley called out: "Let us cheer up, Brother Nelson, for the skin is only off one side yet." Another time, when no one had asked them to dinner or tea, and they were riding through a country lane, feeling very hungry, Mr. Wesley stopped his horse to gather some blackberries, saying to his friend: "Brother Nelson, we ought to be thankful that there are plenty of blackberries, for this is the best country I ever saw for getting an appetite, but the worst for getting food." On the whole, however, the Cornish people were not unkind to Mr. Wesley. At St. Ives they once gave him a very noisy welcome, shouting, "Hurrah! hurrah!" and then going under his bedroom window and singing: "John Wesley is come to town, To try if he can pull the churches down." All this happened during his first visit to Cornwall; and only once during the three weeks he was there did he get really abused, and that was at St. Ives, when the mob burst into his room, and a rough, cruel man struck him on the head. CHAPTER XXX. A fight with the sea.--Poor Peter!--A sail in a fisherman's boat.--The song that the waves accompanied.--A climb on Land's End.--Manchester disgraces itself.--Hull still worse.--Matt. v. 39.--A brave servant girl.--John Wesley declines to hide. I TOLD you in the last chapter what a wonderful traveller Mr. Wesley was; he could walk twenty-four miles a day easily, in either hot or cold weather, and his adventures on the roads would almost fill a book. On one of his later visits to Cornwall, he had a terrible fight with the sea; this time he was riding in a coach. He had promised to preach in St. Ives at a certain time, and the only way to get there was by crossing the sands when the tide was out. His own driver being a stranger in the country, he engaged a man named Peter Martin to drive him. When they reached the sea-shore they found, to their dismay, that the tide was coming in, and the sands they had to cross were already partly covered with water. Peter, the old coachman, stopped the horses, and told Mr. Wesley that it was not safe to go. Then an old sea-captain tried to prevent them, begging them to go back, or they would surely be drowned. "No," said Mr. Wesley, "I've promised to preach at St. Ives, and I must keep my promise. Take the sea! Take the sea!" he shouted, putting his head out of the carriage window. In a moment, Peter whipped the horses, and dashed into the waves. The wheels of the carriage kept sinking in the deep pits and hollows in the sand, while the horses, swimming in the water, snorted and reared with fright, and every moment poor Peter expected to be drowned. Just at this terrible moment, Mr. Wesley put his head out of the carriage window; his long white hair--for he was an old man when this happened--was dripping with the salt water, which ran down his venerable face. He was calm and fearless, unmoved by the roaring of the waves or the danger of the situation. "What is your name, driver?" he shouted. "Peter, sir," shouted back the man. "Peter," Mr. Wesley called out again, "fear not; thou shalt not sink." With spurring and whipping, the poor frightened, tired horses at last brought them safely over. When they reached St. Ives, Mr. Wesley's first care was to see to the comfort of his horses and driver. He got warm clothing, and refreshments at the inn for Peter, and comfortable stabling for his weary horses; then, quite forgetting himself, wet through with the dashing waves, he went off to the chapel to preach. While Mr. Wesley was in Cornwall he paid a flying visit to the Scilly Isles. He went over in a fisherman's boat, and sang to the rising and falling of the waves: "When passing through the watery deep, I ask in faith His promised aid; The waves an awful distance keep, And shrink from my devoted head. Fearless, their violence I dare; They cannot harm,--for God is there." If you look in your Wesley's Hymn-Book, at hymn 272, you will find this verse. You have all learnt, in your geographies, that Land's End is the most southern point in England; look at the very south of Cornwall, and you will find it. Mr. Wesley was very fond of this wild, rocky point, with oceans rolling on either side,--the English Channel on the one, the mighty Atlantic on the other. He paid a last visit to it when he was an old, old man, eighty years or more. With furrowed cheeks, white hair streaming in the wind, and infirm limbs, he climbed over the steep rocks to get a long, last look at his favourite spot, the meeting of the waters. I believe hymn 59 was composed by Mr. Wesley as he stood on Land's End; this is one of the verses: "Lo! on a narrow neck of land, 'Twixt two unbounded seas I stand, Secure, insensible; A point of time, a moment's space, Removes me to that heavenly place, Or shuts me up in hell." But we are getting on too fast, and must go back to the days when Mr. Wesley was _not_ an old man. All his time was spent in preaching up and down the country, starting fresh societies, and encouraging old ones; and almost everywhere he and his helpers met with abuse and rough treatment. In Manchester, which was even then a large and important town, Mr. Wesley preached to several thousands of people in the open air. At this meeting, his hearers either got tired of listening or they took offence at what he said, for, before he had finished, they threatened to bring out the fire-engine and squirt water upon him if he did not stop. At Hull, on his first visit in 1752, lumps of earth and stones were thrown at him while he was preaching; and when the service was over, the mob followed him, shouting, hooting, and throwing stones until he reached his lodging. Though Mr. Wesley could be as brave as a lion when it was necessary, he could also be as gentle as a lamb. Once, when he was preaching at Dewsbury, a man rushed up to him in a terrible rage, and struck him with all his might on the side of his face. It was such a hard blow that poor Mr. Wesley could not keep the tears from coming into his eyes. Instead of striking the man back or using angry words, he just did what Christ said we should do, he turned his other cheek (Matt. v. 39). The enraged man was so surprised at such unexpected gentleness, that he turned away and hid his face with shame, and was ever after one of the Methodists' greatest friends. Once he even risked his life to save one of their chapels from being destroyed. Another time, when Mr. Wesley was at Falmouth in Cornwall, he called to see an invalid lady. The mob heard where he was, and surrounded the house, shrieking out: "Bring out the Canorum! Where is the Canorum?" This was a nickname which the Cornishmen had given the Methodists. With sticks and stones the mob tried to break open the front door of the poor sick lady's house; and while they were doing this, all the people in the house escaped by the backway, except Mr. Wesley and a servant girl. The girl did not like to leave Mr. Wesley alone in this great danger, and begged him to get away and hide himself. But John Wesley was not one of the "hiding" sort. Instead of that, as soon as they had succeeded in bursting the door open, he just walked straight among the mob, exclaiming: "Here I am! What have you got to say to me? To which of you have I done any wrong?" He made his way out into the street bare-headed, talking all the time; and before he had finished, the ringleader of the mob declared no one should touch him, he would be his protector. So he reached his lodgings in safety. CHAPTER XXXI. Back in London.--Mr. John and Mr. Charles go visiting.--Too much for one.--Talking matters over.--The first Methodist Conference.--No time to be in a hurry.--What early rising can do.--First tract distributors.--A big district.--Boarding schools 150 years ago.--Dreadful rules. WE have been travelling all over England with Mr. Wesley, now I think we must go back to London with him. The society there was still the largest in the country: in the year I am writing about (1744), they had one thousand nine hundred and fifty members. Mr. Wesley very much wished to visit every one of these members, and asked his brother Charles to go with him. They started their visiting at six o'clock every morning, and did not leave off till six o'clock at night. Six o'clock a.m. seems a funny time to call and see any one, does it not? But you see people used to get up at four or five in the morning in those days, and used to go to bed at eight, so it was not really such a funny time as it seems. Though Mr. John and Mr. Charles started so early and worked so late, it took them a long, long time to visit all those 1950 members, and when they had finished, Mr. Wesley realised for the first time how his work had grown. He saw it was impossible, even with his brother's help, to manage all the preachers and all the members scattered over the country, when even the work in London was more than he could undertake alone. He thought about this a great deal, and then he asked four clergymen and four of his helpers, or what we should call local preachers, to meet him and his brother at the Foundry, to talk things over and decide what ought to be done. These gentlemen accepted his invitation, and there, on that eventful Monday in June, 1744, the first Methodist Conference met; and from that time up to the present, no year has passed but Methodist preachers and helpers have gathered together to make plans and talk business. I am sure you must all have heard of the Wesleyan Methodist Conference, which is now held every July or August in some one or other of the large towns of England. This first conference was opened with solemn prayer and a sermon by Mr. Charles Wesley; then all the difficulties of the work were talked over, and arrangements made for the future. Mr. John Wesley presided, and for forty-six years after, at every conference, their beloved leader and head took the chair at this annual gathering. You will think that what with travelling and preaching, and looking after his helpers, and visiting the members, Mr. Wesley could not find time for much else. But it is always the busiest people who have the most time. As I told you before, Mr. Wesley began his days very early, getting up at four o'clock; and by doing this every morning for sixty years, he managed not only to preach, and read, and visit, but also to write a great many books, and thousands of tracts--one of his books was called "Lessons for Children." Many of the tracts were about swearing and Sabbath-breaking, and printed on the outside were the words, "Not to be sold, but given away"; and he and his preachers used to carry them in their pockets and give them to the people they passed on the roads. Another reason why Mr. Wesley had more time than most people was, because he NEVER WASTED A MINUTE, and though he did so much work, he was _never in a hurry_. He used to say, "I have no time to be in a hurry." Hurry you know does not always mean speed; when things are done in a hurry they are often only half done, and have to be done all over again. You remember how the miners at Kingswood collected money and built a school for their children. Well, about ten years afterwards, another school was built at Kingswood for the children of the travelling preachers. These preachers had not much time to look after their families themselves, being so much away from home, and they wanted their boys and girls to be taught to read their Bibles and to learn to love Jesus. They had some dreadfully strict rules at this boarding school, which my readers would not have liked at all, and which I am afraid the children there did not like either, for I have heard that some of the boys ran away. They had to go to bed every night at eight o'clock, and what was worse, get up every morning at four. Then every little boy and girl, unless they were poorly, had to fast every Friday, that is, they were not allowed to have anything to eat all day until three o'clock. But I had better not tell you any more of these dreadful rules, only you may be very thankful that you are living in these days, when you have much better times than the boys and girls who lived 150 years ago. CHAPTER XXXII. A visit to Ireland.--The sack that did not contain potatoes.--The bogie man.--What the sack did contain.--The prayer-meeting in the barn.--Mr. Charles Wesley gets married.--And so does Mr. John.--Two niggers who became missionaries. IN 1749 Mr. Wesley paid a visit to Ireland, where already he had many followers. His brother Charles had visited there two years before, and was a great favourite, for the Irish people love music, and would always go to hear his hymns. In many places in Ireland the Methodists were treated quite as badly as they were in our own country; but the same angel of the Lord that protected them in England followed them across the Irish sea. There is a funny story told of how they were once saved from a band of rough men. The Roman Catholics persecuted them so much at Wexford that they were obliged to hold their meeting secretly in a barn. Once, one of their persecutors got to know the night they were having a meeting, and told his companions he would hide himself in the barn before the service began, and then when it commenced he would open the door to them. They thought this was a splendid idea. So the man went to the barn, and there found an old sack or bag, big enough for him to get into. Into this he crept, and by and by the people began to come, and the service commenced. First, they sang a hymn; and somehow the man in the bag enjoyed it so much, he quite forgot what he had come into the barn for. He listened until the hymn was finished, and then he listened to the prayer that followed, and after that he could not listen any more. He couldn't get out of the bag, and he couldn't do anything but groan and cry. God, through the hymn and the prayer, had touched his heart, and he felt himself to be the greatest sinner in Ireland. So he groaned and groaned, and at last some of the congregation heard him. They looked towards the place where the mysterious sound came from, but could see nothing except what looked like a sack of potatoes. Still the groaning went on, and some of the people got frightened, and were quite sure there was a bogie in the barn. At last one or two ventured to go nearer to the sack, then some one peeped in, and the poor trembling Irishman was discovered. He confessed to his purpose in hiding himself, told them God had stopped him in his evil plan, and begged them to pray for him. So the service was turned into a prayer-meeting, the man was converted, and became one of the best Methodists in Wexford. Some of my readers will be wondering if Mr. John or Mr. Charles Wesley were ever married, and if they had any boys and girls of their own. Just before Mr. Wesley went to Ireland in 1749, he married his brother Charles to the daughter of a Welsh gentleman, and Mr. Wesley, himself, was married two years later to a lady who was a widow. You will be sorry to hear that this lady was not at all nice; she treated her husband most unkindly, and made him very unhappy. Though Mr. Wesley was so fond of children, he never had any of his own. Mr. Charles had eight, but only three lived to grow up. His wife was a good, kind lady, and they were very happy. He did not travel about so much after he was married, but spent a great deal of his time writing his beautiful hymns. These two brothers always remained the best of friends. In one of his letters, Charles wrote to John: "I wish we could be oftener together; it might be better for us both. Let us be useful in our lives, and at our death not divided." Before I close this chapter I want to tell you of the first two black men who were converted through the preaching of a Methodist. Living at Wandsworth, a little place near London where Mr. Wesley had gone to preach, was a gentleman named Nathaniel Gilbert. He had come from the West Indies, where he employed a great many negroes. Two of these negroes he had brought over to England with him, and when Mr. Wesley paid a visit to Mr. Gilbert, and preached in his house, these two black men were converted. When they returned to the West Indies, they, along with Mr. Gilbert, preached the gospel of Jesus Christ to the dark people in those far-away islands. "Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high, Shall we to men benighted The lamp of life deny? Salvation, oh, salvation, The joyful sound proclaim, Till earth's remotest nation Has learnt Messiah's name." CHAPTER XXXIII. Runaway horses.--Two frightened little girls.--A terrible moment.--Safe.--Psalm xci. 11, 12.--Mr. Wesley has a birthday.--A funny receipt for keeping young. ONE more story of how the angel that shut the lions' mouths for Daniel took care of God's dear servant, John Wesley. He was staying at Newcastle with a Methodist named Mr. Smith, who had married his step-daughter. One day a party of them drove to a village a few miles off. In the carriage there was Mr. Wesley and a friend, Mr. and Mrs. Smith and their two little girls. When they had driven about two miles and were just at the top of a hill, suddenly the horses took fright, and dashed down the steep road. The poor coachman was thrown off the box, and the horses tore away at full speed, sometimes swerving to the edge of a ditch on one side of the road, then back again to a ditch on the other, but never once going over. When a cart came along, instead of running into it, the carriage passed as if the driver had been on the box. At the bottom of the hill was a narrow bridge, which it seemed impossible the panting horses could cross safely. But exactly down the middle they went, swerving neither to the right or left. Then up the hill on the other side they dashed, passing many people on the road, but every one afraid to stop their mad career. Near the top of this hill was a gate, which led into a farmer's yard. The gate stood open, and turning sharp, the horses ran through without even touching gate or post. The gate on the other side of the yard was shut, and the terrified people in the carriage thought the horses would now be checked. Instead of that, they rushed through, breaking it up as if it had only been a spider's web, and galloped on through the corn-field. The two little girls had been almost too frightened to speak, now they clung to Mr. Wesley, crying out: "Oh grandpapa, save us! save us!" Mr. Wesley, who says he felt no more afraid than if he had been sitting in his study, just calmly said to them: "Nothing will hurt you, dears; don't be afraid." The horses galloped madly on, till they came to the edge of a steep precipice. Would they go over? What would they do? Oh, what a terrible moment of suspense. A gentleman on horseback seeing their danger, just galloped across the track of the frightened animals. This acted like magic; they stood still at once, and every one was safe. A few minutes more and they would have been dashed to pieces. When they turned back into the road they found the coachman coming to meet them, and no worse for his fall. Did not God keep His promise to the man who had "set his love upon Him"? "_He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways: they shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone._"--Psalm xci. 11, 12. Mr. Wesley was an old man when this happened, just seventy-two; it was in June, and his birthday was on the 17th. But he was so strong and well, not at all like an old man. Listen to what he says of himself: "This is my birthday, the first day of my seventy-second year, and I am wondering how it is that I am just as strong as I was thirty years ago. Indeed, I am better than I was then; I can see better, and my nerves are firmer. The grand cause is 'the good pleasure of God.' But three special things have helped to keep me young: _First_--Getting up at 4 o'clock every morning for fifty years. _Second_--Preaching every morning at five o'clock. _Third_--Travelling by sea or land 4,500 miles in every year." These are funny things to keep any one young, are they not? I am afraid if to follow these rules is the only way to keep young, most of my readers will be content to grow old. CHAPTER XXXIV. Little Mary and what she did with her money.--Caught on the stairs.--Cheered by the children.--Boys and girls converted. IN the year 1770 the Methodists had grown so numerous that they counted forty-nine different circuits or societies in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. They had one hundred and twenty-two travelling preachers, and twice as many local preachers, who did not travel, and at the covenant service which Mr. Wesley held at the beginning of this year in London, there were eighteen hundred members present. Mr. Wesley, like our ministers nowadays, was often wanting money for different purposes, and, like our ministers too, he was always glad of the children's help. Once, when the Foundry wanted repairing, he specially asked for help at an evening service. A little girl named Mary heard him, and thought how much she would like to do something. And this is how she managed it. Mr. Wesley loved children, and used to keep a number of bright new coins in his pocket to give to the little folks he met at his friends' houses. Mary had always been a great favourite with Mr. Wesley, and a proud little girl she was when he took her on his knee and gave her a silver penny. He had often done this, and she had treasured up his gifts in a little box. Other friends, too, had sometimes given her money, which, instead of spending she had saved up. Well, when she got home after that evening service, she counted up her money, and found she had 3. So she went to her mother and asked if she might give it all to Mr. Wesley. Her mother was quite willing; so the next morning little Mary carried her savings to Mr. Wesley's room. Tears came into his eyes as he thanked his little favourite. Taking her in his arms, he kissed her very tenderly, and prayed that God's blessing might always rest upon her. And it did, for Mary grew up to be an earnest, happy Christian. Here is another story that shows how much Mr. Wesley loved the young folks. He was once staying in a house in Bristol where a little boy and girl were visiting. The little girl had long, beautiful hair hanging in curls down her back. She and her brother were running hand in hand down the stairs one day, when Mr. Wesley ran down after them and caught them on the landing. He jumped the little girl in his arms and kissed her; then putting his hand on the boy's head, he blessed him. Little Robert did not think much about this at the time, I dare say, but when he grew up, he felt all his life that the blessing of a good man rested upon him, and his eyes glistened with tears when he told the story. That little boy was the poet Southey, of whom you will read when you are older. When Mr. Wesley wanted recreation or a kind of holiday, he used to go off to Kingswood. A few days among the young folks there always cheered him, and did him good. He loved to hear their lessons and praise their work, and arranged easy grammars and history books for them. A great many people used to think then, as a few do now, that children could not be converted, and that they ought not to be members of society. Mr. Wesley never thought so. At Weardale he allowed thirty children to become members. At another place quite a number of boys and girls came to him after the preaching, wanting him to show them how they could belong to Jesus. Mr. Wesley had both then and always the words of Jesus Himself, before him, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not;" and so he knelt down with those boys and girls and led them to the Good Shepherd, who had laid down His life for them. The children of Judea loved Jesus, and were glad to be with Him; and Mr. Wesley was so like Jesus, so loving and so kind, that the children of England could not help loving him, and were glad to be with him. A whole crowd once waited in the street a long time for him, and when at last he came, they all followed him like so many little lambs after their shepherd, as many as could clinging to him. They went to the meeting-house with him, and after the service was over would not leave until they had all shaken hands with him. "In Cornwall, Manchester, and Epworth," Mr. Wesley says, "numbers of children were converted." These verses apply to all my readers: "God wants the boys, the merry, merry boys, The noisy boys, the funny boys, The thoughtless boys. God wants the boys with all their joys, That He, as gold, may make them pure, And teach them trials to endure; His heroes brave He'd have them be, Fighting for truth and purity, God wants the boys. "God wants the girls, the happy-hearted girls, The loving girls, the best of girls, The worst of girls. God wants to make the girls His pearls, And so reflect His holy face, And bring to mind His wondrous grace, That beautiful the world may be, And filled with love and purity. God wants the girls." CHAPTER XXXV. How Mr. Wesley settled a school-boys' quarrel.--Dr. Watts and little birds.--Mr. Wesley, loved and honoured.--A holiday for the children. HERE is a story of how Mr. Wesley settled a dispute between two quarrelsome school-boys. When he was an old man, seventy-three, he was staying with one of his local preachers, a Mr. Bush, who had a boarding-school. One day Mrs. Bush brought to him two boys who had been fighting. "Boys! boys!" said Mr. Wesley: "'Birds in their little nests agree, And 'tis a shameful sight, When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight!' You must make it up. Come now, shake hands with each other." Mr. Wesley, with his long white hair and beautiful face, looked and spoke so lovingly, that the boys did at once what he asked them. "Now," he said, "put your arms round each other's necks, and kiss each other." And the little boys did this too. He was just having his tea when Mrs. Bush brought in the culprits, and now taking two pieces of bread and butter, he folded them together and told each boy to break a piece off. Then he gave each of them a drink of tea out of his own cup. "Now," he added, "you have broken bread together, and you have drunk out of the same cup, now you must be friends." Then he put his hands on the boys' heads and blessed them. The next morning at family prayer he sought out the boys and blessed them again. The two lads never forgot this meeting with Mr. Wesley. One of them became a magistrate, and when he had children of his own he used to tell them this story of his school-days. I remember that little verse of Dr. Watts' being recited to my brothers and me when we were in the nursery, and as I wrote it down I wondered if the same thoughts came into the heads of those school-boys that came into mine. My dear mother used to look very serious when she said it, and it sounded very solemn. But I had often seen little birds quarrelling, and I knew that hymn did not tell the truth, and so I felt little birds were hardly a proper example to follow. Now, though Dr. Watts was not quite correct, still little birds do agree very much better than many children; and if they sometimes quarrel, remember they are only guided by instinct, while you have sense, and know the difference between right and wrong. You will all be glad to know that before Mr. Wesley died, all the ill-will and hatred of the people had changed to love and reverence. The very towns where he had been treated most unkindly were now the ones to give him the heartiest welcome. Instead of mobs waiting to abuse him, crowds gathered to do him honour. In many places the children had a holiday from school, the tradespeople closed their shops, and everybody tried who could best show their love and respect for the man whom before they had treated so unkindly. CHAPTER XXXVI. More peeps into the Magic Mirror.--A special picture for Sheffield readers.--Another for young folks in Oldham.--Little Daniel on the pulpit stairs.--Special for Hull. I THINK we must have some more peeps into that Magic Mirror? Will my little Sheffield readers take a good look? What do we see? A street in a big town, and oh! such crowds and crowds of people on both sides of the road. The windows of the houses, too, are all crowded with people. What can it all mean? See! there are two men coming along, everybody is turning to look at them, and we can hear more than one voice saying: "God bless him! God bless him!" Several of the women are wiping their eyes with the corner of their aprons; there are tears in many eyes. Look at the two men as they come nearer. One is a middle-aged man; the other, who is leaning on his arm, wears a black gown and white bands. He is an old man, but how beautiful he looks. He has a splendid face, a clear skin and rosy cheeks. His eyes are quick and keen, and he has long, shiny hair, white and bright like silver. See now how the children are crowding round him! He is smiling down upon them and putting his hands upon their heads as he passes. Now he is stretching his hands out towards heaven, and blessing all the people, many of whom are weeping aloud. He has passed down the street, and the picture has gone. Sheffield readers, that was how your town welcomed and honoured dear John Wesley a short time before his death. Now peep again into the Magic Mirror. And this time I would like my Oldham readers to step to the front. See, there is a little boy about six years old playing at the door of a house. An old clergyman is passing, and stops to speak to the child. "Where is your father, Daniel?" he says. "Gone to chapel." "And your mother?" "She's gone too," answers Daniel. "And you shall go too, my boy. You must not miss seeing this great man, John Wesley," says the clergyman, as he takes the child's hand and fades away from our picture. But see, there is another coming! It is the inside of a chapel, and people are everywhere; in the galleries, in the aisles, in the communion rails, everywhere. On the pulpit-stairs some one has found room for a little child. Why, it is Daniel, and there is the kind clergyman standing near. See, the preacher has finished, and is coming down from the pulpit, he is lifting up the little child and is kissing him. Now, he has passed into the vestry, and the picture has gone. That, my young Oldham readers, was the opening of Manchester St. Chapel on Good Friday, 1790, when Mr. Wesley was nearly ninety years old. At Hull, Birmingham, Wednesbury, Chester, Manchester, Liverpool, all places where the Methodists had been most cruelly treated, Mr. Wesley and his followers were now most kindly welcomed. You remember how Mr. Wesley and his brother had been shut out of the churches, very few clergymen allowing them to preach in their pulpits. This, too, was all changed. Those of you who live in Hull will like to know that John Wesley, when he was eighty-three, was invited by the vicar to preach in your beautiful High Church. If any of you have not been inside--but surely all my Hull readers have--pay it a visit, and just fancy you see that bright-eyed, silver-haired old man, with a voice that had lost little of the strength of youth, preaching to the crowds that thronged the hallowed place. If those old grey walls could speak, we might know John Wesley's very words. He preached again at night, and though so old, was unwearied with his work. He went on to Beverley that same evening, and the next day travelled seventy-six miles, preached at Malton, Pocklington, and Swinefleet, and went to bed without feeling the least bit tired. Wonderful John Wesley! God-blest John Wesley! CHAPTER XXXVII. Beverley friends.--Copy of a letter John Wesley wrote to them.--Mr. Wesley's last visit to Beverley.--What took place in the red-roofed inn.--A race.--A lost ten minutes. YOU, who live in Beverley, will be glad to hear that Mr. Wesley did not pass by your dear little town. Indeed, there is a house in Norwood where he most probably stayed, and certainly visited; the home of Mr. and Mrs. Barton. You shall see an exact copy of a letter he wrote to these friends. It has never been printed before, so you are the first of the public to see it. It is addressed thus: "MRS. JANE BARTON, "IN NORWOOD, BEVERLEY, "YORKSHIRE." And this is the letter: London Nov. 13, 1778 My Dear Sister I am glad Sister Crosby has been at Beverly, & that you had an Opportunity of hearing her. She is useful wheresoever she goes, particularly in exciting Believers to go on to perfection. There is frequently something very mysterious in y^e ways of Divine Providence A little of them we may understand; but much more, is beyond our comprehension And we must be content to say, "What thou dost I know not now. But I shall know hereafter." At present, it is sufficient for us to know, That all his ways are many & truth to those that love him. Even in these troublous times, there is a very considerable Increase of the Work of God. Cleave to Him with your whole heart, & you will have more & more reason to praise him. I am, My Dear Jenny, Y^r affectionate Brother JWesley You must not make a mistake and think that Mr. Wesley was Mrs. Jenny Barton's brother really; but it was the custom among the Methodists for the members of society to address each other as "Brother So-and-So" and "Sister So-and-So," meaning that they were brothers and sisters in having the same heavenly Father, and loving the same Saviour. John Wesley preached in a meeting-house in Wood Lane, which you can still see, though it is now turned into cottages; and we may be quite sure that the boys and girls who lived in Beverley then, heard his loving words, and received his blessing. He once spent two days of his birthday month in your quaint old town. The June sun stole through the stained windows of the beautiful Minster, and looked into the jackdaws' nests on St. Mary's Tower. There is a funny story told of this last visit, which he paid only a few months before his death. He was going to preach in Hull again, and forty friends from that town had come over to see him. They were all to have dinner together in the red-roofed inn where he was staying, and then drive back with him to Hull. Everybody was very merry, and they laughed and talked so much that they quite forgot all about the time. Suddenly, Mr. Wesley looked at his watch, then jumped up from the dinner table, shouted good-bye to his friends, stepped into his carriage, which had been waiting some time for him at the door, and was off before his astonished friends could say a word. Their horses and carriages were got ready with all speed, but it was only by driving very fast that they managed to overtake Mr. Wesley before he rode into Hull. Punctuality was one of Mr. Wesley's strongest points. He could never bear to be a minute behind time. Once, when his carriage did not come punctually, he was heard to say: "I have lost ten minutes for ever." CHAPTER XXXVIII. Going to sleep.--How John Wesley missed his brother.--A good man's tears.--Getting old.--Mr. Wesley's text for the children.--Last words in Manchester.--In Colchester.--A dinner-hour meeting.--The old ash tree. NOW I must come to what seems to the young a very sad time. When we are strong and healthy, and can enjoy all the things God has given us to enjoy in this beautiful world, death does seem very sad and sorrowful. But think, dear young readers, how you feel when you have been playing hard all day, or working at school, and perhaps gone to a party in the evening and have not got to bed until 10 o'clock. Is it not very nice and very comforting to lay your head on your soft pillow and go to sleep? Now this is just how God's people feel when they are tired of life's work, they just close their eyes and fall asleep, "asleep in Jesus." This is how Mr. Charles Wesley passed away when he was eighty years old. Though four years younger than Mr. John, he seemed the older man, for he had been weak and infirm for a long time. The two brothers had loved each other dearly, and Mr. Wesley felt very lonely when "Charlie" died. Three weeks afterwards, Mr. Wesley, preaching at Bolton, gave out for his second hymn No. 140, a hymn composed by Mr. Charles. He tried to read the first verse, but when he came to the words "My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee," he could get no further, but just burst into tears, and sat down in the pulpit, burying his face in his hands. The singing ceased, and numbers of the congregation wept in sympathy at sight of their dear leader's sorrow. At last Mr. Wesley recovered himself, and went on with the service, which was never forgotten by any of those who were present. Very soon after this, Mr. Wesley began to feel weak and feeble. Again his birthday month came round, the sunny month of June, and on the 17th he wrote: "I am eighty-six to-day, and I find I grow old. My eyes are so dim that no spectacles will help me, and I cannot read small print except in a very strong light. My strength fails me so that I walk much slower than I used to do." He was now, for the first time for forty years, obliged to give up his five o'clock morning sermons, and was only able to preach twice a day. As the months went by, he grew weaker and more infirm. Once, as the old man tottered up the pulpit stairs, the whole congregation burst into tears. On Valentine's Day, in 1790, he preached one of his last sermons to his _little_ followers. He chose for his text: "Come, ye children, hearken unto Me: I will teach you the fear of the Lord." The boys and girls flocked from everywhere to hear him, and many who had never loved Jesus before, heard Him speaking to them through His dear servant; and answering the loving call, came, and from that day became Christ's faithful little soldiers. In the same year, when he was eighty-seven years old, he spent a week-end in Manchester, and spoke his last words to his followers there. He preached in the old chapel in Oldham Street on the Saturday night, and the next day, which was Easter Sunday (April 4th), he assisted in giving the Sacrament to sixteen hundred members, and preached both night and morning without feeling tired. A few months later he preached at Colchester; but he was so infirm that a minister had to stand on each side of him, and hold him up. His voice was feeble and low, and many of the congregation could not hear him; but his calm, beautiful face, and long white hair formed a picture that the children and grown-up people in Colchester never forgot. It was in this same year, 1790, that he preached for the last time in the open air. It was in Winchelsea, and the time was October, the month when nuts and apples are asking to be gathered, and when the leaves put on their loveliest dress. As Mr. Wesley felt his time on earth was drawing to a close, he was all the more eager to "tell to all around, what a dear Saviour he had found," and how they might find Him too. So he preached at twelve o'clock noon, the dinner hour of the workmen, in order that they too might have a chance of hearing the good news. A large oak dining-table was brought into the churchyard, and there, under the shade of an old ash tree, John Wesley gave his last message to those working men. "_The kingdom of Heaven is at hand; repent ye, and believe the Gospel_," was his text, and as he preached, the tears of the people flowed down their cheeks. Long, long afterwards the old ash tree was known as "Wesley's Tree," and the vicar of Winchelsea had hard work to keep it from being cut to pieces; for Methodists use to come from all parts to cut a twig in remembrance of that last scene in the life of the venerable field-preacher. CHAPTER XXXIX. About his "Father's business." --Last advice.--Singing and dying.--"The best of all is, God is with us." --John Wesley passes through the Golden Gates. MOST people think it is time to stop working long before they are eighty, but John Wesley at eighty-seven still went about his "Father's business." His constant prayer was, "Lord, let me not live to be useless." Every meeting he knew might be his last, and when he visited the different societies, he used to ask the members to take as his last advice: "To love as brothers, to fear God, and to honour the King." He closed nearly all these meetings with his brother's hymn: "O that without a lingering groan, I may the welcome Word receive; My body with my charge lay down, And cease at once to work and live." John Wesley's last sermon was preached in a gentleman's dining-room, at Leatherhead, a small place about eighteen miles from London. It was on February 23rd, 1791, and his text was, "_Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near._"--Isa. lv. 6. This was on a Wednesday, and the day but one after, Friday, he felt very poorly, and said he would like to lie down. At the end of half an hour, some one went to his bedroom, and found him so ill that they sent for the doctor. On Sunday he seemed better, and got up. He was so cheerful and happy; and while sitting in his chair in his bedroom, he repeated a verse from one of his brother's hymns: "Till glad I lay this body down, Thy servant, Lord, attend; And oh! my life of mercy crown With a triumphant end!" On Monday night he couldn't sleep, and the next day, some one asked him if he had any pain. "No," he answered. And then he began singing: "All glory to God in the sky, And peace upon earth be restored; O, Jesus exalted on high, Appear our omnipotent Lord. Who meanly in Bethlehem born, Didst stoop to redeem a lost race; Once more to Thy people return, And reign in Thy kingdom of grace." When he had sung two verses, he lay still. After awhile he said, "I want to write." So they brought him ink and paper, and put the pen in his hand; but John Wesley's writing days were over. "I cannot," he said. "Let me write for you," said one of his friends, "tell me what you want to say." "Nothing," replied the dying Christian, "but that God is with us." In the morning he wanted to get up, and while his friends were bringing him his clothes, he started to sing: "I'll praise my Maker while I've breath, And, when my voice is lost in death, Praise shall employ my nobler powers; My days of praise shall ne'er be past, While life, and thought, and being last, Or immortality endures. "Happy the man, whose hopes rely On Israel's God: He made the sky, And earth and sea, with all their train; His truth for ever stands secure; He saves the opprest, He feeds the poor, And none shall find His promise vain." _Hymn 224._ When he was dressed and seated in his chair, he prayed in a very weak voice: "Lord, Thou givest strength to those who can speak, and to those who cannot; speak, Lord, to all our hearts." Then he tried to sing again, but his voice failed him. He was soon tired of sitting up, and went back to bed. He could not talk very much; but twice he lifted his hand in triumph, and said so gladly: "The best of all is, God is with us." A great many friends were standing round his bed; he took each one by the hand, and lovingly bade them farewell. All through Tuesday night, he kept trying to repeat the hymn he had sung, but could only say: "I'll praise, I'll praise." Next morning, about ten o'clock, the Rev. Joseph Bradford, who had been his faithful companion and nurse, knelt down at the bedside and prayed. Eleven of Mr. Wesley's friends were in the room; they wanted to go with their dear leader, right up to the gates that divide our life here from our life yonder. "Farewell," said the dying patriarch. And then, as some one repeated, "Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and this Heir of glory shall come in," the Golden Gates opened, and the soul of John Wesley passed through. Those who were left outside the gates, still stood round the bed and sang to the departing spirit: "Waiting to receive thy spirit, Lo, the Saviour stands above; Shows the purchase of His merit, Reaches out the crown of love." So died happy John Wesley. Happy in life, happy in death. And the secret of his happiness was the secret he proclaimed to thousands of boys and girls, as well as men and women, all over this England of ours. "O boys, be strong in Jesus; Let those around you see How manly, pure, and generous, A Christian boy can be. "O maidens, live for Jesus, Like Him, be kind and true; And let the love from God above Rule all you say and do. "Then all the boys and maidens, When life and work are o'er, Will hear from One, the words 'Well done,' And rest for evermore." * * * * * If ever you go to London, you must visit City Road Chapel, for there John Wesley was interred, on the 9th of March, 1791, aged nearly eighty-eight years. A great deal was put on his tombstone which you could not understand, but it tells how this servant of God laboured to bring men and women to know Jesus Christ, and how the lives and hearts of many thousands were changed by his preaching. In Westminster Abbey, too, you will see a marble tablet erected to his memory, and that of his brother Charles. Though churches shut their doors to him in life, his memory is now so lovingly respected, that the finest Cathedral in England has sought to do him honour. In one of the topmost rooms in the tower at Kingswood School, John Wesley's bedstead has recently been discovered. Merely a collection of poles and a piece of old sacking, it lay there many a long year, only seen by the man who went up the tower to wind the clock. Now it is put together, and set in a place of honour; and any of us may see the bed on which John Wesley slept, when he visited the boys and girls at Kingswood. Here, too, we may see his chairs and books, and a gown, now torn, which he used to wear. The Governor of New Kingswood still sits in the high-backed oak chair in which John Wesley sat; and grafted on several of the trees in the orchard, are shoots from the very pear tree which was planted in the garden of Old Kingswood by the Founder of Methodism. FLETCHER AND SON, PRINTERS, NORWICH. CATALOGUE OF ... Prize and Gift Books. ROBERT CULLEY, 2 & 3 Ludgate Circus Buildings, Farringdon Street, LONDON, E.C. 5/- =Sunday School Record, Annual Volume.= Published Weekly, 1/2d. Expounds International Lessons. 4/- =By Doctor's Orders.= By A. F. PERRAM. Gilt Edges. =Churchwarden's Daughter:= A present-day Methodist Story. By J. W. KEYWORTH. Gilt Edges. =Nathan Plaintalk.= By J. W. KEYWORTH. Gilt Edges. =The Golden Shoemaker: or, Cobbler Horn.= By J. W. KEYWORTH. Gilt Edges. =Willie's Secret.= By J. W. KEYWORTH. 3/6 =Among the Roses:= and other Sermons to Children. By REV. SAMUEL GREGORY. =By Doctor's Orders:= A Temperance Story. By A. F. PERRAM. By J. W. KEYWORTH. =Dr. Blandford's Conscience.= By SARSON C. J. INGHAM. =Mother Freeman.= By J. W. KEYWORTH. Gilt Edges. =Two Saxon Maidens.= By ELIZA KERR. Gilt Edges. =Wild Lottie and Wee Winnie:= or, Led by a Little Child. By ASHTON NEILL. Gilt Edges. 3/- =From under the Shadow.= By ANNIE BROUGHTON FOSKETT. Gilt Edges. =Melissa's Victory.= By ASHTON NEILL. Gilt Edges. =Sunday School Magazine, Annual Volume.= =The Morrison Family:= or, The Way of Duty is the Way of Safety. By EMILY SPRATLING. Gilt Edges. By ASHTON NEILL. 2/6 =A Methodist Doctor of Ye Olden Time:= a True Story for Boys. By ARTHUR LINCOLN. Gilt Edges. =Bernard's Holiday in London, Paris, and Rome.= By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. Many Illustrations. =Daddy's Darlings.= By EDITH GREEVES. Gilt Edges. =Duchess Renee:= or, An Episode in the History of the Reformation. By SARSON C. J. INGHAM. =Fighting against Fate:= or, Brent Brompton's Delusions. By HELEN BRISTON. Gilt Edges. =From under the Shadow.= By ANNIE BROUGHTON FOSKETT. =General Betty, Maid-of-all-Work.= By EDITH GREEVES. Gilt Edges. =Love the Conqueror.= By JEANIE FERRY. Gilt Edges. =Loyalty Rewarded.= By JEANIE FERRY. Gilt Edges. =Maggie's Life Work:= a Temperance Story. By JEANIE FERRY. Gilt Edges. =The Morrison Family:= or, the Way of Duty is the Way of Safety. By EMILY SPRATLING. =Touching the Kettle:= with Other Stories and Parables. By JOHN TELFORD, B.A. Gilt Edges. =Words of the Wise:= Daily Reading. By DR. T. BOWMAN STEPHENSON. 2- =A Methodist Doctor of Ye Olden Time:= a True Story for Boys. By ARTHUR LINCOLN. =A Noble Revenge:= or, Thomas Gladwin's Example. By J. W. KEYWORTH. Gilt Edges. =Arrows for Temperance Bows= (Dialogues). By OLIVER PACIS. =A Victory and its Cost:= a Tale of the War of 1812. By W. H. WITHROW, M.A. =A Woman's Dilemma.= By EDITH CORNFORTH. Gilt Edges. =Banners and Battlefields.= By EDITH CORNFORTH. Gilt Edges. J. FORSTER. Many Illustrations. =Bertha Wynchester.= By EDITH CORNFORTH. Gilt Edges. =Bessie's Ministry.= By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =Beyond the Boundary.= By JENNIE PERRETT. Gilt Edges. =Bird Minstrels:= Their Ways and Wanderings. By R. CORLETT COWELL. Gilt Edges. =Conquering:= or, Bernard's Burden. A Temperance Story. By JEANIE FERRY. Gilt Edges. ="Doe no Yll":= or, The Brandon Family Motto. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. =Fairy:= a Little Cornish Maid. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. =Fettered or Free.= By JEANIE FERRY. Gilt Edges. =Fifine's Charge:= or, The Little Mother. By WM. J. FORSTER. =Fighting against Fate:= or, Brent Brompton's Delusion. By HELEN BRISTON. =For John's Sake.= By ANNIE F. PERRAM. Gilt Edges. =Gold and Glitter:= a Temperance Tale. By JEANIE FERRY. =Hagar's Reparation.= By EDITH CORNFORTH. =Hazel Haldene.= By ELIZA KERR. =Her Heart's Desire.= By JEANIE FERRY. Gilt Edges. =How Mrs. Hewitt's House was turned out of Window.= By CAROLINE RIGG. Gilt Edges. =In Pawn:= a Story of a Pledge. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. Gilt Edges. =Ivy Chimneys.= By EDITH CORNFORTH. Gilt Edges. =Jackalent:= An Epic of the Streets. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. Gilt Edges. =Kavanagh Major.= By ISABEL S. ROBSON. Gilt Edges. =Kilkee.= By ELIZA KERR. =Leighton Family.= By EDITH E. RHODES. Gilt Edges. =Leonard's Temptation:= a Story of Gambling. By BESSIE MARCHANT. Gilt Edges. =Life in Malin's Lea.= By ISABEL S. ROBSON. Gilt Edges. =Lottie, Servant and Heroine.= By HELEN BRISTON. Gilt Edges. =Love the Conqueror:= or, The Rival Cousins. By JEANIE FERRY. =Maggie's Life Work.= By JEANIE FERRY. =Margaret Wattford:= a Story of the 17th Century. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =Marjory Flint's Latchkey:= and Other Stories. By W. H. BOOTH, F.R.G.S. Gilt Edges. =Millie's Experiences:= or Chequered Ways. By NELLIE L. ROYLE. Gilt Edges. =Mighty Men and their Daring Deeds.= By J. J. ELLIS. Gilt Edges. =Mystery of Grange Drayton.= By ELIZA KERR. Gilt Edges. =Patsy O'Hara, the Child of the Ocean.= By RUTH B. YATES. Gilt Edges. =Rescued:= or, Kenneth Cresswell's Transformation. By EMILY SPRATLING. =Roger's Quest:= a Story of the Days of Queen Elizabeth. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =Runnelbrook Valley:= a Temperance Story. By MRS. HAYCRAFT. Gilt Edges. =Scaramouch:= and Other Stories. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. Gilt Edges. =Secret of Ashton Manor House.= By ELIZA KERR. Gilt Edges. =Sire and Son:= A Startling Contrast. By AMOS WHITE. =Soul Echoes:= or, Reflected Influence. =Stories without Names:= for Young Bible Searchers, with Answers. By ELSIE. =Story of John Wesley:= for Boys and Girls. By MARIANNE KIRLEW. =Story Weavers:= Writers for the Young. By ISABEL S. ROBSON. Gilt Edges. =Sunrise Corner:= Illustrating Psalm 103. By MRS. HAYCRAFT. Gilt Edges. =Talks on the Catechism:= Easy Lessons for Young Scholars. By ANNA M. HELLIER. =Tents of Kedar:= Bible Talks with Children. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =That Boy Mick.= By ANNIE F. PERRAM. Gilt Edges. =The Price She Paid:= a Temperance Tale. By J. W. KEYWORTH. Gilt Edges. =The Fortunes of Sir Richard de Thorn, Knight of Kent.= By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =The Knights of the Tempest:= a Tale of the Lifeboat. By H. PRATER. Gilt Edges. =The Scotch Girl's Exile:= a Story of Olden Times. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =Twelve Famous Girls.= By MARIANNE KIRLEW. Gilt Edges. =Two Little Sisters and Humphrey.= By ISABEL S. ROBSON. Gilt Edges. =Winsome Winnie.= By EMILY SPRATLING. Gilt Edges. =Yuppie.= By BESSIE MARCHANT. Gilt Edges. "CONQUERING" SERIES. 1/6 =A Noble Revenge:= or, Thomas Gladwin's Example. By J. W. KEYWORTH. =Banners and Battlefields.= By EDITH GREEVES. =Broken Purposes:= or, The Good Time Coming. By LILLIE MONTFORT. =Blind Olive:= or, Dr. Greyville's Infatuation. =Chips from a Temperance Workshop= (Recitation, &c.). By OLIVER PACIS. A Temperance Tale. By JEANIE FERRY. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. =Eleanor's Ambition.= By SARSON C. J. INGHAM. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. By WM. J. FORSTER. =Frank Heaton's Dilemma:= and Other Stories. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. By JEANIE FERRY. =Harold and his Sisters in Norway.= By HENRY H. M'CULLAGH, B.A. =How Mrs. Hewitt's House was turned out of Window:= Temperance Stories. By CAROLINE RIGG. =How to Steer a Ship:= and Other Stories. By REV. SAMUEL GREGORY. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. =Leigh on Family.= By EDITH E. RHODES. By BESSIE MARCHANT. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. =Our Martha:= or, Careful Without Care. By EDITH GREEVES. By EMILY SPRATLING. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. By MRS. HAYCRAFT. By ANNIE M. YOUNG. =Story of Christian:= Life Pictures from "Pilgrim's Progress." By SAMUEL GREGORY. By MARIANNE KIRLEW. By MRS. HAYCRAFT. =Tatters and Jennie's Schooldays.= By LILLIE PETHYBRIDGE. By H. PRATER. By J. W. KEYWORTH. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. =Two Snowy Christmas Eves.= By ELIZA KERR. =2 & 3 Ludgate Circus Buildings, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.= "SUNDAY AFTERNOON" SERIES. 1/6 =A Comet for a Night.= By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =A Terrible Fix:= and Other Stories. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =Dr. Brown's Bill:= and Other Stories. By ANNIE CRAIG. Gilt Edges. =Eelin's New Home.= By ISABEL S. ROBSON. Gilt Edges. =Florrie's Telegram:= and Other Stories. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =Gerald's Adventure:= or, Only a Drummer Boy. By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =Ida Graham:= and How She Overcame Her Difficulties. By EMILY SPRATLING. Gilt Edges. =In Solomon's Porch:= Bible Talks with Children. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =Isabelle's Story.= By ALICE J. BRIGGS. Gilt Edges. =It's My Nature.= By HELEN BRISTON. Gilt Edges. =John Fletcher, Farmer.= By F. SPENSER. Gilt Edges. =Leslie's Revenge.= By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =Mabel's Three Keys.= By R. SINCLAIR. Gilt Edges. =Master Piers.= By ISABEL S. ROBSON. Gilt Edges. By NELLIE L. ROYLE. =Minnie's Curiosity:= and Other Stories. By WM. J. FORSTER. Gilt Edges. =Nora's Queer Lesson Book.= By ANNIE CRAIG. Gilt Edges. =Notes on the New Brief Catechism:= with Introduction by Rev. 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S. Buildings, 6d. SUNDAY SCHOOL REFORM: Two Prize Essays, 1s. net. =2 & 3 Ludgate Circus Buildings, Farringdon Street, London, E.C.= * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The transcription of the letter was done as well as possible. All spelling and punctuation anamolies have been retained for the letter only. An image is available in the HTML version of this text. Obvious punctuation errors in the rest of the text repaired. Page 40, hyphens were added to "S-i-m-m-o-n-d-s" to keep the spaces between letters. Advertising page 6, "Winnnie" changed to "Winnie" (Winsome Winnie) End of (available with this file or online at Section 1. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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The included with this eBook or online at THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ SEVENTY YEARS AMONG SAVAGES. 12s. 6d. THE FLOGGING CRAZE. A Statement of the Case against Corporal Punishment. With Foreword by Sir George Greenwood. 3s. 6d. net. GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. ON CAMBRIAN AND CUMBRIAN HILLS. Pilgrimages to Snowdon and Scafell. Revised Edition. 5s. net. C. W. DANIEL LTD. ANIMALS' RIGHTS: Considered in relation to Social Progress. Revised Edition. 2s. 6d. DE QUINCEY. Great Writers Series. 1s. 6d. net. G. BELL & SONS LTD. THE LIFE OF HENRY D. THOREAU. 1s. 6d. net. WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO. RICHARD JEFFERIES: His Life and his Ideals. 1s. 6d. net. JONATHAN CAPE. THE LIFE OF JAMES THOMSON, B.V. 2s. 6d. net. TREASURES OF LUCRETIUS. Selected Passages translated into English Verse. 1s. 6d. net. WATTS & CO. THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER BY HENRY S. SALT LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. _First published in 1922_ (_All rights reserved_) TO MY FRIENDS W. J. JUPP and E. BERTRAM LLOYD NOTE I am indebted to the courtesy of the editors of the _Daily News_, _Pall Mall Gazette_, _Liverpool Daily Post_, and _Sussex Daily News_, for permission to reprint in this book the substance of articles that first appeared in their columns. My obligation to Jack London, in regard to the choice of a title, will be apparent. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER 9 II. ON SUSSEX SHINGLES 21 III. BY DITCH AND DIKE 29 IV. LIKENESSES THAT BAFFLE 37 V. BOTANESQUE 43 VI. THE OPEN DOWNLAND 50 VII. PRISONERS OF THE PARTERRE 58 VIII. PICKING AND STEALING 63 IX. ROUND A SURREY CHALK-PIT 68 X. A SANDY COMMON 77 XI. QUAINTNESS IN FLOWERS 85 XII. HERTFORDSHIRE CORNFIELDS 90 XIII. THE SOWER OF TARES 97 XIV. DALES OF DERBYSHIRE 103 XV. NO THOROUGHFARE! 113 XVI. LIMESTONE COASTS AND CLIFFS 121 XVII. ON PILGRIMAGE TO INGLEBOROUGH 128 XVIII. A BOTANOPHILIST'S JOURNAL 133 XIX. FELONS AND OUTLAWS 139 XX. SOME MARSH-DWELLERS 144 XXI. A NORTHERN MOOR 151 XXII. APRIL IN SNOWDONIA 158 XXIII. FLOWER-GAZING _IN EXCELSIS_ 164 XXIV. COVES OF HELVELLYN 171 XXV. GREAT DAYS 178 XXVI. THE LAST ROSE 185 INDEX 191 The Call of the Wildflower I THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER _Tantus amor florum._ VIRGIL. THE "call of the wild," where the love of flowers is concerned, has an attraction which is not the less powerful because it is difficult to explain. The charm of the garden may be strong, but it is not so strong as that which draws us to seek for wildflowers in their native haunts, whether of shore or water-meadow, field or wood, moorland or mountain. A garden is but a "zoo" (with the cruelty omitted); and just as the true natural history is that which sends us to study animals in the wilds, not to coop them in cages, so the true botany must bring man to the flower, not the flower to man. That the lovers of wildflowers--those, at least, who can give active expression to their love--are not a numerous folk, is perhaps not surprising; for even a moderate knowledge of the subject demands such favourable conditions as free access to nature, with opportunities for observation beyond what most persons command; but what they lack in numbers they make up in zeal, and to none is the approach of spring more welcome than to those who are then on the watch for the reappearance of floral friends. For it is as friends, not garden captives or herbarium specimens, that the flower-lover desires to be acquainted with flowers. It is not their uses that attract him; _that_ is the business of the herbalist. Nor is it their structure and analysis; the botanist will see to that. What he craves is a knowledge of the loveliness, the actual life and character of plants in their relation to man--what may be called the spiritual aspect of flowers--and this is seen and felt much more closely when they are sought in their free wild state than when they are cultivated on rockery or in parterre. The reality of this love of wildflowers is evident, but its cause and meaning are less easy to discern. Is it only part of a modern "return to nature," or a sign of some latent sympathy between plant and man? We do not know; but we know that our interest in flowers is no longer utilitarian, as in the herbalism of a bygone time, or decorative and sthetic, as in the immemorial use of the garland on festive occasions, and in the association of the wine-cup with the rose. The "great affection" that Chaucer felt for the daisy marked a new era; and later poets have carried the sentiment still further, till it reached a climax in the faith that Wordsworth avowed: One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Here is a new herbalism--of the heart. We smile nowadays at the credulity of the old physicians, who rated so highly the virtues of certain plants as to assert, for example, that comfrey--the "great consound," as they called it--had actual power to unite and solidify a broken bone. But how if there be flowers that can in very truth make whole a broken spirit? Even in the Middle Ages it was recognized that mental benefit was to be gained from this source, as when betony was extolled for its value in driving away despair, and when _fuga dmonum_ was the name given to St. John's-wort, that golden-petaled amulet which, when hung over a doorway, could put all evil spirits to flight. That, like many another flower, it can put "the blues" to flight, is a fact which no modern flower-lover will doubt. But what may be called the anthropocentric view of wildflowers is now happily becoming obsolete. "Their beauty was given them for our delight," wrote Anne Pratt in one of the pleasantest of her books: "God sent them to teach us lessons of Himself." It would somewhat spoil our joy in the beauty of wildflowers if we thought they had been "sent," like potted plants from a nursery, for any purpose whatsoever; for it is their very naturalness, their independence of man, that charms us, and our regard for them is less the prosaic satisfaction of an owner in his property, than the love of a friend, or even the worship of a devotee: The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow. This, I think, is the true gospel of the love of flowers, though as yet it has found but little expression in the literature of the subject. "Flowers as flowers," was Thoreau's demand, when he lamented in his journal that there was no book which treated of them in that light, no real "biography" of plants. The same want is felt by the English reader to-day: there is no writer who has done for the wildflower what Mr. W. H. Hudson has done for the bird. Indeed, the books mostly fail, not only to portray the life of the plant, but even to give an intelligible account of its habitat and appearance; for very few writers, however sound their technical knowledge, possess the gift of lucid description--a gift which depends, in its turn, upon that sympathy with other minds which enables an author to see precisely what instruction is needed. Thus it often happens that, unless personal help is available, it is a matter of great difficulty for a beginner to learn the haunts of flowers, or to distinguish them when found; for when he refers to the books he finds much talk about inessential things, and little that goes directly to the point. One might have thought that a new and strange flower would attract the eye more readily than a known one, but it is not so; the old is detected much more easily than the new. "Out of sight, out of mind," says the proverb; and conversely that which is not yet in mind will long tarry out of sight. But when once a new flower, even a rare one, has been discovered, it is curious how often it will soon be noticed afresh in another place: this, I think, must be the experience of all who have made systematic search for flowers, and it explains why the novice will frequently see but little where the expert will see much. Not until the various initial obstacles have been overcome can one appreciate the true "call of the wild," the full pleasures of the chase. When we have learnt not only what plants are to be looked for, but those two essential conditions, the _when_ and the _where_; the rule of season and of soil; the flowers that bloom in spring, in summer, or in autumn; the flowers that grow by shore, meadow, bog, river, or mountain; on chalk, limestone, sand, or clay--then the quest becomes more effective, and each successive season will add materially to our widening circle of acquaintance. Then, too, we may begin to discard that rather vapid class of literature, the popular flower-book, which too often deals sentimentally in vague descriptions of plants, diversified with bad illustrations, and with edifying remarks about the goodness of the Creator, and may find a new and more rational interest in the published _Floras_ of such counties or districts as have yet received that distinction. For dry though it is in form, a _Flora_, with its classified list of plants, and its notes collected from many sources, past and present, as to their "stations" in the county, becomes an almost romantic book of adventure, when the student can supply the details from his own knowledge, and so read with illumination "between the lines." Here, let us suppose it to be said, is a locality where grows some rare and beautiful flower, one of the prizes of the chase. What hopes and aspirations such an assurance may arouse! What encouragement to future enterprise! What regrets, it may be, for some almost forgotten omission in the past, which left that very neighbourhood unsearched! It is possible that a cold, matter-of-fact entry in a local _Flora_ will thus throw a sudden light on some bygone expedition, and show us that if we had but taken a slightly different direction in our walk--but it is vain to lament what is irreparable! Of such musings upon the might-have-been I can myself speak with feeling, for I was not so fortunate in my youth as to be initiated into the knowledge of flowers: it was not till much later in life, as I wandered among the Welsh and English mountains, that the scales fell from my eyes, and looking on the beauty of the saxifrages I realized what glories I had missed. Thus I was compelled to put myself to school, so to speak, and to make a study of wildflowers with the aid of such books as were available, a process which, like a botanical Jude the Obscure, I found by no means easy. The self-educated man, we know, is apt to be perverse and opinionated; so I trust my readers will make due allowance if they notice such faults in this book. I can truly plead, as the illiterate do, that "I'm no scholar, more's the pity." But it was my friends and acquaintances--those, at least, who had some botanical knowledge--who were the chief sufferers during this period of inquiry; and, looking back, I often marvel at the patience with which they endured the problems with which I confronted them. I remember waylaying my friend, W. J. Jupp, a very faithful flower-lover, with some mutilated and unrecognizable labiate plant which I thought might be calamint, and how tactfully he suggested that my conjecture was "near enough." On another occasion it was Edward Carpenter, the Sage of Millthorpe, or Wild Sage, as some botanical friend once irreverently described him, who volunteered to assist me, by means of a scientific book which shows, by an unerring process, how to eliminate the wrong flowers, until at the end you are left with the right one duly named. All through the list we went; but there must have been a slip somewhere; for in the conclusion one thing alone was clear--that whatever my plant might be, it was not that which the scientific book indicated. Of all my friends and helpers, Bertram Lloyd, whose acquaintance with wildflowers is unusually large, and to whom, in all that pertains to natural history, I am as the "gray barbarian" (_vide_ Tennyson) to "the Christian child," was the most constant and long-suffering: he solved many of my enigmas, and introduced me to some of his choicest flower-haunts among the Chiltern Hills. In the course of my researches I was sometimes referred for guidance to persons who were known in their respective home-circles as "the botanists of the family," a title which I found was not quite equivalent to that of "the complete botanist." There was one "botanist of the family" who was visibly embarrassed when I asked her the name of a plant that is common on the chalk hills, but is so carelessly described in the books as to be easily confused with other kindred species. She gazed at it long, with a troubled eye, and then, as if feeling that her domestic reputation must at all hazards be upheld, replied firmly: "Hemp-nettle." Hemp-nettle it was not; it was wild basil; but years after, when I began to have similar questions put to myself, I realized how disconcerting it is to be thus suddenly interrogated. It made me understand why Cabinet Ministers so frequently insist that they must have "notice of that Question." With one complete botanist, however, I was privileged to become acquainted, Mr. C. E. Salmon, whose special diocese, so to speak, is the county of Surrey, but whose intimate knowledge of wildflowers extends to many counties and coasts. Not a few favours did I receive from him, in certifying for me some of the more puzzling plants; and very good-naturedly he bore the disappointment when, on his asking me to send him, for his _Flora of Surrey_, a list of the rarer flowers in the neighbourhood where I was living, I included among them the small bur-parsley (_caucalis daucoides_), a vanished native, a prodigal son of the county, whose return would have been a matter for gladness. But alas, my plant was not a _caucalis_ at all, but a _torilis_, a squat weed of the cornfields, which by its superficial resemblance to its rare cousin had grossly imposed upon my ignorance. It is when he has acquired some familiarity with the ordinary British plants that a flower-lover, thus educated late in life, finds his thoughts turning to the vanished opportunities of the past. I used to speculate regretfully on what I had missed in my early wanderings in wild places; as in the Isle of Skye, where I picked up the eagle's feather, but overlooked the mountain flower; or on Ben Lawers, a summit rich in rare Alpines to which I then was stone-blind; or in a score of other localities which I can scarcely hope to revisit. But time, which heals all things, brought me a sort of compensation for these delinquencies; for with a fuller knowledge of plants I could to some extent reconstruct in imagination the sights that were formerly unseen, and with the eye of faith admire the Alpine forget-me-not on the ridges of Ben Lawers, or the yellow butterwort in the marshes of Skye. Nor was it always in imagination only; for sometimes a friend would send me a rare flower from some distant spot; and then there was pleasure indeed in the opening of the parcel and in anticipating what it might contain--the pasque-flower perhaps, or the wild tulip, or the Adonis, or the golden samphire, or some other of the many local treasures that make glad the flower-lover's heart. The exhibitions of wildflowers that are now held in the public libraries of not a few towns are extremely useful, and often awake a love of nature in minds where it has hitherto been but dormant. A queer remark was once made to me by a visitor at the Brighton show. "This is a good institution," he said. "It saves you from tramping for the flowers yourself." I had not regarded the exhibition in that light; on the contrary, it stimulates many persons to a pursuit which is likely to fascinate them more and more. For no tramps can be pleasanter than those in quest of wildflowers; especially if one has a fellow-enthusiast for companion: failing that, it is wiser to go alone; for when a flower-lover tramps with someone who has no interest in the pursuit, the result is likely to be discomfiting--he must either forgo his own haltings and deviations, with the probability that he will miss something valuable, or he must feel that he is delaying his friend. In a company, I always pray that their number may be uneven, and that it may not be necessary to march stolidly in pairs, where "one to one is cursedly confined," as Dryden said of matrimony; or worst of all, where one's yoke-fellow may insist, as sometimes happens, on walking "in step," and be forever shuffling his feet as if obeying the commands of some invisible drill-sergeant. It is not with the feet that we should seek harmony, but with the heart. My intention in this book is to speak of the more noteworthy flowers of a few distinctive localities that are known to me, starting from the coast of Sussex, and ascending to the high mountains of Wales and the north-west: I propose also to intersperse the descriptive chapters, here and there with discussions of such special topics as may incidentally arise. And here, at the outset, I was tempted to say a few words about my own favourite flowers--not such universally admired beauties as the primrose, violet, daffodil, hyacinth, forget-me-not, and the others, whose names will readily suggest themselves; for, lovely as they are, it would be superfluous to add to their praises; but rather of some less famous plants, the saints and anchorites of the floral world, the flower-lover's flowers--not the popular, but the best-beloved. On second thoughts, however, I will leave these choicest ones, with a single exception, to be mentioned in their due place and surroundings, and will here name but one of them, a flower which is among the first, not only in the order of merit, but in the order of the seasons. The greater stitchwort, as writers tell us, is one of "the most ornamental of our early flowers"; but surely it is something more than that. The radiance of those white stars that stud the hedge-banks and road-sides in April and May, is dearer to some of us than many of the more favoured blossoms that poets have sung of. The dull English name quite fails to do justice to the almost ethereal lustre of the flower: the Latin _stellaria_ is truer and more expressive. The reappearance of the stitchwort, like that of the orange-tip butterfly, is one of the keenest joys of spring; and one of our keenest regrets in spring is that the stitchwort's flowering-season is so short. II ON SUSSEX SHINGLES Salt and splendid from the circling brine. SWINBURNE. WHERE should a flower-lover begin his story if not from the sea shore? Earth has been poetically described as "daughter of ocean"; and the proximity of the sea has a most genial and stimulating effect upon its grandchildren the flowers, not those only that are peculiar to the beach, but also the inland kinds. There is no "dead sea" lack of vegetation on our coasts, but a marked increase both in the luxuriance of plants and in their beauty. Sussex is rich in "shingles"--flat expanses of loose pebbles formerly thrown up by the waves, and now lying well above high-water mark, or even stretching landward for some distance. One might have expected these stony tracts to be barren in the extreme; in fact they are the nursery-ground of a number of interesting flowers, including some very rare ones; and in certain places, where the stones are intersected by banks of turf, the eye is surprised by a veritable garden in the wilderness. Let us imagine ourselves on one of these shingle-beds in the early summer, when the show of flowers is at its brightest: and first at Shoreham--"Shoreham, crowned with the grace of years," as Swinburne described it. Alas! the Shoreham beach, which until less than twenty years ago was in a natural state, has been so overbuilt with ship-works and bungalows that it has become little else than a suburb of Brighton; yet even now the remaining strip of shingle, stretching for half a mile between sea and harbour, is the home of some delightful plants. In the more favoured spots the gay mantle thrown over the stony strand is visible at the first glance in a wonderful blending of colours--the gold of horned poppy, stonecrop, melilot, and kidney vetch; the white of sea-campion; the delicate pink of thrift; and the fiery reds and blues of the gorgeous viper's bugloss--and when a nearer scrutiny is made, a number of minute plants will be found growing in close company along the grassy ridges. The most attractive of these are the graceful little spring vetch (_vicia lathyroides_), the rue-leaved saxifrage, and that tiny turquoise gem which is apt to escape notice, the dwarf forget-me-not--a trio of the daintiest blossoms, red, white, and blue, that eyes could desire to behold. Shoreham has long been famous for its clovers; and some are still in great force there, especially the rigid trefoil (_trifolium scabrum_), and its congener, _trifolium striatum_, with which it is often confused, while the better-known hare's-foot also covers a good deal of the ground. But there is a sad tale to tell of the plant which once the chief pride of these shingles, the starry-headed trefoil, a very lovely pink flower fringed with silky hairs, which, though not a native, has been naturalized near the bank of the harbour since 1804, but now, owing to the enclosures made for ship-building works, has been all but exterminated. "This," wrote the author of the _Flora of Sussex_ (1907) "is one of the most beautiful of our wildflowers, and is found in Britain at Shoreham only. Fortunately it is very difficult to extirpate any of the _leguminos_, and it may therefore be hoped that it may long continue to adorn the beach at Shoreham." The hope seems likely to be frustrated. Among the rubble of concrete slabs, and piles of timber, only three or four tufts of the trefoil were surviving last year, with every likelihood of these also disappearing as the place is further "developed." The second of the Shoreham rarities, the pale yellow vetch (_vicia lutea_) has fared better, owing to its wider range, and is still scattered freely over the yet unenclosed shingles. It is a charming flower; but its doom in Sussex seems to be inevitable, for the bungalows, with their back-yards, tennis-courts, "tradesmen's entrances," and other amenities of villadom, will doubtless continue to encroach upon what was once a wild and unsullied tract. Still sadder is the fate of the devastated coast on the Brighton side of the harbour-mouth, where the low cliffs that overlook the lagoon from Southwick to Fisher's-gate have long been known to botanists as worthy of some attention. Here, on the grassy escarpment, the rare Bithynian vetch used once to grow, as we learn from Mrs. Merrifield's interesting _Sketch of the Natural History of Brighton_ (1860); and here we may still find such plants as the sea-radish, a large coarse crucifer with yellow flowers and queer knotted seed-pods; the blue clary, or wild-sage, running riot in great profusion; the fragrant soft-leaved fennel; the strange star-thistle (_calcitrapa_), so-called from its fancied resemblance to an ancient and diabolical military instrument, the caltrop, an iron ball armed with sharp points, which was thrown on the ground to maim the horses in a cavalry charge; the pale-flowered narrow-leaved flax; and lastly, that rather uncanny shrub of the poisonous nightshade order, with small purple flowers and scarlet berries, which is called the "tea-tree," though the tea which its leaves might furnish would hardly make a palatable brew. Below these cliffs, on an embankment that divides the waters of the lagoon from the seashore, there still flourishes in plenty the fleshy leaved samphire, once sought after for a pickle, and ever famous through the reference in _King Lear_ to "one who gathers samphire, dreadful trade." In this locality there is no dreadful trade, except that of reducing a once pleasant shore to an unsightly slag-heap. Let me now turn from this melancholy spectacle to those Sussex shingles on which the Admiralty and the contractor have not as yet laid a heavy and ruinous hand. On some of the more spacious of these pebbly beaches, as on that which lies between Eastbourne and Pevensey, the traveller may still experience the feeling expressed by Shelley: I love all waste And solitary places, where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be. From Langney Point one looks north-east along a desolate shore, beyond which the ruins of Pevensey Castle are seen in the distance, and the width of the shingly belt between the sea and the high-road is at this point scarcely less than a mile. A scene that is bleak and barren enough in its general aspect; but a search soon reveals the presence of floral treasures, the first of which is a rather rare member of the Pink family, the soapwort, which I had long sought in vain until I met with it growing in abundance close to the outskirts of Eastbourne, where it roots so luxuriantly in the loose shingles as to make one wonder why it is so fastidious elsewhere. Among other noticeable inhabitants of these flats, or of the shallow marshy depressions which they enclose, are hairy crowfoot, catmint, white melilot, stinking groundsel, strawberry-headed trefoil, and candytuft--the last-named a rather unexpected flower in such a place. Still nearer to the sea, not many yards removed from the spray of the waves at their highest, the wild seakale is plentiful; a stout glabrous cabbage, with thick curly leaves and white cruciferous blossoms, it rises straight out of the bare stones, and thrives exceedingly when the folk who stroll along the shore can so far restrain their destructive tendencies as not to hack and mangle it. In its company, perhaps, or in similar situations, will be seen its first-cousin, the sea-rocket, a quaint and pleasant crucifer with zigzag stems, fleshy leaves, and pale lilac petals. The sea-pea, formerly native near Pevensey, is now hardly to be hoped for. One of the most naturally attractive spots on the Sussex coast is Cuckmere Haven, near Seaford, a gap in the chalk cliffs, about half a mile in width, through which the river Cuckmere finds a dubious exit to the sea. Were it not for the abomination of the rifle-butts, which sometimes close the shore to the public, no more delectable nook could be desired; and to the flower-lover the little shelf of shingle which forms the beach is full of charm. Here, growing along the grassy margin of brackish pools, and itself so like a flowering grass that a sharp eye is needed to detect it, one may find that singular umbelliferous plant--not at all resembling the other members of its tribe--the slender hare's-ear (_bupleurum tenuissimum_), thin, wiry, dark-green, with narrow lance-like leaves and minute yellow umbels. Near by, the small sea-heath, one of the prettiest of maritime flowers, makes a dense carpet; on the corner of the adjacent cliff the lesser and rarer sea-lavender (_statice binervosa_) is plentiful, and in the late summer blooms at a considerable height on the narrow ledges. Pagham "Harbour," a wild estuary of some extent, between Selsey and Bognor, is another locality that has earned a reputation for its flowers, the most remarkable of which is the very local proliferous pink, which has long been known as abundant on that portion of the coast, though elsewhere very infrequent. A pleasant walk of about three miles leads from Bognor to Pagham, along a sandy shore fringed with very luxuriant tamarisk-bushes; and when one reaches the stony reef where further progress is barred by the waters or sand-shoals of the "Harbour," the little pink, which bears a superficial resemblance to thrift, will be seen springing up freely among the pebbles. We are told that only one of its blossoms opens at a time; but this is the sort of statement, often copied from book to book, which is not verified by experience, or to which at least many exceptions must be admitted. What is certain is that the proliferous pink has a considerable share of the distinctive grace of its family, and that the occasion of first encountering it will live in the flower-lover's memory. I have named but a few--those personally known to me--of the rarer or more characteristic shingle-flowers; and in so wide a field there is always the chance of new discoveries: hence the unfailing interest, to the botanist, of places which, apart from their flora, are likely to be shunned as wearisome. The shore itself is seldom without visitors; but the shingles that stretch back from the shore rarely attract the footsteps even of the hardiest walkers. It is only when there has been a murder in one of those solitary spots--or at least something that the newspapers can describe as "dramatic" or "sensational"--that the holiday-folk in the neighbouring towns forsake for a day or two the pleasures of pier or parade, and sally forth over the stony wildernesses in a search for "clues"; as when the "Crumbles," near Eastbourne, was the scene, two years ago, of a murder, and at a later date of a ghost. To discover the foot of some partially buried victim protruding from the pebbles--_that_ is deemed a sufficient object for a pilgrimage. The gold of the sea-poppy and the pink of the thrift are trifles that are passed unseen. III BY DITCH AND DIKE On either side Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide. CRABBE. "LEVELS," or "brooks," is the name commonly given in Sussex to a number of grassy tracts, often of wide extent, which, though still in a state of semi-wildness, have been so far reclaimed from primitive fens as to afford a rough pasturage for horses and herds of cattle, the ground being drained and intersected by dikes and sluggish streams. In these spacious and unfrequented flats wildfowl of various kinds are often to be seen; herons stand motionless by the pools, or flap slowly away if disturbed in their meditation; pewits wheel and cry overhead; and the redshank, most clamorous of birds during the nesting-season, makes such a din as almost to distract the attention of the intruding botanist. For it is the botanist who is specially drawn to these wild water-ways, where hours may be profitably spent in strolling beside the brooks, with the certainty of seeing many interesting plants and the chance of finding some unfamiliar ones; nor is there anything to mar his enjoyment, except the possible meeting with a bull on a wide arena from which there is no ready exit, save by jumping a muddy ditch or by crossing one of the narrow and precarious planks which do duty as footbridges. These "levels," though often bordering on a tidal river, are not themselves salt marshes, nor is their flora a maritime one; in that respect they differ from the East-coast fens described by Crabbe in one of his _Tales_, "The Lover's Journey"; a passage which has been praised as one of the best pictures ever given of dike-land scenery. There are lines in it which might be quoted of the Sussex as well as of the Suffolk marsh-meadows; but for me the verses are spoiled by the strangely apologetic tone which the poet assumed in speaking of the local plants: The few dull flowers that o'er the place are spread Partake the nature of their fenny bed. And so on. Did he think that his polite readers expected to hear of sweet peas and carnations beautifying the desolate mud-banks? The "dulness" seems to be--well, not on the part of the flowers. "Dull as ditchwater," they say. But ditchwater flowers are far from dull. Of Sussex marshes the most extensive are the Pevensey Levels; but the most pleasantly situated are those that lie just south of Lewes, where the valley of the Ouse widens into an oval plain before it narrows again towards Newhaven. From the central part of this alluvial basin the view is very striking all around; for the estuary seems to be everywhere enclosed, except to seaward, by the great smooth slopes of the chalk Downs. On its west side are three picturesque villages, Iford, Rodmell, and Southease, with churches and farms lying on the very verge of the "brooks": at the head, the quaint old houses and castle of Lewes rise conspicuous like a medival town. But to whichever of these watery wastes the flower-lover betakes himself, he will not lack for occupation. One of the first friends to greet him in the early summer, by the Lewes levels, will be the charming _Hottonia_, or "water-violet," as it is misnamed; for though the petals are pink, its yellow eye and general form proclaim it to be of the _primulace_, and "water-primrose" should by preference be its title. There are few prettier sights than a company of these elegant flowers rising clear above the surface, their slender stems bearing whorls of the pink blossoms, while the dark green featherlike leaves remain submerged. This "featherfoil," as it is sometimes called, is as lovely as the primrose of the woods. Companions or near neighbours of the _Hottonia_ are the arrow-head, at once recognized by its bold sagittate leaves, and the frog-bit, another flower of three white petals, whose small reniform foliage, floating on the brooks, gives it the appearance of a dwarf water-lily. By no means common, but growing in profusion where it grows at all, the dainty little frog-bit, once met with, always remains a favourite. The true water-lilies, both the white and the yellow, are also native on the levels; so, too, is the quaint water-milfoil, with its much-cut submerged leaves resembling those of the featherfoil, and its numerous erect flower-spikes dotting the surface of the pools. All these water-nymphs may be seen simultaneously blossoming in June. More prominent than such small aquatics are the tall-growing kinds which lift their heads two or three feet above the waters. Of these quite the handsomest is the flowering rush (_butomus_), stately and pink-petaled; among the rest are the two water-plantains (the lesser one rather uncommon); the water-speedwell, a gross and bulky _veronica_ which lacks the charm of its smaller relative the brook-lime; and the queer mare's-tails, which in the midst of a running stream look like a number of tiny fir-trees out of their element. The umbelliferous family is also well represented. Wild celery is there; and the showy water-parsnip (_sium_); the graceful tubular water-dropwort, and its big neighbour the horse-bane, which in some places swells to an immense size in the centre of the ditches. On the margin grows the pretty trailing money-wort, or "creeping Jenny"; and with it, maybe, the white-blossomed brook-weed, or water-pimpernel, which at first sight has more likeness to the crucifers than to its real relatives the primroses, and is thus apt to puzzle those by whom it has not previously been encountered. Rambling beside these so-called brooks, which are mostly not brooks but channels of almost stagnant water, one cannot fail to remark the clannishness of many of the flowers: they grow in groups, monopolizing nearly the whole length of a ditch, and making a show by their united array of leaves or blossoms. In one part, perhaps, the slim water-violet predominates; then, as you turn a corner, a long vista of arrow-heads meets the eye, nothing but arrow-heads between bank and bank, their sharp, barbed foliage topping the surface in a phalanx: or again, you may come upon fifty yards of frog-bit, a multitude of small green bucklers that entirely hide the water; or a radiant colony of water-lilies, whose broad leaves make the intrusion of other aquatics scarcely possible, and provide a cool pavement for wagtail and moorhen to walk on. It is noticeable, too, that the lesser water-plantain, unlike the greater, is almost confined to one section of the levels; and in like manner the brook-weed and the burmarigold have each occupied for their headquarters the banks of a particular dike. The fringed buckbean (_villarsia_) is said to be an inhabitant of these brooks. I have not seen it there; but it may be found, sparsely, in the river Ouse, a short distance above Lewes, where its round leaves float on the quiet backwaters like those of a large frog-bit or a small water-lily, though the botanists tell us it is a gentian. I remember that on the first occasion when I saw it there, on a late summer day, there was only a single blossom left, and as that was on a deep pool, several yards from the bank, there was no choice but to swim for it. The great yellow cress (_nasturtium amphibium_), a glorified cousin of the familiar water-cress, is also native on the Ouse above Lewes, less frequently below. More spacious than the Lewes levels, but drearier, and on the whole less interesting, are those of Pevensey, which cover a wide tract to the east of Hailsham, formerly an inlet of the sea, where the sites of the few homesteads that rise above the flat meadows, such as Chilley and Horse-eye, were once islands in the bay. Walking north from Pevensey, by a road which traverses this inhospitable flat, one sees the walls of Hurstmonceux Castle in front, on what was originally the coast-line; on either side of the highway is a maze of ditches and dikes, among which rare flowers are to be found, notably the broad-leaved pepperwort, the largest and most remarkable of its family, and the great spearwort, said to be locally plentiful near Hurstmonceux. The bladderwort, reputed common on these marshes, seems to have become much scarcer than it was twenty years back. For other flowers, other fenny tracts may be sought; Henfield Common, for instance, has the bog-bean, the marsh St. John's-wort, and still better, the marsh-cinquefoil. But of all Sussex water-meadows with which I am acquainted the richest are the Amberley Wild Brooks, which lie below Pulborough, adjacent to the tidal stream of the Arun, a piece of partially drained bog-land which in a wet winter season is apt to be flooded anew, and to revert to its primitive state of swamp. It is a glorious place to wander over, on a sunny August afternoon, with the great escarpment of the Downs, and the ever-prominent Chanctonbury Ring, close in view to the south; and in a long summer day the expedition can be combined with a visit to Arundel Park, only three miles distant, the best of parks, as being the least parklike and most natural, and having a goodly store of the wildflowers that are dwellers upon chalk hills. The Amberley Wild Brooks possess this great merit, that in addition to most of the aquatics and dike-land plants above-mentioned, they present a fine display of the tall riverside flowers. Their wet hollows that teem with frog-bit, arrow-head, water-parsnip, water-plantain, yellow cress, glaucous stitchwort, and other choice things, are fringed here and there with purple loosestrife, and with marsh-woundwort almost equal to the loosestrife in size and colour; and mingling with these in like luxuriance are yellow loosestrife, tansy, toadflax, and water-ragwort--a brilliant combination of purple flowers and gold. Then, as if the better to set off this spectacle, there is in some places a background of staid and massive herbs like the great water-dock, And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothe the dazzled eye with sober sheen. One would fear that this wealth of diverse hues might even become embarrassing, were it not that the heart of the flower-lover is insatiable. IV LIKENESSES THAT BAFFLE Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which. _The Comedy of Errors._ ONE of the first difficulties by which those who would learn their native flora are beset is the likeness which in some cases exists between one plant and another--not the close resemblance of kindred species, such as that found, for instance, among the brambles or the hawkweeds, which is necessarily a matter for expert discrimination, but the superficial yet often puzzling similarity in what botanists call the "habit" of wildflowers. Thus the horse-shoe vetch may easily be mistaken, by a beginner, for the bird's-foot trefoil, or the field mouse-ear chickweed for the greater stitchwort; and the differences between the dove's-foot crane's-bill and the less common _geranium pusillum_ are not at first sight very apparent. Distinguishing features instantly recognized by an expert, who has taken, so to speak, finger-tip impressions of the plants, do not readily present themselves to the layman, whose only guide is the general testimony of structure, colour, and height. It is, moreover, unfortunate that some of the popular flower-books, owing to the slovenly way in which their descriptions are worded, are of little help; they not only fail to give the needed particulars where there is a real likeness, but often, where there is none, create confusion in the reader's mind by depicting quite dissimilar plants in almost identical terms. In Johns's _Flowers of the Field_ (edition of 1908), for example, the description of hedge-woundwort hardly differs verbally from that of black horehound, and might certainly mislead a novice who was studying hedgerow flowers. The same writer had an exasperating habit of repeatedly stating that various plants are "well distinguished" by certain features, when in fact it is very difficult, from the accounts given by him, to distinguish them at all! An earlier and better writer, Anne Pratt, did make an effort in her _Haunts of the Wild Flowers_ to indicate the chief characteristics, as between the sea-plantain and the sea-arrowgrass, the hemp-agrimony and the valerian; but even she, when some of the labiate flowers were in question, dismissed them, not very helpfully, as "all growing in abundance, but so much alike that it needs a knowledge of botany to distinguish them from each other"! I have known a case where, owing to a picturesque but inaccurate account, in the same book, the Welsh stonecrop (_sedum Forsterianum_) was confused with the marsh St. John's-wort, which has leaves that bear a curious resemblance to those of the _sedum_ tribe. Even writers of botanical handbooks seem not to realize with what difficulties the uninitiated are faced, in regard to certain groups of plants where the several species, though quite distinct, bear a strong family likeness. The chamomiles, for instance, might well receive some special treatment in books; for it is no simple matter to assign their proper names to some four or five of the clan--the true chamomile, the wild chamomile, the corn chamomile, the stinking chamomile, and the "scentless" mayweed, which is _not_ scentless. Many of the umbellifers also are notoriously difficult to identify; and among leguminous plants there is a bewildering similarity between black medick, or "nonsuch," and the lesser clover (_trifolium minus_), which in turn is liable to be confused with the popular hop-clover or with the slender and fairy-like _trifolium filiforme_. "Small examples of _t. minus_," said a well-known botanist, Mr. H. C. Watson, "are so frequently misnamed _t. filiforme_, that I trust only my own eyes for it." "As like as two peas" is a saying which finds fulfilment in these and other examples. The clovers are indeed a perplexing family; and it is not surprising that the identification of the "shamrock" has given cause for dispute. Two of the smaller trefoils, for example, _trifolium scabrum_ and _striatum_, so closely resemble each other that a novice fails to appreciate the assurance given in the _Flora of Kent_ that they "can very easily be separated." It is doubtless easy to separate one twin from another twin, Dromio of Ephesus from Dromio of Syracuse, when once you know how to do so; but until you have acquired that knowledge there is material for a "comedy of errors." The majority of folk are much more apt to confuse plants than to distinguish them: witness such names as "fool's-parsley" and "fool's-watercress." Fools there are; yet anyone who has spent time in studying wildflowers, with no better aid than that of the popular books on the subject, will hesitate to pass judgment on such folly; for as so good an observer as Richard Jefferies said: "If you really wish to identify with certainty, and have no botanist friend and no _magnum opus_ of Sowerby to refer to, it is very difficult indeed to be quite sure." We have to be thankful for small mercies in this matter; and it may be recognized that in some cases--generally where the similarity is _not_ great, as that between the strawberry-leaved cinquefoil and the wild strawberry, or between the feverfew and the scentless mayweed--the books occasionally give a word of advice to "the young botanist." Nine times out of ten, however, that young fellow, or perchance old fellow (for one may be young as a botanist, while by no means young in years), must shift for himself; and doing so, he will gradually learn by experience what a number of likenesses there are among plants, and how many mistakes may be made before a sure acquaintance is arrived at. The name of "mockers" is sometimes given by gardeners to weeds that are so like certain valued plants as to be easily mistaken for them; and in the same way, in the search for wildflowers, one's attention is often distracted, as, for instance, if one is looking for the spineless meadow-thistle, the eye may be baffled by innumerable knapweed blossoms of the same hue; the clustered bell-flower will feign to be the autumnal gentian, its neighbour on the chalk downs; or the blossoms and leaves of the purple saxifrage on the high mountains are aped by the ubiquitous wild thyme. Of all these likenesses the most perilous is that between the malodorous ramsons, which have a very abiding smell of garlic, and the highly esteemed lily of the valley. Hence a story which I once heard from the affable keeper who presides over a wooded hill in Westmorland where the lily of the valley abounds, and where visitors are permitted to pick as many flowers as they like after payment of a shilling. Seeing a gentleman busily engaged in gathering a large bunch of ramsons, the keeper, suspecting error, asked him what he supposed himself to be picking. "Why, lilies of the valley, of course," was the reply. When the truth was explained, the visitor thanked the keeper cordially, and added: "I was picking the flowers for my wife: but if I had brought her a present of garlic she would have had something to say to me. I myself have lost the sense of smell." Likeness or unlikeness--it is all a matter of observation. To a stranger, every sheep in the flock has a face like that of her fellows: to the shepherd there are no two sheep alike. V BOTANESQUE What is it? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same. TENNYSON. AMONG the difficulties that waylay the beginner must be reckoned the botanical phraseology. We have heard of "the language of flowers," and of its romantic associations; but the language of botany is another matter, and though less picturesque is equally cryptic and not to be mastered without study. When, for example, we read of a certain umbelliferous plant that its "cremocarp consists of two semicircular-ovoid mericarps, constricted at the commissure"--or when, with our lives in our hands, so to speak, we experiment in fungus-eating, and learn that a particular mushroom has its stem "fistulose, subsquamulose, its pileus membranaceous, rarely subcarnose, when young ovato-conic, then campanulate, at length torn and revolute, deliquescent, and clothed with the flocculose fragments of the veil"--we probably feel that some further information would be welcome. A friend who had been reading a series of articles on botany once remarked to me that "they could scarcely be said to be written in any known language, but were in a new tongue which might perhaps be called Botanesque." But it is of the botanesque nomenclature that I now wish to speak. The faculty of bestowing appropriate names is at all times a gift, an inspiration, most happy when least laboured, and often eluding the efforts of learned and scientific men. By schoolboys it is sometimes exhibited in perfection; as in a case that I remember at a public school, where three brothers of the name of Berry were severally known, for personal reasons, as Bilberry, Blackberry, and Gooseberry, the fitness of which botanical titles was never for a moment impugned. But botanists rarely invent names so well. The nomenclature of plants, like that of those celestial flowers, the stars, is a queer jumble of ancient and modern, classical learning and medival folk-lore, in which the really characteristic features are often overlooked. In this respect the Latin names are worse offenders than the English; and one is sometimes tempted, in disgust at their pedantic irrelevance, to ignore them altogether, and to exclaim with the poet: What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. But this would be an error; for a name does greatly enhance the interest of an object, be it boy, or bird, or flower; and the Greek and Latin plant-names, cumbrous and far-fetched though many of them are--as when the saintfoin is absurdly labelled _onobrychis_, on the supposition that its scent provokes an ass to bray--form, nevertheless, a useful link between botanists of different nations and a safeguard against the confusion that arises from a variety of local terms. Among the English names also there are some clumsy appellations, and in a few cases the Latin ones are much pleasanter: _stellaria_, for example, as I have already said, is more elegant than "stitchwort." "What have I done?" asks the small cousin of the woodruff, in Edward Carpenter's poem, when it justly protests against its hideous christening by man: What have I done? Man came, Evolutional upstart one, With the gift of giving a name To everything under the sun. What have I done? Man came (They say nothing sticks like dirt), Looked at me with eyes of blame, And called me "Squinancy-wort." But on the whole the English names of flowers are simpler and more suggestive than the Latin; certainly "monk's-hood" is preferable to _aconitum_, "rest-harrow" to _ononis_, "flowering rush" to _butomus_; and so on, through a long list: and it therefore seems rather strange that the native titles should sometimes be ousted by the foreign. I have met botanists who had quite forgotten the English, and were obliged to ask me for the scientific term before they could sufficiently recall the plant of which we were speaking. The prefix "common" is often very misleading in the English nomenclature. Anyone, for example, who should go confidently searching for the "common hare's-ear" would soon find that he had got his work cut out. There are, in fact, not many plants that are everywhere common; most of those that are so described should properly be classed as _local_, because, while plentiful in some districts, they are infrequent in others. Botanical names fall mainly into three classes, the medicinal, the commemorative, the descriptive. The old uses of plants by the herbalists mark the prosaic origin of many of the names; some of which, such as "goutweed," at once explain themselves, as indicating supposed remedies for ills that flesh is heir to. Others, if less obvious, are still not far to seek; the "scabious," for example, derived from the Latin _scabies_, was reputed to be a cure for leprosy: a few, like "eye-bright" (_euphrasia_, gladness), have a more cheerful significance. When we turn to such titles as _centaurea_, for the knapweed and cornflower, some explanation is needed, to wit, that Chiron, the fabulous centaur, was said to have employed these herbs in the exercise of his healing art. The commemorative names are mostly given in honour of accomplished botanists, it being a habit of mankind, presumably prompted by the acquisitive instincts of the race, to name any object, great or small--from a mountain to a mouse--as _belonging_ to the person who discovered or brought it to notice. In the case of wildflowers this is not always a very felicitous system of distinguishing them, though perhaps better than the utilitarian jargon of the pharmacopoeia. Sometimes, indeed, it is beyond cavil; as in the fit association of the little _linna borealis_ with the great botanist who loved it; but when a number of the less important professors of the science are immortalized in this way, there seems to be something rather irrelevant, if not absurd, in such nomenclature. Why, for example, should two of the more charming crucifers be named respectively _Hutchinsia_ and _Teesdalia_, after a Miss Hutchins and a Mr. Teesdale? Why should the water-primrose be called _Hottonia_, after a Professor Hotton; or the sea-heath _Frankenia_, after a Swedish botanist named Franken; and so on, in a score of other cases that might be cited? The climax is reached when the _rubi_ and the _salices_ are divided into a host of more or less dubious sub-species, so that a Bloxam may have his bramble, and a Hoffmann his willow, as a possession for all time! The most rational, and also the most graceful manner of naming flowers is the descriptive; and here, luckily, there are a number of titles, English or Latin, with which no fault can be found. Spearwort, mouse-tail, arrow-head, bird's-foot, colt's-foot, blue-bell, bindweed, crane's-bill, snapdragon, shepherd's purse, skull-cap, monk's-hood, ox-tongue--these are but a few of the well-bestowed names which, by an immediate appeal to the eye, fix the flower in the mind; they are at once simple and appropriate: in others, such as Adonis, Columbine, penny-cress, cranberry, lady's-mantle, and thorow-wax, the description, if less manifest at first sight, is none the less charming when recognized. The Latin, too, is at times so befitting as to be accepted without demur; thus _iris_, to express the rainbow tints of the flowers, needs no English equivalent, and _campanula_ has only to be literally rendered as "bell-flower." In _campanula hederacea_, the "ivy-leaved bell-flower," we see nomenclature at its best, the petals and the foliage of a floral gem being both faithfully described. A glance at a list of British wildflowers will bring to mind various other ways in which names have been given to them--some familiar, some romantic, a few even poetical. Among the homely but not unpleasing kind, are "Jack by the hedge" for the garlic mustard; "John go to bed at noon" for the goat's-beard; "creeping Jenny" for the money-wort; and "lady's-fingers" for the kidney-vetch. Of the romantically named plants the most conspicuous example is doubtless the forget-me-not, its English name contrasting, as it does, with the more realistic Latin _myosotis_, which detects in the shape of the leaves a likeness to a mouse's ear. None, perhaps, can claim to be so poetical as Gerarde's name for the clematis; for "traveller's joy" was one of those happy inspirations which are unfortunately rare. VI THE OPEN DOWNLAND Open hither, open hence, Scarce a bramble weaves a fence. MEREDITH. WHEN speaking of some Sussex water-meadows, I mentioned as one of their many delights the views which they offer of the never distant Downs. The charm of these chalk hills is to me only inferior to that of real mountains; there are times, indeed, when with clouds resting on the summits, or drifting slowly along the coombes, one could almost imagine himself to be in the true mountain presence. I have watched, on an autumn day, a long sea of vapour rolling up from the weald against the steep northern front of the Downs, while their southern slopes were still basking in sunshine; and scarcely less wonderful than the clouds themselves are the cloud-shadows that may often be seen chasing each other across the wide open tracts which lie in the recesses of the hills. "Majestic mountains," "exalted promontories," were among the descriptions given of the Downs by Gilbert White: what we now prize in them is not altitude but spaciousness. In Rosamund Marriott Watson's words: Broad and bare to the skies The great Down-country lies. Its openness, with the symmetry of the free curves and contours into which the chalk shapes itself, is the salient feature of the range; and to this may be added its liberal gift of solitude and seclusion. Even from the babel of Brighton an hour's journey on foot can bring one into regions where a perpetual Armistice Day is being celebrated, with something better than the two minutes of silence snatched from the townsfolk's day of din. The Downs are also open in the sense of being free, to a very great extent, from the enclosures which in so many districts exclude the public from the land. In some parts, unfortunately, the abominable practice of erecting wire fences is on the increase among sheep-farmers; but generally speaking, a naturalist may here wander where he will. Of all the flowering plants of the Downs, the gorse is at once the earliest and the most impressive; no spectacle that English wildflowers can offer, when seen _en masse_, excels that of the numberless furze-bushes on a bright April day. There is then a vividness in the gorse, a depth and warmth of that "deep gold colour" beloved by Rossetti, which far surpasses the glazed metallic sheen of a field of buttercups. It is pure gold, in bullion, the palpable wealth of Croesus, displayed not in flat surfaces, but in bars, ingots, and spires, bough behind bough, distance on distance, with infinite variety of light and shade, and set in strong relief against a background of sombre foliage. Thus it has the appearance, in full sunshine, almost of a furnace, a reddish underglow and heart of flame which is lacking even in the broom. To creep within one of these gorse-temples when illumined by the sun, is to enjoy an ecstasy both of colour and of scent. With the exception of the furze, the Downland flowers are mostly low of stature, as befits their exposed situation, a small but free people inhabiting the wind-swept slopes and coombes, and well requiting the friendship of those who visit them in their fastnesses. One of the earliest and most welcome is the spring whitlow-grass, which abounds on ant-hills high up on the ridges, forming a dense growth like soft down on the earth's cheek. Here it hastes to get its blossoming done before the rush of other plants, its little reddish stalk rising from a rosette of short leaves, and bearing the tiny terminal flowers with white deeply cleft petals and anthers of yellow hue. Its near successor is the equally diminutive mouse-ear (_cerastium semidecandrum_), a white-petaled plant of a deep dark green, viscous, and thickly covered with hairs. When summer has come, the flowers of the Downs are legion--yellow bird's-foot trefoil, and horse-shoe vetch; milkwort pink, white, or blue; fragile rock-rose; graceful dropwort; salad burnet; squinancy-wort, and a hundred more, of which one of the fairest, though commonest, is the trailing silverweed, whose golden petals are in perfect contrast with the frosted silver of the foliage. But the special ornament of these hills, known as "the pride of Sussex," is the round-headed rampion, a small, erect, blue-bonneted flower which is no "roundhead" in the Puritan sense, but rather of the gay company of cavaliers. Abundant along the Downs from Eastbourne to Brighton, and still further to the west, it is a plant of which the eye never tires. But it is the orchids that chiefly draw one's thoughts to Downland when midsummer is approaching. "Have you seen the bee orchis?" is then the question that is asked; and to wander on the lower slopes at that season without seeing the bee orchis would argue a tendency to absent-mindedness. I used to debate with myself whether the likeness to a bee is real or fanciful, till one day, not thinking of orchids at all, I stopped to examine a rather strange-looking bee which I noticed on the grass, and found that the insect was--a flower. That, so far, settled the point; but I still think that the fly orchis is the better imitation of the two. The early spider orchis is native on the eastern range of the Downs, near the lonely hamlet of Telscombe and in a few other localities in the heart of the hills; where, unless one has luck--and I had none--the search for a small flower on those far-stretching slopes is like the proverbial hunt for a needle in a hayloft. The only noticeable object on the hillside was an apparently dead sheep, about a hundred feet below me, lying flat on her back, with hoofs pointing rigidly to the sky; but as it was _orchis_, not _ovis_, that I was in quest of, I was about to pass on, when I saw a shepherd, who had just come round a shoulder of the Down, uplift the sheep and set her on her legs, whereupon, to my surprise, she ambled away as if nothing had been amiss with her. I learnt from the shepherd that such accidents are not uncommon, and that having once "turned turtle" the sluggish creature (as mankind has made her) would certainly have perished unless he had chanced to come to the rescue. When I told the good man what had brought me to that unfrequented coombe, he said, as country people often do, that he did not "take much notice" of wildflowers; nevertheless, after inquiring about the appearance of the orchids, he volunteered to note the place for me if he chanced to see them. Then, as we were parting, he called after me: "And if you see any more sheep on their backs, I'll thank you if you'll turn 'em over." This I willingly promised, on the principle not only of humanity, but that one good turn deserves another. Next season, perhaps, our friendly compact may be renewed. The dingle in which Telscombe lies is rich in flowers; in the Maytime of which I am speaking, there was a profusion of hound's-tongue in bloom, and a good sprinkling of that charming upland plant, deserving of a pleasanter name, the field fleawort; but of what I was searching for, no trace. I had walked into the spider's "parlour," but the spider was not at home. More fortunate was a lady who on that same day brought to the Hove exhibition a flower which she had casually picked on another part of the Downs where she was taking a walk. Sitting down for a rest, she saw an unknown plant on the turf. It was a spider orchis. Much less unaccommodating, to me, was the musk orchis, a still smaller species which grows in several places where the northern face of the Downs is intersected, as below Ditchling Beacon, by deep-cut tracks--they can hardly be called bridle-paths--that slant upward across the slope. I was told by Miss Robinson, of Saddlescombe, to whose wide knowledge of Sussex plants many flower-lovers besides myself have been indebted, that she once picked a musk orchis from horseback as she was riding along the hill side. It is a sober-garbed little flower, with not much except its rarity to signalize it; but an orchis is an orchis still; there is no member of the family that has not an interest of its own. Many of them are locally common on these hills; to wit, the early purple, the fly, the frog, the fragrant, the spotted, the pyramidal, and most lovely of all, the dwarf orchis; also the twayblade, the lady's-tresses, and one or two of the helleborines. The green-man orchis, not uncommon in parts of Surrey and Kent, will here be sought in vain. But the Downs are not wholly composed of grassy sheep-walks and furze-dotted wastes; they include many tracts of cultivated land, where, if we may judge from the botanical records of the past generation, certain cornfield weeds which are now very rare, such as the mouse-tail and the hare's-ear, were once much more frequent. It is rather strange that the improved culture, which has nearly eliminated several interesting species, should have had so little effect on the charlock and the poppy, which still colour great squares and sections of the Downs with their rival tints, their yellow and scarlet rendered more conspicuous by having the quiet tones of these rolling uplands for a background. In autumn, when most of the wealden flowers are withering, the chalk hills are still decked with gentians and other late-growing kinds; and the persistence, even into sere October, of such children of the sun as the rampion and the rock-rose is very remarkable. The autumnal aspect of the Downs is indeed as beautiful as any; for there are then many days when a blissful calm seems to brood over the great coombes and hollows, and the fields lie stretched out like a many-coloured map, the rich browns of the ploughlands splashed and variegated with patches of yellow and green. Then, too, one sees and hears overhead the joy-flight of the rooks and daws, as round and round they circle, higher and higher, like an inverted maelstrom swirling upward, till it breaks with a chorus of exulting cries as gladdening to the ear as is the sight of those aerial manoeuvres to the eye. The final impression which the Downs leave on the mind is, I repeat, one of freedom and space; and this is felt by the flower-lover as strongly as by any wanderer on these hills, these "blossoming places in the wilderness," as Mr. Hudson has called them, "which make the thought of our trim, pretty, artificial gardens a weariness." VII PRISONERS OF THE PARTERRE Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Trained to stand in rows, and asking if they please. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. MEREDITH. THE domestication of plants, as of animals, is a concern of such practical importance that in most minds it quite transcends whatever interest may be felt in the beauty of wildflowers. But the many delights of the garden ought not to blind us to the fact that there is in the wild a peculiar quality which the domesticated can never reproduce, and that the plant which is free, even if it be the humblest and most common, has a charm for the nature-lover which the more gorgeous captives of the garden must inevitably lack. If much is gained by domestication, much is also lost. This, doubtless, is felt less strongly in the taming of plants than of animals, but in either case it holds true. To some of us, it must be owned, zoological gardens are a nightmare of confusion, and the now almost equally popular "rock-garden" a place which leaves an impression of dulness and futility; for while we fully recognize the interest, such as it is, of inducing Alpines to grow under altered conditions of climate, there is an irrelevance in the assembling of heterogeneous flowers in one enclosure, which perplexes and wearies the mind. For just as a cosmopolitan city is no city at all, and a Babel is no language, so a multifarious rock-garden, where a host of alien plants are grouped in unnatural juxtaposition, is a collection not of flowers but of "specimens." For scientific purposes--the determination of species, and viewing the plants in all stages of their growth--it may be most valuable: to the mere flower-lover, as he gazes on such a concourse, the thought that arises is: "What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?" It is a museum, a herbarium, if you like; but hardly, in any true sense, a garden. I once had the experience of living next door to a friend who was smitten with the mania for rock-gardening, and from my study window I overlooked the process from start to finish--first the arrival of many tons of limestone blocks and chips; then the construction of artificial crags and gullies, moraines and escarpments, until a line of miniature Alps rose to view; and lastly the planting of various mountain flowers in the situations suited to their needs. Then followed many earnest colloquies between the creator of this fair scene and a neighbour enthusiast, as they walked about the garden together and inspected it plant by plant, much as a farmer goes his rounds to examine his oats or turnips. They surveyed the world, botanically speaking, from China to Peru. Yet somehow I felt that, just as I would rather see a sparrow at large than an eagle in captivity, so to be shown round that well-fashioned rockery was less entertaining than to show oneself round the most barren of the adjacent moors. "Herbes that growe in the fieldes," wrote a fifteenth-century herbalist, "be bettere than those that growe in gardenes." This, however, is by no means the common opinion; on the contrary, there is in most minds a disregard or veritable contempt for wildflowers as being, with a few exceptions, "weeds," and quite unworthy of comparison with the inmates of a garden. In her _Haunts of the Wild Flowers_, Anne Pratt has recorded how she was invited by a cottager to throw away a bunch of "ordinary gays" that she was carrying, and to gather some garden flowers in their stead. I once took a long walk over the moors in Derbyshire in order to visit certain rare flowers of the limestone dales, among them the speedwell-leaved whitlow-grass (_draba muralis_), a specimen of which I brought home. This little crucifer is very insignificant in appearance; and the fact that anyone should plod many miles to gather it so upset the gravity of an extremely demure and respectful servant girl, when she saw it on my mantelpiece, that to her own visible shame and confusion she broke into a loud giggle, somewhat as Bernard Shaw's chocolate-cream soldier failed to conceal his amusement when the portrait of the hero of the cavalry charge was shown to him by its possessor. Even in the case of those wildings whose beauty or scent has made them generally popular, it is thought the highest compliment to domesticate them, to bring them--poor waifs and strays that they are--from their forlorn savage state into the fold of civilization, just as a "deserving" pauper might be received into an almshouse, or an orphan child into one of Dr. Barnardo's homes. And strange to say, this reverential belief in the garden, as enhancing the merits of the wild, has found its way into many of the wildflower books: for instance, in Johns's well-known work, _Flowers of the Field_ (of the _field_, be it noted), we are informed that the lily of the valley is "a universally admired garden plant, and that the sweet-brier is "deservedly" cultivated. The more refined wildflowers, it will be seen, can thus rise, as it were, from the ranks, at the cost of their freedom, which happens to be the most interesting thing about them, to be enrolled in the army of the civilized; and the result has been that some of the more distinguished plants, such as the _daphne mezereum_, are fast losing their place among British wildflowers, and becoming nothing better than prisoners and captives of the parterre. This disdain that is felt for whatever is wild, natural, and unowned, is largely responsible for the unscrupulous digging up of any attractive plants that may be discovered, a subject of which I propose to speak in the next chapter. The absurdity of the typical gardener's attitude toward wildflowers is well illustrated by some remarks in Delamer's _The Flower Garden_ (1856) with reference to that exceedingly beautiful plant, the tutsan. "Tutsan is a hardy shrubby St. John's-wort, largely employed by gardeners of the last century; but it has now, for the most part, retired from business, in consequence of the arrival of more attractive and equally serviceable newcomers. One or two tutsan bushes may be permitted to help to form a screen of shrubs, in consideration of the days of auld lang syne." Fortunately the tutsan is not "retiring from business" in Nature's garden. It seems to me that, instead of carrying more and more wildflowers into captivity, it would be much wiser to set at liberty the many British plants that are now under detention. I would instruct my gardener (if I had one) to lift very carefully the daphnes, the lilies of the valley, the tutsans, the cornflowers, the woodruffs, and the rest of the native clan, and to plant them out, each according to its taste, by bank or hedgerow, in field, common, or wood. VIII PICKING AND STEALING Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies. TENNYSON. THERE is, as I have said, a positive contempt in many minds for the wildflower; that is, for the flower which is regarded as being no one's "property." But the flora of a country, rightly considered, is very far from being unowned; it is the property of the people, and when any species is diminished or extirpated the loss is not private but national. We have already reached a time, as many botanists think, when the choicer British flowers need some sort of protection. That some injury should be caused to our native flora by improved culture, drainage, building, and the extension of towns, is inevitable; though these losses might be considerably lessened if there were a more general regard for natural beauty. But that is all the stronger reason for discountenancing such damage as is done in mere thoughtlessness, or, worse, for selfish purposes; and it were greatly to be wished that some of the good folk who pray that their hands may be kept "from picking and stealing" would so far widen the scope of their sympathies as to include the rarer wildflowers. It cannot be doubted that there is an immense amount of wasteful flower-picking by children, and also by persons who are old enough to know better. Nothing is commoner, in Spring, than to see piles of freshly gathered hyacinths or cowslips abandoned by the roadside; and many other flowers share the same fate, including, as I have noticed, the beautiful green-winged meadow orchis. Trippers and holiday-makers are often very mischievous: I have seen them, for instance, on the ramparts of Conway Castle, hooking and tearing the red valerian which is an ornament to the grey old walls. I was told by a friend who lives in a district where the rare meadow-sage (_salvia pratensis_) is native, that he is compelled to pluck the blue flowers just before the August bank-holiday, in order to save the plant itself from being up-rooted and carried off. Primroses, abundant as they still are in many places, have nearly disappeared from others, in consequence of the depredations of flower-vendors; and there was a time when they were seriously threatened in the neighbourhood of London because a certain fashionable cult was at its height. Witness the following "Idyll of Primrose Day" by some unknown versifier: How blest was dull old Peter Bell, Whom Wordsworth sung in days of yore! A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. Alas! 'tis something more to us; No longer Nature's meekest flower, But symbol of consummate Quack, Who by tall talk and knavish knack Could plant himself in power. For his sweet sake we mourn, each spring, Our lanes and hedgerows robbed and bare, Our woods despoiled by clumsy clown, That primrose-tufts may come to town For tuft-hunters to wear. And so, on snobbish Primrose Day, We envy Peter's simple lore: A primrose, worn with fulsome fuss, A yellow primrose is to us, Alas! and something more. The nurseryman and the professional gardener have also much to answer for in the destruction of wildflowers. Take the following instance, quoted from the _Flora of Kent_, with reference to the cyclamen: "Towards the end of August, 1861, I was shown the native station of this plant. . . . The people in those parts had found out it was in request, and had almost entirely extirpated it, digging up the roots, and selling them for transplantation into shrubberies." In the same work it is recorded that, when the frog orchis was found in some abundance near Canterbury, "in a wonderfully short space of time the whole of this charming colony was dug and extirpated." Again, if it be permissible to call a spade a spade, what shall be said of those roving knights of the trowel, the unconscionable rock-gardeners who ride abroad in search of some new specimen for their collections? A late writer of very charming books on the subject has feelingly described how, after the discovery of some long-sought treasure, he craved a brief spell of repose, a sort of holy calm, before commencing operations. "We blessed ones," he said, referring to botanists as contrasted with ornithologists, "may sit down calmly, philosophically, beside our success, and gently savour all its sweetness, until it is time to take out the trowel after half an hour of restful rapture in our laurels." Other flower-fanciers there are who show much less circumspection. In Upper Teesdale, where the rare blue gentian (_gentiana verna_) is found on the upland pastures, I was told that a "gentleman" had come with two gardeners in a motor, and departed laden with a number of these beautiful Alpine flowers for transplantation to his private rockery. The nation which permits such a theft--far worse than stealing from a private garden--deserves to possess no wildflowers at all; and such a botanist, if botanist he can be called, deserves to be himself transplanted, or transported--to Botany Bay. The same vandalism, in varying degrees, has been at work in every part of the land, and nothing has yet been done effectively to check it, whether by legislation, education, or appeal to public opinion: it seems to be absolutely no one's business to protect what ought to be a cherished national possession. In no district, perhaps, has the greed of the collector been more unabashed than among the mountains of Cumberland and North Wales. "Thanks to the inconsiderate rapacity of the fern-getter," wrote Canon Rawnsley, in an Introduction to a _Guide to Lakeland_, "the few rarer sorts are fast disappearing. ... There has been, in the time past, quite a cruel and unnecessary uprooting of the rarer ferns and flowers;" and he went on to ask: "When will travellers learn that the fern by the wayside has a public duty to fulfil?" All such remonstrances have hitherto been in vain: neither the fear of God nor the fear of man has deterred the collector from his purpose. It is pleasant to read that in the seventeenth century a Welsh guide alleged "the fear of eagles" as a reason for not leading one of the earliest English visitors to the haunts of Alpine plants on the precipices of Carnedd Llewelyn; but unfortunately eagles are now as scarce as nurserymen and fern-filchers are numerous. IX ROUND A SURREY CHALK-PIT I found a deep hollow on the side of a great hill, a green concave, where I could rest and think in perfect quiet. RICHARD JEFFERIES. AS a range of hills, the North Downs are inferior to those of Sussex in beauty and general interest. Their outline suggests no "greyhound backs" coursing along the horizon; nor have they that "living garment" of turf, woven by centuries of pasturing, which Hudson has matchlessly described. Their northern side is but a gradual slope leading up to a bleak tableland; and only when one emerges suddenly on their southern front, with its wide views across the weald, do their glories begin to be realized. In this steep declivity, facing the sun at noon, there is a distinctive and unfailing charm, quite unlike that of the corresponding escarpment of the South Downs: it forms, as it were, an inland riviera, a sheltered undercliff, green with long waving grasses, and sweet with marjoram and thyme, a haven where the wandering flower-lover may revel in glowing sunshine, or take a siesta, if so minded, under that most friendly of trees the white-beam. I have memories of many a pious Sabbath spent in this enchanted realm, with the wind in the beeches for anthem, and for incense the scent of marjoram enriching the air. To one who knows these fragrant banks it seems strange that though the wild thyme has been so celebrated by poets and nature-writers, the marjoram, itself a glorified thyme, has by comparison gone unsung. We are told in the books that it is a potherb, an aromatic stimulant, even a remedy for toothache. It may be all that; but it is something much better, a thing of beauty which might cure the achings not of the tooth only, but of the heart. Its relatives the lavender and the rosemary have not more charm. It was the _amaracus_ of Virgil, the flower on whose sweetness the young Iulus rested, when he was spirited away by Venus to her secret abode: She o'er the prince entrancing slumber strows, And, fondling in her bosom, far away Bears him aloft to high Idalian bowers, Where banks of marjoram sweet, in soft repose, Enfold him, propped on beds of fragrant flowers. Who could wish for a diviner couch? Along this range of hills the chalk-pits, used or disused, are frequent at intervals, some of such size as to form landmarks visible at the distance of twenty or thirty miles. For a botanist, these amphitheatres, large or small, have always an attraction; for though they vary much in the quality of their flowers, and some have little to show beyond the commoner plants of a calcareous soil, there are a few which present a surprising array of the choicer kinds; and to light upon one of these treasure-troves is a joy indeed. I have in mind a large semicircular disused pit, lying high among the Downs, and bordered with abrupt grassy banks and coppices of beech, hazel, and fir, where during the past thirty years I have spent many long summer days, sometimes writing under the shade of the trees, at other times idling among the flowers, or watching the snakes that lie basking in the sun, or the kestrels that may often be seen hovering over the adjacent slopes. For all their unrivalled openness and sense of space, the Sussex Downs have no such "sun-trap" to show. One has heard of "the music of wild flowers." I used to call the floor of this chalk-pit "the orchistra," so numerous are the orchids that adorn it. The spotted orchis, the fragrant orchis, the pyramidal orchis, the bee orchis, the butterfly orchis, and the twayblade--these six are stationed there within a small compass. The marsh orchis grows below; the fly orchis is in the neighbouring thickets; in the beech-woods are the bird's-nest orchis, the broad-leaved helleborine, with its rare purple variety (_epipactis purpurata_), and the large white helleborine or egg orchis. A dozen of the family within the circuit of a short walk! The man orchis seems to be absent, though it grows in some plenty in similar places on the same line of hills. Another feature of the chalk-pit is the viper's bugloss. If, as Thoreau says, there is a flower for every mood of the mind, the viper's bugloss must surely belong to that mood which is associated with the pomps and splendours of the high summer noontide. Gorgeous and tropical in its colouring beyond all other British flowers, as it rears its bristly green spikes, studded profusely with the pink buds that are turning to an equally vivid blue, it seems instinct with the spirit of a fiery summer day. Like other members of the Borage group, it has the warm southern temperament; its name, too, suits it well; for there is something viperish in the almost fierce beauty of the plant, as if some passionate-hearted exotic had sprung up among the more staid and sober representatives of our native flora. Its richness never palls on us; we no more tire of its brilliance than of the summer itself. Akin to the bugloss, though less striking and less abundant, is the hound's-tongue, with its long downy leaves and numerous purple-red buds of a sombre and sullen hue that is not often to be matched. It has the misfortune, so we are told, to smell of mice; were it not for this hindrance to its career, it might justly be held in high esteem. Among the larger plants prominent on ledges of the chalk, or in near neighbourhood, are the mullein, the teazle, the ploughman's-spikenard, and the deadly nightshade or dwale. The buckthorn is frequent in the hedges and thickets; and the traveller's-joy is climbing wherever it can get a hold. But it is on the shelving banks that skirt the margin of the pit that the comeliest flowers are to be found; the most beautiful of all, perhaps, is the rock-rose, a plant so delicate that its small golden petals will scarcely survive a journey in the vasculum, yet so hardy that it will flower to the very latest autumn days. The wild strawberry is creeping everywhere; and the crimson of the grass vetchling may occasionally be seen among the ranker herbage, to which the stalk seems to belong; on the shorter turf is the small squinancy-wort, lovely cousin of the woodruff, its pink and white petals chiselled like the finest ivory. The elegant yellow-wort, glaucous and perfoliate, and the handsome pink centaury, are common on the Downs; so, too, in the late summer, will be their less showy but always welcome relative, the autumnal gentian: all three have the firm and erect habit that is a property of the Gentian tribe. It is one of the many merits of these chalk hills that their flower-season is a prolonged one. Not the gentians only, with yellow-wort and centaury, are still vigorous in the autumn, but also the blue fleabane, clustered bell-flower, vervain, marjoram, basil, and many labiate herbs. Even in October, when the glory has long departed from the lowlands of the weald, there remains a brave show of blossom on these delectable hills. The Pilgrim's Way, often no more than a grassy track, runs eastward along the base of the Downs, interrupted here and there by the encroachment of parks and private estates, which now block the ancient route to Canterbury; but where Nature has provided so many shrines and cathedrals of her own, there is no need of any others; certainly I never lacked a holy place wherein to make my vows, many as were the pilgrimages on which I started. On one occasion that I recall, I was joined in my quest by a rather strange fellow-traveller, a man who met me, coming from the opposite direction, and eagerly asked whether I had seen anyone on the hillside. When I assured him that nobody had passed that way, he turned and walked in my company, and presently confided to me that he was an attendant at a lunatic asylum, and was in pursuit of an inmate who had escaped an hour or two before. We went a short distance together, he peering into the coombes and bushy hollows, as incongruous a pair as could be imagined; yet it occurred to me that his mission, too, might be considered a botanical one, since there is a plant named the madwort--nay, worse, the "German madwort," a title which, in those feverish war-days, would of itself have justified incarceration. Nevertheless, as I always sympathize with escaped prisoners (provided, of course, that it is not _my_ bed under which they conceal themselves), I was secretly glad that my companion's search was unavailing. To return to my chalk-pit: I have mentioned but a few of the many flowers that belong there; within a mile, or less, others and quite different ones are flourishing. The rampion, though very local in Surrey, is found in places along these Downs; so, too, is the strange yellow bugle, or "ground pine," which is much more like a diminutive pine than a bugle; also the still stranger fir-rape (_monotropa_), which lurks in the thickest shade of the beech-woods. That interesting shrub, the butcher's-broom, or "knee holly," as it is more agreeably called, is another native: it wears its small flower daintily, like a button-hole, on the centre of the rigid leaves of deepest green. A few miles east there is another chalk-pit which, though inferior in the number of its flowers, has a sprinkling of the man orchis, whose shape, if there is any likeness at all, seems to suggest a toy man dangling from a string; a simile which I prefer to that of a dead man dangling from the gallows. In the woods that crown this pit there is a profusion of the deadly nightshade; and I noticed that during the war-summers, when there was a scarcity of belladonna, these plants were regularly harvested by some enterprising herbalist. Such are a few of the delights of the Surrey undercliff; but alas! they are vanishing delights, for the proximity to London has rendered all this district peculiarly liable to change. How could it be otherwise, when from the top of the ridge the dome of "smoky Paul's" is visible on a clear day, and a view of the Crystal Palace, "that dreadful C.P." as one has heard it called, can seldom be avoided. What havoc has been wrought in the Surrey hills by the advance of "civilization," may be learnt by anyone who studies the district with a sixty-year-old _Flora of Surrey_ for guide. Between Merstham and Godstone, for instance, the hillsides, which were then free, open ground, have become in the saddest sense "residential," and the wildflowers have suffered in proportion. One may still find there the narrow-leaved everlasting pea, "hanging in festoons on thickets and copses," but other equally valued plants have disappeared or are disappearing. The marsh helleborine was once plentiful, it seems, in a swampy situation near Merstham; but when, by dint of careful trespassing and circumnavigation of barbed wire, I reached a place which corresponded exactly with that indicated in the _Flora_, not a single flower was to be seen. Probably some conscientious gardener had "transplanted" them. It is impossible to doubt that this process will be continued, and that every year more wild land will be broken up in the building of villas and in the making of gardens, with the inevitable shrubberies, gravel walks, flower-borders, and lawn-tennis courts. The trim parterre with its "detested calceolarias," as a great nature-lover has described them, will more and more be substituted for the rough banks that are the favourite haunts of marjoram and rock-rose. How can the owners of such a fairyland have the heart to sell it for such a purpose? In Omar's words: I often wonder what the vintners buy One half so precious as the stuff they sell. X A SANDY COMMON The common, overgrown with fern, . . . Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and rich in odoriferous herbs And fungus fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets. COWPER. STRETCHED between the North Downs and the weald, through the west part of Kent and the length of Surrey, runs the parallel range of greensand, which in a few places, as at Toys Hill and Leith Hill, equals or overtops its rival, but is elsewhere content to keep a lower level, as a region of high open commons and heaths. The light soil of this district shows a flora as different from that of the chalk hills on its north as of the wealden clays on its south; so that a botanist has here the choice of three kingdoms to explore. In natural beauty, these hills can hardly compare with the Downs. "For my part," wrote Gilbert White, "I think there is something peculiarly sweet and amusing in the shapely figured aspect of chalk hills, in preference to those of stone, which are rugged, broken, abrupt, and shapeless." The same opinion was held by William Morris, who once declined to visit a friend of his (from whom I had the story) because he was living on just such a sandy common in west Surrey, where the formless and lumpish outline of the land was a pain to the artistic eye. For hygienic reasons, however, a sandy soil is reputed best to dwell upon; and I have heard a tale--told as a warning to those who are over-fastidious in their choice of a site--of a pious old gentleman who, being determined to settle only where he could be assured of two conditions, "a sandy soil and the pure gospel," finally died without either in a Bloomsbury hotel. The gorse and broom in spring, and in autumn the heather, are the marked features of the sandy Common: the foxglove, too, which has a strong distaste for lime, here often thrives in vast abundance, and makes a great splash of purple at the edge of the woods. But even apart from these more conspicuous plants, the "barren heath," as it is sometimes called, is well able to hold its own in a flower-lover's affection; though the absence of the finer orchids, and of some other flowers that pertain to the chalk, makes it perhaps less exciting as a field of adventure. In Crabbe's words: And then how fine the herbage! Men may say A heath is barren: nothing is so gay. From May to September the Common is sprinkled with a bright succession of flowers--the slender _moenchia_, akin to the campions and chickweeds, dove's-foot, crane's-bill; tormentil; heath bedstraw; speedwells of several species; autumnal harebell, and golden rod--each in turn playing its part. Among the aristocracy of this small people are the bird's-foot, an elfin creature, with tiny pinnate leaves and creamy crimson-veined blossoms; the modest milkwort, itself far from a rarity, yet so lovely that it shames us in our desire for the rare; and the trailing St. John's-wort, which we hail as the beauty of the family, until presently, meeting with its "upright" sister of the smooth heart-shaped leaves and the golden red-stained buds, we are forced to own that to her the name of _hypericum pulcrum_ most rightly belongs. But the chief prize of the sandy heath is the Deptford pink, a rare annual of uncertain appearance, which bears the unmistakable stamp of nobility: it is a red-letter day for the flower-lover when he finds a small colony of these comely plants on some dry grassy margin. It was on a bank in Westerham Park that I first met with them; and there they reappeared, though in lessening numbers, in the two succeeding seasons. There was also a solitary flower, growing unpicked, strange to say, close beside one of the most frequented tracks that skirt the neighbouring Common. In the woods of beech and fir with which the hill is fringed there are more fungi than flowers; and here too the "call of the wild" is felt, though to a feast of a less ethereal order. Fungus hunting is one of the best of sports, and a joy unknown to those who imagine that the orthodox "mushroom" of the market is the only wholesome species; and it is worthy of note that, whereas the true meadow mushroom is procurable during only a few weeks of the year, the fungus-eater can pursue his quarry during six or seven months, so great is the variety at his disposal. Among the delicacies that these woods produce are the red-fleshed mushroom, a brown-topped warty plant which becomes rufous when bruised; the gold-coloured chantarelle, often found growing in profusion along bushy paths and dingles; the big edible boletus, ignored in this country, but well appreciated on the Continent; and best of all, deserving indeed of its Latin name, the _agaricus deliciosus_, or orange-milk agaric, so called because its flesh, when broken, exudes an orange-coloured juice. It is easy to identify these and many other species with the help of a handbook, and it therefore seems strange that Englishmen, as compared with other races, should be prejudiced against the use of this valuable form of food. As for the country-folk who live within easy reach of such dainties, yet would rather starve than eat a "toadstool," what can one say of them? _O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint!_ From the south side of these fir-woods one formerly emerged, almost at a step, on to the escarpment that overlooks the weald, and at one of the finest viewpoints in Kent or Surrey; but the trees were felled during the war by Portuguese woodmen imported for that lamentable purpose. The spot is remembered by me for another reason; for there, in the years before the madness of Europe, used to sit almost daily a very aged man, whose home was on the hillside close by, and who was brought out, by his own wish, that he might spend his declining days not in moping by a kitchen fire, but in gazing across the wide expanse of weald, where all the landmarks were familiar to him, and of which he seemed never to weary. No more truly devout old age could have been desired; for there was no mistaking his genuine love for what Richard Jefferies called "the pageant of summer," the open-air panorama of the seasons, as observed from that heathery watch-tower. The only cloud on his horizon, so to speak, was the flock of aeroplanes which even then were beginning to mar the sky's calmness: of these he would sagely remark that "if man had been intended to fly, the Almighty would have given him wings." Had the old philosopher known to what hellish uses those engines were presently to be put, he might have wondered still more at such thwarting of the divine intent. Of sandpits there are several on the Common, and their disused borders are favourite haunts for wildflowers. The "least" cudweed, a slender wisp of a plant, is native there; the small-flowered crane's-bill, which is liable to be confounded with the dove's-foot; also one or two curious aliens, such as the Canadian fleabane, and the Norwegian _potentilla_, which resembles the common cinquefoil but has smaller flowers. But what most allured me to the spot was the sheep's scabious, or, as it is more prettily named in the Latin, _Jasione montana_, a delightful little plant, baffling alike in name, form, and colour. It is called a scabious, yet is not one. It is classed as a campanula, and seen through a lens is found to be not one but many campanulas, a number of tiny bells united in a single head. Then its hue--was there ever tint more elusive, more indefinable, than that of its many petals? Is it grey, or blue, or lavender, or lilac, or what? We only know that the flower is very beautiful as it blooms on sandy bank or roadside wall. At the side of a small plantation that borders the heath there thrives the alien small-flowered balsam, which, like some of its handsomer kinsfolk, seems to be quickly extending its range. Near the same spot I noticed several years ago, on a winter day, a patch of large soft pale-green leaves, which at a hasty glance I took to be those of the scented colt's-foot; but when I passed that way in the following spring I was surprised to see that several long stalks, bearing bright yellow composite flowers, had risen from the mass of foliage. It proved to be the leopard's-bane, probably an "escape" from some neighbouring garden, but already well established and thriving like any native. But the Common does not consist wholly of dry ground; in one place, near the centre of the golf-course, there is a marshy depression, and in it a small pond where the water is a foot or two deep in winter, but in a hot summer almost disappears. Here a double discovery awaits the inquirer. The muddy pool is full of one of the rarer mints--pennyroyal--and with it grows the curious _helosciadium inundatum_, or "least marsh-wort," a small umbelliferous plant which has more the habit and appearance of a water crowfoot, its lower leaves being cut in fine hair-like segments. Nor do the fields and lanes that adjoin the heath lack their distinctive charm. The orpine, or "live-long," a handsome purple stonecrop, is not uncommon by the hedgeside; and the lovely _geranium striatum_, or striped crane's-bill, an occasional straggler from gardens, has made for itself a home; a hardy little adventurer it is, and one hopes it may yet win a place among British flowers, as many a less desirable immigrant has done. Poppies and corn-marigolds are a wonder of red and gold in the cultivated fields, the poppies as usual looking their best (if agriculturists will pardon the remark) when they have a crop of wheat for a background. The queer little knawel springs up among spurrey and parsley-piert; and in one locality is the lesser snapdragon, which always commands attention, partly for its uncommonness, and partly as a scion of the romantic race of _Antirrhinum_, which has a fascination not for children only, but for all lovers of the quaint. I have mentioned the golf-course. To many a Common the golfers are becoming what the builders are to the Downs--invaders who, by the trimming of grass and cutting down of bushes, are turning the natural into the artificial, and appropriating for the use of the few the possession of the many. To everyone his recreation ground; but are not the golf clubs getting rather more than their portion? XI QUAINTNESS IN FLOWERS Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes. MILTON. I SPOKE just now of a love of the quaint. Quaintness, though it may exist apart from beauty, is often associated with it, and, unlike grotesqueness, has a pleasurable interest for the spectator. In flowers it is usually suggested by some abnormality of shape, as in the snapdragon; less frequently, as in the fritillary, by a singular effect of colouring. Perhaps it is to the orchis group that one would most confidently apply the word; for they arrest attention not so much by their beauty as by their strangeness: one of them, indeed, the dwarf orchis, is undeniably beautiful, while another, the bird's-nest, is as ugly as a broom-rape; the others, if one tried to find a comprehensive epithet, might fairly be described as quaint. This quality in the orchids is not due solely to the odd likeness which some of them present to certain insects; for, as far as British species are concerned, the similarity, with a few exceptions, is somewhat fanciful. If it be granted that the fly, the bee, and the spider orchis are justly named--though even in these the resemblance is not always recognized when pointed out--it is no less true that one looks in vain for the semblance of a "butterfly," or of a "frog," in the plants that are so entitled, and it takes some ingenuity to discover the "man" in _aceras anthropophora_, or the "egg" in the white helleborine. But there is a charming quaintness in nearly all members of the family, owing largely to the peculiar structure of the lower lip of the corolla or the unusual length of the spur. The very name of the snapdragon is a proof of its hold upon the imagination: what medival romance and unfailing charm for children--and for adults--is conveyed in the word! The plant is at its best when clad in royal hue of purple; the white robe also has its glory; but the intermediate forms, striped and mottled, that are so fancied in gardens, are degenerates from a noble type. Seen on the walls of some ancient ruin, the snapdragon is a wonder and a delight; it is to be regretted that its place is now so often usurped by the red valerian, in comparison a mere upstart and pretender. The lesser snapdragon or calf's-snout, with the toadflaxes and fluellens, shares in the characteristic quaintness of its tribe. I will next instance the "perfoliates," plants not confined to any one order, but alike in having a stem which passes midway through the leaf or pair of leaves, a most engaging curiosity of structure. It is by this peculiarity that the yellow-wort, a gentian with glaucous foliage and blossoms like "patines of bright gold," mainly wins its popularity. But the quaintest of perfoliates is the hare's-ear, or "thorow-wax," as it used to be called, of which, as Gerarde wrote, "every branch grows thorow every leaf, making them like hollow cups or saucers." The thorow-wax owes its attractiveness to these singular glaucous leaves, which might be compared with an artist's palette; in some measure, also, to the sharp-pointed bracts by which the minute yellow flowers are enfolded--features that lend it a distinction which many much more beautiful plants do not possess. From no catalogue of quaint plants could the butterwort be omitted. "Mountain-sanicle" was its old name; and all climbers are acquainted with it, as it studs the wet rocks on the lower hillsides with pale green or yellowish leaves like starfish on a seashore. Its flowering-season is short, but full of interest, for lo! from its centre there rise in June one or two long and dainty stems, each bearing at its extremity a drooping purple flower that might at first glance be taken for a violet--a violet springing from a starfish! It is a long step from these conspicuous examples of the quaint to the small and modest moschatel, a hedge-flower which is likely to go unobserved unless it be made a special object of inquiry. _Adoxa_, "the unknown to fame," is its Greek title; but if it has little claim to beauty in the ordinary sense, there is no slight charm in its delicate configuration, and in the whimsical arrangement of its five slender flower-heads--a terminal one, facing upwards, supported by four lateral ones, with a resemblance to the faces of a clock; whence its not inappropriate nickname, "the clock-tower." A fairy-like little belfry it is, whose chimes must be listened for, if at all, in the early spring, for it hastens to get its flowering finished before it is overgrown by the rank herbage of the roadside. There are many other flowers that might claim a place in this chapter, such as the sundews and the bladderworts; the mimulus and ground pine; the samphire and sea-rocket; the mullein and the teazle; and not least, the herb Paris, with that large quadruple "love-knot" into which its leaves are fashioned. But it must suffice to speak of one more. The fritillary, which shall close the list, is quaint to the point of being bizarre: its various names bear witness to the freakishness of its apparel--"guinea-flower," "turkey-hen," "chequered lily," "snake's-head," and so forth. It was aptly described by Gerarde as "chequered most strangely. . . . Surpassing the curiousest painting that art can set down"; and in addition to this gorgeous colouring, the bell-like shape and heavy poise of its flower-heads contribute to the striking effect. From Gerarde to W. H. Hudson, who has portrayed it very beautifully in his _Book of a Naturalist_, the fritillary has been fortunate in its chroniclers; in its name, which it shares with a handsome family of butterflies, it can hardly be said to have been fortunate. For apart from the consideration that it is no great honour to a fine insect or flower to be likened to that instrument of human folly, a dicebox (_fritillus_), there is the practical difficulty of pronouncing the word as the dictionaries tell us it must be pronounced, with the accent on the first syllable; and not the dictionaries only, but the poets, as in Arnold's oft-quoted but very cacophonous line: I know what white, what purple fritillaries. . . . Why must so quaintly charming a flower be so barbarously named that one's jaw is well-nigh cracked in articulating it? XII HERTFORDSHIRE CORNFIELDS A gaily chequered, heart-expanding view, Far as the circling eye can shoot around, Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn. THOMSON. THAT part of Hertfordshire where the Chiltern Hills, after curving proudly round from Tring to Dunstable, and almost rivalling the South Downs in shapeliness, die away at their north-east extremity, over Hitchin, to a bare expanse of ploughland, has the aspect of a broad plain swept by all winds of heaven, but is found, when explored, to be by no means devoid of charm. There, by a paradox, the very extent of the great hedgeless cornfields, reclaimed from the wild, gives the landscape a sort of wildness; it is in fact the district whence the Royston crow got its name, that hooded outlaw to whose survival a wide tract of open country was indispensable; and there is a pleasure in wandering over it which is unguessed by the traveller who rushes through in an express to Cambridge, and marvels at the tameness of the land. The wildflowers of cultivated fields are as distinctive as those of heath or hillside. It would be difficult to name any two more beautiful "weeds" than the succory and the corn "blue-bottle"--the light blue and the dark blue; both have deservedly won their "blues"--and when to these is added the corn-cockle (_lychnis githago_), the rich veined purple of its petals set off by the long pointed green sepals and leaves, what handsomer trio could be wished? Unhappily these flowers have become much scarcer than they used to be; but in the Hertfordshire fields they are still frequently to be admired. The intensive culture of which we nowadays hear so much has this drawback for the botanist, that it is robbing him of some plants which he is very loth to lose. The most striking of these, perhaps, is that quaint "perfoliate" of which I have already spoken, the thorow-wax or hare's-ear, which in Gerarde's time was so plentiful in the wheatland as to be what he calls its "infirmitie": now it is decidedly rare. I have never been so fortunate (except in dreams) as to see it _in situ_; but I have for several years grown it from the seed of a specimen gathered by a friend in the cornfields near Baldock, and have always been impressed by its elegance. It is a delicate and fastidious plant, thriving only, as I have noticed, when the conditions are quite favourable: this may account for its steady diminution in many counties, while coarser and hardier weeds are legion. A more abiding "infirmitie" of some Hertfordshire cornfields is the crow-garlic, a wild onion whose pink umbels often surmount the crop in hundreds. Wishing to learn their local name, I once asked a farm-hand at Letchworth what he called the flowers. After gazing at them sternly, he said to me: "They're _not_ flowers. They're a disease." I suggested that whatever their demerits might be from the point of view of an agriculturist, they must, strictly speaking, be regarded as flowers: this he grudgingly conceded; but as if regretting to have made so large an admission, he called after me, as I left him: "They're a disease." His pertinacity on this point reminded me of the reaffirmations of Old Kaspar, in Southey's poem, "After Blenheim": "Nay, nay" ... quoth he, "It was a famous victory." The crow-garlic, as it happens, is rather a pretty plant; and the opprobrious name "disease" might be much more suitably assigned to the tall broom-rape, an unwholesome-looking parasite which lives rapaciously at the expense of the great knapweed, and is occasionally met with in the district of which I am speaking. An extremely local umbellifer, said to have been formerly so abundant about Baldock that pigs were turned out to fatten on its roots, is the bulbous caraway, which looks like a larger edition of the common earth-nut. None of the country-folk whom I questioned seemed to have any knowledge of its uses; from which it would appear that its virtues, like those of many once famous herbs, have been forgotten in these sceptical modern times. It is well, perhaps, that _carum bulbocastanum_ should be saved from the pigs; for in that unlovely region its white umbels serve to lighten up the monotony of the waysides. An unexpected discovery is always welcome. In a waste field, about a mile from Royston, I once found a tall branching plant with an abundance of yellow cruciferous flowers, which I should not have recognized but for the fact that a year or two previously my friend Edward Carpenter had sent me a specimen from Corsica. It was the woad, famous as the source of the blue dye with which the ancient Britons stained themselves. A mere "casual" in Hertfordshire, it is said to be established in a few chalk-quarries near Guildford and elsewhere. Thus far I have spoken of none but field flowers; but the district does not consist wholly of cultivated land, for even in that wilderness of tillage there are oases which have never felt the plough, and where the flora is of a different order. Therfield Heath, near Royston, is one of them, a grassy slope where the handsome purple milk-vetch is plentiful, and one may find, though in less abundance, the sprightly field fleawort, which seems more familiar as an ornament of the high chalk Downs. Nor are water springs wanting in the bare ploughlands. The little river Ivel, which leaps suddenly to light near Baldock, and thence races northward to join the Bedfordshire Ouse, is a clear trout-stream by whose banks it is pleasant (whatever the trespass notices may threaten) to wander, and to watch the quick-glancing fish. At the hamlet of Radwell, in a moist copse, there is a patch of the rare monk's-hood, a poisonous flower of which later mention will be made. A joint tributary of the Ouse, and not less inviting, is the oddly named Hiz, which has its source on Oughton Common, a boggy flat near Hitchin, where both the butterwort and the grass of Parnassus are recorded as having grown and may perchance be growing still: as for the marsh orchis, one cannot cross the Common without seeing it. Then at Ickleford, a village on the banks of the Hiz, there is a pond which has been "occupied" (to use a military term) by the water-soldier, a stout aquatic which takes its name from the rigid swordlike leaves enclosing the three-petaled flowers. Peculiar to the eastern counties, this water-soldier is said to have been introduced at Ickleford over half a century ago; and there it now makes a fine array, having thriven wonderfully in spite of the worn-out pots and pans, and other refuse, for which, in Hertfordshire as elsewhere, the nearest pool or stream is thought a fit receptacle. A mile or two west of the source of the Hiz at Oughton Head, stands High Down, where begins or ends, according to the direction of the wayfarer, the northern escarpment of the Chilterns, at this point crossed, recrossed, and crossed again, by the curiously indented boundary-line between Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire; and here on the steep front of the Pirton and Barton hills, in the one county or the other, may be seen in early spring the most beautiful of English anemones, the pasque-flower. On the few occasions when I have visited the place the summer was well advanced, and I was too late for that gorgeous flower; I had to content myself with the pyramidal orchis at the foot of the hills, and with great blossoming sheets of white candytuft in the fields above. For all these excursions there is no better starting-point than Letchworth, first of Garden Cities, which has sprung rapidly into being from what was until recent years an unadorned expanse of agricultural ground with Norton Common as its centre. This Common, originally a bit of wild fen, now almost surrounded by cottages and gardens, is to the nature-lover the most attractive feature of Letchworth; and though its flora has inevitably suffered from the inroads of the juvenile population, it can still show such plants as the marsh orchis, the small valerian, and the rare sulphur-coloured trefoil. It is watered by a diminutive river--the unceremonious might say ditch--known as the Pix, whose current, like that of the Cam, would almost seem to be determined by the direction of the wind, but is reputed to flow northward, to join its fleeter brethren, the Hiz and the Ivel, in their course to the Ouse. I mention this rather forlorn stream, because it has sometimes occurred to me that, as an attempt is made to protect the wild birds on Norton Common, it might be expedient to lend a helping hand also to the flowers, or even to embellish the banks of the Pix (and so to re-invite the pixies to sport thereby), with a few hardy riverside plants, such as comfrey, tansy, hemp-agrimony, purple loosestrife, and yellow loosestrife, which were probably once native there, and would almost certainly flourish in such a spot. Is it legitimate thus to come to the rescue of wild nature? That is a question on which botanists are not quite agreed, and its consideration shall therefore be reserved for the following chapter. XIII THE SOWER OF TARES An enemy hath done this. THE sowing of wildflowers is deprecated by some botanists, presumably as an interference with natural processes, an unauthorized attempt to play Providence in the vegetable kingdom; but the subject is one that seems to call for fuller discussion than it usually receives. We are told in the parable that the man who sowed tares among the wheat was an enemy; and certainly if there was an intention to injure the crop the expression was not too strong. But I have sometimes wondered whether the reprehensible act may not have been that of some botanical enthusiast, who, loving wildflowers not wisely but too well, was trying to save from extinction some rare weed of the cornfields which was disappearing under improved methods of culture. That this way of augmenting the flora of a country is nowadays not uncommon may be guessed from the frequent occurrence in botanical works of the comment "probably planted." Only a few pages back, I referred to the case of a pond in Hertfordshire now strongly held by a battalion of water-soldiers, the descendants of imported plants. There is evidence, too, that the practice has occasionally been indulged in by naturalists of great distinction, an amusing instance being that of the venerable and much-respected Gerarde, whose description of the peony as growing wild near Gravesend drew from his editor, Johnson, the following remark: "I have beene told that our author himselfe planted the peionie there, and afterwards seemed to finde it there by accident; and I doe believe it was so, because none before or since have ever seene or heard of it growing wilde in any part of this kingdome." Again, it is stated in Canon Vaughan's _Wild Flowers of Selborne_ that Gilbert White himself "was once guilty of this misdemeanour." He sowed, not tares in wheat, but seeds of the grass of Parnassus in the Hampshire bogs, and sowed them according to his own statement unsuccessfully; it would appear, however, from what Canon Vaughan discovered that White was "more successful than he imagined." However that may be, the question that arises is whether a judicious extension of the range of wildflowers by the agency of man is really a thing to be censured. May not a flower-lover occasionally sow his "wild oats"? It must be admitted that the objections to such a practice are not retrospective, for if it be a misdemeanour, it is one that is condoned, perhaps hallowed, by time. For as it is impossible to draw a strict line between flowers that were accidentally imported or "escapes" from ancient gardens, and those that were planted deliberately, we wisely ask no questions in the case of old-established plants of foreign origin, but receive them into our flora as aliens that have become naturalized and are honourably classed as "denizens"; when they have once made good their tenure of the soil, it seems to matter little by what means they arrived. Thus, for example, the starry trefoil, which colonized the Shoreham shingles over a century ago, having apparently come as a stowaway on board some foreign ship, was not only tolerated but highly regarded by English botanists, and its recent destruction is felt to be a national loss. Would it have detracted from its value, if, as indeed may have happened, it had been purposely sown on the beach? On the contrary, it seems desirable that it should now be restored in that manner. Such planting, of course, if done at all, should be done circumspectly, and on a fixed principle, not as an amusement for irresponsible persons or children. I know a flower-lover who, in a district where that beautiful St. John's-wort, the tutsan, was dwindling through depredations, or through some unexplained malady, carefully restored the balance in a score or so of suitable spots; and surely such action was much to be commended. But it is not desired that everyone should be planting tutsan everywhere; nor is there any danger of such a fashion arising, for there is much less tendency to plant than to pluck, to create than to destroy; and for that reason it would be folly to reintroduce any rare plant like the lady's slipper, where the collector would quickly reap what the enthusiast had sown. Such was the objection, it seems to me, to a proposal made some years ago by Edward Carpenter and others, that the diminishing numbers of the rarer butterflies should be reinforced by breeding. One would not willingly repeat the comedy of the angling craze, which solemnly stocks rivers with fish in order to pull them out again for pastime. Nor, because _some_ planting of wildflowers may be unobjectionable, does it follow that all such enterprises are deserving of praise. A recent announcement that the Llanberis side of Snowdon, a locality rich in British mountain flowers, was being sown by Kew experts with the seeds of a number of "Alpines" from Switzerland, was likely to be more agreeable to rock-gardeners than to mountain-lovers, who have a regard for the distinctive character of Snowdon itself, and of its native flora. A country which has allowed its finest mountain to be exploited for commercial purposes, as Snowdon has been, is perhaps hardly in a position to protest against a Welsh hillside being planted with alien Swiss flowers, and even with Chinese rhododendrons; but nevertheless such schemes are thoroughly incongruous and barbaric. What sort of mountains do we desire to have? A piece of nature, or a nursery-garden? A Snowdon, or a Snowdon-cum-Kew? Be it understood, then, that the sowing of tares is by no means recommended as a practice: all that is here urged is that a sweeping condemnation of it is not warranted by the facts, inasmuch as circumstances, not dogma, must in each case decide whether it be blameworthy, or harmless, or beneficial. And apart from common sense, there is one natural safeguard which will prevent any undue growth of wildflowers, viz. the remarkable fastidiousness of the choicer plants in regard to soil and conditions: they will flourish where it suits them to flourish, not elsewhere. Certain auxiliaries, too, Nature has in the rabbits, water-voles, and other wild animals that are herbivorous in their tastes; for it is very interesting to observe how quickly the appearance of a strange plant will attract the attention of such gourmands. I was once the owner of a sloping meadow in which there were some springs; and thinking it would be pleasant to have a water-garden I had a small pond made, into which I introduced some aquatic plants, and among them, most accommodating of all, the water-violet, which grew lustily and sent up a number of its graceful stalks with whorls of pink blossoms. But just at that time a water-vole took up his residence there, and developing a remarkable fondness for a new savour in his salads, quickly made havoc of my _Hottonia palustris_. The neighbours assured me I must trap him; but to treat a fellow-vegetarian in that way was out of the question, especially as his confidence in me was so great that he would sit nibbling my favourite aquatic, which seemed also to be _his_ favourite, while I stood within a few yards. It was clear that if the cult of the water-violet involved the killing of the water-vole it had got to be abandoned. In this way, among others, does Nature protect herself against an excessive interference on man's part with the distribution of wildflowers. XIV DALES OF DERBYSHIRE Deeper and narrower grew the dell; It seemed some mountain, rent and riven, A channel for the stream had given, So high the cliffs of limestone gray Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way. SCOTT. THE limestone Dales of Derbyshire are narrow and deep, and their streams, when visible (for they often lurk underground), are swift, strong, and of crystal clearness. The sides of the glens are in some places precipitous with bluffs and pinnacles of grey rock; in others, ridged and streaked with terraces of alternate crag and turf; above the cliffs there is often a tableland of bleak pastures divided by stone walls, as dreary a scene as could be imagined, when contrasted with the picturesque dales below. The flowers of these limestone valleys immediately recall those of the chalk: the marjoram, the basil, the great knapweed, the traveller's-joy, the rock-rose, the musk-thistle--these and many other familiar friends make us seem, at first sight, to be back in Sussex or Surrey. But in reality we are a hundred and fifty miles nearer to the arctic zone, and that difference is clearly reflected in the flora; for when we look around, a number of new plants make their appearance, of which a dozen or more are very rare, or quite unknown, in the south. I once lived for several years on the hills above Chesterfield, a good way to the east of this limestone country; and to visit the nearest of the Dales there was a walk of seven miles, to and fro, across the intervening high moors that form the southern buttress of the Pennines. Stoney Middleton is far from being one of the pleasantest of Peakland villages; but such was the interest of its flora that the fourteen-mile trudge, and more, was often undertaken during the summer months. After traversing the great heathery moors devoted to the cult of the grouse, and descending from the rocky rampart of gritstone known as Curbar Edge, one crosses the valley of the Derwent; and here a pause may be made to notice a patch of sweet Cicely, one of the loveliest of the umbelliferous tribe. It is a charming sight, as it stands up tall in the sunshine, with its soft feathery cream-white masses of foliage and its fernlike leaflets; too fair and fragile, it would seem, for human hands, for it droops very soon if cut. Every part of it--stalk, leaves, flowers, and fruit--has the same aromatic fragrance (its local name is "anise"), and so gracious is it to sight, scent, and touch, that one longs to bathe one's senses in its luxuriance. Middleton Dale, naturally beautiful, but sadly deformed by lime-kilns, is famous for a cliff known as the Lover's Leap, from which an enamoured maiden is said to have thrown herself down. Had it been the love of flowers, rather than of man, that tempted her to that dizzy verge, there would have been no cause for surprise; for there are many alluring plants on the ledges of the scarp, including a brilliant show of wild wallflowers. In May and June there may be found along the northern side of the dale the yellow petals of the spring cinquefoil (_potentilla verna_), a gem of a flower, which, in Mr. Reginald Farrer's words, "clings to the white cliff-face, and from far off you see a splash of gold on the greyness." A month later the equally attractive Nottingham catch-fly (_silene nutans_) will be abundant on the rocks; a plant of nocturnal habits which expands its petals and becomes fragrant in the evening, but "nods," as its Latin name avows, in the daytime, when it wears a sleepy and somewhat dissipated look, like a wassailer--a white campion that has been "on spree." By night its beauty is beyond cavil. On the lower slopes is a colony of a still stranger-looking flower, the woolly-headed thistle, whose involucre is so bulky, and its scales so densely wrapped in white down, that it has an almost grotesque appearance, as of a thistle with "swelled head." It is, however, a very handsome plant; and when growing in vast numbers, as I have seen it in one of its special haunts, near Wychwood Forest, in Oxfordshire, it makes a glorious spectacle. Of the three species of saxifrages--the rue-leaved, the meadow, and the mossy--that thrive along the bottom of the dale, the two former are southern as well as northern flowers; but the presence of the mossy saxifrage is a sign that we are in a mountainous region, and as such it is always welcome. With these grows the graceful vernal sandwort, another flower of the hills, and so often the companion of saxifrages that it is naturally associated with them in the mind. But Middleton Dale, the nearest to my starting-point, and therefore the most frequently visited by me, is much surpassed in floral wealth by the long valley of the Wye, which in its course from Buxton to Bakewell bears the names successively of Wye Dale, Chee Dale, Miller's Dale, and Monsal Dale. In one or another of these four glens nearly all the rarer limestone flowers have their station. You may find, for instance, three very local crucifers: the two whitlow-grasses, _draba incana_ and _draba muralis_, remarkable only as being scarce in other parts of the kingdom; and the really beautiful little _Hutchinsia_, with its tiny white blossoms and finely cut pinnate leaves. Jacob's-ladder, a handsome blue flower, very uncommon in a wild state, is also native on the bluffs and slopes in Chee Dale and elsewhere: in fact a stroll along almost any of the limestone escarpments will bring new treasures to sight. But the flower which I best love is one which grows by the streamside--in Wye Dale it is in profusion--the modest water-avens, often strangely undervalued by writers who describe it as "dingy." Thus in Delamer's _The Flower Garden_ it is stated that this avens "is more remarkable for having been one of the favourites, the whims, the caprices of the great Linnus, than for anything else: it is hard to say what, in a British meadow-weed, could so take the fancy of the Master." Was ever such blindness of eye, such hardness of heart? And the wiseacre goes on to say that "it is impossible to account, logically, for attachments and sympathies." Logic, truly, would be out of place in such a connection; but it is not difficult to understand Linnus's feelings towards the water-avens. There is a rare beauty in the droop of its bell-like head, and in its soft and subdued tints--the deep rufous brown of the long sepals, through which peep the silky petals in hues that range from creamy white to vinous red, and all steeped in a quiet radiance as of some old stained glass. I must own to thinking it the most tenderly beautiful of all English wildflowers. The hybrid between the water-avens and the common avens is occasionally found by the Wye: one which I saw in Miller's Dale had green sepals and petals of pale yellow. The Alpine penny-cress (_thlaspi alpestre_), a crucifer native on limestone rocks, may be seen on the High Tor at Matlock, where it grows with the vernal sandwort on dbris at the mouth of caves; a graceful little plant with white flowers and a smooth unbranched stem so closely clasped by the narrow leaves as to give it the look of a perfoliate. One other limestone district shall be mentioned; the hills round Castleton. Cave Dale, approached by a narrow gorge close to the village, is well worth the flower-lover's attention; for bleak and bare as it is, its slippery sides harbour some interesting plants, such as the mountain rue (_thalictrum minus_), and the scurvy-grass (_cochlearia alpina_), both in considerable quantity. In the Winnatts, too, the steep ravine which overhangs the road from Castleton to Chapel-en-le-Frith, one may find Jacob's-ladder and other rarities on the rocks; and the gorgeous mountain pansy (_viola lutea_) is not far distant on the upland heaths and pastures. The list is far from being exhausted; but enough has been said to show that there is no lack of entertainment among these limestone dales. To enter one of them, after crossing the moorland from the dreary coal district of east Derbyshire, is like stepping from penury to plenty, from wilderness to paradise: there is a change of colouring that instantly attracts the eye. Even in early spring the little shining crane's-bill decks the walls and lower rocks with its rose-petaled flowers; and at midsummer the more showy stonecrop flings a veritable cloth of gold over the crags and lawns. Few localities present so many charming flowers in so limited a space. And now let us turn from the limestone valleys to those of the millstone grit. The controversy as to which part of Derbyshire best deserves the name of "The Peak" has always seemed a vain one, not merely because there is no peak in the county at all, but because no connoisseur can doubt for a moment that the district which alone has the true characteristics of a mountain is the great triangular plateau of gritstone known as Kinderscout. Less beautiful than the limestone dales, with their beetling crags and wealth of flowers, the wilder region surrounding "the Scout" has the advantage of being a real bit of mountain scenery, topped as it is with black "tors" and "towers" that rise out of the heather, and flanked with rocky "edges" from which its steep "cloughs" descend into the valleys below. Unfortunately, this great rocky tableland has of late years become almost a _terra incognita_ to the nature-lover, as a result of the agreement which was made, after prolonged controversy, between the Peak District Society and the grouse-shooting landlords, inasmuch as, while permitting the traveller to skirt the shoulders of the hill, it excluded him wholly from its summit. With the exception of the heather, the bilberry, and a few kindred species, the plants of the gritstone hills are sparse; but there is one, the cloudberry--so-called, according to Gerarde's rather magniloquent description, because "it groweth naturally upon the tops of high mountains ... where the clouds are lower than the tops of the same all winter long"--which well repays a pilgrimage. It is a prostrate and spineless bramble (_rubus chammorus_), highly valued in northern countries for its rich orange-coloured fruit. It grows thickly on the ground, making a dark-green patch in marked contrast to the coarse herbage; and towards the end of June one may see a profusion of the large white blossoms and a few early formed berries at the same time. There is a good-sized plot of it near the summit of the pass that crosses the shoulder of Kinderscout from Edale Head. But of the plants that grow on the Scout itself I am unable to speak; for my only visit to it--not reckoning an unsuccessful attempt when I was turned back by a keeper--took place in the depth of a very snowy winter. It was on the afternoon of a frosty January day, when the sun was already low, that in the company of my friend Bertram Lloyd, and armed with a passport, in the form of a letter of permission, given us by the courtesy of one of the owners of the shooting, I climbed from Edale, through the region of right-of-way into that of flagrant trespass. We felt an unusual sense of legality, as we passed a weather-beaten notice-board, with a half-obliterated threat that trespassers would be "--cuted," whether executed, electrocuted, or prosecuted was left to the imagination of the offender; and I think the strangeness of his position was rather embarrassing to my companion, who is such a confirmed trespasser that he feels as if something must be amiss unless there is a gamekeeper to be reckoned with--like the mountain ram, in Thompson-Seton's story, who was so accustomed to be hunted that he became moody and restless when his pursuer was not in sight. But, at the time of our visit, no passport was demanded; for the keepers, like the grouse themselves, appeared to have deserted the heights for the valleys. Indeed, hardly any life at all was to be seen, with the exception of a grey mountain hare, couched upon a stack of rock, who regarded us with a mild and curious eye as we passed some two hundred feet above him, and seemed to be satisfied that we were harmless. Nor was this lack of life surprising, for a more desolate scene could hardly be imagined--a great snow-clad "moss," intersected by deep ruts, which, being choked with snow, had somewhat of the appearance of crevasses, and punctuated here and there with the black masonry of the tors. From the highest point that we reached, marked in the ordnance map as 2,088 feet, there was a wonderful sunset view, though the Manchester district that lies to the west of the Scout was hidden in lurid fog. It is said that Snowdon, a hundred miles distant, has been seen from this point. It was certainly not visible upon the occasion to which I refer. It is impossible to visit this high mountain plateau, lying as it does at about an equal distance from Manchester and Sheffield, without feeling that what is now a private grouse-moor must, before many years have passed, become a nationalized park or "reservation"--a playground for the dwellers in the great Midland cities, and a sanctuary for wild animals and plants. The time will assuredly come when the sport of the few will have to give way to the health and recreation of the many. XV NO THOROUGHFARE! Trespassers will be prosecuted. THE subject of trespassing mentioned in the preceding chapter, has a very close and personal interest for the adventurous flower-lover; for of all incentives to ignore the familiar notice-board with its hackneyed words of warning, none perhaps is more potent than the possibility that some rare and long-sought wildflower is to be found on the forbidden land. The appeal is one that no explorer can resist. If "stout Cortez" himself, when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific, had seen that ocean labelled as "strictly private and preserved," could he have desisted from his quest? There is moreover a good deal to be said in extenuation of trespassing as a summer recreation; and if landlords go on at their present rate, in closing footpaths and excluding the public from green fields and hedgerows, trespassing will perhaps establish itself as one of our recognized national diversions. Hitherto, it must be confessed, it has remained to some extent in disrepute; doubtless, through its being so largely indulged in by poachers and other evil-doers, who have given a bad name to a practice which in itself is innocent and blameless enough. Most people, especially landlords and gamekeepers, have a fixed belief that a trespasser's purpose must be a lawless and mischievous one. Why so? Is it not possible that some trespassers may have other objects than to steal pheasants' eggs or snare rabbits? If huntsmen when following the hounds are permitted, not only to trespass, but to damage crops and fences, why should the naturalist be molested when harmlessly following his own inclinations in choice of a country ramble. Is the pursuit of the fox a surer proof of honest intentions than the pursuit of natural history? It appears that some landowners think so. "Trespassers will be prosecuted," say the notices that everywhere stare us in the face. Was there ever such a lying legend? Trespassers will _not_ be prosecuted, for the sufficient reason that in English law trespassing is not an offence. Of course, if any injury be done to property, the owner can sue for damages, but a harmless trespasser can only be requested to depart, though, if he be ill-advised enough to refuse to go, he may be forcibly ejected. We see, therefore, that the threatened "prosecution" of trespassers is in reality merely a _brutum fulmen_ launched by landlords at a too credulous public, a pious fraud which has been far more efficacious than such kindred notices as "Beware the dog," or "Beware the bull," though these, too, have done good service in their time. Trespassers will not be prosecuted, provided that they do no sort of damage, and that if their presence is objected to they politely retire. With these slight precautions and limitations, a trespasser may go where he will, and enjoy the study of Nature in her most secluded and "strictly private" recesses. He thus himself becomes, in one sense, a lord of the soil; but his domain is far more extensive and unencumbered than that of any actual landlord. He enjoys all that is best in park, woodland, or mountain; and if he is "warned off" one estate he can afford to smile at the prohibition, since many other regions are open to him, and he can confidently look forward to a visit to fresh woods and pastures new on the morrow. In the course of these rambles the trespasser will probably, like Ulysses, have some curious experiences of men and of notice-boards. It is very instructive to observe the various types of the landlord class, and their different methods of treating the intruder whom they meet on their fields. There is the indignant landlord, who can scarcely conceal his wrath at the astounding audacity of one who is deliberately crossing his land without having come "on business." There is the despairing landlord, who has been so broken by previous invasions that he is now content with a shrug of the shoulders and a remark that the place is "quite private, you know." There is the courteous landlord, who politely assumes that you have lost your way, and naively offers to conduct you to the high-road by the shortest cut; and there is the mildly ironical, who, as in a case which I remember on a Surrey hillside, remarks as he passes you: "There goes my heather." I have heard it said that one can sometimes divine the character of a landlord from the wording of his notice-boards, and I believe from my own experiences that there is truth in the idea. Certainly the notice-board is the landlord's favourite method of defending the privacy of his estate, and for obvious reasons; for not only is it the least troublesome and expensive way of conveying the desired warning to would-be trespassers, but the salutary fiction regarding the "prosecution" of offenders is thus publicly and permanently impressed on the agricultural mind. There is not such entire uniformity in the wording of notice-boards as might be supposed. Of course by far the commonest form is the well-known "No thoroughfare. Trespassers will be prosecuted as the law directs," in which the unconscious irony contained in the last four words has always struck me as especially delightful. To this is often added the words "and all dogs shot," in which the experienced trespasser will detect signs of a certain roughness and inhumanity of temperament on the part of the owner. More original forms of expression are by no means uncommon. Sometimes the warning is emphasized by the bold statement, indicating the possession by the landlord of humorous or imaginative faculties, that "the police have orders to watch." Sometimes, but more rarely, the personal element is boldly introduced, as in the assertion, which might formerly be seen on a notice-board in one of the most beautiful valleys of the Lake District, "This is my land. Trespassers, etc." In some cases the wording has evidently been left to the care of subordinates, and hence result some curiosities of literary composition. "Private. Beware of dogs," is an instance of this kind, in which the ambiguity of the allusion to dogs, whether those of the landlord or the trespasser, seems almost oracular. In these and other ways a certain zest is lent to the excursions or rather the _in_cursions, of the trespasser, which lifts them above the level of ordinary walking exercise. In the case of wealthy landowners, the duty of warning off the trespasser devolves on gamekeepers, who, being less emotional than their employers, are a far less interesting study. Stolid and furry, and apparently endowed with only the animal instincts of the victims whom they delight in tracking and trapping, they are by far the least intelligent people whom the trespasser encounters; they are, in fact, no better than breathing and walking notice-boards, with the disadvantage that they cannot be so absolutely disregarded. It is unwise to argue with them; for reason is at a discount in such encounters and there is the possibility, in some districts, of their having recourse to personal violence, in the knowledge that if the matter should come before local magistrates the keeper's word would be honoured in preference to that of the trespasser. There is a sanctity in the word "Preserve." An experience of this sort actually befell a friend of mine, who himself narrated it in print. A devoted botanist and nature-lover, he was twice in the same day found trespassing by a gigantic gamekeeper, who, on the second occasion, ended all parley in the manner described in the following "Mystical Ballad," wherein the writer has ventured somewhat to idealize the circumstances, though the story is based on the facts. PRESERVED. A Poet through a haunted wood Roamed fearless and serene, Nor flinched when on his path there stood A Form in Velveteen. "Gaunt Shape, come you alive or dead, My footsteps shall not swerve." "You're trespassing," the Vision said: "This place is a preserve." "How so? Is some dark secret here Preserved? some tale of shame?" The Spectre scowled, but answered clear: "What we preserve is Game." Yet still the Poet's heart was nerved With Phantoms to dispute: "Then tell me, why is Game preserved?" The Goblin yelled: "To shoot." "But Game that's shot is Game destroyed, Not Game preserved, I ween." It seemed such argument annoyed That Form in Velveteen; For swift It gripped him, as he spake, And, making light the load, Upheaved, and flung him from the brake Into the King's high-road. And as that Bard, still arguing hard, High o'er the palings flew, He vows he heard this ghostly word: "We're not preserving _you_." * * * * * Long time he lay on that highway, Dazed by so weird a fall; Then rose and cried, as home he hied: "The Lord preserve us all!" I have often thought it was an error on the part of the trespassing poet not to explain to his assailant that he was a botanist; for "botanist," as I can testify, is a blessed word which has a soothing effect upon many of the most irascible landowners or their satellites. Personally I never presume to call myself botanist, except when I am found trespassing, on which occasions I have rarely known it to fail. I recall a Saturday afternoon when, as I was rambling in a Derbyshire dale with Bertram Lloyd, and admiring the flowers, we were accosted by the owner in person, who inquired with a sort of suppressed fury whether we knew that we were on his estate. We said we were botanists, and the effect was magical; in less than a minute we were courteously permitted to go where we would and stay as long as we liked. For botany is regarded as a scientific study; and even sportsmen do not like to incur the reproach of being enemies to science. Their better feelings may be conveyed in a familiar Virgilian line: _Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni._ XVI LIMESTONE COASTS AND CLIFFS Where the most beautiful wildflowers grow, there man's spirit is fed.--THOREAU. A LIMESTONE soil is everywhere rich in flowers--we have seen what the midland dales can produce--but it is especially so in the close neighbourhood of the sea. Two instances suggest themselves; one from a Carnarvonshire promontory, the Orme's Head; the other from Arnside Knott, in Westmorland. Fifty years ago the Great Orme was a wild and picturesque headland, girdled by a footpath which made a circuit of the beetling cliffs, and crossed by a few other tracks leading to the telegraph station at the summit, St. Tudno's Church, and elsewhere; but in most respects still in a primitive and unimpaired condition. I knew almost every yard of it as a boy; and I remember, among other attractions, a hermit who lived in a cave, and better still a wild cat--probably a fugitive from some Llandudno lodging-house--who had her home in a stack of rocks on the western side of the Head. On the western shore of the isthmus there was at that time only one house; it belonged to Dean Liddell, famous as joint author of the Greek dictionary distressfully known to generations of students as _Liddell and Scott._ But now, owing to the "development" of Llandudno, this once beautiful foreland has become a place almost of horror, vulgarized by trams, motor-roads, golf-links, and all the appurtenances of "civilization;" and were it not for the wildflowers, it might well be shunned by those who knew it in old days. Flowers, however, are very tenacious of their established haunts, and the remark made in Mr. J. E. Griffith's _Flora of Carnarvonshire_ still holds good, that "the flora of this district is quite unique, in consequence of the number of species found here, and the rarity of many of them." The luxuriance of the flowers is indeed a sight which can almost make one forget the "improvements" that have ruined the scenery. Among the plants inhabiting the rocky banks above the shore are the blue vernal squill, the sea stork's-bill, sweet alyssum, hound's-tongue, hemlock, henbane, mullein, and tree-mallow: to these may be added what constitutes a herb-garden readymade--fennel, wormwood, vervain, white horehound, wild sage, succory, and Alexanders. On the higher cliffs are the curious samphire, pink thrift, white scurvy-grass, and great tufts of sea-cabbage, now rarer and more local than formerly, but here waving its pale yellow pennons in abundance. Most charming of all, the brilliant blood-red crane's-bill, together with two kinds of rock-rose (the hoary dwarf species as well as the common one), makes rich splashes of colour on the grey limestone ledges. A little back from the sea, among the bluffs that overhang the town, you may light upon the sleepy-looking catch-fly (_silene nutans_); the tiny Hutchinsia; and in one or two places the shrub cotoneaster, which is said to be native only upon the Great Orme. I have, however, seen it growing apparently wild at Capel Curig, and at a greater distance from houses than in its Llandudno station. Nor is it only the Great Orme that shows this floral wealth: the Little Orme has the rare Welsh stonecrop (_sedum Forsterianum_); and on another height in the same district, the small circular hill known as Deganwy Rocks, there is a profusion of flowers. When I revisited it a few years ago, not having set foot on it for nearly half a century, I found that the villas of Deganwy had crept up almost to the base of the rocks, and on another side there was--still worse--a camp of German prisoners, with armed sentries supervising their labours; yet even there, close above such scenes, were growing plants which might mark a memorable day in the annals of a flower-lover, notably the maiden pink and the milk-thistle--the "holy" thistle, as it is not inaptly called. The pinks, a lovely band, were sprinkled along the turf at the foot of the rocks; the thistles were almost at the top; between them on a stony ledge nestled a quantity of viper's bugloss, and with it some borage, two kindred plants which I had never before seen in company. Nearly all the members of the Borage group are interesting--lungwort, alkanet, forget-me-not, hound's-tongue, and bugloss--but the borage itself, a roadside weed in South Europe, and in this country merely an immigrant and "casual," is to me the most precious of all. My earliest recollections of it, I must own, are as an ingredient of claret-cup at Cambridge, its silver-grey stems floating in the wine with a pleasant roughness to the lip; but in those unregenerate days we did not know the real virtue of the herb, famous from old time, as Gerarde says, for its power "to exhilarate and make the mind glad, to comfort the heart, and for driving away of sorrow." And certainly, in another and better use, it _does_ comfort the heart and drive sorrow away; for its "gallant blew flowers" are of all blues the loveliest, and the black anthers give it a peculiarly poignant look which reminds one somehow of the wistfulness of a Gainsborough portrait. In the list of my best-beloved flowers it ranks among the highest. Looking north-east from the Orme's Head, one may see on a clear day, across some sixty miles of water, the limestone hills of Westmorland, reckoned as part of Lakeland, but geologically, botanically, and in general character a quite separate district. Arnside Knott, a bluff overlooking the estuary of the river Kent where it widens into Morecambe Bay, is the presiding genius of a tract of shore and forest to which the name of "Lily-land" has been given by Mr. J. A. Barnes in a sketch of Arnside, and which he describes as "a perfect paradise of wildflowers." Let us suppose ourselves transported thither, and see how the claim holds good. The lily of the valley is one of those favoured plants which are everywhere highly esteemed; even the man who in general cares but little for wildflowers takes this one to his heart, or, what is worse, to his garden. I have already quoted Mr. C. A. Johns's queer appreciation of this native British wildflower as "a universally admired garden plant." On the wooded hill known as Arnside Park the "May lily," as it used to be called (and here it is certainly not "of the valley"), covers many acres of ground, and justifies the title "Lily-land" as applied to the Arnside neighbourhood. What I found still more interesting was an almost equal abundance of the stone bramble (_rubus saxatilis_), which grows intermixed with the lilies over a large portion of the wood. On these Westmorland Cliffs, as in those of Carnarvonshire, the blood-red crane's-bill is conspicuous, but it is much less plentiful, nor are the outstanding flowers of the two localities the same. One of the commonest at Arnside is the tall ploughman's spikenard, known locally as "frankincense": and on the lawns that skirt the Knott one often sees the mountain-cudweed or "cat's-foot," the gromwell or "grey millet," and the beautiful little dwarf orchis. The district is rather rich in orchids; among others, I found the rare narrow-leaved helleborine (_cephalanthera ensifolia_) in the Arnside woods. The deadly nightshade is frequent; so, too, is the four-leaved herb-Paris, which a resident described to me as being here "almost a weed." But there are two other flowers that demand more special mention. In a lane near Arnside Tower, a ruin that lies below the Knott on its inland side, there is a considerable growth of green hellebore, apparently at the very spot where its presence was recorded two centuries ago. Though not a very rare plant, it is extremely local; and owing to its strongly marked features, the large palmate leaves and pale green flowers, is not likely to go unnoticed. But the rarest of Arnside flowers is, or was, another poisonous plant of the _ranunculus_ order, the baneberry, for which the writer of "Lily-land," as he tells us, "hunted for years without success; till its exact locality was at last revealed to me by one who knew, in a situation so obvious that I felt like a man who has hunted through every room in the house for the spectacles on his own nose." Years later, on my certifying that I was not a knight of the trowel, Mr. Barnes was so kind as to confide to me this same secret that had been kept hidden from the uninitiate; but I found that the small plantation which had been the home of the baneberry, almost within Arnside itself, had recently been cut down, and though a few of the plants were still growing along the side of the field, they had ceased to flower, and possibly by this time they have ceased to exist. Even as it was, I felt myself fortunate to have seen the baneberry in one of its few native haunts. The pale green deeply cut leaves are much handsomer than those of its relatives the hellebore and the monk's-hood. Its raceme of white flowers and its black berries are also known to me; but alas, only in a garden. Where flowers are concerned, there is little truth in the saying that "comparisons are odious"; on the contrary it is both pleasant and profitable to compare not only plant with plant, but the flora of one fertile district with that of another. The natural scenery of Arnside is yet unspoilt, and for that reason it now offers greater attractions to the nature-lover than the ruined charms of Llandudno; but if he were asked, for botanical reasons only, to choose between a visit to the Orme and a visit to the Knott, the decision might be a less easy one. "How happy could I be with either!" would probably be his thought. XVII ON PILGRIMAGE TO INGLEBOROUGH It groweth very plentifully in the north of England, especially in a place called Ingleborough Fels. GERARDE. THERE is a tale by Herman Melville which deals with the strangeness of a first meeting between the inmates of two houses which face each other, far and high away, on opposite mountain ranges, and yet, though daily visible, have remained for years as mutually unknown as if they belonged to different worlds. It was with this story in my mind that I approached for the first time the moorland mass of Ingleborough, long familiar as seen from the Lake mountains, a square-topped height on the horizon to the south-east, but hitherto unvisited by me owing to the more imperious claims of the Great Gable and Scafell. But now, at last, I found myself on pilgrimage to Ingleborough; the impulse, long delayed, had seized me to stand on the summit of the Yorkshire fell, and, looking north-westward, to see the scene reversed. Another of Ingleborough's attractions was that it is the home of certain scarce and beautiful flowers, as has been pointed out in Mr. Reginald Farrer's interesting books on Alpine plants. Such exceptional rarities as the baneberry (_acta spicata_), which grows among rocky crevices high up on the fell--not to mention the _arenaria gothica_, choicest of the sandworts--the mere visitor can hardly hope to discover; but there are other and less infrequent treasures upon the hill, beyond which my ambition did not aspire. As I ascended the barren marshy slopes that form the eastern flank, I realized once again how much more the labour of an ascent depends upon the character of the ground than upon the actual height to be scaled. Ingleborough is under 2,400 feet; yet it is far more toilsome to climb than many a rocky peak in Wales or Cumberland that rises hundreds of feet higher, and it is a relief at length to get a firm foothold on the rocks of millstone grit which form the summit. Thence, from the edges which drop sharply from the flat top, one looks out on the somewhat desolate fells stretching away on three sides--Pen-y-ghent to the east, Whernside to the north, and to the south the more distant forest of Pendle--but westward there is the gleam of sand or water in Morecambe Bay, and the eye hastens to greet the dim but ever glorious forms of the Lakeland mountains. In the affections of the mountain-lover Ingleborough can never be the rival of one of these; indeed, in the strict sense, it is not a mountain at all, but a high moor built on a base of limestone with a cap of grit. Still, there is grandeur in the steep scarps that guard its central stronghold; and its dark summit, when viewed from a distance crowning the successive tiers of grey terraces, has a strength and wildness of its own, and even suggests at points a likeness to the massive tower of the Great Gable. To one looking down from the topmost edges on the scattered piles of limestone below, the effect is very curious. You see, perhaps, a mile or two distant, what looks at first sight like a flock of sheep at pasture, but is soon discovered to be a stone flock which has no mortal shepherd. In other parts are wide white plateaux which, when visited, turn out to be a wilderness of low flat rocks, everywhere weather-worn and water-worn, scooped and scalloped into cells and basins, and so intersected by channels filled with ferns and grasses that one has to walk warily over it as over a reef at low tide. But to return to the flowers. At the summit were mossy saxifrage and vernal sandwort; and on the cliffs just below, to the western side, the big mountain stonecrop, rose-root, not unhandsome with its yellow blossoms, flourished in some abundance, even as it did when Gerarde wrote of it, nearly three hundred years ago. The purple saxifrage, an early spring flower, is also found on these rocks, but at the time when I visited the spot, in late June, its blossoming season was over, and nothing was visible but the leaves. There was little else but some hawkweeds; I turned my attention, therefore, to the flowers of the lower slopes. There is nothing more delightful, in descending a mountain, than to follow the leading of some rapid beck from its very source to the valley; and it is rather disconcerting, in these limestone regions, that the cavernous nature of the ground should make the presence of the streams so intermittent, and that one's chosen companion should not unfrequently disappear, just when his value is most appreciated, into some "gaping gill" or pot-hole. It is said of Walt Whitman that sometimes when a pilgrim was privileged to walk with him, and was perhaps thinking that their acquaintance was ripening to friendship, the good grey poet, with a curt nod and a careless "good-bye," would turn off abruptly and be gone. Even so it is with these wayward streams that course down the sides of Ingleborough. Just when one is on the best of terms with them, they vanish and are no more. But with the bird's-eye primrose tinging hillsides and hollows with its tender hue of pink, no other companionship was needed. A mountain flower, it is the fairest of all the _Primulace_, that band of fair sisters to which it belongs--primrose, cowslip, pimpernel, loosestrife, and money-wort--all beautiful and all favourites among young and old alike, whereever there is a love of flowers. It was worth while to make the pilgrimage to Ingleborough, if only to see this charming little plant in perfection on its native banks. Nor were other flowers lacking; the wild geraniums especially were in force. The shining crane's-bill gleamed on the pale limestone ledges; the wood crane's-bill, a local North-country species, gave a glint of purple in the copses at the foot of the fell; and still further down, below the village of Clapham, there were masses of the blue meadow crane's-bill (_geranium pratense_), the largest and not least handsome of the family. The water-avens was everywhere by the stream sides; and on a bank above the road the gladdon, or purple iris, was opening its dull-tinted flowers. XVIII A BOTANOPHILIST'S JOURNAL He was the attorney of the indigenous plants, and owned to a preference of the weeds to the imported plants, as of the Indian to the civilized man.--EMERSON. I HAVE referred several times to Henry Thoreau, of Concord, in whose _Journal_ a great deal is said about wildflowers; and as the volumes are not easily accessible to English readers it may be worth while to select therefrom a few of the more interesting passages. In all that he wrote on the subject Thoreau appears less as the botanist than the flower-lover; indeed, he expressly observes that he himself comes under the head of the "Botanophilists," as Linnus termed them; viz. those who record various facts about flowers, but not from a strictly scientific standpoint. "I never studied botany," he said, "and do not to-day, systematically; the most natural system is so artificial. I wanted to know my neighbours, if possible; to get a little nearer to them." So great was his zest in cultivating this floral acquaintance that, as he tells us, he often visited a plant four or five miles from Concord half a dozen times within a fortnight, in order to note its time of flowering. Books he found, in general, unsatisfactory. "I asked a learned and accurate naturalist," he says, "who is at the same time the courteous guardian of a public library, to direct me to those works which contained the more particular popular account, or _biography_, of particular flowers--for I had trusted that each flower had had many lovers and faithful describers in past times--but he informed me that I had read all; that no one was acquainted with them, they were only catalogued like his books." It was the human aspect of the flower that Thoreau craved; and he was therefore disappointed when he saw "pages about some fair flower's qualities as food or medicine, but perhaps not a sentence about its significance to the eye; as if the cowslip were better for 'greens' than for yellows." Thus he complained that botanies are "the prose of flowers," instead of what they ought to be, the poetry. He made an exception, however, in favour of old Gerarde's _Herball_. His admirable though quaint descriptions are, to my mind, greatly superior to the modern more scientific ones. He describes not according to rule, but to his natural delight in the plants. He brings them vividly before you, as one who has seen and delighted in them. It is almost as good as to see the plants themselves. His leaves are leaves; his flowers, flowers; his fruit, fruit. They are green, and coloured, and fragrant. It is a man's knowledge added to a child's delight. . . . How much better to describe your object in fresh English words rather than in these conventional Latinisms!" Linnus, too, "the man of flowers," as he calls him, is praised by Thoreau. "If you would read books on botany, go to the fathers of the science. Read Linnus at once, and come down from him as far as you please. I lost much time in reading the florists. It is remarkable how little the mass of those interested in botany are acquainted with Linnus." Thoreau's manner of botanizing was, like most of his habits, somewhat singular. His vasculum was his straw-hat. "I never used any other," he writes, "and when some whom I visited were evidently surprised at its dilapidated look, as I deposited it on their front entry-table, I assured them it was not so much my hat as my botany-box." With this vasculum he professed himself more than content. I am inclined to think that my hat, whose lining is gathered in midway so as to make a shelf, is about as good a botany-box as I could have; and there is something in the darkness and the vapours that arise from the head--at least, if you take a bath--which preserves flowers through a long walk. Flowers will frequently come fresh out of this botany-box at the end of the day, though they have had no sprinkling. The joy of meeting with a new plant, a sensation known to all searchers after flowers, is more than once mentioned in the _Journal_: the discovery of a single flower hitherto unknown to him makes him feel as if he were in a wealth of novelties. "By the discovery of one new plant all bounds seem to be infinitely removed." He notes, too, the not uncommon experience, that a flower, once recognized, is likely soon to be re-encountered. Seeing something blue, or glaucous, in a swamp, he approaches it, and finds it to be the _Andromeda polifolia_, which had been shown him, only a few days before, in Emerson's collection; now he sees it in abundance. At times he adopts the method of sitting quietly and looking around him, on the principle that "as it is best to sit in a grove and let the birds come to you, so, as it were, even the flowers will come." Swamps were among Thoreau's favourite haunts: he thinks it would be a luxury to stand in one, up to his chin, for a whole summer's day, scenting the sweet-fern and bilberries. "That is a glorious swamp of Miles's," he remarks; "the more open parts, where the dwarf andromeda prevails. . . . These are the wildest and richest gardens that we have." The fields were less trustworthy, because of the annual vandalism of the mowing. "About these times," he writes in June, "some hundreds of men, with freshly sharpened scythes, make an irruption into my garden when in its rankest condition, and clip my herbs all as close as they can; and I am restricted to the rough hedges and worn-out fields which had little to attract them." Among Thoreau's best-beloved flowers, if we may judge by certain passages of the _Journal_, was the large white bindweed (_convolvulus sepium_), or "morning-glory." "It always refreshes me to see it," he writes; "I associate it with holiest morning hours. It may preside over my morning walks and thoughts." Not less worthily celebrated by him, in another mood, are the wild rose and the water-lily. We now have roses on the land and lilies on the water--both land and water have done their best--now, just after the longest day. Nature says, "You behold the utmost I can do." The red rose, with the intense colour of many suns concentrated, spreads its tender petals perfectly fair, its flower not to be overlooked, modest yet queenly, on the edges of shady copses and meadows.... And the water-lily floats on the smooth surface of slow waters, amid rounded shields of leaves, bucklers, red beneath, which simulate a green field, perfuming the air. The highest, intensest colour belongs to the land; the purest, perchance, to the water. It was not Thoreau's practice to pluck many flowers; he preferred, as a rule, to leave them where they were; but he speaks of the fitness of having "in a vase of water on your table the wildflowers of the season which are just blossoming": thus in mid-June he brings home some rosebuds ready to expand, "and the next morning they open and fill my chamber with fragrance." At another time the grateful thought of the calamint's scent suffices him: "I need not smell it; it is a balm to my mind to remember its fragrance." It was characteristic of Thoreau that he loved to renew his outdoor pleasures in remembrance, by pondering over the beautiful things he had witnessed, whether through sight or sound or scent. His mountain excursions were not fully apprehended by him, until he had afterwards meditated on them. "It is after we get home," he says, "that we really go over the mountain, if ever. What did the mountain say? What did the mountain do?" So it was with his flowers: even in the long winter evenings they were still his companions and friends. I have remembered, when the winter came, High in my chamber in the frosty nights, * * * * * How, in the shimmering noon of summer past, Some unrecorded beam slanted across The upland pastures where the johnswort grew. On a January date we find him writing in his _Journal_: "Perhaps what most moves us in winter is some reminiscence of far-off summer. How we leap by the side of the open brooks! What life, what society! The cold is merely superficial; it is summer still at the core." Thus, by memory, his winters were turned into summers, and his flower-seasons were continuous. XIX FELONS AND OUTLAWS The poisoning henbane, and the mandrake dread. DRAYTON. THAT there are felonious as well as philanthropic flowers, plants that are actively malignant in their relation to mankind, has always been a popular belief. The upas-tree, for example, has given rise to many gruesome stories; and the mandrake, fabled to shriek when torn from the ground, has played a frequent part in poetry and legend; not to mention the host of noxious weeds, the "plants at whose names the verse feels loath," as Shelley has it: And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank. The felons, however, of whom I would now speak are not the plants that seem merely foul and repulsive, such as the docks and nettles, the broom-rapes, toothworts, and similar ill-looking parasites, but rather the bold bad outlaws and highwaymen, the "gentlemen of the road," who, however deleterious to human welfare, have a sinister beauty and distinction of their own, and are thus able to fascinate us. Prominent among these is the clan of the nightshades, to which the mandrake itself belongs, and which has several well-known representatives among British flowers; above all, the deadly nightshade, or dwale, as it is better named, to distinguish it from smaller relatives that are wrongly described as "the deadly." So poisonous is the dwale that Gerarde three centuries ago exhorted his readers to "banish these pernicious plants out of your gardens, and all places near to your houses, where children do resort;" and modern writers tell us that the plant is "fortunately" of rare occurrence. But threatened plants, like threatened men, live long; and the dwale, though very local, may still be found in some abundance: there are woods where it grows even in profusion, and, _pace_ Gerarde, rejoices the heart of the flower-lover, for in truth it has a strange and ominous charm, this massive grave-looking plant with the large oval leaves, heavy sombre purple blossoms, and big black "wolf-cherries." Next to the dwale in the nightshade family must rank the henbane, a fallen angel among wildflowers; for its beauty is of the sickly and fetid kind, which at once attracts and repels. It is curious that in the lines from Shelley's "Sensitive Plant" the epithet "dank" should be given to the hemlock, to which it is quite unsuited, rather than to the henbane, where its appropriateness could not be questioned; for the stalk, leaves, and flowers of the henbane are alike clammy to the touch. Presumably this uncertain and sporadic herb has become rarer of late years; for whereas it is frequently stated in books to be "common in waste places," one may visit hundreds of waste places without a glimpse of it. In the _Flora of the Lake District_ (1885) Arnside is given as one of its localities; but I was told by a resident that he had only once seen it there, and then it had sprung up in his garden. It is in similar places that the thorn-apple, another cousin to the nightshade, is apt to make its un-invited appearance; less a felon, perhaps, than a sturdy rogue and vagabond among flowers of ill repute. A year or two ago, I was told by the holder of an allotment-garden that a great number of thorn-apples were springing up in his ground; and knowing my interest in flowers he sent me a small basketful of the young plants, which, rather to my neighbours' surprise, I set out in a row, like lettuces, in a corner of my back-yard. There they flourished well, and in due course made a fine show with their trumpet-shaped white flowers and the big thorny capsules whence the plant takes its name. It is not a bad-looking fellow, but awkward and hulking, and quite devoid of the sickly grace of the henbane or of the bodeful gloom of the dwale. Passing now to the handsome but acrid tribe of the _ranunculi_, and omitting the poisonous but interesting baneberry, of which I have already spoken, we come to two formidable plants, the hellebore and the monk's-hood, which have been famous from earliest times for their dangerous propensities. The green hellebore, though in Westmorland named "felon grass," is a less felonious-looking flower than its close kinsman the fetid hellebore, whose general appearance, owing to the crude pale green of its purple-tipped sepals, and the reluctance of its globe-like buds to expand themselves fully, is one of insalubrity and unripeness. But it is a plant of distinction, some two or three feet in height; and as it flowers before the winter is well past, it can hardly fail to arrest attention in the few places where it is to be found: in Arundel Park, in Sussex, it may be seen growing in close conjunction with the deadly nightshade--a noteworthy pair of desperadoes. The other malefactor of the ranunculus family is the aconite, or monk's-hood, a poisonous but very picturesque flower with deep blue blossoms, which takes its name from the hood-like appearance of the upper sepal. "It beareth," Gerarde tells us, "very fair and goodly blew floures in shape like an helmet, which are so beautiful that a man would thinke they were of some excellent vertue." A traitor, a masked bandit it is, of such evil reputation that, according to Pliny, it kills man, "unless it can find in him something else to kill," some disease, to wit; and thus it holds its place in the pharmacopoeia. The umbellifers include a number of outlaws such as the water-dropworts and cowbane; but among the dangerous members of the tribe there is only one that attains to real greatness, and that of course is the hemlock, a poisoner of old-established renown, as witness the death of Socrates. "Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark" is one of the ingredients in the witches' cauldron in _Macbeth_, and the hemlock's name has always been one to conjure with, which may account for the fact that several kindred, but less eminent plants unlawfully aspire to it, and are erroneously thus classed. But the true hemlock is unmistakable: the stout bloodspotted stem distinguishes it from the lesser crew; its finely cut fernlike leaves are exceedingly beautiful; and it is of stately habit--I have seen it growing to the height of nine feet, or more, in places where the surrounding brushwood had to be overtopped. Let us give their due, then, to these outlaws of whom I have spoken, these Robin Hoods of the floral world. Bandits and highwaymen they may be; but after all, our woods and waysides would be much duller if they were banished. XX SOME MARSH-DWELLERS Here are cool mosses deep. TENNYSON. WHAT Thoreau wrote of his Massachusetts swamps is hardly less true of ours; a marsh is everywhere a great allurement for botanists. By a road which crosses a certain Sussex Common there is a church, and close behind the church a narrow swampy piece of ground known as "the great bog," which has all the appearance of being waste and valueless; yet whenever I visit the place I think of Thoreau's words: "_My_ temple is the swamp." For that bog, ignored or despised by the dwellers round the Common, except when a horse or a cow gets stuck in it and has to be hauled out with ropes, is sacred ground to the flower-lover, as being the home not only of a number of characteristic plants--lesser skull-cap, sun-dew, bog-bean, bog-asphodel, marsh St. John's-wort, and the scarcer species of marsh bedstraw--but of one of our rarest and most beautiful gentians, the Calathian violet, known and esteemed by the old herbalists as the "marsh-felwort." The attention of anyone whose thoughts are attuned to flowers must at once be arrested by the colouring of this splendid plant, for its large funnel-shaped blossoms are of the rich gentian blue, striped with green bands, and as it grows not in the bog itself, but on the close-adjoining banks of heather, it is easily accessible. Yet fortunately, in the locality of which I am speaking, it seems to be untouched by those who cross the Common. On the afternoon in early September when I first found the place, a number of children were blackberrying there, and I dreaded every moment to see them turn aside to pick a bunch of the gentians, which doubtless would soon have been thrown aside to wither, as is the fate of so many spring flowers; but though the blue petals were conspicuous in the heather they were left entirely unmolested. For this merciful abstinence there were probably two reasons: one that the flower-picking habit is exhausted before the autumn; the other that the gentians, however beautiful, are not among the recognized favourites--daffodils, primroses, violets, forget-me-nots, and the like--that by long custom have taken hold of the imagination of childhood. Had it been otherwise, this rare little annual could hardly have survived so long. In botanical usage there seems to be no difference between the terms "marsh" and "bog," nor need we, I think, follow the rather strained distinction drawn by Anne Pratt, a writer who, though belonging to a somewhat wordy and sentimental school, and indulging in a good deal of what might be called "Anne-prattle," had so real a love of her subject that her best book, _Haunts of the Wild Flowers_, affords very agreeable reading. "The distinction between a bog and a marsh," she says, "is simply that the latter is more wet, and that the foot sinks in; while on a bog the soft soil, though it yields to the pressure of the foot, rises again." The definition itself seems hardly to be based on _terra firma_; but we can fully agree with the writer's conclusion that, at the worst, an adventurous botanist "is often rewarded for the temporary chill by the beauty of the plant which he has gathered." That is a consolation which I have not seldom enjoyed. But a pleasanter name, in my opinion, than either "marsh" or "bog," is one which is common in the Lake District, and in the northern counties generally, viz. "a moss." It sounds cool and comforting. I recall an occasion when, in the course of a visit to the Newton Regny moss, near Penrith, "the foot sank in," and a good deal more than the foot; but the acquaintance then made for the first time with that giant of the _ranunculus_ order, the great spearwort, was sufficient recompense, for who would complain of a wetting when he met with a buttercup four feet in stature? It so happened, however, that the plant in whose quest I had ventured on the precarious surface of the Newton Regny moss--the great bladderwort--was not to be found on that occasion, though it is reported to make a fine show there in August; possibly, in an early season, it had already finished its flowering, and had sunk, after the inconsiderate manner of its tribe, to the bottom of the pools. Nor did I see its rarer sister, the lesser bladderwort; with whom indeed I have only once had the pleasure of meeting, and that was in a rather awkward place, a deep pond lying close below a railway-bank, and overlooked by the windows of the passing trains, so that I not only had to swim for a flower, but to consult a time-table before swimming, in order to avoid having a "gallery" at the moment when seclusion was desired. Our North-country "mosses" are indeed temples to the flower-lover, by virtue both of the rarer species that inhabit them, and of the unbroken succession of beautiful plants that they maintain, from the rich gold of the globe-flower in early summer to the exquisite purity of the grass of Parnassus in autumn. Among these bog-plants there is one which to me is very fascinating, though writers are often content to describe its strange purple blossoms as "dingy"--I allude to that wilder relative of the wild strawberry, the marsh-cinquefoil, which, though rather local, is in habit decidedly gregarious. For several years it had eluded me in a Carnarvonshire valley; until one day, wandering by the riverside, I came upon a swampy expanse where it was growing in hundreds, remarkable both for the deep rusty hue of its petals, and for the large strawberry-like fruit that was just beginning to form. Apart from the more extensive "mosses," the lower slopes of the mountains, both in Cumberland and Wales, are often rich in flowers unsuspected by the wayfarer, who, keeping to some upland track, sees nothing on either side but bare peaty moors that appear to be entirely barren. And barren in many cases they are. You may wander for miles and not see a flower; then suddenly perhaps, on rounding a rock, you will find yourself in one of these natural gardens in the wilderness, where the ground is pink with red rattle growing so thickly as to hide the grass; or white with spotted orchis, handsomer and in greater abundance than is dreamed of in the south; or, a still more glorious sight, tinged over large spaces with the yellow of the bog-asphodel, a plant which is beautiful in its fruit as well as its flower, for when the blossoms are passed the dry wiry stems turn to deep orange. Sun-dews are everywhere; the quaint and affable butterwort is plastered over the wet rocks; and the marsh St. John's-wort, so unlike the rest of its family that the relationship is not always recognized, is frequent in the spongy pools. Here and there, a small patch of pink on the grey heath, will be seen the delicate bog-pimpernel, which might take rank as the fairest flower of the marsh, were it not that the diminutive ivy-leaved campanula is also trailing its fairy-like form through the wet grasses, among which it might wholly escape notice unless search were made for it. To realize the perfection of its beauty--the exquisite structure of its small green leaves, slender thread-like stems, and bells of palest blue--you must go down on your knees to examine it, however damp the ground; a fitting act of homage to one of the loveliest of Flora's children. Better cultivation, preceded by improved drainage, is ceaselessly encroaching on our marshlands and lessening the number of their flowers. The charming little cranberry, for instance, once so plentiful that it came to market in wagonloads from the fens of the eastern counties, is now far from common; and our cranberry-tarts have to be supplied from oversea. But much more ravishing than the red berries are the rose-coloured flowers, though they are known to scarcely one in a thousand of the persons familiar with the fruit. I always think with pleasure of the day when I first saw them, on the Whinlatter pass, near Keswick, their small wiry stems creeping on the surface of the swamp, a feast for an epicure's eye. It is under the open air, not under a pie-crust, that such dainties are appreciated as they deserve. These, then, being some of the many attractions offered by our "mosses," is it surprising that the lover of flowers should play the part of a modern "moss-trooper," and ride out over the border in search for such imperishable spoil? His part, indeed, is a much wiser one than that of the old freebooters; for who would risk life in the forcible lifting of other persons' cattle, when at the slight expense to which Anne Pratt alluded--the temporary chill caused by the sinking of his foot in a marsh--he can enrich himself far more agreeably in the manner which I have described? XXI A NORTHERN MOOR Where Tees in tumult leaves his source, Thundering o'er Caldron and High Force. SCOTT. A FIRST glance at the bleak and inhospitable moorland of Upper Teesdale would not lead one to suppose that it is famous for its flora. No more desolate-looking upland could be imagined; the great wolds stretch away monotonously, broken only by a few scars that overhang the course of the stream, and devoid of the grandeur that is associated with mountain scenery. No houses are visible, except a few white homesteads that dot the slopes--their whiteness, it is said, being of service to the farmers when they return in late evening from some distant market and are faced with the difficulty of finding their own doors. Its wildness is the one charm of the place; in that it is unsurpassed. But this bare valley, botanically regarded, is a bit of the far North, interpolated between Durham, Westmorland, and Yorkshire, where the Teesdale basalt or "whinstone" affords an advanced station for many rare plants of the highland type as they trend southward; and there, for five or six miles, from the upper waterfall of Caldron Snout to that of High Force, the banks of the Tees, with the rough pastures, scars, and fells that form its border, hold many floral treasures. The first flower to attract attention on these wild lawns is that queen of violets, the mountain pansy (_viola lutea_), not uncommon on many midland and northern heaths, but nowhere else growing in such prodigality as here, or with such rich mingling of colours--orange yellow, creamy white, deep purple, and velvet black--till the eye of the traveller is sated with the gorgeous tints. To the violet tribe this pansy stands in somewhat the same relation as does the bird's-eye primrose to the _primulas_; it is a mountain cousin, at once hardier and more beautiful than its kinsfolk of wood and plain. Seeing it in such abundance, we can understand why Teesdale has been described as "the gardener's paradise;" but the expression is not a fitting one, for "gardener" suggests "trowel," and the nurseryman is the sort of Peri to whom the gates of this paradise ought to be for ever closed. But perhaps the first stroll which a visitor to Upper Teesdale is likely to take, is by the bank of the river just above High Force; and here the most conspicuous plant is a big cinquefoil, the _potentilla fruticosa_, a shrub about three feet in height, bearing large yellow flowers. Rare elsewhere, it is in exuberance beside the Tees; and I remember the amused surprise with which a dalesman regarded me, when he saw my interest in a weed that to him was so familiar and so cheap. But the smaller notabilities of the district have to be personally searched for; they do not obtrude themselves on the wayfarer's glance. On the Yorkshire side of the stream stands Cronkley Scar, a buttress of the high moor known as Mickle Fell; and here, in the wet gullies, may be found such choice northern plants as the Alpine meadow-rue; the Scottish asphodel (_Tofieldia_), a small relative of the common bog-asphodel; and the curious viviparous bistort, another highland immigrant, bearing a spike of dull white flowers and small bulbs below. The fell above the scar is a desolate tract, frequented by golden plover and other moorland birds. On one occasion when I ascended it I was overtaken by a violent storm of wind and rain, which compelled me to leave the further heights of Mickle Fell unexplored, and to retreat to the less exposed pastures of Widdibank on the opposite side of the Tees, here a broad but shallow mountain stream, which in dry weather can be forded without difficulty but becomes a roaring torrent after heavy rains. In the course of two short visits, one in mid-July, the other in the spring of the following year, I twice had the opportunity of seeing the river in either mood, first in unruffled tranquillity, then in furious spate. It is in May or early June that Teesdale is at the height of its glory; for the plant which lends it a special renown is the spring gentian, perhaps the brightest jewel among all British flowers, small, but a true Alpine, and of that intense blue which signalizes the gentian race. Here this noble flower grows in plenty, not in wide profusion like the pansies, but in large and thriving colonies, not confined to one side of the stream. It was on the Durham bank that I first saw it--one of those rare scenes that a flower-lover cannot forget, for the blue gentians were intermingled with pink bird's-eye primroses, only less lovely than themselves, and close by were a few spikes of the Alpine bartsia, whose sombre purple was in marked contrast with the brilliant hues of its companions. Of this rare bartsia I had plucked a single flower on my previous visit to the same spot, but then in somewhat hurried circumstances. I had been crossing the wide pastures near Widdibank farm in company with a friend, who, having heard rumours of the temper of Teesdale bulls, had unwisely allowed his thoughts to be somewhat distracted from the pansies. We were in the middle of a field of vast extent, when I heard my companion asking anxiously: "Is _that_ one?" It certainly _was_ one; not a pansy, but a bull; and he was advancing towards us with very unfriendly noises and gestures. We therefore retired as quickly as we could, without seeming to run--he slowly following us--in the direction of the river; and there, under a high bank, over which we expected every moment the bulky head to reappear, I saw the Alpine bartsia, and stooped to pick one as we fled, my friend mildly deprecating even so slight a delay. Now, however, on my second visit, I was able to examine the bank at my leisure, and to have full enjoyment of as striking a group of flowers as could be seen on English soil--gentian, bird's-eye primrose, Alpine bartsia--and as if these were not sufficient, the mountain pansy running riot in the pasture just above. So far, I have spoken only of the plants which I myself saw; there are other and greater rarities in Teesdale which the casual visitor can hardly expect to encounter. The yellow marsh-saxifrage (_S. hirculus_) occurs in two or three places on the slopes of Mickle Fell; so, too, in limestone crevices does the mountain-avens (_dryas octopetala_), and the winter-green (_pyrola secunda_); while on Little Fell, which lies further to the south-west, towards Appleby, the scarce Alpine forget-me-not is reported to be plentiful. I was told by a botanist that, in crossing the moors from Teesdale to Westmorland, he once picked up what he took for a fine clump of the common star-saxifrage, and afterwards found to his surprise that it was the Alpine snow-saxifrage (_S. nivalis_), which during the past thirty years has become exceedingly rare both in the Lake District and in North Wales. The haunts of the rarer flowers are not likely to be discovered in a day or two, nor yet in a week or two: it is only to him who has gone many times over the ground that such secrets will disclose themselves; but even the passing rambler must be struck, as I was, by the number of noteworthy plants that Teesdale wears, so to speak, upon its sleeve. The globe-flower revels in the moist meadows; so, too, do the water-avens and the marsh-cinquefoil, nor is the butterfly orchis far to seek; and though the yellow marsh-saxifrage may remain hidden, there is no lack of the yellow saxifrage of the mountain (_saxifraga aizoides_), to console you, if it can, for the absence of its rarer cousin. The cross-leaved bedstraw (_galium boreale_), another North-country plant, luxuriates on low wet cliffs by the river. Last, but not least, in the later months of summer, is the mountain thistle (_carduus heterophyllus_), or the "melancholy thistle" as it is often called--a title which seems to have small relevance, unless all plants of a grave and dignified bearing are to be so named. Do men expect to gather figs of thistles, that they should demand the simple gaiety of the cowslip or the primrose from such a plant as this, whose rich purple flowers, spineless stem, and large parti-coloured leaves--deep green above, white below--mark it as one of the most handsome, as it is certainly the most gracious and benevolent of its tribe? As I walked down the valley, on a wet morning in July, to take train at Middleton, twenty-four hours of rain had turned the river through which I had easily waded on the previous day, into a flood that was terrifying both in aspect and sound. It was no time for flower-hunting; but even then the wonders of the place were not exhausted; for along the hedgerows I saw in plenty that same stately thistle, which in most districts where it occurs is viewed with some interest and curiosity, but in Teesdale is a roadside weed--subject, I was shocked to observe, to the insolence of the passers-by, who, knowing not what they do, maltreat it as if it were some vulgar pest of the fields, a thing to be hacked at and trampled on. Even so, I saw in it a discrowned king, who "nothing common did or mean." XXII APRIL IN SNOWDONIA It is Easter Sunday . . . the hills are high, and stretch away to heaven.--DE QUINCEY. SO wrote De Quincey in one of his finest dream-fugues. There seems, in truth, to be a certain fitness in the turning of men's thoughts at the spring season to the heights of the mountains, where, as nowhere else, the cares and ailments of the winter time are forgotten; and it is a noticeable fact that these upland districts are now as thronged with visitors during Easter week as in August itself. As I write, I am sitting by a wood fire under a high rock in a sheltered nook at Capel Curig, with a biting north-easter blowing overhead and an occasional snow-squall whitening the hillsides around, while the upper ridges are covered in places with great fields and spaces of snow, which at times loom dim and ghostly through the haze, and then gleam out gloriously in the interludes of sunshine. The scenery at the top of Snowdon, the Glyders, Carnedd Llewelyn, and the other giants of the district has been quite Alpine in character. The wind has drifted the snow in great pillowy masses among the rocks, or piled it in long cornices along the edges, and on several days when the air was at its keenest, the snow fields have been crisp and firm, and have afforded excellent footing as a change from the rough "screes" and crags; at other times, when the sun has shone out warmly, the snow has been soft and treacherous, and the spectacle has often been seen of the too trustful tourist struggling waistdeep. Mid-April in Snowdonia, when March has been cold and wet, shows scarcely an advance from midwinter as far as the blossoming of flowers is concerned. Down by the coast the land is gay with gorse and primroses, but in the bleak upland dales that radiate from the great mountains hardly a bloom is to be seen; nor do the river banks and marshy pastures as yet show so much as a kingcup, a spearwort, or a celandine. The visitors have come in their multitudes to walk, to climb, to cycle, to motor, to take photographs, or to take fish, as the case may be; but if one of them were to confess that he had come to look for flowers he would indeed surprise the natives--still more if he were to point to the upper ramparts of the mountains, among the rocks and snows and clouds, as the place of his design. Yet it is there that we must climb, if we would see the pride of the purple saxifrage, the earliest of our mountain flowers, blest by botanists with the cumbrous name of _saxifraga oppositifolia_, and often grown by gardeners, who know it as a Swiss immigrant, but not as a British native. A true Alpine, it is not found in this country much below 2,000 feet, and in Switzerland its range is far higher, for it is a neighbour and a lover of the snows. Small and slight as it may seem, when compared with some of its more splendid brethren of the Alps, it has the distinction of a high-bred race, the character of the genuine mountaineer. It is a wearer of the purple, in deed as well as in name. But our approach to the home of the saxifrage is not to be accomplished without toil, in weather which is a succession of boisterous squalls. Under such a gale we have literally to push our way in a five-mile walk to the foot of the hills, and as we climb higher and higher up the slopes we have a ceaselesstussle with the strong, invisible foe who buffets us from every side in turn, while he hisses against the sharp edges of the crags, or growls with dull subterranean noises under the piles of fallen rocks. As for the streams, they are blown visibly out of their steep channels and carried in light spray across the hillside, while sheets of water are lifted from the surface of the lake. Not till we reach the base of the great escarpment which forms the north-east wall of the mountain are we able to draw breath in peace; for there, under the topmost precipices, flecked with patches of snow, is a strange and blissful calm. But now, just when our search begins, the mists, which have long been circling overhead, creep down and fill the upland hollow where we stand, cutting off our view not only of the valley below but of the range of cliffs above, and confining us in a sequestered cloudland of our own. Still climbing along a line of snowdrifts which follows a ridge of rocks, and which serves at once as a convenient route for an ascent and a safe guide for a return, we scan the likely-looking corners and crevices for the object of our pilgrimage. At first in vain; and then fears begin to assail us that we may be doomed to disappointment. Can we have come too early, even for so early a plant, in a backward season? Or have some wandering tourists or roving knights of the trowel (for such there are) robbed the mountain-side of its gem--for this saxifrage, owing to the brightness of its petals on the grey and barren slopes, is so conspicuous as to be at the mercy of the passer-by. But even as we stand in doubt there is a gleam of purple through the mist, and yonder, on a boss of rock, is a cluster of the rubies we have come not to steal but to admire. What strikes one about the purple saxifrage, when seen at close quarters, its many bright flowerets peering out from a cushion of moss, is the largeness of the blossoms in proportion to the shortness of the stems; a precocious, wide-browed little plant, it looks as if the cares of existence at these wintry altitudes had given it a somewhat thoughtful cast. At a distance it makes a splash of colour on the rocks, and from the high cliffs above it hangs out, here and there, in tufts that are fortunately beyond reach. Having paid our homage to the flower, we leave it on its lofty throne among the clouds, and descend by snow-slopes and scree-slides to the windy, blossomless valley beneath. A month hence, when the season of the Welsh poppy, the globe-flower, and the butterwort is beginning, the reign of the purple saxifrage will be at an end. To be appreciated as it deserves, it must be seen not as a poor captive of cultivation, but in its free, wild environment, among the remotest fastnesses of the mountains. The wild animal life on the hills, so noteworthy in the later spring, seems as yet to have hardly awakened. We saw a white hare one afternoon on Carnedd Llewelyn, but that was the only beast of the mountains that crossed our path during eight days' climbing, nor were the birds so numerous as might have been expected. The croak of the raven was heard at times, in his high breeding-places, and on another occasion there was a triple conflict in the air between a raven, a buzzard, and a hawk. On the lower moorlands the curlew was beginning to arrive from his winter haunts by the seashore, and small flocks of gulls, driven inland by the winds, were hovering over the waters of Llyn Ogwen, where we saw several of them mobbing a solitary heron, who seemed much embarrassed by their onslaught, until he succeeded in getting his great wings into motion. But if bird-life is still somewhat dormant in these lofty regions, there have been plenty of human migrants on the wing. From our high watch-tower, we saw daily, far below us, the long line of motorists--those terrestrial birds of prey--speeding along the white roads, and flying past a hundred entrancing spots, as if their object were to see as little as possible of what they presumably came to see. Flocks of cyclists, too, were visible here and there, avoiding the cars as best they could, and drinking not so much "the wind of their own speed," in the poet's words, as the swirl and dust of the motors; while on the bypaths and open hillsides swarmed the happier foot-travellers, pilgrims in some cases from long distances over the mountains, or skilled climbers with ropes coiled over their shoulders and faces set sternly towards some beetling crag or black gully in the escarpment above. In one respect only are they all alike--that they are birds of passage and are here only for the holiday. Soon they will be gone, and then the ancient silence will settle down once more upon the hills, and buzzard and raven will be undisturbed, until July and August bring the great summer incursion. XXIII FLOWER-GAZING _IN EXCELSIS_ I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. WORDSWORTH. THERE is no more inspiring pastime than flower-gazing under the high crags of Snowdon. The love of flowers reveals a new and delightful aspect of the mountain life, and leads its votaries into steeps and wilds which, as they lie aloof from the usual ways of the climber, might otherwise escape notice. It must be owned that our Cumbrian and Cambrian hills are not rich in flowers as Switzerland is rich; one cannot here step out on the mountain-side and see great sheets of colour, as on some Alpine slope; and not only must we search for our treasures, but we must know _where_ to search. They do not grow everywhere; much depends on the nature of the soil, much on the altitude, much on the configuration of the hills. There are great barren tracts which bear little but heather and bilberry; but there are rarer beds of volcanic ash and calcareous rock which are a joy to the heart of the flower-lover. Again, one is apt to think that on those heights, where the winter is long and severe, it is the southern flanks that must be the haunt of the flowers; in reality, it is the north-east side that is the more favoured, owing to the fact that the hills, in both districts, for the most part rise gently from the south or the south-west, in gradual slopes that are usually dry and wind-swept, while northward and eastward they fall away steeply in broken and water-worn escarpments. It is here, among the wet ledges and rock-faces, constantly sprayed from the high cliffs above, where springs have their sources, that the right conditions of shade and moisture are attained; and here only can the Alpines be found in any abundance. The precipices of Cwm Idwal and Cwm Glas, in Wales, and in the Lake District the east face of Helvellyn, may stand as examples of such rock-gardens. The course of a climber is usually along the top of the ridge, that of the botanist at its base; his paradise is that less frequented region which may be called the undercliff, where the "screes" begin to break away from the overhanging precipice, and where, in the angle thus formed, there is often a little track which winds along the hillside, sometimes rising, sometimes falling, but always with the cliff above and the scree-slope below. Following this natural guidance he may scramble around the base of the rocks, or along their transverse ledges, and feast his eyes on the many mountain flowers that are within sight, if not within reach. It is a fine sport, this flower-gazing; not only because all the plants are beautiful and many of them rare, but because it demands a certain skill to balance oneself on a steep declivity, while looking upward, through binoculars, at some attractive clump of purple saxifrage, or moss-campion, or thrift, or rose-root, or globe-flower, as the case may be. To the veteran rambler especially, this flower-cult is congenial; for it supplies--I will not say an excuse for not going to the top, but a less severe and exacting diversion, which still takes him into the inmost solitudes of the mountain, and keeps him in unfailing touch with its character and genius. I have spoken of Snowdonia in the spring; let us view it now in the fulness of June or July, when its flora is at its richest. It is not till you have climbed to a height of about two thousand feet that the true joys of the mountains begin. At first, perhaps, as you follow the course of the stream you will see nothing more than a bunch of white scurvy-grass or a spray of golden-rod; but when you reach the region where the thin cascade comes sliding down over the moist rocks, and the topmost cliffs seem to impend, then you will have your reward, for you have entered into the kingdom of the Alpines. Suppose, for example, that you stand at the foot of the narrow ridge of Crib-y-Ddysgl, a great precipice which overhangs the upper chambers of Cwm Glas on the northern side of Snowdon, with an escarpment formed of huge slabs of rock intersected by wet gullies, narrow niches, and transverse terraces of grass. Looking up, to where the Crib towers above, you will see a goodly array of plants. Thrift is there, in large clumps as handsome as on any sea-cliffs; rose-root, the big mountain-stonecrop; cushions of moss-campion, which bears the local name of "Snowdon pink"; lady's-mantle, intermixed with the reddening leaves of mountain-sorrel; Welsh poppy, not so common a flower in Wales as its name would suggest; and at least three kinds of beautiful white blossoms--the starry saxifrage, the mossy saxifrage, and the shapely little sandwort (_arenaria verna_), as fair as the saxifrages themselves, and what higher praise could be given? The flower-lover can scarcely hope for greater delight than that which the starry saxifrage will yield him. It has been well said that "one who has not seen it growing, say, in some rift of the rock exposed by the wearing of the mountain torrent, cannot imagine how lovely it is, or how fitly it is named. White and starry, and saxifrage--how charming must that which has three such names be!" Another lofty rock-face, similar in its flora to that of Snowdon, is the precipice at the head of Cwm Idwal, near the point where it is broken by the famous chasm of the Devil's Kitchen. Hereabouts is the chief station of the _Lloydia_, or spiderwort, a rather rare and pretty Alpine, a delicate lily of the high rocks, bearing solitary white flowers veined with red, and a few exceedingly narrow leaves that resemble the legs of a spider. Unlike most mountain plants, it has a considerable local reputation; and during its short flowering season in June one may observe small parties of enthusiasts from Bangor or Carnarvon, diligently scanning the black cliffs above Llyn Idwal, in the hope of spying it. The place where I first saw the _Lloydia_ in blossom was Cwm Glas; but I had previously noticed its long thin leaves in two or three places around the Devil's Kitchen. The haunts of the Alpine meadow-rue (_thalictrum alpinum_) are similar to those of the spiderwort; and a most elegant little plant it is, its gracefully drooping terminal cluster of small yellowish flowers being borne on a simple naked stem, whereas its less aristocratic relative, the smaller meadow-rue (_t. collinum_), which is much commoner on these rocks, is bushier and more branched. I had many disappointments, before I rightly apprehended the true Alpine species; once distinguished, it cannot again be mistaken. It was to a chance meeting in Ogwen Cottage, at the foot of Cwm Idwal, with Dr. Lloyd Williams, a skilled botanist who had brought a party of friends to visit the home of the _Lloydia_, that I owed my introduction to another very beautiful inhabitant of those heights, the white mountain-avens, known to rock-gardeners as _dryas octopetala_. Happy is the flower-gazer who has looked on the galaxy, the "milky way," of those fair mountain nymphs--for the plant is in truth an oread rather than a dryad--where they shed their lustre from certain favoured ledges in a spot which it is safer to leave unspecified. I must have passed close to the place many scores of times, in the forty or more years during which I had known the mountain; yet never till then did I become aware of the treasure that was enshrined in it! But of all the glories of Cwm Idwal--rarities apart--the greatest, when the summer is at its prime, is the array of globe-flowers. This splendid buttercup usually haunts the banks of mountain streams, or the sides of damp woods, in the West country and the North; its range is given in the _Flora of the Lake District_ as not rising above nine hundred feet; but in Snowdonia, not content to dwell with its cousins the kingcups and spearworts in the upland valleys, it aspires to a far more romantic station, and is seen blooming in profusion at twice and almost three times that height on the most precipitous rock-ledges. One may gaze by the hour, enraptured, and never weary of the sight. I have by no means exhausted the list of notable Snowdonian flowers that are native in the two localities of which I have spoken, or in a few other spots that are similarly favoured by geological conditions: the sea-plantain, the mountain-cudweed, the stone-bramble, the queer little whitlow-grass with twisted pods (_draba incana_), its still rarer congener the Alpine rock-cress, and the _Saussurea_, or Alpine saw-wort--all these, and more, are to be found there by the pilgrim who devotedly searches the scriptures of the hills. But of the _Saussurea_ some mention will have to be made in the next chapter; for it is now time to turn from Cambria to Cumbria, from the "cwms" and "cribs" of Snowdon to the "coves" and "edges" of Helvellyn. XXIV COVES OF HELVELLYN I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn. SCOTT. SO far I have spoken more of the Welsh mountain flowers than of those belonging to Lakeland; but the difference between the two districts, in regard to their respective floras, is not very great, and with a few exceptions the plants that are native on the one range may be looked for on the other. The _Lloydia_ is found in Snowdonia only; and Wales can boast, not a monopoly, but a greater plenty of the moss-campion and the purple saxifrage. On the other hand, the Alpine lady's-mantle and the yellow mountain-saxifrage, both abundant in Cumberland, are absent from Carnarvonshire; and this is somewhat of a loss, for the common lady's-mantle, charming though it is, lacks the beauty of the Alpine, and the yellow saxifrages, as they hang from the rocks like a phalanx of tiny golden shields--each with bright petals and pale green sepals radiating from a central boss--are among the greatest ornaments of the fells. Again, the lovely little bird's-eye primrose is a North-country plant which is not found in Wales; against which may be set, perhaps, that gem of the damp mosses on certain Welsh streamsides, the ivy-leaved bell-flower. More characteristic of Lakeland than of Snowdonia, though not peculiar to it, are those two very beautiful flowers, the one a child of the swamp, the other of the high pastures, the grass of Parnassus, and the mountain-pansy; and to conclude the list, the snow-saxifrage and the mountain-avens are about equally rare in both countries--the avens, indeed, is confined to one or two stations, where fortunately it is little known. Helvellyn, as a mountain, is very inferior to Snowdon, nor indeed can it compete in grandeur with its own Cumbrian neighbours, the Great Gable and Scafell; but among visitors to the Lakes it has nevertheless an enduring reputation, largely due to the poems in which Scott and Wordsworth have sung its praises. Accordingly, during the tourist season, the anxious question: "Is that Helvellyn?" may often be overheard; and on a fine day all sorts of incongruous persons may be seen making their way up the weary slopes that lead from Grasmere to its crest. I once observed a gentleman in a top-hat toiling upward in the queue; on another occasion I witnessed at the summit a violent quarrel between a married couple, the point of dispute (on which they appealed to me) being whether their little dog was, or was not, in danger of being blown over the cliffs. As the west wind was certainly very strong, and Helvellyn had already been associated with the story of a dog's fidelity, I ventured to advise a retreat. On the east side, however, where its "dark brow" overlooks the Red Tarn, and throws out two great lateral ridges--on the right, in De Quincey's words, "the awful curtain of rock called Striding Edge," and Swirrel Edge on the left--Helvellyn is a very fine mountain, and what is more to the present purpose, is botanically the most interesting of all the Lakeland fells. From Grisedale Tarn to Keppelcove, a distance of full three miles, that great escarpment, with the several "coves" that nestle beneath it, is the home of many rare Alpine flowers, corresponding in that respect with the Welsh rock-faces of Idwal and Cwm Glas; and though it does not offer so conspicuous a display, or such keen inducements to flower-gazing, a search along its narrow ledges, and under the impending crags, home of the hill fox, will seldom disappoint the adventurer. Some years ago I spent a week of July, in two successive seasons, at Patterdale, for the purpose of becoming better acquainted with the mountain flowers, but on both occasions the weather was very stormy and made it difficult to be on the fells. At first I searched chiefly under Striding Edge and the steep front of Helvellyn, among the rocks that lie behind the Red Tarn, and in similar places above Keppelcove Tarn in the adjoining valley, hoping with good luck to light on the snow-saxifrage. In this I was unsuccessful; but I twice found a plant I had not hitherto met with--in appearance a small spineless thistle, with a cluster of light-purple scented flowers--which proved to be the Alpine saw-wort, or _Saussurea_, and which in later years I saw again on Snowdon. A blossom which I picked and kept for several months was so little affected by its separation from the parent stem that it continued its vital processes in a vase, and passed from flowering to seeding without interruption. Like the orpine, it was a veritable "live-long," or as the politicians say, "die-hard." At Patterdale I was so fortunate as to make the acquaintance of Mr. Robert Nixon, a resident who has had a long and intimate knowledge of the local flora; and he very kindly devoted a day to showing me some of his flower-haunts on Helvellyn. In the course of this expedition, one of the pleasantest in my memory, a number of interesting plants were noted by us: among them the mountain-pansy; the cross-leaved bedstraw; the vernal sandwort; the Alpine meadow-rue; the moss-campion; the purple saxifrage, now past flowering; the mountain willow-herb (_epilobium alsinifolium_), not the true Alpine willow-herb, but a native of similar places among the higher rills; and the _salix herbacea_, or "least willow," the smallest of British trees, which when growing on the bare hill-tops is not more than two inches in height, though in the clefts of rock at the edge of the main escarpment we found it of much larger size. The moss-campion (_silene acaulis_) is especially associated with the locality of which I am speaking--the neighbourhood of Grisedale Tarn--and is mentioned in the "Elegiac Verses," composed by Wordsworth "near the mountain track that leads from Grasmere through Grisedale": There cleaving to the ground, it lies, With multitude of purple eyes, Spangling a cushion green like moss. To this the poet added in a note: "This most beautiful plant is scarce in England. The first specimen I ever saw of it, in its native bed, was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches in diameter. I have only met with it in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since sought for it in vain." The other place may have been the hill above Rydal Mount; for a contributor to the _Flora of the Lake District_ states that it was there shown to him by Wordsworth. The poet's knowledge of the higher mountains, and of the mountain flora, was not great. The moss-campion though local, is much less rare than he supposed, and its "cushions" grow to a far larger bulk than that of the one described by him. In his _Holidays on High Lands_ (1869), Hugh Macmillan, paying tribute to the beauty of this flower, remarks that "a sheet of it last summer on one of the Westmorland mountains measured five feet across, and was one solid mass of colour." I have seen it approaching that size in Wales. Another plant which I was anxious to see was the Alpine _cerastium_ (mouse-ear chickweed), said to grow "sparingly" on the crags of Striding Edge and in a few other places. I failed to find it; but when Mr. Nixon had pointed out to me, in a photograph of the Edge, a particular crag on which he had noticed the flower in a previous summer, I determined to renew the search. This the weather prevented; but in the following year, happening to be in Borrowdale in June, I walked from Keswick to the top of Helvellyn, and thence descended to Striding Edge, where, on the very rock indicated by Mr. Nixon, I found the object of my journey--not yet in flower, for I was somewhat ahead of its season, but authenticated as _cerastium alpinum_ by the small oval leaves covered with dense white down. I have several times seen, high up on Carnedd Llewelyn, a form of _cerastium_ with larger flowers than the common kind; this I think must have been what is called _c. alpestre_ in the _Flora of Carnarvonshire_; but the true _alpinum_, though frequent in the Scottish highlands, is decidedly rare in Wales. Even when the summer is far spent, there is hope for the flower-lover among these mountains, especially if he penetrate into one of those deep fissures--more characteristic of the Scafell range than of Helvellyn--known locally as "gills": I have in mind the upper portion of Grain's Gill, near the summit of the Sty Head Pass, where, on an autumn day, one may still see, on either bank of the chasm, a goodly array of flowers. Most prevalent, perhaps, are the satiny leaves of the Alpine lady's-mantle, which is extraordinarily abundant in this part of the Lake District, and forms a thick green carpet on many of the slopes. Against this background stand out conspicuously tall spires of golden-rod, rich cushions of wild thyme, and clumps of white sea-campion, a shore plant which, like thrift, sea-plantain, and scurvy-grass, seems almost equally at home on the heights. There, too, are the mountain-sorrel, and rose-root; butterworts, with leaves now faded to a sickly yellow; tufts of harebell, northern bedstraw and hawkweed; stout stalks of angelica; and, best of all, festoons of yellow saxifrages, beautiful even in their decay. XXV GREAT DAYS I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before; I moments live, who lived but years. THOREAU. IN flower-seeking, as in other sports and sciences, the unexpected is always happening; there are rich days and poor days, surprises and disappointments; the plant which we hailed as a rarity may prove on examination to be but a gay deceiver; and contrariwise, when we think we have come home empty-handed, it may turn out that the vasculum contains some unrecognized treasure; as when, after what seemed to be a barren day on Helvellyn, I found that I had brought back with me the Alpine saw-wort. That in the study of flowers, as in all natural history, we should be more attracted by the rare than by the common is inevitable; it is a tendency that cannot be escaped or denied, but it may at least be kept within bounds, so that familiarity shall not breed the proverbial contempt, nor rarity a vulgar and excessive admiration. The quest for the rare, provided that it does not make us forget that the common is often no less beautiful, or lead to that selfish acquisitiveness which is the bane of "collecting," is a foible harmless in itself and even in some cases useful, as inciting us to further activities. was choice, because of prime use in medicine; and that, more choice, for yielding a rare flavour to pottage; and a third choicest of all, because possessed of no merit but its extreme scarcity." --Scott's _Quentin Durward_.] The sulphur-wort, or "sea hog's-fennel," for instance, is not especially attractive--a big coarse plant, five feet in stature, with a solid stem, uncouth masses of grass-like leaves, and large umbels of yellow flowers--yet I have a gratifying recollection of a visit which I once paid to its haunts on the Essex salt marshes near Hamford Water. Again, the twisted-podded whitlow-grass is a rather shabby-looking little crucifer; but the day when I found it under the crags of Snowdon in Cwm Glas stands out distinguished and unforgotten. It is natural that we should observe more closely what there are fewer opportunities of observing. Let me speak first of the barren days. An old friend of mine who is of an optimistic temperament once assured me for my comfort, that the flower-seeker must not feel discouraged if he fail in his pursuit; since it is not from mere success, but from the effort itself, that benefit is derived. The text should run, not "Seek, and ye shall find," but, "Seek, and ye shall not _need_ to find." This may be a true doctrine, but it seems rather a hard one; certainly it is not easy, at the time, to regard with entire complacency the result of a blank day; and that there will be blank days is beyond doubt, for it is strange how long some of the "wanted" plants, the De Wets of the floral world, will evade discovery. I have looked into the face of many hundreds of star-saxifrages on the hills of Wales and Cumberland, but have never yet set eyes upon its rare sister, the snow or "clustered" saxifrage. In like manner among the innumerable flowers of the chalk fields, in the South, that elusive little annual, the mouse-tail, has hitherto remained undetected. So, too, with many other rarities: the list of the found may increase year by year, but that of the _un_found is never exhausted. It is well that it is so, and that satiety cannot chill the ardour of the flower-lover, but like Ulysses, "always roaming with a hungry heart," he has ever before him an object for his pursuit. "Wretched is he," says Rousseau, "who has nothing left to wish for." Nor is the reward a merely figurative one, such as that of the husbandmen in the fable, who, after digging the ground in search of a buried treasure, were otherwise recompensed; for the lean days are happily interspersed with the fat days, and to the botanist there is surely no joy on earth like that of discovering a flower that is new to him; it is a thrilling event which compensates tenfold for all the failures of the past. Very remarkable, too, is the freakishness of fortune, which often, while denying what you crave, will toss you something quite different and unlooked for: I remember how when searching vainly for the spider orchis at the foot of the Downs in Kent, I stumbled on an abundance of the "green man." Or perhaps, just at the moment when you are relinquishing the quest as hopeless, and have put it wholly from your mind, you will be startled to see the very flower that you sought. Burningly it came on me all at once! * * * * * Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! As Thoreau expressed it: "What you seek in vain for, half your life, one day you come full upon, all the family at dinner." But the great days! I have sometimes fancied that in those enterprises which are to mark the finding of a new flower, one has an inner anticipation, a sense of hopefulness and quiet satisfaction that on ordinary occasions is lacking. But this assurance must be an instinctive one; it is useless to affect a confidence that does not naturally arise; for though perseverance is essential, any presumptuous attempt to forestall a favourable issue will only lead to discomfiture. Then at last, when the goal is reached, comes the devotee's reward--the knowledge that is won only by attainment, the ecstasy, the moments that are better than years. In this, as in much else, the search for flowers is symbolic of the search for truth. Nothing, as they say, succeeds like success; and there are times, in this absorbing pursuit, when one piece of good fortune is linked closely with another. I shall not easily forget that day on Snowdon, when, after meeting for the first time with the Alpine meadow-rue, I almost immediately saw my first spiderwort some ten feet above me on the rocky cliff, and reached it by building a cairn of stones against the foot of the precipice to serve me as a ladder. Among the great days that have fallen to my lot while following the call of the wildflower, one other shall be mentioned--a fair September afternoon when I had wandered for miles about the wide pastures that border the Trent, in what seemed to be a fruitless search for the meadow-saffron. Already it was time to turn on my homeward journey, when I struck into a field from which hay had been carried in the summer; and there, scattered around in large clusters of a score or more together, some lilac, some white, all with a satiny translucence in the warm sunshine which gave them an extraordinary and fairy-like charm, were hundreds of the leafless "autumn crocuses," as they are called, though in fact the flower is more lovely and ethereal than any crocus of the garden. Not the day only, but the place itself was glorified by them; and now of all those spacious but rather desolate Nottinghamshire river-meadows, I remember only that one spot: I crossed a moor, with a name of its own, And a certain use in the world, no doubt; Yet a hand's-breath of it shines alone, 'Mid the blank miles round about. Nor are all the great days necessarily of that strenuous sort where success can only be achieved by effort; for there are some days which may also be called great, or at least memorable, when one attains by free gift of fortune to what might long have been searched for in vain. I refer to those happy occasions when a friend says: "Look here! I'd like to show you that field where the elecampane grows," or, it may be, the habitat (the only one in England) of the spring snowflake; or the place on Wansfell Pike where the mountain-twayblade lies hidden beneath the heather. Such things have befallen me now and then; nor am I likely to forget the day when Bertram Lloyd took me to the haunt of the creeping toadflax in Oxfordshire; or when, with Sydney Olivier for guide, I emerged from the aisles of Wychwood Forest on to some rough grassy ground, where in company with meadow crane's-bill, clustered bell-flower, and woolly-headed thistle, the blue _salvia pratensis_ was flourishing in glorious abundance. For recollection plays a large part in the flower-lover's enjoyment. Wordsworth and his daffodils are but a trite quotation; yet many hearts besides Wordsworth's have filled with pleasure at the memory of a brave array of flowers, or even of a single gallant plant seen in some wild locality by mountain, meadow, or shore. The great days were not born to be forgotten. XXVI THE LAST ROSE And summer's lease hath all too short a date. It is well that memory should come to the aid of the flower-lover; for none is more deserving of such comfort than he, keeping constant watch as he does over the transitoriness of the seasons, and having prescience of the summer's departure while summer is still at its height. Sometimes a late autumnal thought Has crossed my mind in green July. It is in the prime of the year that such intimations of mortality are keenest; when the "fall" itself has arrived, there is less of regret than of resignation. I do not know where the tranquil grief for parted loveliness is so tenderly expressed as in a fragmentary poem of Shelley's, "The Zucca," which, though little known by the majority of readers, contains some of the most poignant, most Shelleyan verses ever written. The poet relates how when the Italian summer was dead, and autumn was in turn expiring, he went forth in grief for the decay of that ideal beauty--"dim object of my soul's idolatry"--of which he, above all men, was the worshipper, and in this mood of sadness found the withered gourd which was the subject of his song. And thus I went lamenting, when I saw A plant upon the river's margin lie, Like one who loved beyond his Nature's law. And in despair had cast him down to die. There is a fitness in such imagery; for flowers seem to serve naturally as emblems of human emotions. Who has not felt the pathos of a faded blossom kept as a memorial of the past? Many years ago I was given a beautifully bound copy of Moxon's edition of _Shelley_; and when I noticed that opposite that loveliest of poems, "Epipsychidion," were a few pink petals interleaved, I was sure that their presence at such a page was not merely accidental; and it has since been a whim of mine that those tokens of some bygone incident in the life of a former owner of the book should not be displaced. There are vicissitudes in human lives with which flowers become associated in our thoughts. I recall a calm autumn day spent in company with a friend upon the Surrey Downs, when the marjoram and other fragrant flowers of the chalk were still as beautiful as in summer, but the sadness of a near departure from that familiar district lay heavy on my mind; and that day proved indeed to be the end of many happy years, for long afterwards, when I returned to those hills, all was changed for _me_, though Nature was kindly as before. Thus a date, not greatly heeded at the time, may be found to have marked one of life's turning-points, and the flowers connected with it may hold a peculiar significance in memory. It is a sad moment for a flower-lover when he sees before him "the last rose of summer" ("rose" is a term which may here be used in a general sense for any sweet and pleasing flower), and realizes that he is now face to face with the season's euthanasia, "that last brief resurrection of summer in its most brilliant memorials, a resurrection that has no root in the past, nor steady hold upon the future, like the lambent and fitful gleams from an expiring lamp." Yet so gradual is this change, and the resurrection of which De Quincey speaks so entrancing, that one is comforted even while he grieves. For example, there are few sights more cheering on a late September day than to find by some bare tidal river a colony of the marsh-mallow. The most admired member of the family is usually the muskmallow; and certainly it is a very pretty flower, with its bright foliage and the pink satiny sheen of its corolla; but far more charming, though less showy in appearance, is its modest sister of the salt marshes, whose leaves, overspread with hoary down, are soft as softest velvet, and her petals steeped in as tender and delicate a tint of palest rose-colour as could be imagined in dreams. There is something especially gracious about this _altha_, or "healer"; and her virtues are not more soothing to body than to mind. It was from the Sussex shingles that I started, and from the same shore my concluding picture shall be drawn--a quaint sea-posy that I picked there on an October afternoon, not so romantic, certainly, as one of violets or forget-me-nots, but in that sere season not less heartening than any nosegay of the spring. It held but three flowers, samphire, sea-rocket, and sea-heath. The samphire, at all times a singular and attractive herb, was now in fruit, and had faded to a wan yellow; the rocket was still in flower, its lilac blossoms crowning the solid glaucous stalk, and its thick fleshy leaves rivalling the texture of seaweed; the small sea-heath, with wiry reddish stems and dark-green foliage, lent itself by a natural contrast for twining around its bulkier companions. Thus grouped they stood for weeks in a vase on my mantel, until the time for wildflowers was overpast, and the "black and tan" days of winter were already let loose on the earth. And even when the year is actually at its lowest, the sunnier times can be revived and re-enacted in thought; for memory is potent as that wizard in Morris's poem, who in the depth of a northern Christmastide could so wondrously transform the season, That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines a-row; While still unheard, but in its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day. Such flowery scenes has the writing of this little book brought back to me, and has robbed at least one winter of many cheerless hours. INDEX Alpine bartsia, 154; forget-me-not, 155; lady's-mantle, 177; meadow-rue, 153, 168, 174, 182; mouse-ear, 176; penny-cress, 107, 108; saw-wort, 170, 174, 178 Amberley Wild Brooks, 35, 36 Arnside, 124-7 Arundel Park, 35, 142 Avens, mountain, 155, 169, 172; water, 107, 132, 156 Baneberry, 126, 127, 129 Bellflower, ivy-leaved, 48, 148, 149, 172 Bladderwort, 34, 146, 147 Borage, 124 Butterwort, 87, 148, 177 Carpenter, Edward, 15, 45, 93, 100 Castleton, 108 Chiltern Hills, 16, 90, 94, 95 Cinquefoil, marsh, 147, 148, 156; shrubby, 152, 153; vernal, 105 Cloudberry, 110 Crabbe (quoted), 30, 78 Cranberry, 149 Crow-garlic, 92 Cuckmere Haven, 26 Cwm Glas, 165, 167-70 Cwm Idwal, 168-70 Dwale, 140 Farrer, Reginald, 66, 105, 129 Fritillary, 88, 89 Fungi, 80 Gentian, 72; marsh, 144, 145; vernal, 66, 154, 155 Gerarde, John, 49, 87, 88, 91, 98, 110, 124, 130, 134, 140, 142 Globe-flower, 147, 169, 170 Gorse, 51, 52 Hare's-ear, "common," 46, 56, 87, 91; slender, 26, 27 Hellebore, 126, 142 Hemlock, 143 Henbane, 140, 141 Hound's-tongue, 55, 71 Hudson, W. H., 12, 53 (note), 57, 88, 89 Hutchinsia, 47, 106, 123 Jefferies, Richard, 40, 81 Johns, C. A., 38, 61, 125 Jupp, W. J., 15 Kinderscout, 109-12 Lady's-mantle, 167, 171; Alpine, 177 Letchworth, 92, 95, 96 Lewes brooks, 30-4 Lily of the valley, 41, 61, 125 Lloyd, E. Bertram, 16, 110, 111, 119, 183 Macmillan, Hugh, 162 (note), 175, 176 Marjoram, 69, 76, 103, 180 Marsh-cinquefoil, 147, 148 Marsh-mallow, 187 Meadow-rue, Alpine, 153, 168, 174, 182; lesser, 108 Meadow-sage, 64, 183 Monk's-hood, 94, 142 Morris, William, 42 (note), 78, 188, 189 Moschatel, 87, 88 Moss-campion, 167, 171, 175, 176 Mouse-ear, Alpine, 176 Nightshade, deadly, 72, 74, 140 Nixon, Robert, 174, 176 Norton Common, 95, 96 Nottingham catch-fly, 105, 123 Olivier, Sir Sydney, 183 Orchis, 53-6, 70, 71, 85, 86, 126, 148; bee, 53; man, 74; musk, 55; spider, 53-5 Orme's Head, 121, 124 Pagham Harbour, 27 Pansy, mountain, 108, 152, 155, 172, 174 Perfoliates, 86, 87, 108 Pevensey, shingles, 25; levels, 30, 34 Pilgrim's Way, 73 Pink, proliferous, 27; Deptford, 79; maiden, 123 Pratt, Anne, 11, 38, 60, 145, 150 Primrose, 64, 65, 131; bird's-eye, 131, 152, 172; water "violet," 31, 101, 102 Rampion, 53, 56, 74 Rock-rose, 53, 56, 72, 76, 103, 123 Saffron, meadow, 182 St. John's-worts, 11, 39, 79, 99, 148 Salmon, C. E., 17 Samphire, 24, 122, 188 Sandwort, vernal, 106, 108, 130, 167 Saw-wort, Alpine, 170, 174, 178 Saxifrages, 15, 22, 106, 167; mossy, 106, 130, 167; purple, 41, 130, 159-62; snow, 155, 174, 180; starry, 155, 167, 168, 180; yellow, 156, 171, 177 Sheep's scabious, 82 Shelley (quoted), 25, 36, 139-41, 185, 186 Shoreham shingles, 22-4 Snapdragon, 84, 86 Snowdon, 158, 164-70 Spiderwort, 168, 171, 182 Squinancy-wort, 45, 72 Stitchwort, 20, 37 Sweet Cicely, 104 Teesdale, Upper, 66, 151-7 Thistle, "melancholy," 156, 157 Thoreau, H. D., 12, 71, 144, 181; his _Journal_, 133-8 Thorn-apple, 141 Trefoils, 22, 23, 39, 40; starry-headed, 23, 99 Vaughan, Canon J., 12 (note), 98 Vetches, 22, 23, 72 Viper's bugloss, 22, 71 Virgil, 69, 80 Water-soldier, 94, 98 White, Gilbert, 51, 77, 98 Wordsworth, 11, 42, 175, 184 Wye valley, 106, 107 Yellow-wort, 72, 87 _Printed in Great Britain by_ UNWIN BROTHERS THE GRESHAM PRESS, LONDON AND WOKING End of (available with this file or online at Section 1. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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A Satire Proofreaders Canada team at _The Land of_ _Afternoon_ A SATIRE BY _Gilbert Knox_ OTTAWA THE GRAPHIC PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1924_ _By Gilbert Knox_ PRINTED IN THE DOMINION OF CANADA ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _The Land of Afternoon_ _By_ GILBERT KNOX PART ONE ...................................THEY CAME. PART TWO ....................................THEY SAW. PART THREE ..............................THEY CONQUERED. Courage, he said, and pointed to the land. This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon, In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. _The Lotus Eaters_ _Foreword_ However this novel may be classified by readers or librarians, it is frankly intended to be a satire upon some phases of social and political life in Canada. Satire is properly a criticism of human folly or unworthiness in a class or in the mass, and the exact limning of people in real life is no part of its metier. When it makes such an attempt, it ceases to be satire and tends to become biography seasoned with defamationa sad misuse of what is broadly regarded as a medium for the regeneration of society. * * * * * But however satire is regarded in the abstract by his readers, the author desires it to be clearly understood that all the characters upon his stage are purely imaginary. While he thought it necessary to occupy himself with some unpleasant minor types, on the other hand, he felt an optimistic joy in the creation of his protagonist. He feels that Raymond Dilling is no false start with the practical ethics of Superman. On the contrary, he believes that there are many men with whom we mingle in every-day contact, who, if put to the test, would react with a moral firmness and fineness quite measurable with Dillings conduct. First Imprint, October, 1925 Second Imprint, December, 1925 THE LAND OF AFTERNOON THEY CAME CHAPTER 1. Byward Market had been freshened during the night by a heavy fall of powdery snow, that knew no peace from a bitter wind which drove it, in stinging clouds, up and down the street. The thermometer had made its record drop of the season. Marjorie Dilling stood on the outskirts of a tight-packed group and shivered. The strangeness of the scene struck her afresh; the sense of loneliness was almost overpowering. She simply could not bring herself to push and jostle as the other women didand a few men, too!consequently she was always thrust away from the curb and prevented from seeing what lay beneath the furs and blankets and odd bits of cloth in the carts. Only now and again could she catch a glimpse of a tower of frozen beef, or rigid hogs which were trundled by their hind legs through the thronged streets, in a manner strongly suggestive of a wheelbarrow. Or, as the crowds broke and parted, she could occasionally see a stiff fringe of poultry and rabbits strung across the ends of the wagons. Eggs, butter, vegetables and cream were well covered, and spared in so far as possible, the rigours of the morning. Byward was an open market which attracted farmers from districts as remote as the Upper Gatineauacross the river, in the Province of Quebec. Behind the line of carts or sleighsautomobiles, now!there ran a row of nondescript buildings that rarely claimed the attention of the marketers; a confusion of second-hand stores, an occasional produce shop, and third-rate public houses, whose broad windows revealed a cluster of dilapidated chairs flanked by battered _crachoirs_, which had seen many years of unspeakable service. Behind these, a narrow passage led to the abode of spirits, of the kind latterly and peculiarly called departed. Here, the farmers gathered for warmth in winter and coolness in summer, and to slakeor intensifytheir thirst in either season, while their women-folk remained in discomfort outside, and attended to the practical issues of the day. The sigh that fluttered from Marjories lips took form like a ghostly balloon and floated away on the frosty air. Her basket was light and her spirits were heavy. She found it incredibly difficult to shop in the Ottawa market. She simply dreaded Saturday mornings. At the corner, where the wind whipped down the street and few people cared to linger, she found herself standing before an ancient crone, who sat amid an assortment of roughly-cured hides, and under a huge, weather-stained umbrella. At her feet lay a rusty pail overflowing with a curious mass that looked like bloated sausages in the last stages of decay. Whatwhat is that? asked Marjorie, in her soft timid voice. The old woman made unintelligible sounds from between toothless gums. I beg your pardon? I tol you, it is _sang pouding_. Ow much you want? I dont want any, thank you, answered Marjorie. I was looking for some sweetbreads. Have you any? Sweet _bread_? echoed the ancient, grumpily. Well, why you don look on de store, hein? Wat you tink I amde bakers cart? Although unaware of the complexities of the French tongue and the French character, Marjorie perceived a rebuff in the old womans words. She apologised hastily and moved away. What, she kept asking herself, could she substitute for sweetbreads? Chickens were expensive and eggs, a fabulous price. Nobody in Ottawa seemed to keep hens . . . Have _you_ any sweetbreads? She began to feel a little hysterical. It _was_ a funny question! No wonder the old woman answered her crossly. Have you any sweetbreads? _How_ many times had she asked it? She thought of the game the children played_Black sheep, black sheep, have you any wool?_ And what on earth should she get in place of sweetbreads? Raymond was so difficult about his food. He had such a tiny and pernickety appetite . . . By wriggling, she gained the curb before another cart. No one paid her the slightest heed. The centre of the stage was held by a tall, spare woman with a stridulous voice. Marjorie knew her slightly. Two weeks ago she had callednot as people called at home, in Pinto Plainsbut sternly and coldly, neither giving nor receiving pleasure by the visit, save when she had laid three bits of pasteboard on the corner of the table and left the house. Mrs. Pratt was the wife of a cheerfully ineffectual professional man with political aspirations, and she felt her position keenly. So did Marjorie; and she backed away while summoning her courage to speak. A dollar and a half? Mrs. Pratt was saying. Outrageous! I cant think what you people are coming to! Ill give you a dollar and a quarter, and not one penny more. She indicated a pair of frozen chickens, each with a large mauve face, that lay exposed on an old red blanket. Cant do it, lady, said the farmer, with chattering teeth, it cost me morn that to feed them this three year, and he winked heavily at the surrounding circle. Oh, theyre fowl! Well then, of course, theyre not worth that much! Theres a woman across the road,Mrs. Pratt swept her muff vaguely towards the horizon and unconsciously disarranged Marjories hat,who is selling her fowl for eighty cents! _Ill_ take them, cried a woman at this juncture. Its too cold to haggle over a few cents. Givum to me! She thrust a dollar and a half into the mans hand, seized the chickens and started off. Those are mine! called Mrs. Pratt, in a tone that rivalled the sharpness of the atmosphere. You take the others at eighty cents, returned the woman, amid a ripple of laughter. Impertinence! snapped Mrs. Pratt, as she turned away. Marjorie drifted on, her basket still empty. These awful Saturday mornings! They seemed to accentuate her loneliness. Of course, the cold discouraged long conversations and the exchange of tittle-tattle that makes shopping, to some people, so delightful, but she was aware of the greetings that passed between women as they meta tip, perhaps, as to some bargain, or a brief reference to some impending social functionand she would have been grateful for even the smallest sign of friendly recognition. Frequently, she saw people who had called upon her, but evidently she had made too little impression to be remembered. How different from Pinto Plains, where everybody knew her and cordiality was mutual! She noticed that many of the ladies who came into church richly dressed on Sundays, wore the most dreadfully shabby clothes at market, but it was not until long afterwards, she understood that this was part of a scheme for economyfor beating the farmers at their own game. They disguised themselves that they might give no hint as to the fatness of their bank account, thus implying that well-to-do shoppers were asked a higher price than those of obviously modest means. These same shabbily-clad ladies never seemed to buy very much, and Marjorie often wondered how it was worth their while to spend the morning with so little result. In those days, she didnt realise that they had left their motors round the corner, and that their parcels were transferred, two or three at a time, to a liveried chauffeur who sat in a heated car and read stimulating items from the _Eye-Opener_. Others, she learned, dragged overflowing baskets into one of the Market Stores, whose prices were known to be a few cents in excess of those demanded by the owners of the carts. Here, they made an insignificant purchase, thereby placing the onus of free delivery on the shoulders of the management. The degree to which this practice was employed varied with the temperament of the shopper. Those of a less sensitive nature, felt no hesitation in asking Lavalee, the aristocratic Purveyor of Sea Food and Game, to send home six dollars worth of marketing with a pound of smelts. Likewise, Smithson suffered the exigencies of trade, not only delivering the type of foodstuffs that he didnt keep, but every week of the year he was asked to send home the very things that were purchasable in his own store and which had been bought for a few cents less, half a block away. Seeing the baskets of produce that were piled high on the sidewalk every Saturday morning, Marjorie wondered how it was worth while for him to carry on his business or maintain his livery, at all! Having made a few purchases, she set off down Mosgrove Street for the tram as fast as her burden would permit, when she came for the second time upon Mrs. Pratt, still searching for a bargain in chickens. One seventy-five? she was saying. Sheer piracy! I refused a much better pair for a dollar fifty! Call it a dollar fifty, maam, agreed the farmer, between spasms of coughing. The wifell give me the devil, but Im most dead with cold, and I wanta go home. Pity for the man, coupled with a touch of innocent curiosity, tempted Marjorie to linger close at hand and see the end of the transaction. But thats what Im telling you, cried Mrs. Pratt. Theyre not worth a dollar fifty. Theyre miserable things. Half fed . . . Her eyes rested upon the owner resentfully, as though emphasising a definite resemblance between him and his produce. Oh, lady! Ive gotta live! Something in the mans tone told the astute lady that he was weakening, that he needed the money, that the chickens were hers. She pushed a dollar and a quarter into his hand, seized her purchase, and disappeared round the corner, into a waiting limousine. * * * * * A little later that same morning, Marjorie, finding that the children were all right in the care of Mrs. Plum, who charred her on Saturdays, went down town to The Ancient Chattellarium. Her errand was simple. She wished to have a piece of furniture repaired. It had been broken in the moving, and one of her callers had given her this address. The Chattellarium could not, even by the most vulgar, be called a shop. It was an opulent apartment where elegant furniture was displayedand soldat dignified prices. Marjorie Dilling paused uncertainly on the threshold, feeling that she must, through error, have strayed into someones residence. But she hadnt! A lady glanced over the rim of a lampshade she was making, and invited her to enter. Just looking around? she asked, with the instinct of one who recognises the difference between a shopper and a buyer. Ive got some rather nice things just unpacked, and she went on sticking pins into the dull-rose silk with which she was covering a huge wire frame. Thank you, very much, answered Marjorie, stealing a timid glance over her shoulder, but I havent a great deal of time, and I really came to seeififto ask about getting a piece of furniture repaired. I was told that I might have it done, here. The young lady took several pins from her mouth and looked up. She was quite pretty and had a pleasant manner in spite of her way of addressing most people as though they were her inferiors, and a few very prominent people as though they were her equals. She talked incessantly, and it had become her custom to illumine her speech with Glittering Personalities. She discovered Marjories name and that her husband was a recently-elected Back Bencher from an obscure little Western town, as well as the nature of the repairs required, so cleverly, that she seemed to be answering questions instead of asking them, and she was ever so kind in promising to help. Of course, I _dont_ do this sort of thing as a rule, she explained, I simply _couldnt_! My men are dreadfully overworked as it is, and we are three months behind in our orders. But because I have just recently repaired a dressing-table for Government House, and repolished a china cabinet for Lady Elton, at Rockcliffe, I havent the conscience to refuse _you_. Marjorie was rather uncomfortable after this speech. She had no earthly wish to ask a favour, and felt unduly exalted by being repaired in such impressive company. She tried to make this clear, and urged the young lady to suggest some much more humble establishment or person. I feel at such a loss, she explained, not knowing where to turn . . . and then, when Miss Brant had insisted upon helping her out of the difficulty, she said, I wouldnt dare trust it to just anyone, you know. Its such a lovely thing! Solid mahogany, a sort of what-not design, with some of the little compartments enclosed in glass, and mirrors at the backand each shelf ending in a decoration like a wee, little carved steeple. Its one of the steeple things that is broken, and one of the glass doors. I told Mr. Dilling,the young lady winced when she spoke of her husband as Mr. Dillingthat it reminded me of a beautiful dolls house, and that we would have to collect heaps of souvenir spoons and things to fill it. How interesting, observed the other. And the association counts for so much, you see. The townspeopleour friendsgave it to us when we left Pinto Plains; a kind of testimonial it was, in the church. They said such beautiful things, Ill never forget it. Her voice was husky. Charming, murmured the young lady, wondering how such a pretty woman could be so plain. Marjorie asked to be given some idea of the price, but her enquiry was waved airily aside. Oh, dont bother about that, she was told. It will only be a matter of my workmans time an implication that translated itself to Mrs. Dilling in the terms of cents, but which to the young lady resolved itself into about fifteen dollars. Marjories thanks were cut short by the entrance of two Arresting Personalities. One of them was Lady Fanshawe, the wife of a retired lumber magnate, and the otherMrs. Blaineassisted her husband to discharge his social duties as a Minister of the Crown. Well, well, cried Miss Brant, assuming her other manner, this _is_ a surprise! Im simply _thrilled_! Only yesterday, I was saying to Lady Elton that I hadnt seen you since the House opened. Im _dying_ to tell you all about my trip in England, and my _dear_, such things as Ive brought back! Thats one! She indicated a red lacquer table. Isnt it a perfect _dream_? And theres anotherno, nonot the mirror, the table! It was positively and absolutely taken from Bleakshire Castle where Disraeli used to visit, and there he sat to write some of his marvellous speeches! Isnt it _thrilling_? The ladies agreed that she had done very well, and moved about the apartment under the spur of her constant direction. Marjorie, feeling that she ought to go, but not knowing whether to slip away unnoticed or to shake hands and say goodbye, had just decided upon the former course, when Mrs. Pratt made a flamboyant entrance. Seeing the group at the farther end of the room, she bewildered Marjorie with a nod that was like a rap over the knuckles, and rustled self-consciously forward. Good morning, she cried, so graciously that Marjorie could scarcely recognise her voice. Cold, isnt it? Ive just come from market. It was simply perishing down thereperishing! She left an entire syllable out of this word, pronouncing it as though speaking the name of a famous American General, then continued, Im a perfect martyr when it comes to marketing! I cant overcome a sense of duty towards the _fermers_, who depend on us for encouragement and support; and when alls said and done, the only charty worth while is the kind that helps people to help themselves. Dont you agree with me, Lady Fanshawe? Lady Fanshawe supposed so, and turned to the examination of a Meissen bowl. Mrs. Blaine caught sight of an old French print on the far wall and appeared to lose interest in all else. Miss Brant discovered a blemish of some sort on the red lacquer table and bent anxiously over it, using the corner of her handkerchief in lieu of a duster. No one considered Marjorie at all. Each was engrossed in her part, playing a little scene in the successful _Comdie Malice_ which has been running without a break since June 8th, 1866, in the Capital. If Mrs. Pratt was conscious of any lack of cordiality in the attitude of the others, she gave no sign. Hers was an ebullient part. All she had to do was to gush over the people who snubbed her, and to inveigle them into her house (making sure that their visits were chronicled in the Press). Incidentally, she had to provide them with as much as they wished to drink, and more than they wished to eat, and to acquire the reputation for liberal spending when and where her extravagance would be noted and commented upon. Lady Fanshawe and Mrs. Blaine were cast in simpler parts. They had merely to preserve an air of well-bred disdain, merging now and again into restrained amazement. Miss Brant, on the other hand, had a very difficult role to play. Marjorie scarcely realised how difficult. It devolved upon her to take advantage of Mrs. Pratts effort to impress the others, to sell her the most expensive and unsaleable articles in the establishment, and, at the same time, to convey subtly to Lady Fanshawe and Mrs. Blaine, her contempt for this monied upstart. The conversation progressed in this vein: Mrs. Pratt.Now, _do_ help me pick up some odds and ends for my new home. Miss Brant.Oh, have you moved? Mrs. Pratt.Dear me, yes! Our old house was much too cramped for entertaining. Miss Brant (_Half confidentially to Lady Fanshawe_).Speaking of entertaining, shall I see you, by any chance, at the Country Club, to-morrow? Lady Fanshawe (_Distantly_).I am going to Mrs. Longs luncheon, if that is what you mean. Miss Brant (_Burbling_).Its _exactly_ what I mean! Im _so thrilled_ at being askedhumble little mewith all you impressive personages. Mrs. Long was the wife of the owner of The Chronicle and it was suspected that she found the columnsboth social and politicalof her husbands paper a convenient medium for the maintaining of discipline and the administration of justice. She was naturally held in very high esteem, and persons of astuteness made much of her. I never know whats going on, she was fond of saying, for I cant endure the sight of a newspaper. Its so much easier to blame than to read them, she said, paraphrasing Dr. Johnson. Notwithstanding her professed disinterestedness, however, the arm of coincidence seemed longer than usual when it was observed that the recently-distinguished Lady Elton, who had overlooked her when issuing invitations to a reception in honour of her husbands knighthood, appeared on the following day as Mrs. Elton. And, furthermore, that on the day succeeding this, her letter of protest, which was never intended for other than editorial eyes, was published under the heading Regrettable Error in ignoring a New Tittle! This was only one of many such incidents that entertained the subscribers and suggested that there might be a subtle influence behind the typographical errors which occurred in the composing room. Mrs. Pratts voice rolled like a relentless sea over that of the others, as she announced: Weve bought the Tillington place. Miss Brant.Oh, that charming old house! Tudor, isnt it? I used to go there as a child. They had some _wonderful_ things. I recall the bookcase especially, that stood opposite the bow-window in the library. Erersomething like that one, it was. And one knob was off the drawerI remember it distinctly. Mrs. Pratt (_examining the piece indicated_).I think Ill take this one. Miss Brant (_evidently much embarrassed_).Oh, _really_ nowI didnt mean to suggestthis is really _too_ dreadful! I assure you, I was only reminiscencing. Mrs. Pratt.Well, Ill take it. Its much more suitable than my old one. Do _you_ like it, Lady Fanshawe? Lady Fanshawe (_as though not having heard the question_).Delightful! Miss Brant.Well, youre awfully good, Im sure! Im really ever so glad youve got it. Its rather a good thing, you knowonly, I dont want you to think . . . However, if you change your mind after you get it home, of course, Ill take it back. I mean, you _may_ find it out of tune with your oldereryour _own_ things. Mrs. Pratt.What would you suggest in the way of a chair, and a table, perhaps? Miss Brant (_tearing herself from a whispered pon on the subject of Mrs. Blaines hat_).Well, of course, if you want something good, thats rather nice! A little heavy for the modern home, but _the_ thing for the Tillington library. And theres rather a decent chairsee, Lady Fanshawe? Isnt that cross-stitch adorable?that harmonises perfectly with the other two pieces. I dont deny that it would be a bit stiff for the tired business man to sit in, but for the person who can _afford_ to have a well-balanced room . . . Mrs. Pratt (_promptly_).Ill take the chair! Quietly, Marjorie left the room, and as the door closed behind her, Mrs. Pratt was saying in an attempt at playful graciousness. A hundred and seventy-five? Vurry reasonable! And its such a satisfaction to get the best! I hope, Lady Fanshawe, and you, too, Mrs. Blaine, that youll drop in on Tuesday afternoon for a cuppa-tea, and tell me how you like my new home! CHAPTER 2. The Dillings had come to Ottawa joyously, eager to accept its invitation and to become identified with its interests. They were less flattered by the call than elated by it. Neither of them expected merely to skim the pleasures offered by life in the Capital; they were acutely alive to their responsibilities, and were ready to assume them. They hoped to gain something from the great city, it is true, but equally did they long to give. Everyone who was privileged to live in Ottawa must, they imagined, have something of value to contribute to their country, and the Dillings welcomed the opportunity to serve rather than be served. But when Marjorie thought of Pinto Plains, of its gay simplicity and warm friendliness, the three months that marked her absence from it, stretched themselves out like years. On the other hand, when she considered how little progress she had made in adapting herself to the formal ways of the Capital, they shrunk into so many days; hours, indeed. So far as happy transplanting was concerned, she might even now be stepping off the train, a stranger. Raymond Dilling, a country schoolmaster still in his thirties, had strong predilections towards politics, and saw in this move a coveted opportunity for the furtherance of his ambitions. Yet the idealist who shared his mortal envelope believed with Spencer: None can be happy until all are happy; none can be free until all are free, and he fought sternly to crush a budding and dangerous individualism. With a little less ambition and response to the altruistic urgepublic servicehe would have remained a country schoolmaster to the end of his days. As it was, he heard the evocation of Destiny for higher things, read law as an avenue to what seemed to him the primrose path of politics, and grasped the hand of opportunity before it was definitely thrust towards him. He lived in the West during its most provocative periodprovocative, that is, for a man of imaginationbut he never caught the true spirit of the land, he never felt his soul respond to the lure of its fecundity, its spaciousness, its poignant beauty. The sun always set for him behind the grain elevators, and it never occurred to him to lift his eyes to the eternal hills . . . Dilling was scarcely conscious of his soul. Had he been, he would have set about supplying it with what he conceived to be its requirements. Of his mind, on the other hand, he was acutely aware, and he fed it freely on Shakespeare, Milton, and the King James Bible, copies of which were always to be found on the parlour table save between the hours of six and seven in the morning, when he held them in his abnormally long, thin hands. By following the example of those two great figures, Daniel Webster and Rufus Choate, Dilling hoped to acquire a similarly spacious vocabulary and oratorical persuasiveness. He was a bit of a dreamer, too, believing in Party as the expression of the British theory of Government. He was simply dazed when he heard the ante-bellum ideas of group government, the talk of Economic Democracy and the Gospel of the I.W.W., which was merely Prudhons epigram_La Proprit cest vol_, writ large. He had secured nomination for Parliament through the finesse of the Hon. Godfrey Gough, who recognised his dialectical supremacy over that of any other man in the West. Gough was the _me damne_ of the vested interests, and so clever was his advocacy that it captivated Dilling into whole-hearted support of their political stratagems, and made it easy for him to bring them into alignment with his conscience. But he did so without hope of pecuniary reward. He was honest. During his entire career, he held temptation by the throat, as it were, determined that no selfish advantage or gain should deflect him from unremitting endeavour for the Nations good. No parliamentary success attained, nor honours received, should be less than a meed for a faithful adherence to high principles. He had never talked much with politicians, but he had been talked to by them. On these occasions, it was not apparent to him that they were striving to maintain politics on its lowest plane, rather than to achieve the ideal commonwealth that is supposed to be the end and aim of their profession. He read into their speeches and conversations the doctrine with which he, himself, was impregnated, and the thought of working side by side with these men, aroused in him an emotion akin to consecration . . . For years Marjorie had pictured Ottawa much as she had pictured BagdadThe City of Mystery and a Thousand Delightsa place of gracious boulevards and noble architecture, where highly intelligent people occupied themselves with the performance of inspired tasks. And she thought of it as the Heart of the Great Dominion, as necessary to the national body as the human heart is essential to the physical body, transmitting the tide of national life to the very finger-tips of civilisation. And often, down in the secret places of her self, she had even a more solemn thoughtthat Ottawa was the Chalice of a Nations Hopes, and that merely to look upon it would produce an effect like that of entering some Holy Temple. Sin and sadness would disappear, and even the most degenerate must be led there to spiritual refreshment and transfiguration. Nor did she stand alone; most of her friends were of the same opinion. They linked themselves to the Capital as closely as they were able, and informed themselves minutely concerning its activities, by careful study of the daily press. They read the Parliamentary news firstthis was a sacred duty; they wrote papers on politicians and politics for their clubs, and spoke with a certain reverent intimacy of the People in the Public Eye. But most of all they enjoyed the social notes, the description of the gowns, and the tidbits of gossip that crept into the columns of their papers! Even the accidents, the obscure births and deaths that occurred in Ottawa, were invested with a stupendous importance in their eyes. To them, it was The Land of Afternoon. And now, as she sat in her tiny drawing-room, denuded of its handsome what-not, and waiting for possible callers, Marjorie tried to stifle a sense of depression, a conviction that all was not right with the world. She reproached herself for this attitude of mind, trying to remove the trouble without searching for its origin or cause. The house was very still. The children were outside, playing. Her thoughts were filled with Pinto Plains and longing for her friends there. She could almost guess what they were doing, especially Genevieve Woodside, whose turn it would be, to-day, to entertain the Ladies Missionary Circle. A mist filled her eyes, and before she could control herself, she was sobbing. Ive just got to put an end to this nonsense, she scolded herself. Theyd be ashamed of me, at home. Im ashamed of myself, big baby! Whatever would Raymond say? I really am _very happy_. This is a _nice_ little house, and the people _are_ kind! A person couldnt expect to feel perfectly at home, even in Pinto Plains, all at once. They simply couldntand to think we are really living in Ottawa! Why, its too wonderful to be true! The door-bell rang. With a nervous glance at the tea table, covered with the handsome white cloth embroidered in pink roses and edged with home-made lace that had been such a work of love for her trousseau, Marjorie went into the tiny hall and opened the door. Is Mrs. Dilling at home? asked a frail, little person, in purple velvet and ermine. Im Mrs. Dilling, and Im ever so glad to see you. Wont you come in, please? Lady Denby, murmured the other, stepping daintily past her. Marjorie closed the door, feeling very small and very frightened. This was the wife of the great Sir Eric Denby, the most perdurable public figure of our time. The soundest of sound statesmen, he stood, to Raymond Dilling, just a shade lower than God, Himself. And the Dillings were profoundly religious people. Wont you take off your things? she asked, timidly, and upon receiving a refusal, tinctured with a suggestion of reproach, excused herself and went into the kitchen to make tea. When she returned, Lady Denby and Althea were staring unsympathetically at one another across the table. Why, darling, Marjorie exclaimed, setting down the teapot, and forgetting her social obligations in the pride of motherhood, I didnt hear you come in. Dear, dear, what a very untidy little girl, with her tam all crooked and her ribbon untied! This is Althea, Lady Denby. Youve no idea how helpful she can beGo and shake hands, precious! Althea was obedient on this occasion. She marched round the table and offered a grimy, wet mittenthe left onefrom which the visitor shrank with a movement of alarm. How do you do? said Lady Denby, discovering, after an embarrassing search, a spot upon the shoulder, dry enough, and clean enough, to be touched by her white-gloved hand. Having a good time, darling? asked Marjorie, glowing with joy in the childs loveliness. Not playing too rough a game? Cream, but no sugar, said Lady Denby, significantly. For a few awkward moments, Marjorie gave herself up entirely to the duties of hostess, then turned again to her daughter. Where is Sylvester, and Baby? Are they all right, my pet? Althea nodded. Babys all covered with snow, she explained. Bessers playing shes a egg and hes a hen, and hes sitting on her! Oh, mercy! exclaimed Marjorie. What a naughty boy! Bring them both home at once, Altheahell hurt Baby. Quick, now! Althea rushed off, leaving the front door open. Marjorie excused herself to close it. She was surprised that Lady Denby exhibited neither amusement nor concern in the family affairs. Indeed, she wondered if deafness might not account for her curious austerity of manner. Old Mrs. Kettlewell, at home, was like that, but everybody knew it was because she couldnt hear half of what was going on. Do let me give you some more tea, she urged, her voice slightly raised. Anxiety distracted her. She scarcely knew what she was doing. Suppose the baby should be smothered in the snow? Suppose the children couldnt dig her out? She felt that she should go to the door, at least, to make sure that Althea was successful in her mission. But something in Lady Denbys manner prevented her. She couldnt explain it, yet she simply couldnt find an excuse to leave the room. Her hands fluttered nervously over the table and her eyes haunted the door. Cream, and no sugar, I think you said, Mrs.erer _Lady Denby_, corrected the other, with gentle reproof. Apologies. Increased nervousness. Desperate effort at self-control. Where could they be, those children of hers? Sipping tea like this, when anything might be happening out there in the snow! It was cruel, cruel! How many children have you? The calm voice trickled over her consciousness like a stream of ice-cold water. Three, she answered, hurriedly. Altheas five, and Sylvesters nearly fourBesser, we call him, you knowand Baby, her name is really Eulalie, is two and a half and simply huge for her age. Have you any children? No, said Lady Denby, implying by her tone that the propagation of the species was, in her opinion, a degraded and vulgar performance. Marjorie tried other topics; church work, conundrums, Sir Erics health and gastronomic peculiarities. She offered her favourite recipes, and patterns for crocheted lace, interrupted, thank Heaven, by the entrance of the snow-covered children and the consequent confusion that they caused. In her domestic activities she was perfectly at ease, hanging damp garments on radiators to dry, wiping tear stains from ruddy cheeks, and even arranging a juvenile tea-party in a corner of the room. She chattered happily all the while, never for a moment realising that in the Upper Social Circles, the last task in the world a woman should undertake cheerfully is the care of her children; that even allowing them to stay in the same room and breathe the rarified air with which the exalted adults have finished, is a confession of eccentricity, if not _bourgeoisisme_. She had no ideas that there were mothers, outside of booksor possibly New Yorkwho not only considered their children a nuisance, but were ashamed to be surprised in any act of maternal solicitude. Had Ottawa been Pinto Plains, and Lady Denby one of her neighbours there, she would have been helping to change the childrens clothing, then she would have joined the juvenile tea-party, and later, would have heard Althea count up to twenty, prompted Baby to recite Hickory, Dickory, Dock, and would have played Pease Porridge Hot, with Sylvester until her palms smarted painfully. As it was, Lady Denby did none of these things. She sipped tea and nibbled toast as though vast distances separated her from the rest of them, distances that she had no wish to bridge. Marjorie came to the conclusion that she was not only deaf, but suffering the frailties of extreme age, her contradictory appearance notwithstanding. In this kindly way did she account for her guests indifference. That her visitor was a great and powerful lady, Marjorie well knew, but she had no idea that it was necessary for the great and powerful to assume this manner, as a means whereby they might display their superiority. According to her simple philosophy, the more exalted the person, the readier the graciousness. For what was greatness but goodness, and what was goodness but love of humanity? Was not Queen Victoria sociability itself, when she visited the humbler subjects of her Kingdom? Other callers came; Mrs. Gullep, whose mission it was to visit newcomers to the church; Mrs. Haynes, whose husband was also a Member from the West, and two or three of the neighbours, with whose children Marjories children played. She had a somewhat confused recollection of the late afternoon, but certain features of Lady Denbys conversation recurred with disturbing vividness. She was amazed to learn that opening her own door was, in future, quite out of the question. If she could not, or would not, engage the permanent services of a domestic, she must, at least, have someone on Wednesday afternoons to admit her callers. Furthermore, she must be relievedrelieved was Lady Denbys wordof all bother(also Lady Denbys) with the children. They will stand between you and the possibility of making friends of the right sort, she warned, a viewpoint which was in direct opposition to the theory Marjorie had always held. At least once a week, social duties demand your undivided attention. Again, without in the least having said so, Lady Denby managed to convey the fact that she considered Marjorie a very pretty woman, and that it would be wise, in view of her husbands position, to make the most of her good looks. In the Capital, she observed, much weight attached to ones appearance, and Marjorie would find herself repaid for dressing a little moreanother interesting word of Lady Denbysdefinitely. The word was puzzling. Marjorie made all her own and the childrens clothes, her husbands shirts, his pyjamas and summer underwear, and she was humbly proud of her accomplishment. She had no doubt as to her ability to make more definite clothes, could she but understand exactly what Lady Denby meant. There wasnt anything very striking in a purple velvet suit, even though it had a collar and cuffs of ermine. Besides, Marjorie couldnt wear purple velvet, it was too elderly. Her own crepe-de-chine blouse was a definite pink. There could be no possibility of mistaking it for green or blue. She had embroidered it profusely in a black poppy design (copied from a pattern in the needlework section of a fashion magazine) to harmonise with her black velveteen skirt, the flaps of which were faced with pink crepe-de-chine to harmonise with the blouse. Feminine Pinto Plains, calling singly and in groups to inspect her trousseau, agreed that it was more than a costumeit was a creationand they prophesied that it would dazzle Ottawa. So rich looking, they said, with all that hand-work! Pinto Plains set a great deal of store by hand-work. With your lovely colour, Marjorie, in that bright pink youll be charming! And yet Lady Denby thought that she should have more definite clothes! Then there was another thingand on this point Lady Denby spoke with greater lucidity. I am sure you will find it convenient, my dear, she had said, in a whispered colloquy that took place in the hall, to know some young girl who would be flattered by your patronage, and gratified to be of service to you. There are so many things the right sort of person could dopour tea, and have a general eye to the arrangements when you receive; give you valuable hints as to the connections you should, or should not, form; advise you as to tradesmen, and a dozen other minor matters that must, for a stranger, be exceedingly confusing. It is quite the thing to encourage such an association in the Capital, and I might add that it lends an air of _empressement_ to Members of the Party. One must always consider the Party, my dear. Lady Denby saw no difficulty in the fact that Marjorie knew of no such person. Leave it to me, she said, with an air of brilliant finality, I have just such a girl in mind. Not pretty enough to be attractive, and too clever to be popular; so her time is pretty much her own. She would welcome the opportunity, I know, of shining in your reflected glory. Ill send her to you. Her name is Azalea Deane. And remember always, in your associations, to maintain the dignity that is due to your husbands position. I would almost go so far as to say that indiscriminate intimacies should be discouraged; they are so apt to be embarrassingin politics, you know . . . Without exactly forming the words, her lips seemed to pronounce Mrs. Gulleps name. Very estimable people, I am sure, the very vertebr of Church Societies, but in a small _mnage_ like this, my dear, you must not waste your chairs! Marjorie lay awake that night reviewing the events of the day. Some cog in the well-ordered machinery of her existence had slipped out of place, and was causing unaccustomed friction. She didnt know what was the matter. Neither analytical nor introspective, she never got down to fundamentals, and the results that showed on the surface were apt to bewilder her. Consequently, she refused to admit disappointment with her surroundings, and did not even remotely suspect that she was experiencing the first, faint stirrings of disillusionment. She was a little depressed, that she admitted, but the fault was hers; of that she was thoroughly convinced, not only at the moment but throughout the months and years that stretched ahead. Always she blamed herself for failing to attain the state of mental and spiritual growth that would enable her to fit comfortably into her environment. Of course, she couldnt put all this into words. She never could make her feelings clear to other peoplenot even to Raymond. So, when, somewhat impatient at her restlessness, he asked what was the matter, she answered, with a little sigh. Oh, nothing, dearie . . . nothing thats awfully important, I ought to say. OnlyonlyI sometimes wonder . . . do _you_ ever feel that Ottawas a difficult place to get acquainted? CHAPTER 3. Dilling adapted himself to his new environment much more readily than did his wife. He had not anticipated that the House of Commons would be a glorified Municipal Council such as he had left in Pinto Plains, and that his associations and activities would be virtually the same save on a magnificent scale; whereas Marjorie had deluded herselfsubconsciously, it may bewith the thought that Ottawa would be an idealised prairie town, and that she would live a beatified extension of her old life, there. Differences in customs, in social and moral codes, ever remained for her a hopeless enigma, just as Euclids problems evade solution for some people. She never could master them because she never could understand them. Black was black and white was white, and neither sunshine nor shadow could convert either into gray. No leopard ever possessed more changeless spots. While, therefore, her husband was joyously engrossed in his work, finding novelty and stimulation in every smallest detail, remodelling himself to fit the mantle he had been called upon to adorn, Marjorie was confronted with unexpected obstacles, bewildered by inexplicable ways, homesick for familiar standards and people, and groping for something stable to which she could cling and upon which she could build her present life. Of the nature of Dillings work, she had but the sketchiest idea. His conversation was becoming almost unintelligible to her, try as she would to follow it. When, in the old days, they sat at the table or drew their chairs around the fire, and he told her of Jimmy Woodsides stupidity or Elvira Mumfords high average, she could take a vital interest in his daily pursuits, but now, when he referred to Motions, and Amendments, and Divisions, she had no idea of what he was talking about. He was seldom at home, and upon those rare occasions he fortressed himself behind a palisade of Blue Books and Financial Returns. He abandoned himself to reading almost as a man abandons himself to physical debauch, and Marjorie, furtively watching him, could scarcely believe that the stranger occupying that frail, familiar shell was, in reality, her husband. There was about him a suggestion of emotional pleasure, an expression of ecstacy, as when a man gazes deep into his beloveds eyes. Ah, he would murmur, three thousand, six hundred and forty-two . . . annually! Seventy-nine thousand less than . . . well, well! His cheeks would flush, his breathing would thicken, his forehead would gleam with a crown of moisture, and he would lose his temper shockingly if the children spoke to him or played noisily in the room. Long afterwards, a rural wag observed that Prohibition touched few persons less than Raymond Dilling, who could get drunk on Blue Books and Trade Journals, any day in the year! Marjorie got into the way of keeping the little ones shut up in the kitchen with her. The house was too small to allow Dilling the privacy of a library or study, and the three bedrooms were cold and cheerless. So he appropriated the tiny drawing-room and converted it into what seemed to her, a literary rubbish heap. Books, pamphlets, Hansards, and more books . . . she was nearly crazy with them! She had never been to the House of Commons save once, when Raymond took the entire family on a tour of inspection. She had never seen Parliament in Session, and had no idea that many of the women who accompanied their husbands to Ottawa, spent all the time they could spare from bridge, in the Gallery; not profiting by the progress of the Debates, but carrying on mimic battles amongst themselves. Here was the cockpit, from which arose the causes of bitter though bloodless conflictsconflicts which embroiled both the innocent and the guilty, and formed the base of continuous social warfare. However, on the afternoon that Dilling was expected to deliver his maiden speech, she found her way to the Ladies Gallery with the aid of a courteous official, and ingenuously presented her card of admission. Without appearing to glance at it, the doorkeeper grasped the information it bore. This way, please, Mrs. Dilling, he said, with just the proper shade of cordiality tempering his authority. Heres a seatin the second row. They are just clearing the Orders for your husbands speech, he added, in an officious whisper. Marjorie sank unobtrusively into the place he indicated and thanked him. She wondered how he knew her name, not realising that he had held his position for forty years by the exercise of that very faculty which so amazed her. It was his duty to know not only all those who sought an entrance through the particular portal that he guarded, but also to know where to place them. Should he fail to recognise an applicant, he never betrayed himself. She was presently to learn that as her husband progressed nearer the front benches downstairs, she would be advanced to the front, upstairs. Her first sensationcould she have singled one out of the medley that overwhelmed herwas not of exaltation at having entered into the sanctuary of the Canadian Temple of Politics, and being in a position to look down upon one of the clumsiest and most complex institutions that ever failed to maintain the delusion of democracy, but of the immensity of the place. The Green Chamber was at least four times as large as the Arena in Pinto Plains! Its sombreness discomfited her. Although she had read descriptions of the Commons, she never visualised the dullness of the green with which it was carpeted and upholstered; she had rather taken clusters of glittering candelabra for granted; indeed, it would not have surprised her to find golden festoons catching dust from the whirlwind of oratory which rose from the floor beneath. The unregality of the place made her want to cry. She felt like a child standing before a fairy king without his crown. Directly opposite her sat the Speaker on his Thronethe chair which the late King Edward had used when visiting the Colonies in 1860. Above the Speaker, in a shallow gallery suspended below that reserved for the Proletariat, several men were languidly trailing their pencils across the stationery provided them by the generous taxpayers of the country. These were the scribes of the Press, profundite scriveners, whose golden words she had absorbed so often in her far-away prairie home. On the floor of the House, at a long table in front of the Speaker, sat the Clerk. At the other end of the table lay the Mace, the massive bauble that aroused Oliver Cromwells choler, and which symbolises, by its position, the functioning of the House. In splendid isolation sat the Sergeant-at-Arms, an incumbent of the office for forty-three years, during which time, it is said, he never changed the colour of his overcoat, or his dog. On the Speakers left sat His Majestys loyal Opposition, led by that illustrious tribune of the people, the Right Honourable Sir Wilfrid Laurier. Facing him, across the table, was the Right Honourable Sir Robert Borden and the Members of his Cabinet, prominent among whom was Sir Eric Denby, who dreamed of a Saharan drought for Canada, and affirmed his stand on the Temperance question with the zeal of a Hebrew prophet. Then, as a counterpoise to Sir Eric, there was the Honourable Godfrey Gough, who sought to mould a policy for his Party that would have made Machiavelli blush! These were the notables; the rest were a jumble of tailenders. Marjorie could not locate her husband, immediately, but after a little she recognised the top of his head. He was sitting in a dim corner, in the very last row under the Gallery that was devoted to the accommodation of the ruck of our splendid democracy. Then, before she was quite prepared for it, she saw him rise to his feet. Her eyes filled with tears of terror, and for a moment he seemed to stand alonelike a splendid column, islanded in a rolling sea. Marjorie could not resist the impulse to inform the impassive lady sitting beside her, that the speaker was her husband. The lady looked surprised at being addressed. Indeed? she replied, and her eyebrows added, Well, what of it? Marjorie kept her hand pressed tightly over her heart. It thumped so heavily, she could scarcely hear what Raymond was saying. If he should forget his speech! If he should fail! Gradually, the blur before her cleared, and she saw that he was standing quite at ease, one hand resting on his hipa favourite and familiar attitudeand the other negligently grasping the back of his chair. His flat voice, carrying well for all its lack of resonancy, was perfectly steady, and his words were unhurried, clear; in fine, she realised that Raymond had no dread of what to her, was a scarifying experience, and, unimaginative though she was, there was borne upon her a strange, new consciousness of her husbands power. For the formal test of his ability to command the attention of the House, he had seized upon the Motion of a Representative from the West, calling upon the Government to adopt a vigourous policy in the construction of grain elevators and facilities for the transportation of wheatCanadas prime commodity in the markets of the world. . . . As I stand here, enveloped by the traditions of the past, she heard him say, listening to the echoes in this Chamber of the noble words and sound policies that have builded this great structure that is our Country, I am awed by the privilege that has come to me of taking a part, however small, in directing the national welfare of this Dominion. I seek not at this moment, Mr. Speaker, merely the glory of the Party to which I have the honour to belong, but I am ambitious to maintain a principle, to be worthy of the men who fashioned a nation out of chaos, out of a wilderness of local and parochial interests. I shall strive to be the force for good that such men would wish to see in every member in this legislative body to-day . . . Although he had known that Marjorie would be in the Gallery that afternoon, it was typical of Dilling to ignore the fact. Small acts of pretty gallantry were utterly foreign to his nature. He could no more have raised a womans glove to his lips before returning it to her, than he could have manicured his fingernails. To himself he termed such graces _la-di-da_, by which he probably meant foppish. If his personal vanity revealed itself in any one direction it was that he might appear superlatively masculineeven to the verge of brutality. . . . The cause I plead, he continued, is that which must appeal to every thinking man, to-day. I plead an economical policy for the guarding of our grain . . . . . . Wheat! she heard him say. The West is crying for elevators, and for freighting facilities in order that she may distribute her vast resources. The East is crying for food. The world needs wheat. _Wheat!_ The very word rings with a strange magic, flares with a golden gleam of prosperity. His eyes were fixed on his Chiefs profile, save when they leaped across the aisle to the White Plume of the grand Old Man who bent over his desk and scribbled with a slender yellow pencil, apparently quite oblivious to Dillings existence. Marjorie saw him through brimming eyes. She did not know that in the corridor men were saying, Come on in! Dillings got the floor. Hes talking a good deal of rhetorical rotas must be expected from an amateurbut the making of an orator is there. . . Come on in! She was too nervous to notice that the empty benches which comprise the flattering audience usually accorded to a new speaker, were rapidly filling, that Members who discovered some trifling business to keep them in the Chamber, had stopped sorting the collection of visiting cards, forgotten appointments, and notes with which their pockets were stuffed. Laryngitical gentlemen forbore to snap their fingers at the bob-tailed pages for glasses of waterin short, Raymond was making an impression. He was receiving the attention of the House. His concluding words were, I have come amongst you, a stranger, unversed in the ways of this great assembly of a young, ardent and democratic peopleof members whose experience has been so much richer than my own. I trust that none of youeven those whose views may be at variance with minewill have cause to resent my coming. I realise that a profound responsibility devolves upon each and every one of us who steps across the threshold of this Chamber, and that although our creeds may be translated differently, their actuating principles are identical. I know, Mr. Speaker, that life lies in the struggle, that workand not its wagebrings us joy. The game is the important thing, not the score. To gain the peak of the mountain is the climbers ambition. If he be a true man, a man who rejoices in service for others, he has no wish to possess the summit. To serve the Empire at the cost of ease and leisure, to expend ones strength in the solving of her myriad problems, is the sum total of an honest mans desire. I submit that it is possible to spread peace and plenty throughout our Dominion. The Government has but to build treasure-houses for the grain, and lend assistance in the way of subsidies for transportation. A hungry people make poor citizens, and will inevitably bring desolation to any land, for, as Ruskin has said, There is no wealth but life, and that nation is the richest that breeds the greatest number of noble and happy homes and beings. His speech was short and admirably delivered. It hit the temper of the House, and Dilling sat down amid a storm of applause. Through a mist of tears Marjorie noted that Sir Robert was bending over her husband with an air that was more than perfunctorily gracious. Several other men also left their desks and offered him congratulations. She felt a little faint with pride and the reaction of it all. A real triumph, said the voice of the lady sitting next to her, suddenly. Your husbands quite a speaker, isnt he? and Marjorie was too grateful for these words of friendliness to sense that the lady (who was Mrs. Bedford, wife of the Whip of the Liberal Party) would have been much more gratified had Raymond Dilling made of his speech a bleak failure. CHAPTER 4. The Hon. Member for Morroway did not wait for the adjournment of the afternoon Session. With a gesture that the thirsty never fail to recognise, he signalled two colleagues who occupied adjacent benches, and led the way from the Green Chamber. The Hon. Member was more than a little piqued at Marjorie Dillings insensibility to his persistent Gallery-gazing. It was almost unprecedented in his experience that a young woman should find the sparsely-covered crown of her husbands head more magnetic an objective than his own luxuriant growth of silver hair. Looked at from above, the leonine mane of Mr. Rufus Sullivan was in the midst of such hirsute barrenness, as conspicuous as a spot of moonlight on a drab, gray wall. The Hon. Member for Morroway disliked many things: work, religion, temperance, ugly women, clever men, home cooking, cotton stockings, and male stenographers, to mention only a few. But more than any of these, he disliked being ignored by a girl upon whom he had focussed his attention. Such occasions (happily rare!) always induced extreme warmth that was like a scorching rash upon Mr. Sullivans sensitive soul, and this, in turn, promoted an intense dryness of the throat. Mr. Sullivan disliked being dry. So, with admirable directness of movement, he led the way to his room, unlocked a drawer marked Unfinished Business, and set a bottle upon the desk at the same time waving hospitality towards his two companions. For a space the silence was broken only by the ring of glass upon glass and the cooling hiss of a syphon. Then, three voices pronounced, Heres how! and there followed an appreciative click of the tongue and a slight gurgling. Ah . . . breathed the trio. The Hon. Member for Morroway closed one limpid brown eye and examined his glass against the light. Although an incomparable picture stood framed in the small Gothic window of his room, it did not occur to Mr. Sullivan to look at the distant Laurentians slipping into the purple haze of evening, to feast his soul upon the glory of soft river tones and forest shades; to note the slender spire of silver that glowed like a long-drawn-out star on a back-drop of pastel sky. Mr. Sullivan was concerned only with the amber fluid in his glass, where tiny bubbles climbed hurriedly to the surface and clung to the sides of the tumbler. If he looked out of the window at all, it was to investigate the possible charms of unattached maidens who strolled towards Nepean Point ostentatiously enjoying the view. Sometimes, Mr. Sullivan found the outlook enchanting, himself. This was when he was stimulated by the enthusiasm of a pretty girl who invariably remarked that it was a sin to spoil the river shore with those hideous mills, and poison good air with the reek of sulphite. Mr. Sullivan vehemently agreed, for he called himself an ardent Nature-lover, unwilling to admit that Nature, for him, was always feminine and young. Not much doubt as to the direction the wind blows from Pinto Plains, he observed, still intent upon his glass. Not a shadow, agreed Howarth, sombrely. Eastlake and Donahue have certainly got that lad buffaloed to a standstill. Railroaded, you mean, amended Turner, essaying a wan jest. I wonder what his price was. He drained his glass, set it on the table with a thud, and cried, I never saw their equalthat pair! Time after time, weve thought they were down and out. Their subsidies were discounted, banks closed down on em, credit was exhaustedyou remember the contractors weve fixed so that they wouldnt operate?even their own supporters got weak in the knees . . . and they manage to find some inspired spell-binder, who pours the floods of his forensic eloquence on the sterile territory, so that first thing we know, a stream of currency begins to trickle from the banks, subsidies are renewed . . . God! how do they pull it off, boys? In a case like this, where do they get the cash to pay Dilling, and what do they promise him? Whats his price, Im asking you, eh? Rufus Sullivan, feeling that two pairs of eyes were upon him, spoke. Do you know, he said, slowly, it wouldnt surprise me much to learn that young Dilling hasnt been bought at all, that he gave himself to the cause, and that all of that grandiose bunk he talked was truth to him? Good God! breathed Howarth, and gulped loudly. S a fact! I listened hard all the time he talked, and I watched him some, and it struck me he wasnt speaking a part he had learned at the Companys dictation, nor for a price . . . which means, interrupted Turner, that hes another of those damned nuisances with principles, and ideas about making politics clean and uplifting for the man in the street. Worse than that, corrected Howarth. It means that hell be a damsite harder to handle, and more expensive to buy than a fellow who has no definite convictions and finds mere money acceptable. Thats right! Sullivan set down his empty glass and spread his elbows on the desk, facing them. I dont anticipate that Dilling will be any bargain, but, he thundered, weve got to have him. Fortunately, we can rely upon the incontrovertible fact that like every other man, he _has_ a price. Its up to us to find out what it is! But, damn it all, Sullivan, cried Howarth, Im sick of paying prices! Surely we can find some means of muzzling this altruistic western stripling. Nothing simpler, returned the older man, with heavy sarcasm. Weve only got to go to the country, defeat the Government, assassinate Eastlake and Donahue, deport Gough as an undesirable . . . Godfrey happens to be backing Dilling in his constituency dont you forget . . . What? asked Turner. What for? from Howarth. Sullivan spread out his large, fat hands. For some dark purpose of his own that is yet to be revealed . . . and then, we must squash the vested interests. Suppose you take on this trifling job, Bill. Im going to be busy this evening. Just the same, cut in Turner, I think Billys right. He ought to be intimidatedDilling, of course, I meannot bought. These Young Lochinvars ought not to be allowed to think they can run the country. Buying or intimidating, its much the same thing in the end, said Sullivan. Youve got to find a price or a weapon. He corked the bottle, locked it away and strolled across the office to examine his features in a heavy gilt mirror that hung on the wall. Did either of you remark Mrs. Dilling? he enquired, attacking his mass of hair with a small pocket comb. Mrs. Dilling? echoed the others. Why not? She sat in the Gallery all afternoon. How did you know her? demanded Howarth. Why, I saw her come in, and noting that she was a stranger and extremely pretty, suggested Turner, you took the trouble to find out. Well, she is pretty, said the Member for Morroway, reflectively. A fair, childish face, like a wild, unplucked prairie flower. Humph, observed Turner, exchanging a significant look with Howarth behind his hosts back. Beauty is an amazingly compelling force, Sullivan continued, sententiously. I have a theoryshared by very few people, it is true, but convincing to me, neverthelessthat Beauty wields a more powerful influence than Fear. What do you think? Never thought about it at all, confessed Howarth, bluntly. But what has all this to do with Dillings price? Oh, nothing, my dear fellow, said Sullivan, airily, nothing at all! I was merely indulging in a moments reflection, inspired, as it were, by Mrs. Dillings loveliness. You must meet her . . . We must see to it that Ottawa treats her with cordiality and friendliness. Do you know her, yourself . . . already? asked Turner. Erno. I have not been through the formality of an introduction, but I know her sufficiently well to wager that she is the sort of little woman who responds to the sympathetic word; who is lonely, and searching for warmth rather than grandeur in her associations and who can be relied upon to work for her husbands advancement . . . when that good time comes. A new light gleamed in the eyes of his two listeners. They gave up trying to think of ways in which the new Member might be intimidateddiscredited with his constituents or sponsors; and waited for the master mind to reveal itself. But Rufus Sullivan, M.P., was not the man to discuss half-formulated plans. He changed the subject adroitly, jotted down the Dillings address and excused himself on the plea that he was dining with the Pratts for the purpose of laying the foundations for a successful campaign. Theres an interesting type, he declared. Usefulmost useful! Pratt? cried Turner. Why, hes a jolly old ass, in my opinion! I mean Mrs. Pratt, of course, was Sullivans mild reproof. Dont you realise, my dear chap, that the women of our day are the chief factors in our Government? We are harking back to the piping times of the Merry Monarch. Oh, rot! contradicted Howarth, who was a married man. _Rgime du cotillon_ . . . petticoat Government, eh? Turner laughed. Both he and Sullivan had evaded the snares of feminine hunters. I dont know the lady, but take it that she, also, is easy on the eye. Sullivan shook his great white head. Mrs. Pratt, he explained, had not been born to adorn life, but to emphasise it. Nature, in her wisdom, had given to some women determination, and the callousness that must accompany it. Purposeful, said Mr. Sullivan, grimly purposeful, with about as much sensitiveness as you would find in a piece of rock crystal. Shes got her mind set on having Gus in Parliament, and if Queen Victoria and her attendant lion got off the pedestal outside there, they wouldnt be able to prevent her. She would repeal the B.N.A. Act if it stood in her way. A very useful woman, he repeated, and insinuated himself into his overcoat. Whats he up to? Howarth asked his companion as they bent their steps towards the restaurant and dinner. God knows! answered Turner. But theres a load taken off my mind by the knowledge that hes got something up his sleeve. And it wont be all laughter either, if I know him. Howarth paused in the corridor. His dulled conscience was trying to shake off its political opiate and prompt him to play the man in this thing, but its small voice was speedily hushed by the animated scene about him. Pages were scurrying around; Members, released from the tension of debate, were greeting each other noisily; the _omnium gatherum_ of the Galleries was debouching upon the Main lobby, so that the very air he breathed was vibrant with a _scherzo_ of human voices. I say, he cried, lets ask Dilling to feed with us. Under the intoxication of triumph, he may loosen up a bitbecome loquacious. You get a table. Ill get him! CHAPTER 5. It isnt the thing, my dear! Or, Its quite the thing, you know! The thing! THE THING! What on earth did it mean? Marjorie first heard the phrase on the lips of Lady Denby, and gradually she recognised it as a social influence that was as powerful as it was mysterious. It was one of the most elusive of her problems, for, while she understood vaguely, the significance of the term, she failed entirely to apply its principles to the exigencies of her new life. Besides, she said to herself, one discovers what _is_ the thing, only to find presently, that it isnt . . . or the other way round. There doesnt seem to be any fixed rule. It was hers to learn in the hard school of experience, that Ottawa in the twentieth century, was controlled by a social code quite as remorseless in its way as the tribal etiquette which governed the Algonquins when Champlain visited its site, three hundred years before. Wherever she went, the attitude of the people from Government House down to those who moved on the very periphery of its circle, was such as to repress and chill the frank and unquestioning impulse for friendliness that lent much charm to her character. She developed a curious sort of nervousnessan inner quaking, that disconcerted her, and made her feel unnatural. She became so fearful of offending people, that her manner was frequently described as obsequious. Now and then, she knew she was being criticised, but could not, for the life of her, fathom the reason. The Thing . . . of course, but what _was_ The Thing? She had tried to break the children of saying maam. Lady Denby told her it wasnt _the thing_. No nice people speak like that, Althea, darling, Marjorie declared. You should say, Yes, mother, or No, Lady Denby, or I dont know, Miss Deane,as the case may be, but please, darling, dont say maam! And yet to her astonishment, she heard Miss Leila Brant address no less a personage than the Lady of Government House in this ill-bred manner! This, maam, said she, is one of the forks used at the Carlyle table. Its really rather a good thing, and I was _thrilled_ at having picked it up. You have some very interesting bits, observed The Lady, graciously. Oh, _maam_! How can I ever thank you for those words, cried Miss Brant. Even the slightest breath of praise from you, meanswell, it means more than you can possibly realise. Maam . . . maam . . . Why, Marjorie could scarcely believe that she wasnt dreaming. She left the Ancient Chattellarium in a despondent frame of mind. Why, in Ottawa, must she appear so stupid? Why could she not make friends? Would she be humiliated forever, by the lifted eyebrow and the open reproof . . . It was not her nature, however, to be melancholy, so she thrust dark thoughts away and gave herself up to ingenuous excitement in anticipation of her first party at Rideau Hall. The Skating Parties held at Government House on Saturday afternoons during January and February were very much THE THING; in fact, geographically speaking, Rideau Hall was its very source, its essence, the spot from which it emanated and seeped into virtually every other residence in the Capital. Scarcely a person from a master plumber down, but felt and yielded to its malison. Owing to the intense and protracted cold, there was excellent ice as late as the middle of March, and Their Royal Highnesses extended the hospitality of the rink considerably beyond the date specified on the original invitations. Not that the majority of the people went to the Skating Parties to skate, or even to tobogganthe thoughtful alternative suggested on the large, square cardabout two inches below the Royal Coat of Arms. Sufficiently difficult were the performances already expected of themthe curvettings, gyrations and genuflexions demanded at the moment of their presentation to the Vice-Regal party. Sebaceous dowagers teetered dangerously in their endeavour to achieve a court curtsey, occasionally passing the centre of bouyancy and plunging headlong between the two pairs of august feet. A crowd larger than usual massed in the skating pavilion and fought politely for the mulled claret, tea, coffee, cake and sandwiches that were being served from long, narrow trestles. His Royal Highness, the Duke of Connaught, and the picturesque Princess Pat had come in from the open-air rink below, and without removing their skates, had led the way to the tea-room, whereupon several hundred people unleashed their appetites, sampled the various refreshments, and disposed of the vessels from which they had eaten on the floor, window-sills or chairs, if any, that had been vacated. In a corner, removed as far as possible from the disordered tea-tables sat three ladies, eating, drinking and conversing as though they were spectators at some bizarre entertainment. They stared with frank insolence about them, looking through many persons who came hopefully within their vicinage, and warning a few by the manner of their salutation that they must approach no nearer. They had been distinguished by receiving a welcome from the Duke and Duchess, who called each by name and hoped that their health was good. After this distinction, the ladies withdrew from the commonalty into their corner, exalted and envied. Who in the world _are_ all these people? asked Lady Elton. She spoke fretfully, with an edge of desperation on her voice. A stranger might have imagined that she was required by the statutes to learn the name and history of each member of the throng, and that she found the task inexpressibly irksome. Of course, such was not the case. It didnt matter whether she knew any of these people or notat least, it only mattered to the people themselves, many of whom would have been glad to be known by her or any other titled person. She asked the question because it was the thing _to_ ask at Government House, because it was one of those intellectual insipidities that have supplanted conversation and made it possible for a group of persons without visible qualifications, according to the standards of yesterday, to exchange an absence of ideas, and form themselves into a close corporation known as Society. Mrs. Chesley shook her head. Isnt it amazing? she breathed. Only a few years ago it was such a pleasure to come down hereone knew everybodyand now . . . Sessional people, I suppose? interrupted Miss de Latour, with just the faintest movement of her nose as though she was speaking of a drain-digger, or some other useful class of citizen who, by reason of necessity, moved in the effluvia occasioned by his work. Captain the Honourable Teddy Dodson approached at this moment to ask if the ladies were satisfactorily served. Do let me get you some more tea, he begged. Im afraid no ones looking after youthis awful mob, you know. He pushed a collection of discarded cups aside and seated himself on the edge of a chair, leaning forward with an air of flattering confidence. Cross your hearts and hope you may die, he whispered, and Ill tell you what we call these beastly tea fights. The trio playfully followed his instructions and encouraged him to reveal the limit of his naughtiness. We call them slum parties, confided the young Aide, and while the ladies shrieked their appreciation of his wicked wit, he clumped away on his expensive skates, balancing three cups quite cleverly as he elbowed a passage to the table. How do you suppose these people get invitations? Miss de Latour demanded, indignantly. Look at that woman over thereno, no, the one in the purple hat. Isnt that the awful Pratt creature whos pushing herself into everything? My husband, said Mrs. Chesley, calls her the Virginia Creeper. However, shell get on. They say shes been left a disgusting lot of money, and that her husbands going to run for Parliament. Thats no reason why she should be here, said the other. Are there no impregnable bulwarks left to protect Society? Why, Pamela, cried Mrs. Chesley, how clever of you to remember that! I read it, too, in Lady Dunstans Memoirs, but Ive no memoryI cant quote things . . . . . . as though they were your own! finished Lady Elton, and laughed at the neatness of her thrust. Miss de Latours question as to how people secured their invitations was merely an echo of her friends banality. There was no secret about the matter; no bribery or corruption. Anyonealmost anyonedesiring to be insulted by the Lady Eltons, Mrs. Chesleys, and Miss de Latours of Ottawa, or to be snubbed of their acquaintances, had only to proceed to the Main Entrance of Rideau Hall, pass beneath the new facadeso symbolic of fronts, both physical and architectural, that had suddenly been acquired all over the City in honour of the Royal Governor-Generaland there, in the white marble, red-carpeted hall, sign a huge register, under the eye of two supercilious, scarlet-coated flunkeys, who regarded each newcomer with all the antagonism of their class. This unique procedure was known as calling at Government House, and within a few days of the delightful and friendly visit, His Majestys Mails conveyed a large, rich-looking card to the door and one learned that Their Royal Highnessess had desired the A.D.C. in Waiting to invite Mr. and Mrs. Van Custard and the Misses Van Custard for Skating and Toboganning between the hours, etc., etc.. Thereupon, one wrote to rural relations or foreigners of one kind and another, and mentioned carelessly that one had been entertained at Government House. Theres Mrs. Long, announced Lady Elton. Whos the man? Oh, some newspaper person, I thinkan American, volunteered Miss de Latour. Obviously it was bad enough in her opinion to be any kind of a newspaper person, but to be an American newspaper person offered an affront to Society that was difficult to condone. Pamela de Latour was intensely proud of her fathers legendary patrician lineage, her capacity for avoiding friendships, and her mothers wealth. She was well aware of the fact that she was regarded as a person whom one should know. Hes not bad looking, murmured Lady Elton, charitably, and he must be rather worth while, Pam. Shes introducing him to everyone. Lets wander over and see what we can see. But Mrs. Long, watching them from the corner of her very alert brown eyes, and anticipating this move, beat a strategic retreat, and soon lost herself and her newspaper man in the dense crowd. Lady Elton, Mrs. Chesley and Miss de Latour looked significantly at one another as though to say, Ah-ha! What do you think of that? Something queer about this affair, if you ask me! An expression of their thoughts was denied them, however, for the moment they left the shelter of their corner they were like the Romans advancing across the Danubea target for the surrounding barbarian hordes. Almost immediately they were attacked by the Angus-McCallums, two sisters with generous, florid cheeks and rotund figures, who, to quote Azalea Deane, seemed to lie fatly on the surface of every function, rather like cream on a pan of milk. Their grandfather was a Bytown pioneer whose first task, after complying with the formalities imposed upon all immigrants by the various government officials, had been to find a housea house, that is to say, requiring the services of a stone mason. Now Masonry, whether Free or Stone, has always offered signal advantages to those who labour in its interests, and the present case was no exception to the rule. Not only did prosperity attend the twilight years of old Thaddeus McCallum, but especial privileges descended to his progeny, the most conspicuous being the Freedom of Government House grounds which the Misses Angus-McCallum enjoyed. That is to say, the young ladies were at liberty to pass unchallenged within the sacrosanct limits of this estate, whenever whim or convenience dictated . . . an inconceivably rich reward for the excellence of the fine old mans chisel-drafting and hammer-dressing! They seemed, however, to lose sight of the patriotic service he had rendered to the nation, in an unremitting search for families on whom, without demeaning themselves, they could call. Who is . . ., dominated their every conscious thought. Ah, Effie, cried the elder sister, addressing Lady Elton, I thought you would be skating. For Heavens sake, hush! warned Lady Elton, severely. Werent you here last week to see me crash to the ice with H.R.H.? I dared not risk another such fall! But with the uncle of a King, murmured Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum, such an honour, my dear! Helena Chesley laughed. Thats not bad for you, Mabel. Its a pity Mrs. Long didnt overhear it, she said. Between her and the Angus-McCallums there existed an almost perceptible antagonism which was regarded variously as a source of amusement and uneasiness by their friends. Such traditional antipathy was not at all unusual, and marked the relation between many of the old families in the Capital. Before her marriage to the scholarly young man, whose nimble wit and charm of manner had won him a permanent place in the Vice-Regal entourage, Helena Chesley had been a Halstead, and the Halsteads had owned the estate upon which such discomfiting evidences of Thaddeus McCallums craftsmanship rose up to confound his descendants. Whether they imagined it or not, is difficult to state, but the Angus-McCallums always felt the condescension of the landed proprietor to the day labourer in Helena Chesleys cynical smile, while the latter resented the patronising air which the others assumed as a cloak for the inherited resentfulness of Industry towards Capital. Miss Mabel Angus-McCallums retort was cut short by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, who, metaphorically speaking, embraced the ladies as Crusoe might have taken Friday to his bosom. My dears, she breathed, Im so glad to find you! Did anyone ever see such a mob, and _such_ people? Who do you suppose brought me my tea? and without waiting for an answer to the question, she continued, That awful Lennox man! You remember, he used to be the stenographer in Sir Mortimer Fanshawes office! Did you drink it? asked Mrs. Chesley. Mrs. Hudsons social position was triumphant and secure. She could sit on the top rung of the steep and slippery ladder (if one finds an apt metaphor in so comfortless a recreation) and look down upon a mass of struggling, straining, pushing microcosms who clutched, and climbed, and slid and fell in an effort to reach the pinnacle she had attained; for just what reason or by what right, no one was prepared to explain. True, she was a frank snob, which was partially accountable. Also, she was wealthy, and entertained in a pleasantly formal manner that lent an air of importance to the least important sort of functions. Had breakfast been served in Mrs. Hudsons small but well-regulated _mnage_, indubitably it would have been announced with an impressive opening of double doors, and served by respectful, liveried attendants. Moreover, there would have been a correctly morning-coated gentleman for each lady of the party, for the express and especial purpose of offering her his arm and escorting her to the card-marked table! Nor was that all. There were those who called Mrs. Hudson a bug specialist, and attributed her social success to this interesting form of enthusiasm. Her entomological research was conducted with considerable originality and on lines that differed radically from the method of the late Dr. Gordon Hewitt, similarly called by a large group of affectionate and admiring associates. In Mrs. Hudsons case, bug specialising signified an ardent (and inconstant) pursuit of a fad, or a person, or a combination of both. Rarely did a stranger with any claim whatever to renown, escape from Ottawa without enjoying her hospitality, and it must not be forgotten that she frequently dragged absolute obscurities out of their gloom and played most happily with them for a time. Azalea Deane said that Mrs. Hudson was the most recent development of The Big Game Huntergame and bug being interchangeable, if not synonymous in her mind. The truth of the matter was, she made a serious study of the state of being termed Society. She attacked the problems and the methods of succeeding in it, with the same energy and concentrated purpose that a man gives to a great commercial enterprise. It was her business and she made it pay. Mob psychology and regimentation of thought were the fountains from which she derived her source of supply, and judicious investment added to her power. People often wondered how Mrs. Hudson had achieved social eminence when women with superior claims had failed. The answer lies just hereher life was spent in a conscious striving for it. Never a move, an invitation, an acceptance, a salutation on the street, was made without forethought. She made Society her tool. Most people are tools, themselves. Usually, Mrs. Hudson was described as a character, which meant that she was different from ordinary people. Her peculiaritiesand she wore them consciously, like a crownwere called odd; her vulgarities, original. She was clever enough to keep the fact that she _was_ clever from being realised, and many people were sorry for her! She had married a man several years her junior, and loved to confess that he was an answer to prayer! I saw him first at a concert, she was wont to remark, and the moment my eyes fell upon his dear, unsuspecting head, I said to myself, Thank God! I have found the man I intend to marry, and need look no further! I went home, and prayed for him, and I got him! What effect this disclosure may have had upon the spiritual trend of the community, what intensity of supplication or increase of attendance at the churches, there is, unfortunately, no means of estimating. It can scarcely have failed, however, to have exerted some marked influence upon the spinsters of the Capital, and many a married woman, I am told, bent a devout knee because of it, arguing hopefully, that if the Lord could give, He could also take away! Mrs. Hudson loved her husband with a sort of cantankerous affection that was like the rubbing of a brass bowl to make it shine. She was always prodding him, or polishing him, or smacking at him with her hands or her tongue. Marriage had robbed her of the joy of believing him a genius, but she was fond of him in her peculiar, rasping way. Is anyone else here? she enquired, wiping out the hundreds of people about her with a gesture. Mrs. Long, she was told, and a strange man. Ah-h-h! cried Mrs. Hudson. Speaking of Mrs. Long, have you heard . . . cant we sit down, my dears? They say, she continued, after the group had recaptured their corner, that her bridge winnings are simply fabulous; and that if she cant get money, shell take the very clothes off your back. Of course, youve heard what happened at the Country Club, the other afternoon? The group drew in closer, and Mrs. Hudson set forth on the most dangerous of all adventures, the telling of a half-truth. She invited Mrs. Knowles, Madam Valleau and little Eva Leeds to lunch, at which, my dears, _they say_, far too much Burgundy was served, (especially for Eva, who is not used to it) and afterwards, of course, they settled themselves at the bridge table. Im not saying that Eva is free from blame. Indeed, I have spoken to her most frankly on the subject, and she knows that I think her behaviour most culpable. Gambling amongst women who can afford it is bad enough, but that those who cant, should be given an opportunity to imperil their husbands meagre Civil Servants salary, is a crime that should be punishable by law. It might be done, too, murmured Lady Elton, who was an agitative member of the National Council. If we can prohibit the sale of liquor to a drunken man, I dont see why we cant restrict gambling to persons of a certain income. The sum which occurred to her was, of course, amply covered in her own case and that of her companions. But, go onwhat happened then? Well, Eva lost, and lost, and _lost_! But do you think that Hattie Long would stop playing? Not a bit of it! At lastthis really is too awful, my dears, youll never believe me The ladies had already foreseen this possibility, but like everyone else they liked the colourful romance of Mrs. Hudsons stories, so they urged her to continue. Very well, she agreed, but mind, not a breath of this must go any further! To make a long story short, when they stopped, Eva was so badly in the hole that she couldnt cover her loss by an I.O.U. for Tom Leeds _monthly cheque_! Horrible! whispered the group, genuinely shocked. What did she do? asked Lady Elton. It seems that a few days before, she had bought from Leila Brant an Empire table. How she buys these things, Ive no idea. The point is, that Hattie Long was crazy about that same table, too, and fully expected to have it. When she found Eva had got ahead of her she was simply wild, and offered almost double the pricecertainly more than the thing was worth. And Eva refused it? Im obliged to say she did. No one can admire her for doing so. I repeat, I dont think she has behaved properly, but the point is that she had the table Hattie Long wanted, and so, when she had been driven into this quagmire of debt from which she could not possibly extricate herself, Hattie, with devilish finesse, suggested that she should give up the table and call the matter settled. She didnt do it? She had to! Her I.O.U.s for . . . Mrs. Hudson had the grace to pause . . . such a sum were utterly valueless! So, bright and early the following morning there was a transfer at her door and now the table decorates Harriets reception room. At that instant the crowd parted, and before either faction could avoid an encounter, Mrs. Long and her newspaper man stood beside them. Elaborately amiable greetings were exchanged. Mr. Reginald Harper was introduced. Inured as they were to association with the owners of great names, there was not a member of the group who escaped a sudden palpitation upon meeting this world-famed monarch of newspaperdom. It was not easy to keep gratification out of their manner when acknowledging the introduction, but by tacit agreement they were obligated to flick Mrs. Long over his innocent head. Are you living in Ottawa, Mr. Carter? asked Lady Elton, deliberately mis-calling his name, but with a charming show of interest. Mr. Harper had only arrived the day previous, for a brief stay. The place is full of strangers, volunteered Miss de Latour. It scarcely seems like home, any more. Its the fault of the Government, declared Mrs. Hudson. New people are always getting in. I dont understand how they work it, but there you are. Are you connected with the Government? she asked the stranger, coyly. Mrs. Long flashed a sharp look at the questioner and answered for her guest. Only to the extent of financing our poor little country, she replied. Mr. Harper,she turned to him, archlyI suppose I may tell it? . . . Mr. Harper has just concluded a loan for a few paltry millions which a New York syndicate is advancing, so that the salaries of the Civil Service,her glance rested for a fraction of a second on the triowill be paid as usual. The elder Miss Angus-McCallum hurriedly changed the subject. How stunning you look, Hattie, she said. But then, youve a style of your own and can wear those inexpensive things. _I_ saw that costume in Hammersteins window, and thought it charming. Hammerstein was an obscure costumer of Semitic origin, who had recently benefited by one of his frequent fire-sales, and the implication that Mrs. Longs exclusive tailor-made had been purchased there was so obvious as to border on crudity. Mrs. Hudson could have done much better! Mrs. Long ignored the thrust. There seem to be so few men at these parties, nowadays, she observed, at no one in particular. But when one looks at the women, one can hardly blame them. If we had a little gambling, said Miss de Latour, no doubt they would find it more attractive. But there would be complications. Mrs. Hudson objected. In what way? prompted Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum. Well, my dear, they couldnt play for the Vice-Regal furniture, could they? Theyd get into immediate trouble with such stakes, for the furniture belongs to the taxpayers of Canada and is not negotiable. In the sharp silence, Mrs. Long flushed slightly, realising that the incident to which this remark referred had been grossly distorted under Mrs. Hudsons capable and imaginative manipulation. She was about to make a stinging retort when she thought better of it, promising herself a day of reckoning in the future. Just how, did not at the moment occur to her, but time would show her the way. Theres Captain Teddy beckoning us, Mr. Harper, she said. We must go, and over her shoulder she explained, Mr. Harper has never enjoyed the delicious terrors of toboganning. The Princess is going to take him down. Goodbye! Thats that, snapped Miss de Latour. Now, look out for yourself, Mrs. Hudson! The well-known purple velvet and ermine of Lady Denby caught Mrs. Chesleys attention. Shes got Azalea with her this afternoon, and who in Heavens name is _that_? Lady Denby did not leave them long in doubt. You must all know Mrs. Dilling, she said. Mrs. Raymond Dilling, from Pinto Plains. Her husband is a Member, you know, and one of the most promising young speakers in the Party. The ladies bowed frostily, not because they bore any particular grudge against Marjorie, but because they could not afford to miss this golden opportunity for expressing their dislike of Lady Denby, who, though glorified by a title, was not of their set. They looked upon her as an uplifter, living well within her husbands income, and exuding an atmosphere, not only of economy, but frugality; one who allied herself with organizations for the benefit of the human race, notably of women and children, and preached the depressing doctrine, that Life is real, Life is earnest, and the grave is not its goal! Marjorie was embarrassed. She had been embarrassed all the afternoon, and something inside of her old fur coat ached intolerably. She noticed that an air of hostility prevailed over the entire throng. She did not realise, however, its fundamental cause; that the acknowledgments of friendships was a delicate matter within the grounds of Government House, for, as a man is known by the company he keeps, so the guests were desirous of being ranked in a higher classification than that in which they ordinarily moved. Which is to say, that although Mrs. Polduggan and Mrs. Crogganthorpe were friendly neighbours, and quite ready to acknowledge one another on their own verandahs, the moment they entered the skating pavilion their vision became blurred, and they saw for the most part, only the Ministers wives, persons who were especially prominent, or, better than all, chatted with the wife of a Foreign Consul who was too polite, or too ignorant of Western conditions, to take a decided stand with regard to class distinctions. Dilling, did she say? asked Mrs. Chesley, as Lady Denby and her proteges moved away. What an impossible person! Who is she? asked Miss Angus-McCallum. Should we call? Pamela de Latour shrugged her shoulders. I havent anything to do on Wednesday afternoon. Lunch with me, said Lady Elton. Well all go together. One never knows . . . The crowd had thinned perceptibly by the time Lady Denby released Marjorie from the strain of constant introductions, and went away to have a moments chat with Miss Denison-Page, the statuesque Lady-in-Waiting. Marjorie indicated a tall, florid gentleman with a shock of silver hair, who loitered at the doorway in a manner that suggested he was waiting for someone to go home. Who is that? she whispered to Azalea. Where? Oh, thats Rufus Sullivan, the Member for Morroway, answered the girl. I meant to have pointed him out to you earlier in the afternoon, only I had no chance. Hes Lady Denbys pet aversion. One dares not mention his name in her presence. But why? Lots of reasons. Hes quite a character, you know. Heavens, how he stares! Marjorie turned away with flaming cheeks. She was loath to admit that he had not only been staring, but that he had been at her elbow during the entire afternoon. This distressed her, for, according to the ethics of Pinto Plains, a man impressed his attentions only upon the woman who encouraged him, and Marjorie felt that something in her manner must have been very misleading. She resented his pursuit less than she felt ashamed of herself for inspiring it, and was inexpressibly relieved when he finally left the room. The terrible disorder of the pavilion sickened her housekeepers soul, and she turned to Azalea, impetuously. Just look at this place! Isnt it disgusting to expect any human being to clean it up? Then, a little afraid of her own daring, Wouldnt you just love to open the back door and let a drove of pigs come in? Yes, answered Azalea, shortly, after youd opened the front door and let them out! CHAPTER 6. Marjorie was far from happy. The experience at Government House haunted her. Incidents that she had scarcely noted at the time, recurred in the pitiless glare of a good memory to harry her and rob her of her peace of mind. It had all been so different from what she expected! Sunday dragged wearily on. The children seemed fretful and unusually difficult. The roast was tough and the furnace went out, so that Raymond was obliged to devote most of his precious afternoon to re-lighting it. By the time, therefore, that the children had sung their evening hymn, had each chosen a Bible story to be read aloud, and had been put to bed, Marjorie felt that she could bear no more, and she invaded the disorderly drawing-room, too troubled to be repulsed by the unwelcoming expression in her husbands eyes. Well, what is it, my dear? Dilling closed the volume upon his long, thin finger, and tapped it with a slender pencil. Is anything especially the matter? I dont know, sighed Marjorie. Thats just what I want to ask you, dear. Something _must_ be wrong, somewhere, only I cant find it! I seem to be so stupid here, Raymond, and people dont like me. I know I oughtnt to bother you, dear, she said, noticing how his eyes strayed back to the book that at the moment she almost hated, with its chrome leather binding, its overwhelming contents, and the voluptuous overpowering odour that reflected the literary richness of its substance, and I wont stay long, but _cant_ you help me, and tell me what to do, so that Ill be more like the Ottawa people? Dilling stared down into the mist-blurred eyes, only half seeing them. His thoughts were snared by his own problems and he could not free them immediately. His casual words of encouragement carried no comfort to his wife, who stumbled on, Youre so clever, dearie! If you arent sure of a thing, you always know where to learn all about it. . . and thats all Im asking you, Raymondto tell me some book that will explain these queer things that I dont seem to understand. What kind of things? The question was not exactly brusque, but to anyone less troubled it would have suggested a definite desire for a brief interview. Marjorie raised her hands and let them fall to her sides helplessly. Hundredshundreds! she began. All sorts . . . Give me a concrete illustration. Tell me one. Well, I never do anything _right_! Yesterdayyou _do_ shake hands with people when you meet them, dont you?well, yesterday, Lady Denby took me to the Skating Party at Government House. I thought it was going to be so nice, Raymond. We always thought so at home, you know, but it wasnt just like what we imaginedin fact, it was awfully different. Yes, yes. But the point of the story, Marjorie? Im trying to tell you, dearie. You see, if you havent been there, its so difficult to understand the queer customs of the place. Id been introduced to Captain Dodsonhe called out the names, you know, standing just beside Their Royal Highnessesand when we got into the room where they were receiving, Lady Denby went first, and I came second, and Miss Deane last, and you understand, Raymond, I couldnt see whether Lady Denby spoke to him or not, and so when I came along and he saw me and sort of smiled, I said, How do you do, Captain Dodson? and held out my hand. You _do_ shake hands with people, dont you, Raymond? Never mind just now. Go on. Well, he didnt shake hands with me! Worse than that, he put his hands behind his back and said, Mrs. Raymond Dilling, in an awful voice, and Miss Deane simply _pushed_ me past him! I didnt know what to do when I got there in front of the Duke and the Duchess. I didnt know whether to shake hands or not, and ImIm afraid, darling, that I behaved like a terrible simpleton. It was easy enough to see that Lady Denby was frightfully annoyed. She said that to shake hands with Captain Dodson was _not_ the thing, and to shake hands with Their Royal Highnesses, _was_ the thing, and altogether, Im so muddled, I dont know what to do! Raymond, what on earth _is_ THE THING? Dilling drew his finger definitely from his book, laid the volume on the table, and gave his attention to the question. Well, Marjorie, he said, although Ive never formed a considered opinion on this subject, Ill lay the facts before you, and well reason it out together. Reasoning a subject out together between Marjorie and her husband was a merest euphemism for a philosophical lecturette with Dilling on the platform and his wife supplying the atmosphere. With his characteristic gesture when entering upon a discussion of some remote topic that interested himan upward sweep of the right arm with the sensitive fingers coming to rest on his rapidly-thinning chevelurehe proceeded to instruct her. _The Thing_, my dear girl, as I see it, is one of the forms of what the Polynesians call Tabu. In the large, tabu may be said to be negative magicthat is, abstention from certain acts in order that unpleasant or malefic results may not ensue. Do you follow, so far? Yes, dear . . . I think so . . . a kind of rule, you mean, dont you? One can see that, but what puzzles me, is that it works both ways. How does one learn _when_ it is right, and when it is wrong? Isnt there some starting point? Most certainly! Tabu originated in religion, and was rooted in fear. Moreover, it was common to all peoples in their tribal beginnings. It is associated with the Totem of the North American Indian and the Fetish of the African races; it oppressed the alert Greek mind for an astonishing period, and prevailed amongst the Romans. Some day, you must read about the Flamen Dialisa member of the priestly caste, who stood next the King in sacerdotal rank. I was thinking especially of shaking hands, murmured Marjorie. But Dilling ignored her. He slipped easily into his Parliamentary manner, as though addressing Mr. Speaker, and his political associates. Furthermore, he was enjoying this opportunity to open doors that led into little-used rooms in the treasure-house of his mind. So rigid were the laws that governed the Flamens conducterso drastic was the discipline of The Thingthat even a knot in the thread of his clothing was practically a crime against the State! Can you imagine it? He couldnt spend a night outside the City. He was forbidden to rideeven toucha horse. He . . . well, I could continue at length, but this is sufficient to show you that The Thing, as you term it, is no new, prohibitive measure, designed for your particular embarrassment. Oh, I didnt think that . . . I forgot to mention that it was not The Thing for the Flamen to suffer marriage a second timean historical statement, my dear, which has no personal application, I assure you! You see, the wife of the Flamen became sacrosanct, and passed, also, under the iron rule of the Tabu. Marjorie nodded hopefully, and urged her husband to explain how women were affected. If you are thinking of the Flaminica, returned Dilling, she was affected very severely. I seem to remember that she was forbidden to comb her hair at certain intervals; also, she became unable to discharge her religious duties unless purified by a sacrifice, after hearing thunder. Upon my word, he broke off suddenly, I shouldnt wonder if the wide-spread fear of electric storms may have taken its root from this very law! You have provoked a most interesting train of thought, my dear! Im ever so glad, was Marjories quick response. But do you remember anything about her shaking hands? Not at the moment. However, I venture this opinion . . . the Flaminica was the foundress of those social Tabus which have held the minds of women in bondage for so many ages; that she was the dictatrix of moral and social etiquette, to-day. You can readily understand how ladies, supporting this distinguished but irksome office, would seek to mitigate its rigours by using their rank to the discomfiture of less favoured members of their sex. He began to chuckle. In short, I believe that Mrs. Grundy and Queen Victoria were her lineal descendants. Queen Victoria? echoed Marjorie. I mean, my dear, that the Flaminica was the mother of Snobocracy, the divine High Priestess of the Order, whose code is expressed in the cryptic formula, It isor is notThe Thing!. The alarum of the kitchen clock startled them both. Marjorie frowned. Althea must have been naughty again. She had been distinctly forbidden to touch it. Im afraid Ill have to leave it at that, my dear, said Raymond, as he opened his book. Its peculiar odour enveloped her like a puff of smoke. This report is somewhat more tricky than I had anticipated. But you have the main facts of the casehavent you? To-morrow, Ill bring you a book from the Library. As Marjorie closed the door, a sharp whirr sounded from the telephone. Hello, she said, wondering whether Raymond would mind being called. asked a mellow voice at the other end of the wire. It was a voice that vibrated, and struck some unfamiliar chord within her consciousness; a voice that unreasonably disturbed her. I am Mrs. Dilling, answered Marjorie, and waited. My name is Sullivan, the voice continued. Rufus Sullivan, the Member for Morroway. Oh! cried Marjorie, startled. Then, Oh, yes? I am wondering if you will allow me the pleasure of calling on you, Mrs. Dilling. I have been a fervent admirer of your husband ever since I heard his speech in the House, last week, and Im very eager to meet you. It is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that we have not had Dillings equal in Parliament for many years. Youre awfully kind, murmured Dillings wife, to the accompaniment of a pounding heart. She didnt know why, but she was trembling. Well, Im not sure about being kind, laughed the Hon. Member easily, but I confess that I am desperately jealous. Theres something about a man of Dillings calibre that accuses us old chaps of unappreciated opportunities and wasted youth. One begins to taste the ashes of discouragement. Nobody should be discouraged, returned Marjorie, feeling the words inadequate, but not knowing what else to say. No, no! Youre right, of course! As Walpole tells us, Its not life that matters; its the courage you put into it. Just the same, courage is acquired rather less by an effort of will, than by inspiration, dont you think so? Ye-es, returned Marjorie, not very sure after all. I was wondering, Mrs. Dilling, the Hon. Member went on in a lighter tone, if I might be admitted to the list of your acquaintances? If you would permit me to call? I should be very pleased. Thank you . . . thank you . . . I cant say more! Are you busy this evening, or have you other guests? It goes without saying that I should not care to intrude. Marjorie explained that she was quite free and that a call would not be the slightest intrusion, but that Mr. Dilling seemed to be very much engrossed in a book, and she wasnt quite certain Dont think of it! cried Sullivan. I understand perfectly, and wouldnt allow you to disturb him for the world. Just let me slip in quietly, and when he has finished, perhaps he will join us. I do want to know your husband better, Mrs. Dilling, but its quite impossible to form any intimate contacts up there on the Hill, and in the midst of the turmoil of our every-day existence. I wont say any more, however, through the medium of this unsatisfactory instrument. I will be with you in a moment. He was. Before Marjorie had decided whether or not it was The Thing to entertain a Member of Parliament in the dining-room (where the table was set for breakfast) she was summoned to the door by a discreet tinkle of the bell. Although his enormous bulk nearly filled the tiny passage, Sullivans handclasp was very gentle and his voice was low. No words, Mrs. Dilling, can convey to you my gratitude for this privilege! I am a lonely man, a shy man for all my huge body, and I do not readily make friends! The house seemed to quiver as he followed her to the dining-room, and Marjorie was distressed at her failure to regain her composure and to still the strange quaking within herself. She had never been affected like this, before. What a cosy little nest! exclaimed her guest. And are there _three_ birdlings? His fine brown eyes turned from the childrens placeswhere neat oilcloth bibs and porridge bowls stood ready for the morningback to her face. Yes, we have three childrentwo girls and a boy. Wonderful little woman, he breathed, reverently, and shes only a slip of a girl, herself. Im twenty-seven, declared Marjorie. A golden age, he sighed. But tell me about the childrendo! One of the bitterest disappointments of my life is that I havent half a dozen . . . Im a lonely old bachelor, Mrs. Dilling. Few people realise just _how_ lonely. It flashed through Marjories mind that he had lost his sweetheart years ago. Perhaps she had died. Perhaps she had married someone else. In either case, Mr. Sullivan had remained true to her memory. She liked him for his constancy. Her embarrassment faded a little. Its dreadful to be lonely, she said, feeling that it would not be polite to ask why he had not married. Ive been a little lonely, myself, since we came to Ottawa. Poor child! Mr. Sullivan pressed Marjories hand with bland sympathy. The gesture reminded her of Uncle Herbert, whose comfort, in the face of any trial, expressed itself by a clicking of the tongue and that same spasmodic crushing of the hand. Indeed, now that she grew more at ease with him, Marjorie noticed that Mr. Sullivan was quite an old man and she attributed that mysterious something in his manner to the eagerness of a lonely man to make friends. She smiled, brightly. Oh, you mustnt pity me, she cried. I like Ottawa. All my life I have dreamed of coming here, and now the dream has come true. But, it is only natural that I miss some of my dearest friends. I wouldnt be a really nice person if I didnt, now, would I? Mr. Sullivan knitted his brows and said that, try as he would, he could not imagine her being anything but a fine friend. There was just the slightest suggestion of a pause before he added You remind me of the noblest woman I ever knew. Diddid shedie? The great, white head sank slowly. Again, Mr. Sullivan sought her hand. She was just twenty . . . I was a youngster, too. Life has never been the same . . . But there! I mustnt burden you with my sorrows. You were going to tell me about the children. I dont suppose you would let me peep at themjust a little tiny peep, if I promise not to wake them? Would you really like to see them? asked Marjorie, now thoroughly at ease with her guest. I cant tell you how much. Then, of course, you may! With an unconsciously coquettish gesture, she laid her finger on her lips and led the way up the creaking stairs. Her thoughts were of the children. Had she been careful to wash all the jam from Babys rosebud mouth? Althea, she remembered, had pulled the button off her Teddies and she had found it necessary to resort to the ubiquitous safety pin. And Sylvesterwell, there was no prophesying what might have happened to Sylvester since she heard his Now-I-lay-me, and kissed him. The thoughts of Mr. Sullivan, on the other hand, were concerned with almost everything but the children. He was wondering why that door at the foot of the stairs did not open and a voice ask what the devil he was doing, prowling through the house. He was trying to decide whether Marjorie had advised her husband of his coming and he was being deliberately ignored, or whether Dilling habitually shrouded himself with aloofness, and indifference to the affairs of the home and the personnel of his wifes callers. At the landing, Marjorie turned to whisper. Please dont look at the room. Its so hard to be tidy with babies, you know. Mr. Sullivan hung yearningly over the cots where Althea and Sylvester were sleeping. He did it very well, and Marjorie was delighted. Beautiful, he murmured, and he indicated that he found a strong resemblance to her. Beside the babys little crib he was overcome with emotion, and Marjories heart went out to him as he groped hastily for his handkerchief and passed it across his eyes. The cherub, he whispered, the exquisite little flower. She has her fathers cast of features, but transferring his expression of adoration to the face nearer his but Ill wager she has her mothers eyes! When they creaked their way downstairs again they were on the friendliest terms, and Marjorie could scarcely reconcile this kind, elderly gentleman and his interested, avuncular air, with the debonair gallant who had caught and held her attention so unpleasantly at Government House. It only shows, she reproved herself, how you can misjudge a person. And hes old enough to be my father . . . which state was always synonymous to her with extreme rectitude and respectability. He would not hear of her disturbing Raymond, nor would he allow her to make cocoa for him, fond of it as he avowed himself to be. But he made her promise that she would let him come soon again, when the children were awake, and that when he was especially lonely, he might telephone her; and moreover, that once in a while she would have tea with him in order that he might prove what an excellent and handy man he would have been . . . under different circumstances! This has been for me a wondrous night, he said, holding her hand and looking affectionately down at her, and one that I shall never forget. There is little I can do to prove my gratitude for a glimpse of real home life, and the joy that has eluded me, but perhaps there may come a time when you feel that I can serve you. Will you put me to the test, then, Mrs. Dilling? he queried, softly. Touched, Marjorie nodded. I am very pleased to have had you come in like this _Sans ceremonie_, as our French friends say, interrupted Sullivan, looking furtively over her head at the closed door behind which he knew that Dilling sat. The strength of the weak, he murmured, the courage to endure the emptiness of solitary days and weary evenings. Ive been through it. I understand. God bless you, little woman! But there can be no more loneliness for us so long as we are . . . friends! He pressed her hand and was gone. As she went upstairs, Marjorie wondered whether or not she had imagined a shade of difference in him as he left her. PART II They Saw CHAPTER 7. Azalea Deane was a much befamilied young woman, who was leaving mile 30 behind so rapidly that it was already quite blurred in the distance. Ahead, there stretched a bleak and desolate roadway, leading right into the heart of that repository for the husks of menBeechwoodand at the best of times, she found her journey wearisome and uninspiriting. She did not cavil at her fate. No one ever heard Azalea complainof poverty, obscurity, dullness or villenage. She accepted her destiny with a fine stoicism, which reflected itself in well-feigned indifference and enabled her to proceed along the same monotonous route at the same monotonous speed, with the same monotonous companions month after month, and year after year, without developing gangrene of the soul or breaking into open revolt. Oh, God, she prayed each morning, before descending to the agitated atmosphere of the breakfast table, keep me from being difficult to live with! And Heaven heard her prayer. No one really knew Azalealeast of all, her family. Perhaps, no one ever really knows anyone else, a phase of ignorance which, personally, I am not inclined to deplore. Souls should be clad no less than bodies. They should be gowned with decency, and in so far as possible, loveliness; and if, now and again, the garment slips or wears thin, then should the beholder turn his eyes away, nor seek to pry into anything that may be so terrible or so sublime. Outwardly, as Lady Denby had said, Azalea was a plain little person. She should have been dainty of form, but through some irreparable miscalculation, the Creator had dowered her with the large features, hands and feet designed for some much more ample person. Therefore, she gave no pleasure to the sensitive, artistic eye, and this was an acute grievance to her who possessed a deep and pagan love for Beauty. She was a toneless girl, with thin, straight, dun-coloured hair which she could not afford to keep marcelled. Her eyes were unarresting, as a rule; too sharp to be appealing and not lustrous enough to sparkle. Her skin had a sandy cast and usually shone. Even when rouge and the ubiquitous lip-stick assumed the respectability of universal usage, Azaleas appearance was scarcely improved, for the former would not blend, and lay like a definite glaze upon her cheeks, while the latter only accentuated the flatness of her too-ample mouth, and made one wish that she had not tampered with it at all. Her wardrobe was an appalling miscellany of discarded grandeur. Ladies whose clothes were too pass for their own adornment, bestowed them upon Azalea with the remark, You can see, my dear, that these are scarcely worn, and anyway, they are not the sort of things one could give the servants! She had learned to smother the hot rebellion that flared up in her heart, to thank them prettily, and to convey huge, unwieldy bundles through the streets and hold her tongue when her family commented upon the generosity of Lady This or Mrs. That. But she often wondered that her father never divined that Lady Eltons cloth-of-gold dinner gown remodelled by her impatient and unskilled fingers, caused abrasions upon her spirit deeper than sackcloth could have produced, and blithely would she have consigned every stitch that she owned to the flames, for the joy of buying the most ordinary, commonplace, inexpensive frock at a bargain sale. The future of the Deanes stretched behind them. The best of the family lay underground. Mr. Grenville Harrison Deane was the sole male survivor of an illustrious line that could be traced (so he declared) with an occasional hiatus, back to Alfred the Great! It was never clear to the upstarts whose genealogical tree took root in England about the time of the Conquest, or thereafter, how he arrived at his conclusion, but if antiquity of ideas was anything of a proof, then they were forced to admit that there was justification in his contention, for his views of life antedated those of Britains noble King. Aloofness from fatiguing toil had rewarded him with an erectness that was impressive, and a complexion that a flapper might have envied. A Dundreary of silver gossamer caressed his cheeks, and his clear, lustrous eyes looked out from an unfurrowed setting. His chief characteristics were piety and an Eumenidean temper. The former, which should have been broad, was constricted to the dimensions of a number ten needle, and the latter, which should have been narrow, expanded to encompass impartially every one who held views divergent from his own. Particularly, was it directed against the blistering injustice of the Civil Service. The Civil Service had served him faithfully for thirty-five years, despite his eternal villification of it. Recently, his incompetence had been recompensed by superannuation and the payment of seven-tenths of his salaryshall it be said, seven times as much as he was worth? But Mr. Deane had always fancied himself in the Premiers place, or at least in a Ministerial capacity. Failing that, a Trade Commissionership, or even a Deputys post would have appeased him. Therefore, to be superannuated after thirty-five years inconspicuous hampering of the postal service, appeared to him as a blot upon the integrity of the Nation. He was forever taking up his case with this or that influential person. What his case was, Azalea had but a misty idea, and whether he actually took it up or merely gloated over the notion of doing so, she had no means of ascertaining. Anyway, the matter had long ago ceased to interest her. Mrs. Deane was the type of woman now happily becoming quite extinct, who was born to be dominated, and ably fulfilled her destiny. The eldest and most unattractive daughter of a rural English divine, she had won her husband by a trick for which he never forgave her, though he realised that she was in no way responsible. He had fallen fatuously in love with Dorothea, her younger sister, and had received the parental sanction to an engagement before setting sail for Kenneda and a post that his name might dignify. Six months later, Dorothea, who had quite innocently intrigued the affection of a visiting curatea nephew of the Dean of Torborough, no lesshad been prodded weeping to the altar, while Fanny was trundled on a steamer and shipped to Montreal to console the palpitant bridegroom, who had not even been apprised of the fact that a substitute had been forwarded. The agony of that trip left its mark on Fanny Deane. A kindly lie would have spared her so muchfor a time, at least. But the Rev. Arthur Somerset deemed suffering a salutory need, for others, and stated the case to his first-born with unequivocal lucidity . . . One phase of a womans duty is to grasp the opportunity for marriage and thus clear the way for her younger sisters, who, also, must have husbands. The prospect of fulfilling this duty in St. Ethelwyns was slender, and Fanny was no longer young . . . Did she want to be a burden in her old age to her family? . . . Dependent upon them for a home . . . Such inconsideration in a daughter of his was unthinkable . . . And as for young Deane, the Rev. Arthur waived his preference aside with a clerical gesture calculated to display advantageously his well-kept hand . . . Any man might be proud of a wife begotten and bred by Arthur Somerset, D.D. You must carry it off well, Fanny, he adjured her, at the close of the interview, for otherwise, you will be stranded in a strange country where . . . the alternative was painted in no mean and unromantic terms. Fanny carried it off successfully enough, though by no fault or virtue of her own. Too ill, almost, to stand, she crept down the gangway, and cowered before the eager-eyed young man who did not even recognise her when she addressed him. Ah, if she had only been told that kindly little lie, and could have raised a radiant face to his, whispering, Here I am, dear! It was too wonderful that you should have sent for me! Instead, with ashen lips and shame-filled eyes, she muttered, Mr. Deane, they married Dorothea to a curateshe couldnt help itshe wanted you to know! Here is your ring . . . and . . . and . . . they made me come . . . For Gods sake, dont send me back! Ill work for you till I drop dead . . . Ill be your servantanythingonly, for Gods sake, dont send me home! He stared at her while the devastating truth burst over him like an engulfing flood. He shook with rage, with the anguish of blighted hopes and his own impotence in escaping the net that had been spread for him, while Fanny cringed beside him praying that God would strike her dead . . . And Heaven did not hear her prayer. Speechless, they faced one another. After a bit, he took her roughly by the arm. Come, girl, he said, well get this rotten business over, quickly. The license reads DorotheaI suppose Ill have to get another one. There now, for Gods sake, dont sniffle! People are looking at us. To give him credit, Grenville Harrison Deane never charged her with the deception of her parents. He never referred to it in so many words. But for two and forty years, Fanny lived in connubial torment, under the shadow of this smothering humiliation, and the fear that he might some day be led to speak of it. Often, there was that in his manner, that threatened to burst into violent and comminatory reproach. She tried to efface herself, to reduce herself to nothingness, and to spare him the reminder of her substitution. She had a way of watching him, endeavouring to divine his whims and moods, that was loathesome in its humility. Her entire life was an apology for having failed to be her sister. Unfortunately, Fanny never suspected that the greatest need of her overlord was association with a strong-minded tyrant, who, in the guise of the clinging-vineor any otherwould have thrust upon him the unexperienced pleasure of putting his shoulder to the wheel and hearing it creak as he moved it. He would have been happy doing things, being wheedled into service; but, as matters stood, Fanny Deane would have breathed for him, had such been possible. She relieved him of every burden and responsibility, and became a substitute not only for her silly, simpering sister, but for a shabby armchair and a pair of carpet slippers. Azalea, who was the youngest of five daughters, went so far as to say that the tomb to which his mortal envelope must one day be committed, would never equal in comfort the padded sepulchre her mother provided him while living. Azaleas earliest remembrance centred round a very common occurrenceher mother kneeling in the midst of broken toys and howling children, pleading, Dont cry, my darlings! We will mend them! Sh-sh-sh_Please_ be quiet! _Dont_ irritate your father. She lived in constant dread of irritating a man who would have kept his temper had he really been vouchsafed anything to be irritated about; and her life was one which no self-respecting dog would have endured. No one was more surprised than Fanny Deane when her four elder girls found husbands. Naturally, perhaps, she regarded marriage as a difficult and sordid undertakingfor parents, that is to say. Many a night, as she sat beside a moaning baby, the thought that one day she might have to engineer her children into the State of Holy Wedlock was like a deadly stricture about her heart. However, Hannah, Flossie, Tottie and May all married without any fuss or flurry, in a satisfactory, chronological fashion, the Civil Service yielding up its living dead to provide their sustenance. They became the Mrs. Polduggans and Mrs. Crogganthorpes of Ottawa; that large, uneasy, imitigable bodyscrabbling, straining, jostling, niggling, fighting for the power to give rather than receivesnubs!and living largely in the hope of supplanting their superiors and lifting themselves out of the ruck composed of other women, whose husbands, like their own, were merely something in the Government. But Azalea was different. Marriage, in her opinion, was neither the subliminal pinnacle of feminine felicity, as her father claimed to conceive it, nor the Open Door to Independence, as her sisters averred. Shrewd observation led her to the conclusion that of independence there was little, and feminine felicity there was none. Always interested in the dark side of life, e.g., the married side, Azalea divided the women of her acquaintance into two classesthe parasites, who slyly or seductively tapped their husbands and appropriated their material and spiritual substance without suffering the smallest compensatory impulse, and the antithetical order, who resigned themselves to a stronger will and found matrimony a state of reluctant vassalage. Azalea dreamed sometimes of an ideal companionship, or perhaps, a companionable ideal, but the paradigmatic young men whom her sisters (with the patronage of the successful angler who has already gaffed his fish and offers to instruct the novice how to bait a hook, and cast) enticed for her selection, inflamed her disgust rather than her romanticism. Her greatest hunger was for economic independence, and this was summarily denied her. Mr. Deane, drenched in archaic theories, confused idleness with refinement, and work with degradation. Moreover, he would have felt a sense of incompetence, mute reproach, even contempt, had he permitted his daughters to join the restless ranks of the employed. By such a measure, would he have confessed his inability to support them as befitted women of gentle breeding, and to provide them with all the amenities that their natures craved. That one of them should possess a bank account of her own and feel at liberty to spend money without the humiliating necessity of applying to him, was a condition that smacked of positive shamelessness. It was characteristic of him that although he never wished to perform any useful task unaided by the members of his household, he never allowed them to perform the task alone. He had a genuine horror of the modern business woman who could look him unflinching in the eye, without that sweet deference which testified to his superiority. All business women were, in his opinion, coarse; besides, economic independence resulted in their getting out of hand, and a woman who got out of hand, was, in Mr. Deanes judgment, a very dangerous proposition. Therefore, he refused Azalea the freedom she craved. He immolated her self-respect (and that of the community for her, in a measure) on the altar of his vanity, and condemned her to a life of servitude far more degrading than anything she would have chosen. She was depressed under the burden of obligations that gave her little benefit and no pleasure, and she secretly despised herself for being forced to accept them. Do let me go away and work, she used to entreat, I could teach. Thats a ladys profession. But her mother made vague gestures of distress that said, Dont bring up this dreadful subject again! Please, my dear, be careful or you will irritate your father! And father, giving every promise of fulfilling this prophecy, would reply, So long as I live, I hope that no daughter of mine will be forced from the shelter of her home, and out amongst the ravening wolves of commerce. When I am gone . . . he left an eloquent pause . . . But in the meantime . . . The words, not to mention the gesture that accompanied them, implied somehow that caravans of voluptuous commodities assembled by his protean labours, should continue to arrive at their very door. He was unctuously proud of her friends, and actually toadied to her in deference to her association with the aristocracy of the Capital. So did her sisters, and their husbands, and the char, and the tradespeople, all of whom knew that she enjoyed sufficient intimacy with Lady Elton to assist at a luncheon or dinner-partyassist, that is to say, in the kitchen. And the splendid thing about this kind of assistance was that she received no honorarium for her services. That was where she took conspicuous precedence over Mrs. Wiggin, the char, and Ellen Petrie, who waited on all the exclusive affairs of the city. To work without salary was Mr. Deanes conception of a ladys highest calling, and a means whereby she might be kept from getting out of hand. He was supported in this attitude by one of the foremost ladies in the land, who argued that no woman engaged in earning her own living should be presented at the Drawing Room! The Dillings struck a new note in the monotone of Azaleas existence. She had never seen their like, and was profoundly touched by their genuineness, their simplicity. For the first time in her life she felt that she had come into contact with people to whom friendship is dearer than the advantageous acquaintanceship that travesties it; for the first time in her life she could show an honest affection without being suspected of having an ulterior motive. At that time, Azalea had nothing to gain from the Dillings. On the contrary, she had something to givean ineffably joyous experienceand she delighted in the sensation of being for once the comet instead of the tail; instead of the trailer, the cart. Towards Raymond Dilling, she was conscious of an intense maternalism. Mentally, she acknowledged him her master, but in every other respect, he was an utter childhard, undemonstrative, cold, but, despite that, a very appealing child. And she saw with her native shrewdness that mere mentality would never gain for him the success which he deserved. Ottawa, she knew, was thronged with brilliant people whose gifts were lost to the Cityto the Dominionbecause they lacked the empty artifices and consequent social standing which enabled them to get a hearing. No strolling mummer in the Middle Ages needed ducal patron more sorely than does a mere genius in the Capital of Canada. And Dilling liked Azalea. She was a new and interesting type to him who had never considered feminine psychology a topic that was worth pursuing. His wifes friends in Pinto Plains were, he realised, estimable creatures running to fat and porcelain teeth at middle age. They were conscientious mothers, faithful to their husbands and earnest seekers after a broader knowledge than that provided by their homely tasks. But they wearied him. Whenever he encountered a group of them, his dominant wish was to escape, and he rarely failed to gratify this desire by excusing himself with some such remark as, Ill just slip off and leave you ladies free to discuss the three Ds, by which he implied (with some degree of justification, doubtless) that the conversation of women is restricted to the topics of Dress, Domestics and Disease. He hated womens chatter. Azalea Deane was the only woman he had ever known who possessed what he later termed a bi-sexual mind. He was never irritably conscious, as was the case with Marjories other friends, of the fact that she was a woman. Even when she discussed the three Ds, there was a broad impersonality, a pleasing and quizzical tang to her remarks that he chose to arrogate to the mind of man. Before he had known her any length of time, he discovered that, unlike Marjorie she not only understood what he said, but that in some startling and inexplicable manner she divined thoughts which he had expressly refrained from putting into words. For him, she was a novel experience, whose flavour he enjoyed rather more intensely than he was aware. Not that his emotions were even remotely touched by the personality of the girl. No! She was a mental adventure which he followed with frank curiosity and a diminishing display of patronage. Her mind was full of exhilarating surprises, and he was astounded to discover how easily she ornamented arid facts with garlands plucked from her rich imagination. She had a neat twist in the handling of them which Dilling was not slow to see and imitate. She guided him into many a pungent domain of thought, where he lost himself completely in an exciting pursuit after some winking little light, that led to the very middle of an icy stream into which he fell, spluttering, only to find Azalea calm and dry, on the opposite shore, laughing at him. He contracted the habit of reading extracts from his speeches to her, and presently, he tried the effect of an entire discourse. Now and again, he sounded her as to what he considered saying, and discovered that her enthusiastic understanding was like an extra filter to his already well-clarified intention. He stored up particularly smart bits of political repartee to tell her, while his own triumphs of wit were laid at her feet rather than those of his bewildered wife. And all this time, the prevailing fancy that overlaid his subconscious mind, was, Quite a good sort, that girl! Pity she isnt a man! He voiced this latter sentiment to Azalea one evening shortly before prorogation and his return for the summer to Pinto Plains. In their sharp and peppery fashion, they had been discussing the Budget, inflated, Azalea contended, beyond all reason by the conscienceless demands of those picaresque buccaneers, Eastlake and Donahue, whose issue of private enterprise was begotten in the womb of the public treasury, when Dilling turned to her and cried, Youve made out a good case, Miss Deane! You should have been a man! The girls cheeks burned a painful brick tint. But she laughed and retorted, By which you tactfully imply my unsuitability for the state to which it has pleased God to call me, and regret that physical limitations prevent my choosing a more adequate sphere. I confess to you in strict confidence, that frequently, I have deplored this condition, myself. Come along into politics, invited Dilling, a touch of seriousness behind his banter. Right-o! Just so soon as you amend the B.N.A. and offer me a refuge in the Senate, she answered, and changed the subject. Later that night, Marjorie hinted that he had hurt Azalea. Eh? cried Dilling. What are you talking about? Hurt herhow? By what you said. What did I say? That she should have been a man. Dilling carefully twisted his collar free from the button. A violent physical action of any kind was foreign to him. Running the curved band between his fingers, he gave an abstracted thought to the possibility of wearing it again on the morrow, even while he turned to contradict his wife. Nonsense, Marjorie, she liked it! All women like it; its a tribute to their mentality, my dear. One often has to say some such thing to a perfect ninny, but in this case I happen to be sincere and I think Miss Deane knew it. Marjorie did not contest the point. She never argued with Raymond, but once in a while she felt, as now, that his non-combatible correctness covered an error in judgment. Of course, he was sincere in paying a tribute to Azaleas cleverness, and, of course, she knew he meant what he said. But that was the very troublethe very barb that pierced her spirit! In a strange and mysterious way (of which she was somewhat ashamed) Marjorie often reached perfectly amazing conclusions that were directly opposed to Raymonds incontrovertible logic. And Azaleas hurt was a case in point. Just why the words had stung, it was beyond Marjorie Dilling to explain. Orderly thinking and systematic juxtaposition of facts found their substitute in flashes of intuition which, throughout the ages, have stood for women in the place of reason. But she knew, without knowing how she knew, that Azalea would rather have impressed Raymond with her incomparable womanhood, than the fact that she was the possessor of a brain that should have functioned in the body of a man. As for Azalea, she was not conscious that Marjorie had heard the echo of that discordant note, and she would have been inexpressibly surprised had she suspected it. Years of rigid discipline had taught her to conceal all the emotions she thought she had not strangled, and she was accustomed to being treated as a man when not as a nonentity. Times without number she had paid for an evenings entertainment by escorting timourous and penurious ladies safely home in the silent watches of the night . . . a delicate assumption that she, herself, lacked sufficient fascination to stimulate brute design. On other occasions, hostesses frankly asked her to slip away quietly, so that my husband wont feel obliged to take you home, dear. And once, a particularly considerate host glimpsing the blizzard that raged beyond his portal, had placed her in the care of a diminutive messenger boy, of some nine years, who struggled through the snowdrifts and sniffled that he had come from Hewitts Service, and please where was the parcel? So Dillings words cut without producing an unendurable pain. The spot was well cocained and would ache long after the incision had been made. Azalea listened to his defence of his leader, his Party, and Messrs. Eastlake and Donahue, sensitive to a breath of discouragement beneath his words. I came to Ottawa expecting to find co-operation, and in its place fierce competition confronts mecompetition, he said, within the very ranks of the Party! It may strike you as being particularly naive, but I confess that I had not expected to find this sort of friction. It puts a different complexion on politics. This was a tremendous admission for him to make, and in one of those flashing visions that supplemented her more leisured mental processes, Azalea saw that just as Marjorie groped along her level, so Dilling stumbled into pitfalls in his particular sphere, that a cumulus vapour of disenchantment threatened the horizon of his career, and that even as his wife bade fair to be a victim of the Social Juggernaut, so he would be crushed beneath the wheels of the political machine. And they thought that this was The Land of Afternoon! CHAPTER 8. The Dillings returned to Ottawa refreshed in body and spirit. Their summer in Pinto Plains had been a prolonged triumph and its effect, beneficial. Not only had they been welcomed with affectionate deference, entertained sedulously, and permitted to depart with honest regret and a dash of frank envy, but they had been reclaimed by that splendid illusion from which six months in the Capital had freed them. By the time they turned their faces eastward, they were quite prepared to attribute their disheartening experiences of the previous winter to hyper-sensitivenessthe difficulty generally felt in accommodating oneself to a new environment. It was during the last stages of the journey that uneasiness returned, and expressed itself in remarks such as, Just think . . . this time last year we were strangers, and now, it seems almost like coming home! or Its nice to know that we have friends here, isnt it? We wont be so lonely, this year, will we? Each in a characteristic way tried to capture a sense of confidence, a glow of happiness, and to feel that being no longer aliens, Ottawa would be differentthat is, as each would like to find it. Marjorie succeeded better than her husband. Its awfully exciting, isnt it? she cried, as the train panted along beside the canal, and familiar landmarks unfolded before her. Across the muddy water where barges and the Rideau Royal Pair were tied up for the winter, she could see the Driveway, spotted with children and women casually attendant upon perambulators. The Pavilion at Somerset Street, where she used to sit with her little brood, looked bleak and uninviting, but she was glad to see it, just the same. Two lovers occupied a bench in front of the Collegiate, and kissed shamelessly as the train moved past. Marjories heart warmed to them, not that she approved of kissing in public places, but because there was something human about them; they added weight to her theory that Ottawa was not so forbidding and formidable, after all. Dilling stared out of the window, too, but he did not see the lovers, the Armouries, the Laurier Avenue Bridge, the Arena, nor the warehouses flanked by the Russell Hotel. He saw a straggling little lumber village, gay with the costumes of Red Men, voyageurs, and the uniforms of sappers and miners, who were at work on the Canal. What a mammoth undertaking and how freighted with significance! By the building of a hundred and twenty-six miles of waterway that linked Kingston with the infant Bytown, English statesmen provided an expedient for adding to the impregnability of the British Empire! War, he mused. How it has stimulated the ingenuity of man! With sacrifice, with blood and tears, we carve a niche for ourselves out of the resistant rock, in the hope that there we will find peace, but immediately the task is finished, we set ourselves to fortify it against the hour of war. He pictured the Cave Dweller, bent over his crude instruments of destruction, clubs of bone and stone, which, in all probability, the modern man could scarcely lift. He considered the inventor of primitive projectiles. That was a long step toward the mechanism of modern homicide. One could lie, ambushed, behind a mound and use a sling, a boomerang, a blow-pipe or a javelin, and arrows . . . he gave a mental shudder and thanked God that he had not lived a hundred years ago. There was something about an Indian that made his flesh creep; a traditional antagonism that he did not try to overcome. The romance of the Red Man never gripped him. Like all unimaginative people, his prejudices were sharp and immutable. He picked the word blunderbuss from a confusion of pictures that combined Gibraltar and Queenston Heights, and cumbrous cannon that were dangerous alike to friend and foe, and repeated, War! Always fashioning some new tool to strengthen the hand of Death. They spent a million pounds on a military measure to safeguard the Colony from invasion on the South . . . and behold, the Rideau Canal! * * * * * He started when Marjorie thrust parcels into his arms, and observed that at last they had arrived. Azalea met them at the station. She had opened their tiny house, and with the assistance of Mrs. Plum had put it in order. Hers had been an exceptionally uneventful summer, and she had looked forward to the Dillings return with an impatience that astonished her. From the last of June until the first of September, Ottawa is like a City of the Dead. Despite the fact that these are the pleasantest weeks of the year, the town is deserted by every one who can get away, even though the exodus extends no farther than Chelsea, on the other side of the river. But Azalea hadnt even got so far, this summer. Her time had been pretty fully occupied carrying out commissions for more fortunate friends. Lady Denby who had gone to the sea, asked her to superintend the installation of the winters coal. Mrs. Long preferring the irresponsibility of Banff to the responsibility of presiding over her country home and a succession of unappreciated house-parties, decided that this was an excellent opportunity for papering some of the obscurer portions of her town residence, and knew that Azalea wouldnt mind overseeing the work. She interviewed a cook for Mrs. Blaine, hunted up a photograph of Sir Mortimer Fanshawe taken on the golf links (before he had acquired the game) and excellent as a pictorial feature for a sporting supplement. She shopped, exchanged articles, paid bills that had been forgotten, and found herself generally confronted with the _res angusta domi_ of a woman without an income. She did not grumble. At the same time, she could imagine a hundred happier ways of spending a summer. Mr. and Mrs. Deane left the shelter of their comfortable home to suffer in turn the hospitality of each of their married daughters, who holidayed according to their means (i.e., spent a good deal more money than they could afford, and returned home soured by the necessity for retrenchment). Azalea could have gone, too, but there were limits even to her endurance. The Dillings fell upon her joyously, not only Marjorie and the children, but Raymond. You must come home with us, he cried, and tell us all the news. Is it true that Pratt is running for the Federal House? I heard a rumour to that effect on the train. Azalea nodded. You cant be surprised. This has been his wifes ambition for years. Shell achieve it, too, if theres anything in persistent campaigning. But Ive something else to sayI wrote you about it a few days ago, before your wire came. The house that Lady Denby has been so keen for you to take, is empty. I have an option on it in your name. Marjorie could not suppress an exclamation. The house in question was large, and in her opinion, unduly pretentious. Their living expenses would be more than doubled. It seemed strange to her that people of their modest means should be encouragedurged, indeedto make such extravagant outlay. Display of any sort was, in the eyes of Pinto Plains, vulgar, and a cardinal sin upon which her friends felt themselves qualified to sit in judgment, was that of trying to appear above ones station. To Marjorie, one of the most amazing features about life in the Capital was the discovery that women who dressed with most conspicuous elegance, lived in impressive style and drove in motor cars, commanded only a Civil Servants meagre salary. Later, she learned that over their heads a cloud of debt continually hung, but it caused them no more distress than did the dome of the sky. The infamous credit system in the city was responsible for these moral callouses which she simply could not understand. Debt, to her, was synonymous with dishonesty, and that anyone could become accustomed to living in its shadow, was beyond the limits of her comprehension. It was a shock for her to learn that respected families had unpaid accounts at the large stores extending over a period of twenty years! Virtually, any tradesman would supply merchandise on account to a Civil Servant, because although the salary could no longer be garnisheed, they hoped that a small payment would be snipped with regularity from the infallible Governmental cheque. Why dont you buy a set of sectional bookcases for your husbands books? asked Azaleas sister, Flossie, during the progress of a call. Marjories reply was ingenuous, naively truthful. Weve been under so much expense lately, she said, I felt that I couldnt afford them. Mrs. Howard, whose husband was an anaemic little man, occupying a humble post in the Department of Labor, opened her eyes in genuine astonishment. You dont have to _pay_ for them, she cried. Hapgood is most considerate in the matter of his accounts. I generally have to beg for mine! This latter remark was not strictly in line with the truthnot in Mrs. Howards case. She had heard it, however, dropped from the lips of one of Ottawas twenty-three millionaires, and appropriated it, she felt, with some effect. But Marjorie couldnt see any future happiness at all, knowing that she would be faced with financial problems, and she was absolutely unable to understand the attitude of Lady Denby, who, throughout the previous winter, had stressed the necessity for making a better appearance for the sake of the Party. When people are wealthy and have an assured position, she counselled, they can enjoy a freedom of action that is denied those less fortunately conditioned. Mrs. Hudson is an example. She could, if one of her extraordinary whims dictated, dine at Government House in her great-grandmothers faded bombazine, without injuring her position in the slightest degree. On the other hand, should _you_ attempt the smallest unconventionality, I assure you the result would be socially disastrous. The same principle applies in the matter of entertaining. You are no less a part of public life than is your husband, and you can render him no greater assistance than by displaying a judicious and well-regulated hospitality. Cultivate _nice_ peopleerthe Ministers wives, and so on . . . Entertain them and entertain them well, but she broke off, abruptly, you cant do it _here_! It quite took Marjories breath away to learn that Lady Denby considered women important in politics, and that they might sway their husbands for or against a fellow member was an idea that had never entered her mind. Neither could she understand how her own popularity could be a factor in Raymonds success, and that it was dependent upon maintaining a position she would not afford, instead of living according to her means and simplicity of requirementwas an attitude of mind that she never completely grasped. But the necessity for it all was made evident even to Raymond, and by no less a person than Sir Eric himself, who ably coached by his wife, remarked that to save, one must first learn to spend! Establish yourself, my dear fellow, were his words, establish yourself in the life of the Capital, and when the roots are firmly implanted in this loamy soil, draw in your hornsif one may be permitted to mix a metaphor. I am not advocating a reckless expenditure of more than you have to spend, emphasised the advocate of all the verbotens, but rather the point that it is not advisable for a young politician to appear to hoard his salary. Education, you say? The childrens education will, I trust, be well provided for by a generous and appreciative country. So the Dillings moved, and Marjorie memorialised the occasion by issuing invitations to a large tea. I suppose you didnt keep a visiting list? No! Azalea had expected a negative answer, so she was not disappointed. But Marjorie added, Im sure I shant forget any of my friends. Doubtless! The difficulty will lie in remembering all your active enemies! Oh, Miss DeaneI mean Azaleawhat shocking things you say! Surely, I dont have to ask people who havethat is, who haventwho arent exactly what you might call friendly with me? Positively! Oh, but that doesnt seem right! protested Marjorie, in dismay. Its deceitful! Theres no use liking people if you treat the ones you dont like just as well! Sound logic, my dear, but impractical from a social standpoint. You see, its something like this Azalea slipped a thin gold bracelet from her arm, pouring within and about it, a quantity of pen nibs. Society is like this bangle, and these nibs are the people who compose it. Ill jostle the desk and then see what happens to those who are not safe within its golden boundary. They fall off and go down to oblivion. The others, though disturbed, are in a sense secure, so you can see, my dear, that the paramount business of life in the Capital is to get _inside_. Of course, there are circles within circles, and you must learn about them, later. But for the moment, concentrate upon getting within the shining rim. Once there, you can stick, and prick, and jab, and stab to your hearts content, and you need not treat your friends and enemies alike. But until you _do_ get therewell, you really wont matter, one way or the other. Your friendship will be prized scarcely more than your enmity will be deplored. But, objected Marjorie. I never heard of dividing people into lots, unless a sudden thought occurred to her unless you mean that all the nice people are inside and the other kind are not. Is that it? Indubitably, laughed Azalea. And you must affirm your belief that this is so, on each and every occasion. I dont know what you mean. Why, you must find all the people within the circle charming and brilliant and desirable, and all those outside commonplace and dull, and not worth while. You must like the former and despise the latter. Oh, its quite simple, really! Marjorie smiled the smile she reserved for her husbands excursions in wit. She thought, of course, that Azalea was joking. Now, theres sometimes a little difficulty in classifying people who teeter on the edge, she poised a nib on the golden circle to illustrate her point. A little push one way or the other will decide which way they will go, and until they get pushed, I admit they are something of a problem. However, well begin with the certainties, and then Ill borrow a list from Lady Denby, so as to be sure not to overlook anybody . . . The Ministers wivesMrs. Blaine, Mrs. Carewe, Mrs. Haldane, Mrs. Carmichael, Lady Denby . . . Azalea wrote rapidly for a few moments, carefully spelling the French names as she recalled them. Then the wife of the Black Rod: she goes everywhere And I like her, interrupted Marjorie. Shes not a bit stiff, is she? Azalea laughed and shook her head. Marjories dread of women who were stiff and men who were sarcastic, amused her. Between consultations with Lady Denby, the Parliamentary Guide and the Telephone Book, the invitations were issued, and Azalea sat back, sighing after her labours. Now you will have paid off all your tea obligations, she said, but you really must keep a list. Separate ones for luncheons, dinners and suppers. Probably, a dinner will be the next thing. And who must I ask for dinner, when I give one? enquired Marjorie, ignoring in her distress the rules of grammar. Why, the people who have had you, of course! Not luncheon people, not tea people, mind! Azalea was quite stern. But the people who have had you for _dinner_! It will be simple until you have been entertained frequently, and then you will have to sort out members of different sets. I dont like it, said Raymond Dillings wife. I dont want to entertain that way. I tell you, its deceitful! Entertaining, said Azalea, with a suspicion of hardness in her voice, is an admirable illustration of the eye for an eye transaction mentioned in Holy Writ. Only, in the Capital, an astute woman schemes to obtain two eyes for one optic, and a whole set, upper and lower, for the molar she has sacrificed. When she accomplishes this, my dear, then she has achieved real social success. Bismillah! CHAPTER 9. Several circumstances combined to make possible the large and representative crowd that attended Mrs. Raymond Dillings first big crush. The day was fine, the season was only beginning so that there were few counter-attractions, and the Parliamentary set, who were hearing with increasing frequency of the fervid young prophet of the prairies, went out of curiosity to see, as Mrs. Lorimer tactfully put it, _What_ he had married. Dilling had already made a strong impressionpartly favourable, and partly the reverse. But it was definite in either case. Lastly, the Hollingsworth house, into which the Dillings had moved, was a landmark which still bequeathed a flavour of by-gone grandeur to its successive tenants, although no member of the illustrious family had lived beneath its roof for close upon half a century. But no matter who lived there, it was a mansion into which one could pass with dignity and a certain satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that even should it be converted into a boarding-house, there would remain the manifest though indefinable air that differentiates the messuages of patricians from the tenements of the proletariat. That the Hollingsworths should be transformed into anything so needful as a private hostelry, however, was almost inconceivable, for Ottawas last concern was her housing problem. Accommodation was so scarce at the seat of Government that many Members began to fear, after a discouraging search, that they would have to stand. Over-furnished rooms, and under-furnished houses were offered at opulent rentals, but of comfortable pensions, there were none. There are but two or three to-day. What solution has been reached, may be attributed to the number of picturesque old residences that have been remodelled and split into half a dozen inconvenient mouse-traps. Inside, the Hollingsworths was a riot of fantastic ugliness. A gaunt reception hall engulfed the visitor and cast him, from beneath a series of grilled oak arches, into a sombre drawing room. One end was bounded by folding doors that resisted all efforts at movement, and beyond, there yawned a portentous bay window that invited invasion by the house next door and reduced the cubic contents of the dining-room. Strange abutments, niches that looked as though they had been designed for cupboards and abandoned before completion, appeared in unsuspected places. Angles were everywhere. The ceilings were lumpy, like the frosting of a birthday cake, and there wasnt a gracious line to be seen. Marjories hangings, chosen with the idea of giving a cheerful touch, looked somewhat as a collar of baby ribbon might have looked upon the neck of an elephant. Her Brussels rugs were suggestive of a postage stamp on a very large envelope, while the Mission furniture and mahogany What-not, added to the general air of discord. With several violent examples of the lithographers skill on the walls, there was completed a terrorising picture that might aptly have been labelled The Carnage of Art. Marjorie stood in front of the cherry-wood fireplace and tried not to be nervous, but she couldnt forget that immense issues depended upon the success of this teaRaymonds entire future, perhaps! It was a thought that almost petrified her. Pamela de Latour was one of the first guests to arrive. She was early because she was assisting, and she was assisting because Lady Denby had made the matter a personal favour to herself. It was customary, in Ottawa, for unmarried ladies to assist in the dining-room, no matter what their age, while matrons, either old or young, officiated at the tea table. It therefore frequently developed that youthful matronsbrides, indeedwere comfortably seated behind the tea-urn, or that they cut interminable ices, while spinsters thrice their age, percolated kittenishly among the guests on high-heeled slippers, deprived by mans short-sightedness, of the rest which their years were craving. Miss Lily Tyrrell, aristocrat by inclination and democrat by necessitya charming woman whose family had been both wealthy and conspicuous in an older generationalso assisted, as did the wholesome Misses McDermott. These latter were so much in demand that their assistance had become almost a profession, as had tea-pouring for Mrs. Chalmers, wife of the Black Rod, and presiding at meetings for Mrs. B. E. Tillson. Im so pleased to see you, said Marjorie to Miss de Latour, a little too precipitously, and spoiling the effect of Hawkins announcement. Hawkins announced at every function of any importance, and infallibly employed the precise nuance of impressiveness with which to garnish each name. Miss de Latour, he called, and in a tone which plainly said, Heres Somebody! Missus Anover, he droned, a moment later, looking over that ladys shoulder, and taking a deep breath before booming, _Lydy Denby!_ That was his way. It was so good of you to come, Marjorie continued. I didnt know but that you would have forgotten me. Not at all, murmured Miss de Latour, gazing with a sort of outraged intensity about the room. Had you a pleasant summer? Oh, wonderful, perfectly wonderful! It was so good to get home and feel . . . Missus Moss, observed Hawkins, listlessly. Pleased to meet you, said Marjorie, nervously cordial. (She recalled later, with considerable puzzlement, that most of her guests said briefly, How dy do? If they reciprocated her friendly sentiments, they displayed admirable restraint in suppressing the fact.) Isnt it a lovely day? Glorious, agreed Mrs. Moss, estimating Miss de Latours dress at an even hundred. I suppose youre glad to be back in Ottawa? Those little prairie towns must be so dull! Before Marjorie could spring to the defence of Pinto Plains, Mrs. Hotchkiss was announced. The smile with which she was prepared to meet her guest changed to a look of surprise. The rather plain little person advancing towards her was not the dashing Mrs. Hotchkiss she so greatly admired. You were expecting my namesake, I see, laughed the newcomer, easily. Yes, there are two of usno relation. Shes the good-looking Mrs. Hotchkiss. Im the other one! Pleased to meet you, said Marjorie, magenta-colour with embarrassment. Have you hadI mean, wont you have your tea? Mrs. Plantagenet Promyss, blared Hawkins, as though impatient to get Mrs. Hotchkiss out of the way. A small, untidy woman plunged into the room. How dy do? she said, not only to Marjorie, but all who were within hearing distance. I hope Im not too late for a nice hot cup of tea! Theres nothing so depressing to me as a third lukewarm steeping . . . and thats what a good many sessional hostesses give one, my dear! Then catching sight of Mrs. Long, Ive just come from a meeting of the Little Learning League, where Lady Elton read a perfectly delightful paper called Good Buys in Old By-town. You know, shes so clever at bargaining and that sort of thing . . . eh? The Little Learning League, my dear Mrs. Dilling, is the only organization of its kind in the Capital. It concentrates once a fortnight, the essenceabsolutely the essenceof feminine culture and intelligence. Mrs. Lauderdale Terrace is our president. You probably havent met her . . . yet, she added, kindly. As a rule, Mrs. Promyss found the literary afternoons very wearisome. She possessed a pretty gift for modelling in soap, and was eager to instruct her fellow-members in the use of this charming and ductile medium. So skillful was she that her copy of the famous Rogers group, You Dirty Boy was once mistaken for the original. Indeed, she was so intrigued by its artistic quality, that she was disposed to argue that soap should be used for no other purpose, whatsoever! Lady Eltons personal title, however, combined with the smart caption of her paper, had quite enchanted the sculptor, and she was in high good humour. You must come to see me in my studio, she called, as one of the Misses McDermott led her away to the dining-room and a hot cup of tea. Marjorie smiled and shook hands until faces, like great expressionless balloons, wavered in the air. She lost all power to distinguish what was being said to her, and had no idea what she replied. Now and again phrases tumbled against her ear out of the general uproar but they seemed to have very little sense. . . . very proud of his children, shouted a richly-dressed person on her right. . . . me, too, came from a group on her left, only we fry ours in butter. From the direction of her leatherette divan drifted a remarkable statement. . . and she learned to swim . . . with a floating kidney . . . . . . and came ashore at Quebec in a Mandarins coat! Mechanically, she took the tea Azalea brought her, and approached a group of Cabinet ladies. Appalling, one of them was saying. Like something in a nightmare! Do you think shell ever learn? murmured another. Hes really clever. They turned suddenly. We were just admiring your house, exclaimed Mrs. Carewe. This room . . . Oh, Im so glad you like it! Marjories voice trembled with happiness. I feel very small in such grandeur, but were not using the top floor at all, and that helps a little. It was fortunate that our furniture was dark, wasnt it? I used to think there was nothing more gorgeous than a gold drawing-room suite, but even if I could have it, it wouldnt do at all in here, would it? Positively not! agreed the ladies, heartily. At the other end of the room, a group of Ottawas youthful Smart Set sought to extract a modicum of enjoyment from what they termed a dee-dee party. Theyre getting damnder and duller, sighed one. I thought nothing could beat Lady Denbys, but this has it skinned to a finish! Cant any one think of a funny stunt? asked another. Im so bored, I could lie down on the floor and sing hymns. Do it, dared Mona Carmichael, obviously the leader of the group. Go on, Zoe . . . Ill bet my new pink knickers, you havent the nerve! Nerves my middle name, declared Zoe, with a toss of her head. But the trouble with me is Mother. Shes prowling about somewhere in the festal chamber, and she never appreciates my originality. Lets eat, suggested Elsa Carmichael, the Ministers second daughter. That always fills up time. My times stuffed full, observed Mona. Had an awfully late lunch. Their shrieks of laughter sounded above the din. Shshsh! warned Zoe. Little Nell from Pinto Plains is looking at us. Well, lets do _something_, insisted the first speaker. Couldnt we go upstairs and hide things? Mona objected that this form of recreation was stale. We might smear their tooth brushes with cold cream, suggested Elsa. Perhaps they dont use them, Zoe returned. I say, cried Mona, suddenly alive to a new thought, how many olives can you hold in your mouth at once? Nobody had ever tried. Lets do it now, they agreed with one accord. Me first, said Mona. It was my idea. They seized a plate from the table, surrounded the experimentator, and watched half a dozen large, green olives disappear. My word, breathed Elsa, shes swallowing them whole! Eight, counted Dolly Wentworth, her cousin. Nine, tenmy Sunday hat, doesnt she look like a chipmunk? This was too much for Mona. She gulped, grabbed the plate now almost empty, and shot explosively, ten whole olives into it. Screams of delight rewarded her. Look, panted Zoe, she hasnt even bitten them! You beast, said Elsa, now we cant tell tother from which. Sorry, replied her sister, but you know I cant eat them. They make me disgustingly sick. Youve got to eat them, cried Dolly. If you dont, theyll be served up at the next party. The thought threw them into agonising spasms of mirth. Oh, this was wonderful . . . priceless . . . _mervellus_ . . . the very best ever! They really expected to expire . . . Slip them back on the table, commanded Mona, as she saw Marjorie approaching. Not a minute too soon, whispered Dolly. Now then, girls, your best Augusta Evans smile . . . Have you had tea? asked Marjorie, finding something about their hilarity that was as incomprehensible as the sombreness of the other groups who appeared to be too bored for words. She had little time for reflection, but there flashed through her mind a comparison between this and a tea in Pinto Plains, where a friendly atmosphere was inter-penetrating and a hostess wasnt ignored by her guests. They turned to her with the insolence of people who felt they had graced her home by their presence. Mona Carmichael answering for her friends, replied, Quarts . . . thanks. As that seemed to be productive of no further conversation, Marjorie moved away, suddenly conscious that there was a slight commotion at the door. A late guest was arriving. To her amazement, she recognised Mrs. Augustus Pratt, coarctated in a sapphire velvet, whose fashionable slit skirt revealed a length of limb that fascinated, while it unutterably shocked her. Mrs. Pratt, confided the lady to Hawkins. Parding? Mrs. Pratt, she repeated, bending a shade nearer. Missus Spratt! he relayed, resentfully. Hawkins knew Mrs. Pratt. He knew that she was marching round the golden circle seeking a weak spot through which she might force an entrance, and he felt it an insult to his position that he should have to deal with any one outside the charmed enclosure. He hated Mrs. Pratt. Mrs. Pratt bore down upon Marjorie, and in her wake followed a girl who was obviously a relative. I came because I knew you must be expecting me. I said to Mod . . . something has happened to that invitation, and your father would never forgive me if I didnt make a particular effort to get down to Mrs. Dillings this afternoon. This is Mod, Mrs. Dilling. I suppose shes a little older than your children? Marjorie was unequal to the occasion. She was surprised that Azalea had asked Mrs. Pratt. Azalea was surprised, herself, although she took in the situation at a glance, knowing that it was not unusual for persons of Mrs. Pratts calibre to attend functions at Government Houseand elsewherewith a sublime disregard for the necessity of an invitation. Maude was impaled upon the group of smart young ladies who stared disapprovingly at her, while her mother wandered about for half an hour with the intention of having everyone in the room know that she was there. Later, that night, she took the precaution to telephone Miss Ludlow, society reporter of The Dial, and, with cunning innocence, offered the item about Mrs. Dillings tea as a means of helping the girl to fill up her columnor colyum, in Mrs. Pratts phraseology. She believed in helping women, and she realised how difficult a task confronted the reporters. At any time, she would always be willing to confide information, and advised Miss Ludlow (who listened with her tongue in her cheek) not to hesitate to call upon her. As the crowd thinned, a chic little motor drove up to the Dillings door, and, after a tired glance in the direction of the bright chintz curtains, the driver settled back to await the pleasure of his lady. He was discovered almost immediately by the group standing in the dining-room. What slavery, murmured Mrs. Long. I wonder if its worth it. Perhaps he doesnt mind, suggested Mrs. Blaine. Oh, I should say its part of the days routine, said Miss de Latour. He calls somewhere for her every afternoon. One can grow accustomed to anything. They say shes writing a novel, confided Mrs. Long, an acrimonious tale about all of us in the Capital. How delicious, cried Miss de Latour. Dante will be jealous, I fear! But it isnt a novel, Mrs. Blaine informed the group. At least, thats not what she calls it. What is it, then? Well, said Mrs. Blaine, Ive never seen itnor any of the other literary productions of which she is guilty, but she told me that it was a sort of allegory, a childs story, called The Fable of the Fairy Ferry-boat . . . and shes having it multigraphed for free distribution among the children of the English peerage. Be careful, cautioned Pamela de Latour, here she is! Mrs. Hudson fluttered to the window in response to the summons of Azalea Deane. She waved a sprightly hand in the direction of the waiting car, and mouthed, Coming, directly, darling! as though speaking to a young and inexperienced lip-reader. Isnt it absurd? she cooed coquettishly to the others. But he _will_ come! One would think we were bride and groom, and she made an ineffectual effort to blush. Some men are lovers always, sighed Mrs. Blaine. Thats Bob to the life, cried Mrs. Hudson. No wonder Im so spoiled. You certainly look exceptionally well, remarked Mrs. Long. Such a becoming hat . . . the fibs trickled fluently from her lips . . . such an artistic blending of gay colours . . . I like bright colours on any one who can wear them. And your hair has grown so beautifully white . . . not a dark strand to be seen anywhere . . . Her eyes wandered to the patient car . . . And Mr. Hudson looks like a perfect boy . . . CHAPTER 10. Mrs. Pratt was racked by indecision. She was faced by a stupendous problem. She could not determine whether to invite the young girls who had so frankly snubbed Mod to drive home in her limousine, or whether to honour herself by cringing before a group of elderly notables. She had not possessed a motor long enough to understand that people to whom driving would be a boon, do not expect to be invited, and that only those who own cars, themselves, or are perfectly able to hire taxis, should be asked to enjoy the convenience of a motor. So she made the mistake of offering to drop Miss Lily Tyrrell at her remote apartment, and prodded Maude into urging the Carmichael sisters to be driven home. We could easily take a couple more, she announced from the doorway, rather as a barker tries to fill up his sight-seeing car. No trouble at all! But as couples were slow in stepping forward, she strode off with the persons already captured. There was silence for a space after Mrs. Pratt had telephoned directions to her chauffeur. A sensitive stranger would have suspected that each member of the party was waiting for the other to throw the first stone. But such was not precisely the case. The unpleasant _timbre_ in the atmosphere was due to the fact that between each individual there existed a definite sense of animosity which was clothed with the filmiest cloak. Each seemed to be waiting an opportunity to step into the open and club the others into sensibility of her own importance. Mrs. Pratt looked at the ears of her chauffeur. Miss Tyrrell turned her head towards the window and thanked Heaven she would soon be able to take off her shoes. The Carmichaels maintained a series of signals by kicking one another beneath the lap robes, and Maude stared into her folded hands, wondering vaguely why people were born at all. Chickens and dogs and cats seemed so much more worth while. Where do _you_ live? asked Miss Tyrrell, with just the proper shade of patronage. She wished to make very clear to the Carmichael sisters that there existed no intimacy between Mrs. Pratt and herself. The former plunged into a minute description of the improvements she had effected in the Tillington place, and warned Miss Tyrrell that she would scarcely recognise it, now. I suppose in its day, it was considered all right, she said, but it was quite impossible when I took it over. You must see it . . . Of course, you _will_! With a husband in Parliament, I shall have to do a lot of entertaining. Do you like to dance? she asked Mona, suddenly. I adore it, returned the girl, with elaborate indifference. You dont, do you? she demanded of Maude. Oh, yes, I love dancing. Really? I never see you, anywhere. Mod is just home from school, said Mrs. Pratt. I dont believe in a girl carrying all her brains in her feet. She went out rather more than was good for her in Montreal . . . not being vurry strong. Thats why I cant let her go to the University, as she wants. What a pity, murmured the sisters, in a tone that made Miss Tyrrell bite her lips to keep from laughing. The moment they were alone, Mrs. Pratt wheeled upon her daughter. Whatever will I do with you, Mod? she scolded. Arent you ever going to learn to say anything for yourself? I dont like those girls, muttered Mod. I should hope not! But is that any reason why you shouldnt make friends with them? I dont want to have friends that I dont like. Mrs. Pratt was struck speechless by such philosophy. It had never occurred to her that anyone could hold views at variance with her own, least of all, her daughter. She found herself at a loss for an argument, a retort, indeed. The girl might just as well have said she didnt like having two hands. But everybody has! exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. Theres no getting around it! Look at your father . . . look at me! Maude looked. You dont suppose I went to that Dilling imbeciles tea because I _liked_ heror any of the people there, for the matter of thatdo you? Then why did you go? asked Maude, sullenly. Whywhyhow absurd you are! I went, and you will have to go because other people dobecause its the way of Society, because, whether you like it or not, its THE THING! They found Mr. Rufus Sullivan enjoying the fruits of the cellar when they reached home. Blame Gus, not me! he cried. Heaven knows Ive tried to take myself off half a dozen times. Is this your girl? Yep, answered Pratt, his harsh voice softening. This is our baby. Too big for me to kiss, I suppose, said Sullivan, secretly congratulating himself that this was so. Maude bore a striking resemblance to her mother. Mrs. Pratt acknowledged this witticism with a dry cackle, and invited the Hon. Member to stay and take _pot-pourri_ with them. She slurred over the words cautiously, never quite certain as to the correct application of the phrase. Some people, she knew, said pot luck, but this had, to her way of thinking, a vulgar sound. Thats the stuff, cried Gus. We can go back to the House together after a bite of supper. Dinner, corrected his wife, coldly. Youre quite all right as you are, Mr. Sullivan. None of us will dress. I should hope not, breathed the irrepressible Pratt, and drained his glass with a smack. Sullivans no party. As it had been this gentlemans intention to stay and talk with Mrs. Pratt, he demurred politely, calling himself an inconsiderate nuisance and other equally applicable terms. But in the end he allowed himself to be persuaded, and settled down to accomplish the object of his coming. Its a great pleasure to meet a woman with so keen a sense for politics, he remarked, speaking to Pratt but indicating his wife. Mr. Sullivan was one of the few men who could eat and talk at the same time, without seeming to give undue preference to either operation. Our Canadian women take shockingly little interest in the life of the country. Dont blame em, mumbled Pratt, struggling with a very hot potato. Augustus! Between telegraphing reproach to her husband, and directing the maid in what she conceived to be the correct serving of a meal, Mrs. Pratts heavy eyebrows attained a bewildering flexibility. He pretends not to take his position seriously, but leave him to me, Mr. Sullivan, leave him to me! With confidence, Madam, returned the Hon. Member, gallantly. Would that I had half so much in the other women of the Party. Is it not curious, he went on, that a politicians wife rarely appreciates the extent of her influence in shaping her husbands career? The parsons lady identifies herself with his interests; the doctors wife realises that she can attract or repel patients; and only the other day, the wife of a small-town banker confided to me that she never misses an opportunity for doing a stroke of business on her husbands behalf. As a matter of fact, I understand that she was largely responsible for the rival institution closing its doors, and leaving the field. Yet, a politicians wife as a rule, seems to take pride in holding herself aloof from politics. Dirty business for a woman, commented Pratt, stroking Maudes hand underneath the table. Not a whit dirtier than Society, my dear fellow, and there she likes to wallow. Am I not right, Mrs. Pratt? As a woman of the world, I feel sure you will agree with me. Mrs. Pratt, who desired above all else to be a woman of the world, agreed with him, darkly. In this coalition, they seemed to form a vague but tacit compact from which the recently-elected Member for Ottawa was excluded. What, in your opinion, is the vurry best way for a woman to help her husband, politically? she enquired, as they rose from the table. Sullivan managed to assume an arch expression as he pressed her arm, and answered, How can you ask such a question of a mere man? I can ask anything of anybody when theres something I want to find out, was the blunt retort. GusAugustushas _got_ to make good. He will! We have the utmost faith in him . . . and may I add, in you. Youll be a tower of strength to Gus, Mrs. Pratt, with your keen sense for politics. Only the other evening, I was making this statement to my little friend, Mrs. Dilling. Mrs. Dilling? Yes. Wife of the Member for Pinto Plains. You should know her, Mrs. Pratt. A creature of rare beauty and charm. Mrs. Pratt confessed to a slight acquaintance in a tone calculated to chill her guests enthusiasm. She gave a big tea, this afternoon. Mod and I were there. Really? I am glad to hear it. You two ought to be great friendswith interests that are so nearly identical. As Mrs. Pratt said nothing, the Hon. Member continuedsomewhat more easily, noting that his host and Maude had left the roomIm so fond of her . . . almost _too_ fond, Im afraid! Shes a wonderful little woman, Mrs. Prattand Ive known a good many in my day. Do you realise that Marjorie could simply _make_ her husband, if she had a tithe of your political sense . . . if she only knew how! You surprise me, said Mrs. Pratt, and in her tone the Hon. Member was gratified to detect the ring of truth. Well, its a fact. Dillings a marvel, my dear lady. Even the Opposition concede him the respect due a powerful antagonist. Hes not a bad speaker, admitted Mrs. Pratt. There isnt a man in the House who can touch him! Now, is there? Mrs. Pratt hedged by suggesting that the country looked for something more than forensic eloquence. A profound remark! Mr. Sullivan could not restrain his admiration. He beamed and stroked his knees, deriving from the performance, apparently, much satisfaction. Trust you to dig right down to the root of the matter! Not that he hasnt principles, dear lady, and also the courage necessary to express them. We mustnt overlook that. Moreover, its almost impossible to defeat him in argument . . . Such disconcerting agility of mind, you know. He lets the other fellow expend himself in an offensive, and then, without apparent effort, stabs and thrusts until his opponents fall in regularerregular Windrows, suggested Mrs. Pratt, whose unacknowledged relatives were honest farming people. Windrows, a capital comparison! They fall in regular windrows before him. Why, he can prove that black is white any day in the week. Men are fools! was the ladys oracular remark. Unfortunately for them . . . us, I really ought to say. I, myself, have felt the force of that young mans power, and Ive been absolutely putty in his hands. Mrs. Pratt drew her lips into a thin, straight line, and forbore to comment on this weakness. The trouble isas, of course, you are awarehe has been trained in a bad school, and it may take some time to undo the effect of early education. Then, naturally, hes only human and the wine of success is a heady beverage. Hes somewhat determined Mule-ish, amended Mrs. Pratt. No, no, I protest, cried the Hon. Member, playfully. You must not be too hard on the fellow. All he needs is a little guidanceperhaps even a shade more definite opposition. For example, this elevator and freight idea of his . . . Garanteed to plunge the whole country into roon, interrupted Mrs. Pratt, whose investments were centred strictly to the East. I anticipated you would take the view of the better minds, returned Mr. Sullivan, perceiving that the time had come for him to discard the subtler implements of finesse, and employ the rough, but honest trowel. But when alls said and done, it may be better to support a man with whose policies we are not in accord than to split into groups, and eventually be forced from our seats into the benches on the opposite side of the house. Mrs. Pratt watched her guest with unmistakable bewilderment in her hard blue eyes. I see that you agree with me, he went on, and you are probably wondering, just as I am, how soon the need will come for us to prove our Party loyalty. It cant be far away, dear lady. I have ten dollars in my pocket that says therell be a Cabinet vacancy before the spring. And Dilling will get the portfolio! barked Mrs. Pratt, thrown completely off her guard. What a head you have! cried Sullivan. Ill wager there arent a dozen men who have suspected it! But he needs support . . . he must have it. We must stand solidly behind him, for no matter how divergent may be our views upon this question of western freight, weve got to train up a mana good strong fellowwho will sweep the country and be able to step into the shoes of the Prime Minister, some day! Prime Minister! gasped Mrs. Pratt, and fell to preening herself in order that she might hide the trembling of her hands. She hated the DillingsRaymond for his reputed genius, the clear, cold brilliance that would not be eclipsed, and Marjorie for her childish friendliness and ingratiating ways. The meek might inherit the Kingdom of Heaven without provoking her envy, but that they should also inherit the earth was a contingency that aroused her cold fury. She saw them sought after, deferred to, taking precedence over everyone save the representative of the King! Her thoughts fell into narrower channels and she pictured Marjorie opening bazaars, lending her patronage to this or that gathering of Societys choicest blossoms, arriving at the state where she would be unstirred by invitations to Government House! Under the turquoise velvet, her bosom rose and fell, heavily. At the moment she hated her husband no less fiercely than she hated the man whom she chose to consider his rival. What could Augustus carve in the way of a career? How could he ever hope to triumph over this aggressive man from the West? Where would she be when Marjorie Dilling had become the wife of Canadas young Prime Minister? The suave voice of Rufus Sullivan fashioned itself into words. The first ones she failed to catch, but the last pierced her like the point of a white-hot rapier. . . . and then, naturally, a title. And how graciously she will wear it, eh? A title . . . Mrs. Pratt felt suffocated. A portfolio was bad enough; the Premiership was a possibility that she could not consider without a cataclysm of emotion, but a title . . . the pinnacle of human desire, the social and political apogee . . . Sir Raymond and Lady Dilling . . . Lady Dilling . . . She rose abruptly and strode to the door. Pratt avoided a collision with difficulty. He was just coming in. No more time for philandering, he cried, with vulgar geniality. On to Pretoria! Nelson expects every man to do his duty! Mrs. Pratt watched their departure with contradictory sensations. The Hon. Member for Morroway was not the man to spoil a good impression by an inartistic exit. He made a graceful adieu, managing to convey the idea that, although now and again he might be the bearer of news that was disturbing, on the whole he was a man who could be mulct by a woman of astuteness, of the most intimate and useful information. * * * * * Augustus Pratt, M.P., arrived home on the stroke of midnight to find his wife and daughter in the midst of a litter of stationery, calling lists, telephone and Blue Books. Whats up now? he demanded, picking his way across the floor as one hops over a brook by means of stepping stones. Look at that, cried his wife, and pointed to the evening paper. Pratt gave his attention to the item indicated. It headed the Personal column, and read, The following ladies and gentlemen had the honour of dining at Government House last evening . . . and Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Dilling. Well, he yawned, theres nothing very startling about that! I dont see the answer. No! Naturally you wouldnt! Mrs. Pratt pounded a stamp on an envelope. The M.P. turned to his daughter. Tell her old dad what it means, little Maudie. Mothers giving a big dinner party, on the seventeenth. Oh, my God! sighed Augustus. Then, Ive got to go to Montreal on that date, Minniehonest, I have! You dare! And listen, Gus, while I think of it; if I ever hear that youve given one atom of support to that Dilling, Ill have my trunks packed and the house closed, before you can get home! Now, dont forget! Dear, dear! Pratt assumed an air of panic. Whats the poor beggar been up to now? Hes up to getting himself into the Cabinet, if men like you dont want the job, yourselvesthats what hes up to. And once in the Cabinet, you know where hell land next. Where? In the Prime Ministers seat, returned Mrs. Pratt, sourly. In the Senate, you mean, laughed Augustus, and pinched Maudes ear. Your idea of jokes is sickening, Mrs. Pratt declared. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you. Now, Mod, read out the names on those envelopes down there! Dutifully, Maude complied . . . Mr. and Mrs. Chesley . . . Like enough they wont come, interrupted her mother. Weve never called. . . . Mr. and Mrs. Long! Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hudson . . . Theres another hateful snob. This afternoon I could have strangled her! Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Truman . . . They say she only goes to Government House, mused Mrs. Pratt. However, I took a chance. It only cost two centsand you never know. You bet youll never know, said the Member. Minnie, youre plain crazy asking all these swells that you dont even know when you see em! Why dont we have any _real_ friends, nowadays? Mrs. Pratt answered with a baleful glance that was more eloquent than words. Then, assured that there would be no further interference from her husband, directed Maude to finish her work. . . . Sir Eric and Lady Denby . . . They ought to come, anyhow, she groaned, hopefully, seeing its the Party. The Fanshawes, the Howarths, Sullivan and Azalea Deane . . . shes sure to come . . . that makes twenty-nine. Theres one more envelope, Mod! Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Dilling, read the girl. Dilling? echoed her father. Of course, Augustus. Dont gape at me in that way! But you just told meI thought you had your knife into the Dillings. So I have, you fool! Then why the hell do you ask them to your party? Mrs. Pratt so forgot herself as to stamp her foot. Cant you see, she cried, that theyre getting on? CHAPTER 11. For a time, Dilling was entertained by the visits he received from ladies of varying ages and mixed intentions. He found their vapoury subterfuges or engaging candour equally amusing. But presently, this type of diversion, so eagerly welcomed by many of his confrres, began to pall, and he developed amazing ingenuity in the avoidance of such callers. He had grown suspicious of deserving cases, and ancient grievances; he found himself totally unsympathetic towards the erection of monuments commemorating the questionable valour of somebodys obscure progenitors; he could sit absolutely unmoved and listen to schemes which were being projected at considerable personal inconvenience, in order that he might attain immortality. The measures he was asked to father in the House ranged from the segregation of the feeble-minded to prohibition of philandering. Hes a cold fish, complained more than one lady, after failing to elicit the smallest response, either to her project or her personal charms. It was true that Dillings emotional reactions were slight, but it was equally true that had they been vehement, he would have forced himself to a course of conduct commensurate with what he conceived to be the demands of national welfare. He never could accept the idea that the Government Service was an institution in which hundreds of personslike Mr. Deanemight find a comfortable escape from the storm and stress of a fruitful life, and render in return but a tithe of the work that even their small abilities could fairly perform. He never could sympathise with the attitude of those who looked upon the public funds as private means, and he opposed, in so far as he was able, every effort to tap the Dominion Treasury for individual gain. There were times when he thought with discouragement about these things; times when he was oppressed with the basic insincerity of public life. It was so vastly different from what he had imagined! He felt himself eternally struggling against the malefic urge of partisanshipand partisanship was not always, he found, an expression of high principle. And he saw also that, as his success gathered head, petty jealousiesand greatsprang up on every hand. The very persons who assisted in his rise would be the first, he knew, to herald his downfall. He used to think that because a man was prominent, he possessed universal good-will, but now he knew that the exact reverse obtains. I am the most unpopular man in the House, he said to Azalea, one evening. On the floor, they cheer and applaud me, but in private or social life, I am shunned. Another woman would have contradicted him. Such a course did not occur to Azalea. Do you mind? she asked. He considered a moment. Im not sure. It seems to me that the popular Members dont _do_ anything. Theyre too busy being popular . . . too busy being agreeable to a herd of tireless parasites. Which is quite out of your line, is it not? Well, why _should_ I snivel and crawl? he defended. One respects a man or one doesnt. Popularity is, after all, only an expression of mob psychology; as you know, it is unstablehaving either the vaguest of excuses, or palpable insincerity behind it. You mean the insincerity of the person who is popular? Of course! What man feels genuine friendliness towards enough people to make him popular? Azalea shook her head in the characteristic way that implied her resentment against accepting the inevitable. But dont you feel that a certain amount of studied affability islet us saynecessary to the attainment of success in public affairs? No! I believe with Lincoln that the conduct of a statesmanand that is my high ambition, if it be Gods will that I attain to itshould be moulded upon three principles; malice towards none, charity for all, firmness on the right. These principles are not compatible with the flatteries and lightly-regarded mendacities of a popular idol. A statesman ought to be less of a man and more of an ethical inspiration. Its not an easy ideal to live up to, he concluded, but at least its a clean one, and I think the only one that history justifies. Yes, repeated Azalea, as though careful that her voice should not betray her true opinion, its a very clean one. Recalling that conversation, Dilling found himself musing rather pleasantly about Azalea. What a curious little creature she was! What a stimulating companion! He could not, for the life of him, visualise her features, but he could bring to mind many an illuminating twist of her thoughts. Times without number, he realised, he had invoked her extraordinary intuitive powers and transmuted them in the crucible of his logic, into what Sullivan was pleased to designate as invincibility in debate. Shes more than half responsible, he told himself. I couldnt have achieved my present position by any process of reasoning alone. He looked over his crowded desk with a sensation of helplessness. How could any man, single-handed, clear that accumulation away? He wondered if other Members allowed their business to get into such a distressing tangle, and if they had better luck than he when a stenographer came in for a few hours, to reduce the congestion? Its this eternal speech-making, he reflected. Thats what takes so much of my time. I wish . . . He left his chair and began to pace about the room, surrendering to an access of restlessness that was quite foreign to him. Azalea Deane . . . there was the solution! Why not? Why should she not come to him as a permanent assistant . . . a sort of private secretary? She could relieve me of a myriad minor duties, he thought. Foreign press . . . correspondence . . . research work . . . Shes amazingly accurate . . . He smiled as he caught himself suppressing the familiar corollary, for a woman! Yes, that was the solution! He would ask Azalea Deane to work with him. Well get on famously together, he thought. Shes so quick to catch the drift of my intention. She really understands me. He sat down again, amused at the recollection of an original view expressed by Azalea in answer to Marjorie, who complained of Ottawas persistent misunderstanding. Theres no cause for distress in being misunderstood, she had said. Its the opposite condition that we should dread! Imagine ones stupidity, covetousness and smallness of spirit being laid bare! Unthinkable, isnt it? You mustnt forget, my dear Marjorie, that being misunderstood works both ways, and through imperfect understanding we are frequently credited with motives and qualities that are quite as flattering as we could wish. Heaven forfend that I should ever be thoroughly understood! Dilling applauded her and reminded his wife that if men were compelled to write their thoughts and wear them as phylacteries on their foreheads, few, indeed, would carry themselves bravely in public. And why should they do that, dear? Marjorie enquired, her pansy eyes clouded with perplexity. He is only trying to be clever, explained Azalea. He is subtly suggesting that if the very best of us proclaimed our thoughts upon our foreheads, there would be jolly few who didnt pull their hats low above their brows. Azalea did not wear her thoughts upon her forehead, Dilling reflected, and he smiled at his conceit in thinking that if she did, they would probably be written in a language that was difficult to read! It suddenly occurred to him that he knew very little of what was passing in Azaleas mind. His endeavour had been directed to an opposite courseassisting her to understand what was in his thoughts. Shes a curious creature, he repeated, a problem. But she has rare intelligence and imagination. I need her . . . She is necessary for the advancement of my work. I cant concentrate in this hopeless muddle . . . The idea excited him more than he realised. In planning a schedule for their days routine, he did not recognise his keen desire for a closer intimacy with the girls mind, the assurance of her esteem, the stimulus of knowing that she expected him to conquer unconquerable things. He began to wear down her arguments, to win her from possible disinclination. She must agree! She must come! He pictured a scene with her tiresome old father, when he should ask not for her hand but for her brain. How insensately stubborn the old antiquarian would be! How damnably unreasonable! He consulted his book of appointments . . . not a minute Wednesday . . . nor Thursday . . . Ah! Mrs. Pratts dinner party . . . Good! He would ask her then . . . A thin smile touched his features as he said to himself, If I can move the Opposition in the House, surely I can override the objections of Grenville Deane! * * * * * Mr. Deane would have swelled with pride had he known that his daughter was engaging the attention of more than one Parliamentary Member that day. In a room above that occupied by Raymond Dilling, the thoughts of three other gentlemen bent themselves fleetingly upon her. * * * * * The fellows not only clever, grumbled Turner, but hes too damned careful. Well have some trouble in pinning anything on him. Sullivan sipped his whisky reflectively. The trouble is that he never meets the right sort of people. God knows they go out enough, protested Howarth. According to the Personals which Ive read conscientiously for several weeks past, they go pretty much everywhere. Because hes become the vogue, in a manner of speaking, said Sullivan. But that wont do us any good. It wont last long enough. Socially, they are failures and always will be . . . Mark my words, the time will come when they will be asked only because their political position requires recognition, not for their personal charm. Church-workers and unambitious obscurities will be their particular friends . . . her particular friends, perhaps I should say. He wont have any. Still, hell meet some interesting women, objected Turner. I grant it, but not deliberately interesting, returned Sullivan, with a wink. In other words, he wont stumble into a trap. Hell have to be led into it. Why wont he stumble? Howarth asked. Other men do. His temperament is a safeguard, for one thing. He is not sufficiently attracted by women to go exploring, and only those who wander into unfamiliar places get caught in traps. Howarth remarked that his wife had reported a warm friendship between the Dillings and the Deane girl. Yes, said Sullivan, Ive been watching that. Mrs. D. tells me that he admires the girl intensely. Humph! commented Turner. Ive never met the lady, said Howarth, but judging from her looks I should think that a mans intensity of feeling for her could not be much more than a mild passion of the imagination. Sullivan laughed. Thats not bad for you, Billy. Ill go even further and opine that Dillings intensity of feeling for anyone will be like the passion of a fried sole! However, the Deane girl wont do. What about de Latours daughter? suggested Howarth. She looks clever, and might help, for the sake of the Party, as our estimable Lady Denby says. Good God, Billy, groaned Sullivan. We dont want anyone who _looks_ clever! Dont you know me better than that? Well, the sweet young thing should be easy to find, said Turner. No good, either. In the first place, its hard to find one with any sense, and in the second, he gets that type as a daily diet. Those Carmichael girls seem to be consistent winners, suggested Turner, once more. Some brains, and good looks . . . Too young, said the old campaigner. Undependable! Kids are apt to lose their heads and weaken, when it comes to using the scalping knife. First thing we know, theyd give the whole show away. No, he went on, reflectively, what we want is a regular stunner, wholl stick right at the game until she has his scalp at her belt . . . a woman of the world, you know, chock full of horse sense and able to handle men with as little difficulty as an expert trainer handles cats. There was a short silence. I cant think of anybody, Turners tone was sodden with discouragement. Nor I, said Howarth. Havent you got anybody up your sleeve, Sullivan? The Hon. Member for Morroway modestly admitted that there was a lady of his acquaintance who combined all these alluring vices. Either of you ever heard of Mrs. Barrington? he enquired. Turner thumped his approval. Howarth took his satisfaction more cautiously. Ive seen the dame. Kind of flashy, eh? Tastes differ, replied his friend. Just moved here lately, hasnt she? Sullivan nodded. Hangs round the House a good deal, trying to put something over for her husband, Ive heard. Youre remarkably well informed, Billy, mocked the older man. Did you ever know her before? asked the unabashed Howarth. Sullivan confessed to a previous acquaintance. Her mothers first husband was my sisters brother-in-law. So, you see, shes a sort of relation. Not too close to be interesting, observed Turner, who had his private opinion about Sullivans relations. Has she been sounded? Do you think shell take on the job? The Member for Morroway was hopeful, provided, he said, she is not absorbed in any other emotional adventure. They are chronic. Is that the only provision? Howarth wanted to know. Welleras you, yourself, remarked, she seems to be determined to get Barrington a nice, cushioned berth in which he will be well protected against the rigours of enervating toil. I understand that she fancies the Chairmanship of the Improvement Commission. William Howarth, M.P., expressed relief, and the opinion that this was pie. Well just put little Augustus Pratt on the job, he said. How soon could we see the lady? Sullivan didnt doubt that she was somewhere in the House at the moment. You trot along and find her, then, urged the other. Bring her up here and lets hold a friendly little conference. The sooner we get her started on this escapade, the sooner our young friend will lose his head! CHAPTER 12. A light but insistent tapping put an end to Dillings reflections. Come in! he called, impatiently, and turned towards the window as if intent upon the landscape. There was a slight pause, and then, like a well-timed bit of stage business, a woman stood framed in the open door. Dilling appreciated the dramatic note even while he resented it. On general principles he despised the theatrical. Oh, I _am_ lucky! cried his visitor, in a well-disciplined contralto. I scarcely dared hope to find you alone. Every atom of courage I possessed oozed out of my finger-tips at the thought of interrupting a secret caucus, or some other of the dark conspiracies that are supposed to occupy our Members time! She advanced and extended an ungloved hand. Dilling touched her fingers without speaking. My name is Hebe Barrington, she went on, Mrs. Arthur, on my calling cards, you know . . . and Im here on a desperately serious mission. Its success means everything to me, and you, yourself, Mr. Dilling, have buoyed me up with the hope that I shall not fail. She shifted her position slightly, contriving to draw her skirt close about her long, slender limbs like a sheath. But Dilling was not looking. He had taken a penknife from his pocket, and was giving First Aid to an untutored finger-nail. How shall I begin? she went on, watching him from beneath her lashes. It was one of her prettiest gestures. Perhaps, if you made some notes and sent them to me Oh, please! she protested. Thats heartless of you. And _do_ sit down! I cant think while you wear that Times up expression. It drives every idea from my head. I tell you frankly, Mr. Dilling, I expected you would be much more kind. She flung him a smile that had dazzled many another man. Dilling received it with indifference, in a wholly unprecedented manner. Mrs. Barrington found the experience somewhat disconcerting. In his expression there was no appreciation of her loveliness. Neither was there the disapproval that betokens a recognition of it, or a sign of that wariness by which man betrays his knowledge of its danger. There was nothing. In the abstract, Dilling saw men as trees, walking, but women he saw scarcely at all. Emotionally, he was vestigial. Artistically, he was numb. Beauty in any form registered only through his outward eye. He missed the inner vision that should have quickened his soul. Mrs. Barrington was not an unfamiliar figure to him, although he had never been sufficiently interested to ask her name. Frequently, of late, he had seen her in the restaurant, or in the corridors, sometimes surrounded by a group of Parliamentary gallants, and sometimes in earnest tete-a-tete with just one man. If he thought of her at all, it was to conclude that like other women who haunt the House, she was engaged in the popular occupation known as lobbying, and he felt an instinctive opposition to whatever request she might be about to make. On her part, Mrs. Barrington felt the disappointment of one who has been unexpectedly repulsed at the first line of attack, and sees the necessity for finer strategy. She laid aside the ineffectual weapon of physical charm, and took up the subtler blade of flattery. I have come to you, she said, because you are not only essentially, but so patently, sincere. Not your speeches alone, but your whole manner, proclaim it. I suppose that is a good deal to say of a politician, is it not? By no means! There is little evidence to the contrary! Most of them rant about a loftier patriotism, service for the public weal that knows no respite and the realisation of a higher idealism for Twentieth Century Canada, but their actual performances are not marked with the large disinterestedness they profess. You are different. Perhaps you wont like my saying so, Mr. Dilling, but as you sit in the House, surrounded by your colleagues, yours is a noticeably solitary figure. I felt it the instant I saw you, and the impression has grown steadily stronger . . . with reason. You have brought a different element into politics, Mr. Dilling. Like Disraeli, you are on the side of the angels! You have brought what I call practical spirituality, a force that can and will defeat materialism, ififyou do not get discouraged, and tired of struggling on, alone. Arent you rather disheartening? The question was asked with such utter unconcern that Mrs. Barrington could not deceive herself into thinking she had made an impression. Had Dilling taken her seriously, or accorded her half the sincerity she professed to impute to him, he would have been unconscionably embarrassed. As matters stood, her words, like her beauty, failed to touch him. He heard them as he heard agreeable music, without annoyance, but without pleasure. It was said of him, that once, in Pinto Plains, when asked if he enjoyed piano playing he had answered, Oh, I dont mind it! and he could aptly have applied the same phrase to this womans conversation. He didnt mind it! He was listening without giving particular heed to what she said. He knew that she had come to ask a favour, and he was not sufficiently amenable to feminine wiles to lose sight of the methods of a shrewd campaigner. I may be disheartening, he heard her say, but I am sincere. Would you have me pretendtell you how popular you are, and how certain to become the idol of the people? Do you not remember that the Csars and Lincolns of history have been slandered and slain by their friends and compatriots, and can you hope to escape a similar fate at the hands of our peopleeven though despotism is not tempered with assassination here, as it was a hundred years ago in Russia? Dilling was conscious of a flicker of interest. It was curious, he reflected, that this woman should have come to him and given expression to the very thoughts that had been uppermost in his mind. He wondered whether she had been talking to Azalea. And what has all this to do with your mission? he asked, closing his penknife with a snap. Everything! she cried, vehemently. Everything depends upon the honesty behind your protestations, upon the fact that you are not merely content to talk about idealism, but will work to see it blossom throughout the country. Moreover, I have counted on your vision, your ability to see the benefit of what, to others, may look like an impractical measure. Any other type of man would laugh at me, she added. She stopped and waited for him to speak. But he made no comment. He was not insensible to the cleverness with which she assembled her points. There was about her address a climacteric quality that compelled his admiration. But her speech fell flat because he failed to pick up his cues. The obvious retort that she must have anticipated, was never spoken; so each pause was pregnant with the suggestion of finality, of failure. I felt as though I were being driven, blindfold, along a crooked passage, she said, later, in describing the interview to Sullivan. Each time I turned a corner, some one rose and struck me in the face, so that I reeled and lost my bearings and had to wait a bit in order to recover myself and my sense of direction. Dilling half suspected this. He did not, however, assume a difficult and disinterested manner, deliberately, nor did he act with conscious rudeness. He simply felt no curiosity in Mrs. Barrington nor in the object of her visit, and no obligation to pretend that he did. I have come to you, she said, again, because you are the embodiment of all the qualities I have mentioned. Your sympathy, I take for granted, for the reason that the cause I plead is a spiritual cause, Mr. Dilling. I am asking for the development of a nations soul. Oh! This response, though almost imperceptible, affected the woman as applause breaking suddenly over an unfriendly house, stimulates an actor to greater achievement. She left her chair and stood before him, a vision of aggressive beauty. She nearly lost herself in the part she was playing, and allowed impulse rather than design to dominate the moment. We admit that in the fierce struggle for existence, a young country must concern itself primarily with material problems, and that the song of the spirit is often stifled by the cry of hungry children. But has not the day arrived for us when our thought, and at least a small part of our resources, should be devoted to providing nourishment for the Canadian soul? I know that this sounds like the spell-binders affluence of speech, but, believe me, Mr. Dilling, I have a practical proposition behind it. Well? said Dilling, without enthusiasm. She pointed to the Little Theatre movement, to various literary and dramatic organisations that have sprung up throughout the Dominion, as a proof that we are seeking a means of artistic expression, for spiritual development, that we are feeling a reaction from the wave of materialism which, in these times, holds the land in thrall. In a word, she said, we are looking for happiness, only just realising that we have striven without it all these years. We are not a happy nation, Mr. Dilling. Show me a more prosperous one, he cried. Ah! But theres our trouble. Prosperity and happiness may lie at opposite poles. The one is of the earth and its fulness, the other of the spirit, and in our pursuit of the former, we too frequently forget the needs of the latter. Happiness depends upon the emotions, Mr. Dilling, and Canadians have almost suffocated theirs. Obviously, the spark of interest she had ignited had turned to ashes. He was silent, so she hurried on. We need Artthe medium through which spirituality flows into the life of man. We want to hear the symphonies of our composers, the songs of our poets, as well as the throb and thunder of motor factories and power plants. I would ask the Government to recognise the organisations that are endeavouring to promote artistic creation, and to give financial assistance to the conspicuously talented artists throughout the Dominion! Hold on! cried Dilling, stung into repelling this premeditated attack upon the National Treasury. We maintain a big Gallery out at the Museum. We subsidise Art. Yes, she countered, quickly, but not the artist. What you do only goes to swell the pay-roll of the Civil Service . . . You dont go far enough! Hasnt the Government helped to build up the industries of this country? Has it not pap-fed factories and commercial enterprises of various kinds? You know it has! If I should want a water-power for some silly little saw-mill, shall I not have it from my Province, for the asking? Theres not a doubt of it! Yet, no one thinks of providing a greater power and one whereby this growing unrest can be composed. We are making a great point of conserving our natural resources, but who thinks of conserving our _spiritual_ resources, Mr. Dilling? We need the one no less than the other. Men are reaching out towards Art! Government is organised to legislate for peace and order in the community. Aristotle said that Government was organised to make people happy. I scarcely think we have made good along his principles, do you? You cant legislate people into happiness. No! But you can provide the things that will create that state of mind. I should like to see a National Theatre, Mr. Dilling, in which the struggles and triumphs of Canada might be told by her own sons and daughters. Love of our common country can be fostered in no happier way. Let us have annual prizes for excelling talent in the Arts, and Science, and Literature! Have we any poets worth recognising? interrupted Dilling. Ah, I knew you would make that objection! cried Hebe Barrington. I knew that your thoughts would fly at once to Milton, and Keats, and Shelley . . . and the greatest of them all, Shakespeare. You immediately compare us with the immortals, and feel that we lose by the comparison. I dont profess to offer you a Homer or a Sappho. But there were lesser poets in Athens whom Pericles favoured at the expense of the peoples purse. Its harder for poetry and the Arts to flourish to-day, than two thousand years agoOh, dont you see, _we_ need a National Theatre? Its an idea, conceded Dilling, with caution. Hebe Barrington was clever. She did not press her slight advantage but prepared to beat a strategic retreat. I knew that you would see it, she cried. How else can we make idealism real save by expressing it first through Art and then weaving it into our practical experiences? How else can we keep alive the traditions that have given us our Empire? How teach them to the young? I am full of schemes for working this thing out. May I come to see you againor better still, she amended, watching him intently with her great, soft eyes, will you come to me, say this day week? If you like, he said, opening the door. Presently, he opened the window, too. The room was close with a heavy, sweetish odour that offended him. He looked down the river, past the Mint and the Archives. Catching sight of the smoke-clouded roof of Earnscliffeonce the stately residence of Sir John Macdonaldhe fell to wondering what the Grand Old Man would have said to such a proposition . . . A National Theatre! The Greeks, he remembered, spared neither time nor money on their dramatic temple, which was free! On the other hand, the Canadian theatre was almost prohibitive in point of admission fee, and far from being the object of Governmental support, it was controlled by a group of Semitic gentlemen whose habitat was Broadway and whose taste reflected anything but a Canadian National spirit. In Rome, Mommens had taught him, there were fewer occupations more lucrative than those of actor and dancerRoscius, one of the former, receiving the equivalent of $30,000 as his annual income, and Dionysia, a fairy-footed maid, $10,000 yearlymore than twice the amount of his Parliamentary indemnity! Why should Canada not have her theatre? He had dreamed of leisure to writea drama of the West. Often he had pictured its theme unfolding in a mighty spectacle that would rival those of Ancient Rome, when six hundred mules passed in review across the stage of a military pageant, and whole armies were in requisition to give verisimilitude to a production. He saw vast herds of buffalo and cattle; he heard the thunder of their flying hoofs and the yells of the pursuing Red Men. From the south and east, troops of devil-may-care cowboys burst upon the scene. The whirr of arrows, the snap of rifles, beat across his consciousness. And as the play progressed, over the flaming prairie there crawled a slow, white streak, coming to a halt at last in what looked like the heart of infinity. And presently, there appeared a tiny farm. Deep in moonlit gorges, Dilling saw fur traders, whiskey smugglers, Indians, and cattle thieves, threading a cautious way. Then came the flash of scarlet coats and diminishing disorder. And along the trails made by the thirsty buffalo, followed by wary Red Men, rediscovered by ambitious young surveyors who found that wisdom was born in brute, and even in primeval man, before it made its way to books, the railway flung its slender arms across an infant nation; and settlers came hard upon the heels of construction crews, a strange assortment who spoke their parts in the music of unfamiliar, polyglot tongues. And on the site of some forgotten Indian encampment, where patient squaws pounded out their corn, there grew a field of wheat which gave way to a small settlement, and then a town where gigantic storehouses now husbanded the grain! Ah, God, the glamour of the Westhis West! Suddenly, it sang in his blood, it shone in his eyes, it dazzled him and provoked emotions that no woman had ever stirred. A National Theatre? Well, it certainly was an idea, but he must not be intrigued by it; there was no hurry. The proposition needed thinking . . . Dilling crossed the room, took the receiver from its hook and called up Azalea. He was unaccountably disappointed to learn that she was out. He realised with a sense of shock that she was the only friend he had made since coming to the Capital. At the moment, he felt that she was more than a friend . . . that she was a necessity. But he resisted this weakness as he would have resisted dependence upon a stimulant or sedative. Dilling liked to believe in his self-sufficiency, his detachment from all human ties. He could not deny, however, that Azalea fed him intellectuallyfood convenient for him. She feeds my mind, he repeated, surprised that this should be so. Isnt it curious that she should possess this power . . . It was all he asked of God. His feeling was one that did honour to Platonism and now, as he sat reflecting upon it, Raymond Dilling wondered just what Azalea thought of him. Did she think his standards worthy of his calling? Had she faith in his singleness of purpose, and did she commend his policy for its wisdom? Or could she have misunderstood him, read into his unashamed confessions, the easy cant of him who makes a profession of sincerity? He had taken for granted that she was in accord with his political creed, that she appreciated his native worth; but never before had he asked himself the question . . . did she like him? He had no assurance that she did. Admitting her acceptance of him upon his own terms, so to speak, might she not feel for him as we so often feel towards estimable persons whose blameless characters inspire us with nothing but respectful tolerance? On the other hand, suppose she did not regard him as a worthy figure, would she dislike him? Are there not natures to whom an impostor presents a personality unreasonably appealing? Has not the world had its Casanovas and Cagliostros? What manner of man did Azalea like? What type stirred her rich imagination? These unanswerable questions provoked him to an unwonted consideration of the girl, but he failed to recollect an occasion when she had revealed her inner thoughts and aspirations to him. What heart throbs, he asked himself, pulsed beneath that strange, drab exterior? What spirit wounds were covered with the cuirass of her whimsical satire? What was her philosophy of life, and what did she really think of him? He had no idea, but he did know that he wished to be her friend. Dilling couldnt recall ever formulating a definite opinion on the subject of friendship, and he was not at all sure what Azalea might require of him. Sympathy, he mused, might be helpful in times of strain, but he was not prepared to admit that friendships were vital. A man couldperhaps shouldbe independent of their fetters, unseeking and unsought. Friendship had its rise in the emotions according to philosophers, and was therefore a weakness. Yet, was it? History showed that great men transmuted it into strength. Which would it be for him, a weakness or a source of strength? And if the latter, how best could he convert its power into fuel for his energy? He looked at his watch. Almost time for lunch. Azalea should be at home now, he thought. Again, he turned to the telephone. * * * * * In the room above, Mrs. Barrington was eagerly accepting a whisky and soda from the hospitable Member for Morroway. You look as though a little stimulant would do you no harm, observed Howarth, busily attentive with the cigarettes. Without it, I shant last till sundown, returned the woman. Never have I spent such a half hour . . . and never again! Difficult, eh? asked Sullivan. Impossible! Why, Uncle Rufus, that mans not human! Heaven knows, Im not a vain woman, she declared, but for all the notice he took of me, he might have been a graven image, or I might have been one of the shrieking sisterhood! There wasnt a smile . . . there wasnt a flicker of response! I kept thinking all the time of Congreve, and his _Lady Wishfort_ trying to captivate that stupid ass, old _Mirabell_! Her full voice trembled with excitement and anger. Into her cheeks flooded a wave of natural colour, beneath their expertly applied rouge. Im through . . . Im through, she cried. He made me think of a eunuch contemplating a statue of Venus! CHAPTER 13. Mrs. Pratt stood in the hard glitter of too many electric lights, in a hard, encrusted green gown, and greeted her guests with a hard, set smile that froze any budding sense of enjoyment they may have brought with them. Maude was silent and sullen. She had caught the backwash of her mothers ill-temper throughout two trying weeks, and the party had become a nightmare to her. Augustus, miserable in his evening clothes, and perspiring under the weight of admonitions that warred with his sense of hospitality, watched her in a passion of sympathy. After a succession of violent scenes, he was dolorously conscious that he and Maude together, were no match for the determined woman whom he had meekly followed to the altar. Shes got too damned much gulp, he thought to himself, wondering how to reduce this hampering characteristic in his daughter. A vigorous jab in the side reminded him that something was amiss. Eh, my dear? he whispered. Whats wrong? Take your hands out of your pockets, Augustus, hissed Mrs. Pratt, and dont you dare to call Dr. Prendergast, Doc! Doctor and Missus Bzen-an-Bza-a! announced Crymer, from the door. Crymer was a very recent acquisition to the Pratt mnage. Mrs. Pratt would have preferred a Japanese but for once she was overruled by her husband, who harboured the malicious belief that every man of foreign birth, especially negroes and Orientals, look upon the women of our race with lascivious eyes. So when Crymer applied, and upheld his cleverly-forged reference with a plausible story, Mrs. Pratt engaged himbibulous mien and Cockney accent, notwithstanding. Having been but a few weeks in the city, and most of that time comfortably soothed by vinous refreshment, Crymer was not conversant with the names of social Ottawa, and even had he been, it is doubtful that those of Mrs. Pratts guests would have been familiar to him. How dye do? asked Mrs. Prendergast, annoyed to find that no one else had arrived. There was a suggestion of over-eagerness in being early. How do yuh do? returned Mrs. Pratt, wishing that she was Lady Elton or someone worth while. Sit down, wont you? I think youll find any of my chairs comfortable, and theres no need for you to stand because we have to . . . The others cant be long, now. They can if they choose, remarked Dr. Prendergast, who liked his dinner in the middle of the day and a substantial supper at six oclock. Never saw anything to beat the people, to-day. They dont start out till its time for decent folks to be in bed. Things get later and later. Shouldnt be surprised to see the hour for dinner set at eleven oclock . . . Outrageous! Well, with so many engagements to crowd in of an afternoon, and with the House sitting till six oclock, its vurry difficult to dine much earlier than seven oclock, argued Mrs. Pratt. Oh, here are the Leeds. How do yuh do? Augustus, meet Mrs. Leeds! How do? mumbled Augustus, and prayed for the coming of the cocktails, which, as an antidote for the concoctions of an atrocious cook, he had made extra strong. Mrs. Pratt aspired to a good cook, by which she meant a person who could disguise the most familiar comestibles so that recognition was impossible. Personally, she liked plain and wholesome cooking. Most people do. But she laboured under the misapprehension that members of the aristocracy ate strange and undistinguishable dishes; moreover, that the degree of exaltation which one had attained, was evident by the kind of food one ate. For example, she could not conceive of His Majesty enjoying a rasher of liver and bacon, nor a Duke sitting down to the staple pork and beans so familiar to the humble farming class. Long hours she pondered the question of food, rising gradually through the ragouts and rissoles, ramakins and casseroles, to ravioli, caviare, canapes and the bewildering _aux_ and _a las_ that make a wholesome menu so picturesque and indigestible. The cook that Mrs. Pratt had in mind, was one who had served at least an Earl, and had titillated the palates of his class. But at that timenow half a decade pastsocial distinctions were drawn quite as finely in the kitchen as the drawing-room, and the woman who would exchange her culinary gifts and aristocratic associations for the wages of a mistress not even an Honourable in her own right, had not been found. The hour set for dinner had past. In the drawing-room, a noticeable chill tempered the atmosphere. Mrs. Pratt was not an easy hostess. The word entertaining was, for her, the most perfect euphemism, and in ordinary circumstances, she would have taken satisfaction rather than pleasure by gathering people at her home. On this occasion, she was denied satisfaction, and a rising resentment gave her far from gracious manner an added acerbity. Conversation lost all semblance to spontaneity, and every eye seemed to be fixed upon Mrs. Pratt, who sat stiffly on a Louis Quinze chair and hoped that Rufus Sullivan was sensible of her displeasure. She blamed him for this contretemps. It was he who had asked her to invite the Barringtons, laying delicate emphasis upon their social importance no less than upon their importance to the Party. Strangers, he said, but excellently connected and frightfully smartrather too smart for parochial Ottawa, I fear, dear lady! However, theyre well worth cultivating, and a clever woman could make no little use of Hebe Barrington. Certainly, she was not difficult to know. Her acceptance of Mrs. Pratts laboured and formal invitationdelivered for lack of time by telephonewas so casual as to startle that good lady. This was not her conception of the manners of the elect. And now they were quite fifteen minutes late. Mrs. Pratts anger rose. She had just decided to proceed to the dining-room without them, when there was a furious ring at the bell, a hurried step on the stair, and Crymer signalled her that they had arrived. My dear Mrs. Pratt, cried Hebe, sweeping forward, _is_ there an apology profound enough to touch the hearts of your guestsnot to mention your husband and yourself? How do you do, Mr. Pratt? And your daughter . . . why, you dear child, kiss me! Fortune has indeed smiled upon this family . . . Mr. Dilling? What a delightful surprise . . . Mrs. Pratt, she went on, bowing and smiling impartially, drawing everyone about her, if not actually, at least by suggestion, _do_ tell me that I am to sit next to Mr. Dilling, and with an arch glance at her host, not too far from Mr. Pratt! Mr. Dilling is to take you in to dinner, replied the hostess, tartly. The cocktails, supplementing Mrs. Barringtons entrance, infused new life into the party. Most of those present walked from the drawing-room in a pleasant frame of mind. They say that society is divided into two classes, said Hebe, as they took their places at the table, those who have more dinners than appetite, and those who have more appetite than dinners. I dont know that I should confess it, but I belong to the latter class. Im always ready for a meal . . . Ah, what a charming room this is! With one or two exceptions, the guests were unpleasantly impressed by this expression of frank admiration. According to their canons of etiquette, personal remarks were not The Thing. But if the impulse to make one proved utterly irresistible, then it should be prefaced by some such phrase as, If I may be pardoned for saying so, that is a beautiful . . . or, I hope you wont be offended if I pass a remark on your . . . Even Mrs. Pratt was only slightly mollified. The personnel of her dinner party differed radically from what she had designed. Indeed, of the eleven guests who took their places at the table, there were but three whose names had figured on her original list of invitations. Besides, she was not conscious of the instinctive liking for Mrs. Barrington that Sullivan had predicted. Quite the contrary! In the first place, she disapproved of her gowna shimmering sheath of opalescent sequins infinitely more striking than that which Mrs. Pratt herself was wearing. In the second place, she did not like a(nother) woman to monopolise the conversation. In the third place, she objected to the manner in which Augustus was being captivated right under her very eyes, and these were but a few of the items that she set down upon her mental score. But that Mrs. Barrington was smart could not be denied; and as illustrious names slipped artfully into the recital of her experiences and associations, most of the assembled company found themselves giving her a grudging respect. There were four exceptionsthe Dillings, Sullivan and Azalea. Im sure Ive heard of you, Dr. Prendergast, she glowed at that gentleman. But where, or from whom, I simply cant remember. I have the most dreadful habit of forgetting names . . . if it werent for Toddles, there, Id forget my own. Hes just as good at remembering as I am at forgetting, so we manage famously, eh, my fond love? Barrington hid a smile and mumbled something that passed for an answer. He was a delightful little man who had become accustomed to his wifes brilliant impertinences, and rather enjoyed them when they were not carried too far. He had not been taken into her confidence, of late, but suspected that she had some telling reason for imposing these curious people and this abominable dinner upon him. It was his nature to be amiable under trying circumstances, so he made himself agreeable to the ladies on either side, and tried to look upon the occasion as a bit of a lark. Mrs. Leeds was not lacking in charma pale little creature whose mouth had a discontented droop and who was ashamed or afraid to meet her husbands eyes. She talked bridge throughout the evening, bewailing the sums she had lost because someone at the table had failed to bid or to play according to the rules of the game. It was quite distressing to hear her re-play hands that should have added to her score below the line, but which built the tower for her opponents. For example, she said, under cover of Dr. Prendergasts monologue, only last night, the most unheard-of thing happened! I declared no trump. Though weak in spades I had every suit protected, and was perfectly justified in my declaration. The man on my left bid two spades. My partner passed, telling me he had no protection in that suit, but I felt safe in raising to two no trump, because, supposing that the bidder held ace, king to five, _at least_, I knew that my queen was sufficiently guarded by two little ones. Do you follow me? she asked, anxiously. Perfectly, lied Barrington. And then what happened? Well, the bidder led the seven of spades. My partner laid down his hand which only held the ten. Picture my horror when this woman she indicated an imaginary third player took the trick with the ace, and then _led the Jack through my Queen_! Of course, my hand was shot absolutely to bits. They took five straight spade tricks and two in diamonds before I had a look in. Time after time, I am penalised just that way by playing with imbeciles who dont know how to bid. Rotten luck, sympathised Barrington. What the devil is this we are eating? Mrs. Prendergast was the simplest person to entertain. When not giving undivided attention to her husband, she was entrusting to her sympathetic partner a list of his outstanding virtues as a citizen, husband and father. What the Dawkter thought and said provided her with an inexhaustible topic for conversation. Apparently she had no opinions of her own, but, as her husband was quite willing to listen to the echo of his oracles, they were an exceedingly happy couple. The Doctor was a generous-waisted gentleman whose talents exercised themselves in the field of proprietary medicine. Prendergasts Anti-Agony Aliment was just beginning to fraternise with Best Wear Tires, Breakfast Foods and Theatrical Attractions on the bill boards. Presently, however, as a result of sapient advertising and the deplorable ignorance of English by the people who speak it, aliment merged into ailment and Prendergasts Anti-Agony Ailment became the popular specific for those to whom all advertising makes direct appeal. And so carefully generalised was the nature of the disorder it was supposed to correct that the decoction was consumed indiscriminately by sufferers from rheumatism, chilblains, dyspepsy, sciatica, high blood pressure and sclerosis. According to the testimonials that made their way into the press it did many people . . . good. The Doctors mind was full of human ills, and the value of advertising. To the latter he was a recent convert, and inevitably fanatical. Requiring several thousand dollars to carry on his campaign, he was doing his best to bring the others to his point of view. With the exception of Mrs. Barrington, no one gave him any encouragement. Throughout three entire courses, she murmured, Incredible! Amazing! It sounds like a fairy tale! at moments when he might have given some one else an opportunity to speak, and started him off again with renewed zest and vigour. Under cover of his eloquence, she talked to Raymond Dilling. Dilling was suffering acute mental and physical distress. Fastidious always about his food, he could not eat the dishes put before him, and the little bit he did manage to swallow was flavoured with the scent which Hebe Barrington perpetually exuded. Positively, he would have preferred the odour of moth balls. He had never seen a woman so naked . . . not even his wife. Marjorie emphasised a characteristic which she called modesty and, having no curiosity whatever about the human form, Dilling respected her reserve. He sat at the corner of the table, next to Mrs. Pratt, and found that he could not escape contact with the warm mundanity of Mrs. Barrington. Although the table was not crowded, she seemed to give him no room. Once or twice, he shuddered, and she mistaking his movement, smiled provocatively into his eyes. You havent forgotten about Monday afternoon? she whispered. Ive been thinking of it all week. Dilling had forgotten. Theres really nothing to be gained by discussing the proposition yet, he said. Weve been so busy in the House, I havent had time to think about it. No matter. We can become friends, she murmured, significantly. Cant we? A sudden silence relieved him of the necessity to answer. Dr. Prendergast had run down, and was looking at Mrs. Barrington. Positively the most interesting thing I ever heard, she cried. Toddles, I wish _you_ could invent something other than tarradiddles. _Do_ send me an autographed bottle, Doctor! I havent a thing the matter with me, and dont promise to use it. Im so disgustingly healthy. But Id love to have it to put on the shelf with my signed books and other treasures. Wont it be nice, Toddles? Azalea bent her head above her plate and scarcely knew whether to be angry or amused. Sitting on the same side of the table as Mrs. Barrington, Dilling and the Doctor, neither she nor her partner, Leeds, could see exactly what was going on. But what she did not divine, was reflected in the varying expressions of Turner, who sat on Mrs. Pratts left, Eva Leeds and Marjorie. Even Pratt, who had fallen an instant and unresisting victim to Hebe Barringtons charms, gave her more than inkling of the by-play at the other end of the table. She was very much alive to the presence of Sullivan, who sat directly opposite and assumed towards Marjorie an air of offensive proprietorship. Prejudiced against him perhaps by the opinion of her friends, she had never felt for the man active dislike until this moment when every slanderous tale she had heard leaped into her mind. Although he had become a frequent visitor at the Dilling home, she had met him for the first time this evening, and had not the slightest desire to continue the acquaintance. Furthermore, she wondered if Marjorie could be persuaded to put an end to such a friendship. Are you having a good time, little woman? she heard him whisper. Yes, thank you, replied Marjorie, hoping that telling a polite lie would not be a sin. Not so good as though we were having dinner alonewithout all these dull people? No, admitted Marjorie. When shall we have another party . . . of our own? I dont know just now. Perhaps next week. By the furious colour that surged into Marjories cheeks, Azalea knew that Sullivan had caressed her under cover of the table. Its always at this point that the liveliest dinner begins to grow dull, cried Hebe Barrington. Have you ever noticed it, Mrs. Pratt? No? Dear me, _what_ partners you must have had! I believe there _are_ super-women with whom men are never tiresome. How do you account for that, Doctor? Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on, I have a theory of my own regarding this slump in brilliancy and wit. It is simply a matter of being too well fed. The animal wants to stretch and sleep. What do you think? she smiled at Augustus, who was so disturbed by this sudden attention that he interfered with Crymers unsteady serving of the wine and between them they managed to upset the decanter. Oh, Mrs. Pratt! Hebe turned in mock terror to her hostess. I throw myself upon your protection. He is going to blame me! Im sorry, but Im innocent. Uneasy looks the face that wears a frown, Mr. Pratt! If you will only forgive me, Ill promise not to speak to you again all evening. Wish youd get the missus to go that far, retorted Augustus, avoiding his wifes eye. There was a laugh in which Mrs. Pratt did not join. Conversation dropped to a murmur between couples. Hebe repeated her question to Dilling and received from him a grudging affirmative. A ponderous hummock of doughy consistency was tasted and thrust aside, and the hostess rose from the table. Poor Augustus! whispered Hebe, as she sank down beside Azalea in the drawing-room. Wont hell-fire be his when weve gone? Perhaps if were especially nice to her, she will have forgotten by then. Not a chance, my dear! I dont know the individual, but I know the type. Death will be his only escape . . . But, tell me, just who are you? Nobody in particular, answered Azalea. Thats why Im here, she added, with an unusual touch of malice. Mrs. Barrington was startled at this thrust. Into her eyes there shone a budding respect for the girl. Yes, but who _are_ you? Whats your name? Azalea told her. Deane? Oh! Youre a great friend of the Dillings, then? You seem surprised. I am, confessed the other woman. Ive heard of you, buter she ran an appraising look over the reconstructed gown that had adorned the person of Lady Elton for three yearsI thought you would be different. A doubtful compliment, suggested Azalea. As you like, returned Hebe, and seated herself at the piano. Somewhat to Azaleas surprise, Mrs. Barrington made no effort to capture Dilling when the men re-joined them. She turned the battery of her fascinations upon Pratt with an occasional shot at the Doctor. Dilling made his way directly to Azalea and dropped on the chair beside her. How long do these things last? he enquired, under his breath. Cant we go home? In a few minutes. Wait until Mrs. Barrington stops singing. The bridge players will probably stay on. Dilling made a frank signal to his wife, then turned back to the girl. Do you mind coming to the house with us? he asked. I will see you home. There is something particular I want to say. The song ended abruptly, and Azalea raised her eyes to meet those of Hebe Barrington. There was something in their expression that made her flush. And there was the same suggestiveness, the same mockery in her words at parting. If Miss Deane will wait until I have redeemed my promise to Mr. Pratt and sung him one more song, we will drop her at the door and save Mr. Dilling the trouble. Cut him out of that pleasure, amended Barrington, quickly. Even pleasures are troublesome, Toddles, dear, said his wife, look at me, for an illustration. However, there may be another time . . . You must all come and see me. They say my parties are rather fun. Im usually at home on Friday evenings, and nearly every Sunday afternoon. * * * * * Azalea did not speak for a moment after Dilling had made his proposition. She dared not trust her voice. You cant be offended? he asked, bluntly. She shook her head. On the contrary, it gives me the most extraordinary sense of pleasure that you want me . . . that you think I can be of some real service to you. Well? Well . . . thats all! Its simply out of the question! I know my father will never hear of such a thing. He must! Ill see him to-morrow. Ill show him that hes wrong. Ill say . . . Youll say, interrupted Azalea, forcing a laugh, Sir, I have come to make a formal request for your daughters . . . shorthand! And then, Im glad, for your sake, Mr. Dilling, we dont own a dog! You cant discourage me, cried Dilling. Ive made up my mind that we will work together, and if you consent I feel that the thing is as good as settled. It was. The following morning, when Azalea carried in her fathers breakfast tray, she found that he had passed out of life as he had passed through it, easily, and without toil or struggle. CHAPTER 14. Two months had passed since Azalea had undertaken her secretarial duties. She felt that she had entered into a new life, that a wonderful renascence was hers. Never in all her imaginings, had she dreamed of days so replete with happiness. A sense of deference to the dead prompted Mrs. Deane to protest against her daughters accepting the appointment. They talked at one another across an abyss that widened daily and separated them. You shouldnt do it, Azalea, she cried. It doesnt seem right. Youre disobeying your father when hes scarcely cold in the grave . . . It isnt as though you didnt know that . . . I mean, I suppose it wouldnt be so bad if he had been dead a long time . . . Disobedience is a matter of principle, not time, mother! returned the girl. Dont you see that I have no choice? We cant live without the equivalent of fathers superannuation allowance! Well, Im sure I dont know what to do, Mrs. Deane whimpered, Business is so difficult for a woman to grasp . . . Oh, Azalea, if he knows it, he will be so dreadfully annoyed! Isnt there some other way? If you had only been married . . . Please, mother, lets not go into that! Im sorry to have disappointed you, but for myself, I havent a single regret. I dont look upon marriage as the only solution of a womans financial problems, you know. Its a convenient one, argued Mrs. Deane, rather more pertinently than usual. There are the girls . . . they dont have to work. If they dont, then they are cheating their husbands, cried Azalea, purposely misunderstanding. And too many married women who dont cheat their husbands are being cheatedlike you, she nearly ended. Oh, my child! I cant look upon marriage as a refuge from the dangers that beset a female traveller on the Sea of Life. To me it is a tricky craft that may play you false as it operates between the two inescapable ports of Birth and Death. And you are our baby, too, sighed Mrs. Deane, as irrelevantly as Mrs. Nickleby. A baby who has grown up at last, and thanks God for the opportunity that has come disguised as a necessity; a baby, dear mother, who does not look upon congenial work as a test of courage, but as a divine privilege. Curiously enough, once she was established in her new position, unreserved approval was expressed among her friends. Many of them attributed the move to some suggestion of their own. Lady Denby and Mrs. Hudson both remembered having advised Azalea to take some such step years ago. Lady Elton thought she had shown her good sense at last, but hoped that Mr. Dilling would not be too exacting. Entertaining was a bore under the best of conditions. She simply could not imagine getting along without Azaleas assistance. Mrs. Long saw an opportunity for picking up odd bits of political gossip that eluded the ordinary reporter, and making a neat little income on the side. Youre clever enough to do it, my dear, she said. Now, dont be thin-skinned. Spice is what the people wantany of them who bother to read the papers. As for Dilling, he felt himself infused with new zest and enthusiasm. He was conscious of a greater capacity for work, an accession of power. His brain seemed to function tirelessly and with amazing clearness. He developed a veritable rapacity for what appeared to be ineluctable problems, and he who had been a model of industry became a miracle of inexhaustible energy. It was about this time that men began to look to him as the most able exponent of their political creeds; it was upon him that they called to master such questions as Newfoundlands entrance into the Dominion, trade with the West Indies, reciprocity with the United States, and upon his slender shoulders fell the burden of carrying on the most contentious debate of latter timesCanadas Naval Policy. In short, it was to him that his Party turned, as the only man capable of grasping those knotty issues of international importance and presenting Canadas case in a masterly way before the Council of the Nations. Ive been invited to join the Golf Club, he announced one morning, as Azalea came into the office. Im glad! Youre not hesitating about it, are you? Oh, I dont know. What do you think? I think you are becoming no end of a social lion, she replied, smiling, and that soon you will be roaring as lustily in drawing-rooms as on the floor of the House. Seriously, I think you should accept. It will be good for Marjorie. Im not so sure. She hasnt many friends among that crowd. However, I think I see what you mean. Azalea hoped he did. She was desperately anxious for him to realise that in the Capital success is regarded from only one angle, the Social. Professional, literary, political, all these are but feeders to the main issue. I spent the afternoon with your exceptionally brilliant Dr. Aldrich, said Sir Paul Pollock, the eminent British anthropologist, during the course of a dinner the Chesleys had given in his honour. Aldrich? echoed the company. Whos he? Sir Paul did not take the question seriously. I dont blame you, he laughed. Two scientists at the same party would be excessively heavy wheeling. But who _is_ he? insisted Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum. I never heard of him. Nor I . . . Nor I . . . Wellahhaif you are not pulling my leg, answered the amazed guest, perhaps you will be interested in knowing that he is one of the most famous biologists living. Butahha! I expect you are just stringing me. It was gradually borne in upon him that they were not, that they had no desire to cultivate the men and women whose lives are devoted to the advancement of their race, that even the names of such people were unfamiliar to them and that prominence in their especial sphere was clouded by a total eclipse of the social solar system. It was this latter point that Azalea ardently wished to make Dilling recognise. He was so immersed in his public life that there was little time for the consideration of any other question, and Marjorie had not sufficient astuteness to make the most of her advantage or profit by experiences. She seemed incapable of keeping step with her husband, of acquiring a broader vision than that which was hers in Pinto Plains. In her eyes, a thousand dollars was always a staggering sum, five hundred an immense concourse of people. But, dearest Marjorie, cried Azalea, in affectionate exasperation one day, you _must_ learn to see beyond a home-made dress and a parish tea-party! If my clothes and my food mean more to people than I do, myself, argued Marjorie, then I dont want to have anything more to do with them. Were just plain Canadians, and I dont want to pretend otherwise! Yes, butbut Azalea often found herself at a loss for illustrations that would co-ordinate with her friends code of ethics, conforming to certain conventions isnt exactly pretence. You might look upon it as a ceremony, ritual, something that is an adjunct to a position. A lady is a lady anywhere, murmured Marjorie conscious, herself, that she was not precisely strengthening her argument. So is a clergyman, replied Azalea, but you would not like to see him conduct a Service in a pair of tennis flannels or a bathing suit. Oh! The point had gone home. What have I done thats wrong? Nothing so very wrong, you dear lamb, said the older girl, kissing Marjories troubled mouth, but try not to be so humble. Humility is a splendid virtue, sometimesbut not when were heading for the Cabinet! It frightens me to think of it. But you must overcome that, and feel perfectly at ease with Mrs. Blaine, Mrs. Carmichael, Lady Denby and the others. You must make them your friends. I cant be friends with people if they dont want me! Azalea tried to explain that in public life friendship and association are more or less interchangeable terms. You were not friends with all your classmates at school, she said, but you associated with them, especially on formal occasions. It was then that your status was fixed by your class. It is exactly the same with your position as Mr. Dillings wife. You must feel yourself worthy of belonging to the highest classthe class which has been reached by a very prominent man, who will be known in history as one of the greatest statesmen of his country. What must I do? asked Marjorie, as Mrs. Deane might have said it. Learn and observe social distinctions. Everyone else does. Show that you respect your husbands achievements and others will follow your lead. Why, the Society Columns are read to better advantage by the tradespeople, the gas inspector, the telephone operators, the very cab drivers, than you. I dont know what you mean, said Marjorie, very close to tears. I mean that those people almost unerringly place the rest of us in our proper class. They observe the rules of precedence, which you dont. If there happened to be but one cab at a stand, and both you and Mrs. Blaine wanted it, which one of you would get the thing? Marjorie did not answer. Mrs. Blaine! You know it! Why? Because she goes to Church regularly on Sundays, pays her bills promptly, refuses to gossip and slander her neighbours? Not a bit of it! Because she puts a value on herself that is compatible with her husbands position . . . at least, thats near enough the mark to serve my purpose in scolding you! All right, sighed Marjorie, Ill try to be stiff with people, if thats the way to help Raymond. I dont believe it, you know, Azalea, but I think I see what you mean. Azalea, however, was not so sanguine. * * * * * Do you play golf? she asked Dilling. Oh, Ive handled the clubs once or twice. But I wont have any time to devote to the game. You must make time. It will do you a world of good. All play and no work will make you an ideal politician, she teased. You will come out with us to dinner, the first night we go? Oh, no! she cried. You must take someone infinitely more distinguished. You must shine and let your light be seen before men. If I might make a suggestion, give a very exclusive dinner party and invite the Chief. But you must come, too! Well see. In the meantime, hadnt we better tackle this formidable mail? It seems to grow larger every morning. Towards the middle of the afternoon, a spare, thin-lipped little man came into the room. Howdy, Raymond? he greeted. Been tryin to run you down to your hole this last half hour. Got kinder twisted in this big buildin. How are you, Sam? said Dilling, shaking hands. Its good to see someone from home. Just get in? Just about. Hows the Missus and the kids? Dilling assured his visitor that their health was good. Weve had an awful lot of sickness this winter. First, the baby was taken with swollen glands, and wed no sooner got her up an about when Sammy came down with grippe, and on top o that, the wife had to be operated on for appendicitis. Makes me creep to think what the doctors bill is goin to be. Dont worry about that, Sam. Halsey is the soul of consideration and patience. Still, hes got to be paid. Swell office, youve got, Raymond. Dilling smiled. An improvement on my old one, but modest as offices go. This all there is of it? queried the stranger. This is all. We dont have suites, you know, until we get to be Deputies or Commissioners, perhaps. Its plenty large enough. Sure. I was only wonderin where we could have a little talka kinduv private confab, as you might say, returned the other, nodding at Azaleas industrious back. We can have it right here, said Dilling, promptly. This is my confidential secretary, Miss Deane. Mr. Sam Dunlop, of Pinto Plains. Miss Deane. Hes an old friend and worked hard at the time of my election. Go ahead, Sam. What is it? Weller began Mr. Dunlop, in some embarrassment, its about that block of ours out home. You mind when we four bought it from them Winnipeg fellows, the idea was that they would start in putting improvements all around us? In the centre of the town, supplemented Dilling. I remember very well. There was some talk of street cars. What of it? Theyre a bunch of shysters, thats what! They havent spent a dollar on First or Second Streets, they only pulled down a couple of buildings on the Avenue, and theyre investin every dollar they can raise to develop Pond Park and turn it into a summer resort. And business is trailin em right out that way. Dilling looked grave. Has anyone actually moved off First Street? Bowers is moving in the spring. Jennings got an option on the corner of Cedar and the Avenue which takes the two biggest merchants away. After that, all the little fellows will go. And the hotel they talked about? If they build, itll be out the other way. Oh, there aint a bit of use in you settin there thinkin that weve got a chance, cried Mr. Dunlop. Weve studied this thing till its a wonder we didnt get brain fever. Says Lewis, We four went into this here deal as friends and well stick together. You go down to Ottawa and see Raymond. Hell look after us, same as weve been tryin to look after his interests. Mumfords the hardest hitnext to me, that is! But none of us, outside of yourself, can afford to hold that property an pay taxes while the town grows in the other direction. And what do you think I can do? asked Dilling, in a hard voice. You can recommend the sale of our block to the Government, boy, thats where you come in! Mr. Dunlop dragged his chair closer and poured forth his proposition in a rapid whisper. But Pinto Plains doesnt need another Post Office, argued Raymond Dilling. The Liberals spent fifty thousand dollars for the one we have only a few years ago, and you were the first to denounce it, Sam. Everyone agreed that the town wouldnt grow up to it in a hundred years. But, damn it all, Raymond, cant you see that this is different? Cant you get it through your head that well be ruined unless we can sell that property and sell it quick? All of usof course, exceptin youall of us have got to raise interest on the money we borrowed to put into it, and Lord knows where mine is coming from. Whats a dinky little Post Office to the Government? Lewis says it ought to be a cinch to put it through, for he can condemn the other one, easy! How long do you figger itll take to get the matter settled, son? Its settled right now, so far as Im concerned. How do you mean? I cant undertake such a job. You . . . what? Youre asking me to betray the confidence of the country, Sam; to rob the Treasury. Thats the proposition in plain English, isnt it? Mr. Dunlop denied this accusation eloquently, if irrationally. He cajoled, he stormed, he pleaded, he threatened. He reminded Dilling that during his election campaign, support had been based on friendship, not a strict adherence to truthfulness, and that the boys had not stopped to consider every lie that was told on his behalf. Runnin the country aint the same as runnin a Sunday School, he added, in justification. The governing principles should be the same, answered Dilling. No, Sam, I cant do it. Argument is useless. When you and the boys think it over, you will agree that the man who would have carried out your proposition is not the type that you would have to mould the policy of the Nation. I hope that Pinto Plains will never send a chap like that to Parliament! Youll come down to the house, of course, wont you? But Mr. Dunlop did not hear the invitation. He was so absorbed in expressing his opinion of the man he had sent to Parliament, that he failed to recognise Sir Robert Borden whom he passed in the corridor, and ran violently into Sir Eric and Lady Denby without uttering a word of apology. Well fix him, he muttered under his breath. Well fix him! In the office there was silence save for the sibilent fluttering of papers on Azaleas desk. Presently, Dilling spoke. Im too indignant at the moment to be sorry for them! he said. And its something of a shock to find that they held me in no higher esteem than to think I would be a party to such jobbery. I doubt that they looked at the matter in just that way. Isnt it merely another example of the common practice of bringing your white elephant to feed at the Dominion crib? Its another example of perverted ethics, growled Dilling, and he went angrily off to lunch. Azalea sat on, thinking. What, she asked herself, would be the outcome of Raymond Dillings uncompromising attitude with men of Dunlops calibre? Would he, like Marjorie, persistently close his eyes to the advantage of temporising in matters that affected his political career? Would he never learn that a gentle lie turneth away enquiry and that as Dunlop had so truly said, the country was not run like a Sunday School? She had heard him reject more than one proposition made by men of his own Party who never could be brought to see the criminous side of misappropriation of public funds. She had known him to ignore the Patronage system by refusing positions to incompetents, as bluntly as he had discarded Dunlops scheme. And a little compromising, or even temporising, would have accomplished his object without loss of good will. Custom, he once said in answer to her remonstrance, can never in my opinion sanctify piracy or brigandage. I dont believe in Patronage and never shall. Incompetency should be treated and overcome if possible, but not rewarded. Rejoicing, as she did, in this fine adherence both to the letter and spirit of his political creed, yet she could not but feel apprehensive for his political future. As a lamp unto his feet were the rules of the Independence of Parliament, but he was rapidly making enemies when by the employment of a little diplomacy he might have had hosts of friends. Scarcely a week passed without bringing forth some public attack upon him, and the mere fact that he championed a cause was sufficient to win for it a mob of fanatical obstructionists. Yet Azalea realised that anything less than this unswerving rectitude would have been for Dilling ignominious surrender, and she prayed that he might uphold his ideals at all costs, that he might achieve a spiritual triumph even at the price of material defeat. She wondered how it would all end. CHAPTER 15. You had better go up to the House, to-night, called Long, as he passed his wifes door on his way to dress for dinner. Whats going on? Im booked for bridge at the Blaines. Dillings going to speak. I think youll be repaid for calling off your game. All right. Ill telephone, said Mrs. Long, carefully adjusting a hair net. Perhaps the others would like to go. Only two tables, I understand . . . The House was crowded by the time Mrs. Blaine and her party arrived. The Ladies of the Cabinet were shown, of course, into the front row of the Speakers Gallery, and those of lesser rank were distributed wherever space permitted. Marjorie had been directed to a seat in the second row, immediately behind Mrs. Carmichael and next to Mrs. Long, beyond whom sat Eva Leeds, Pamela de Latour and Mrs. Chesley. Strictly speaking, none of them deserved a place in the Members Gallery, but in deference to Mrs. Blaine, whose guests they were, and also to their social status, they were thus happily privileged. The vacancy next Marjorie was presently filled by Mrs. Pratt, although Deputy Minister ONeills wife sat several rows behind. Well, upon my word, whispered Mrs. Carmichael to Mme. Valleau, wife of the Postmaster-General, The Virginia Creeper will be clinging to us, next. How does she do it? There was no mystery. Mrs. Pratts superb lack of what her husband termed gulp was partially responsible; and, in addition, she knew how to wring one hundred per cent returns out of a five dollar bill. The doorkeeper, who was the object of her investment, was more affected by the frigidity of her reception than she was, herself. Good evening, Lady Denby . . . How dyuh do, Mrs. Blaine? Mrs. Carmichael . . . Good evening, Madame Valleau . . . She bowed right and left, murmuring namesprominent namesand creating the impression among those who didnt know, that she was on pleasantly intimate terms with every one worth while. Oh, Mrs. Dilling . . . I didnt notice you! Good evening, returned Marjorie, with strained politeness. She was determined to be just as stiff as Azalea could have wished. Not that she was converted to the belief that this attitude on her part would be in the least helpful to Raymond, but because she was, by nature, docile and amenable to discipline. Always for Marjorie the word must held an ineluctable obligation. Therefore, when Azalea insisted that she must adopt a greater formality of manner, the time came when Marjorie surrendered. Who is that woman in the other Gallery? asked Mrs. Long, from behind a jewelled lorgnette. Which one? queried Pamela de Latour. Therein the front row. She seems to have forgotten her clothes, so far as her torso is concerned. Oh, cut in Mrs. Pratt, thats Mrs. Barrington. Theyve recently come to Ottawa. Her husbands something or other on the Driveway Commission. I cant akkerately say just what, although Mr. Pratt was largely instrumental in getting him appointed. Barrington? echoed Mrs. Chesley, why, thats the woman whos rushing Raymond Dilling, isnt it? Shshsh warned Pamela, nodding in Marjories direction. Well, isnt it? insisted the other. Hush! Shell hear you. I suppose that means it is. Does she know? I dont think so, whispered Pamela. Doesnt see much beyond the kitchen cabinet and the drawing-room curtains, I fancy. Lucky woman, murmured Helena Chesley, thinking of her impressionable husband. Whos speaking? Mrs. Long was moved to ask. Until that moment, no one had given a glance at the House. Mr. Sullivan, it seemed, had the floor. A few Members watched him languidly. Nobody listened. Pamela de Latour turned attentive eyes upon him for a moment or two. Then, Theres really something intriguing about that man, she murmured. If only he would apply a little veneer to cover the knots once in a while, he would be accepted everywhere. No one minds what he does when you come to analyse things; only they mind what he does so openly. Does anyone happen to know the reigning favourite? I hear she is a taffy-haired manicurist, whispered Eva Leeds, wishing they had stayed at home and played Bridge. Her losses had been shocking of late, and she felt that the tide of bad luck would certainly have turned this evening. That was always the way, she never really had a chance! But theres no telling . . . That may be ancient history. I havent heard much about him, lately. About whom? demanded Madame Valleau, bending back her handsome head in order to see the speaker. She was supposed to be the best informed lady in the Cabinetinformed, that is to say, regarding the shadowy side of the Members private lives. They told her. Oh, Sullivan, she cried, in her fascinating broken English. A delightful dog, hein? I wish there were more men like him in this dull town! Mrs. Carmichael, having two young daughters to whom she enjoyed applying the inappropriate word innocent, protested. Why, no woman is safe with him, she said. A few, argued Madame, allowing her eyes to travel slowly over the immediate group. Besides, who wants to feel safe with any man? Not I, for one! If women had been safe with men, there would have been no need for cavaliers, for gallantry. Sullivan is charming. I think hes a conscienceless old reprobate, declared Mrs. Carmichael, and the National Council should make an example of him. Marjorie leaned forward. It required a good deal of courage on her part to push into this argument, but she felt that loyalty to an absent friend demanded it. You misjudge him, Mrs. Carmichael, she defended. I know him very well and I am certain the things people say about him are not true. Hes too kind to everybody, thats his trouble! He is as kind to aamanicurist as he is to . . . well, to me! Hes always so ready to help people and to give them good advice! Mme. Valleau gave vent to a musical little scream that was heard by the Sergeant-at-Arms, and impelled him to shake a playful warning for silence at her. Dont kill my enthusiasm for that man by telling me he is giving good advice! she said. He wont be doing that for a long while, Ill be bound. Why not? demanded Marjorie. Because its only when Sullivan is too old to give the bad example he will begin to give the good advice, returned the Frenchwoman. _Mon Dieu_, I hope that wont be for many a long day. I dont think you are fair to him, championed Marjorie. My child, interrupted Lady Denby, I should be greatly disturbed if I thought you were trying, seriously, to defend that man! Mme. Valleau has original ideas on every subject, including honour, but for you to express yourself favourably on Sullivans behalf, or admit friendship with him, would be little short of compromising. I know you too well to misunderstand, but these others might get a sadly erroneous impression. But . . . began Marjorie. Stop chattering, cautioned Mrs. Long, who had only just stopped, herself. Mr. Dilling is going to speak. The House filled rapidly. Members slipped into their seats and turned towards the slender young man who stood, hand on hip, in the very last row of back benches. In the Press Gallery there wasnt a vacant chair. Representatives of the leading dailies jostled and crowded one another at the desk, and those men who could not obtain so convenient a position, drew sheaves of copy paper from their pockets and recorded Dillings speech on the surface offered by their neighbours backs. Pages flung themselves on the steps of the Speakers dais, and relaxed into an attitude that was almost inattentive. They had learned that while the Member for Pinto Plains was speaking, the House rested from its customary finger-snapping, and, like otiose diversions. A cheer crashed through the silence. On the right of the Speaker, desks were thumped and feet beat upon the floor. A babel arose from the Opposition, and in the Galleries, visitors forgot that they were strangers in the House, and that, like the children of a bye-gone generation, they were supposed to be unheard. Or-r-der, drawled the Speaker. And the clamour died. _Bon!_ chuckled Madame Valleau. He has the courage to speak, that Dillingand behind his words, there is the mind to think! Very good, pronounced the ladies surrounding Marjorie. Most interesting! Quite excellent, indeed! Thank you, returned Marjorie, so stiffly that they looked at her in amazement, wondering if success had suddenly turned her head. They wondered still more when a messenger approached her, delivered a note and said there would be an answer. Eyebrows were raised, and incredulity was telegraphed from one to the other of the group. Whats this? asked Lady Denby, in what she conceived to be a playful tone. Have we an admirer in the House? A furious blush and confused stammering was Marjories reply. With one of those rare flashes of insight for which she could never account, she knew that in view of the recent discussion about Sullivan and her defence of him, he was suspected of being the writer of that letter. She didnt blame the women in the least, for she suspected him, herself. But she was mistaken. The scrawling signature of Hebe Barrington met her eye as she hastily turned the last page, and the body of the communication was an invitation to supper. I have persuaded Mr. Dilling to join us, the letter announced, and he asked me to say that we would meet in his room, at once. Please come! Mrs. Barrington has invited me to supper, Marjorie explained, with a noticeable moderation of stiffness. I think I will say good night and hurry on. Whats got into her? asked the ladies. Her naivet was bad enough, but her snobbishness is insufferable! Marjorie had never seen a home just like the Barringtons. It reminded her of the Ancient Chattellarium, and struck her as being a curious place in which to live. There werent two chairs that matched in the whole house, and the black rugs and hangings she found very depressing. Moreover, the rooms bore names as strange as their furnishings, and she had no idea what her hostess meant by the Cuddlery or the Tiffinaria. Mrs. Barrington entertained easily. She did not stand in the centre of the drawing-room, beneath the chandelier, and greet her guests with flattering though repetitive phrases. In the first place, there wasnt, properly speaking, a drawing-room. In the second, there was no chandelier. What light there was, came from half a dozen shaded sconces, and a pair of Roman lamps. There were no pictures on the wall. At least, Marjorie did not call them pictures. They were scratchy drawings representing Chinamen engaged in such profitless occupations as contemplating the tonsils of a large-mouthed dragon, or leaning thoughtfully upon a naked bladenaked, that is, save for the head that clothed the point of it. She had never seen their like, before, and thoroughly disapproved of them. Mrs. Barrington did not stand in the drawing-room at all, but wandered about with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of Scotch in the other, and seemed intensely surprised to see the people she was entertaining. Well, she greeted more than one guest, fancy your trotting away out here. Are you with anyone or did you come alone? With the exception of Mr. Sullivan and the Carmichael girls, they were strangers to Marjorie, as, indeed, many of them were to their hostess. Who is the young blood so effectively burgling the cellarette? she would ask her husband. Or, Toddles, tell me quickly, is that girl in blue some one I ought to know? Supper was spread in the Tiffinaria and eaten all over the house. Marjorie was inexpressibly shocked to hear a nice looking young man call to his partner, You wait upstairs, old dear, and Ill bring up the victuals. We can mangle them on Hebes dressing table. Peacherina! answered the girl, throwing her slipper at him. Whats on the menu, this evening? A recital of the contents of the table and buffet resulted in guarded approbation. Get a dab of everything, called the girl, and well manage to find something we can digest. A Sheffield tray was dismantled and heaped with food sufficient to have served four persons. Added to this, the young man used as a centrepiece his partners slipper, into which he had poured a mould of chicken jelly. The Hon. Member for Morroway was, as always, tenderly solicitous of Marjorie. He made several attempts to find a place in which they could sit to have their supper tete-a-tete, before he was successful. Somebodys in the Cuddlery, he announced, backing out of the door and guiding her hastily away. Oh, excuse me, he cried, to an unseen couple who were occupying a nook under the stairs. Looks as though wed have to try the pantry or the kitchen. Lets see if we can find a corner on the floor above. Oh, no! protested Marjorie, I shouldnt care to do that. Why, cant we go thereinto the front room? I dont mind others being about. Dear little woman, Sullivan whispered, and drew her close against him under the guise of protecting her from collision with a youth who carried an empty glass, of course we dont mind, but the ridiculous fact is that _they do_! He sighed in his most elderly manner. I do wish that Hebe would infuse some dignity into her parties. Perfectly innocent, you understand; not a hint of harm, but just naturally silly and boisterous. Look at young Creel, there, daring Mona Carmichael to stand on her head! By Jove, he slapped his leg and burst into a laugh that seemed to be a spontaneous expression of hilarious amusement, hes got her by the ankles and shes going to try! But, after being trundled about the room like a wheelbarrow, Mona decided that she didnt want to stand on her head. I tell you what, she cried, lets dress up in Toddles clothes! With a whoop they raced for the stairs, half a dozen of them, leaving Marjorie and Sullivan in possession of the room. Shrieks and confused scamperings followed. Evidently, they were much at home, there. Who are all these people? Marjorie wanted to know. The girls, it seemed, were a dashing and exclusive group whose number, and conduct, had earned for them the sobriquet of The Naughty Nine. They were the envy of all those who stood without the golden circle drawn round them, and subsequently, by dint of heroic pressure that was brought to bear, their number was increased by three and they became The Dirty Dozen. The youths were the scions of Ottawas aristocracy. You dont care for them? asked Sullivan. You wouldnt like Althea to behave in that way? The bare suggestion produced physical pain. But, she wouldnt, cried Marjorie. She _couldnt_, Mr. Sullivan! Not that they arent veryerbright, she added, seeking to say the kindly thing. When they returned to the room, the girls were dressed in Mr. Barringtons clothingbusiness suits, riding breeks, pyjamas and underwear, while the boys had costumed themselves in their hostesss attire. Marjorie kept telling herself that she was dreaming. She longed to go home. She could neither enter into the revelry nor did she wish to separate herself from the crowd and stay alone with Sullivan. She had been very uncomfortable with him, lately. Sometimes, almost afraid. She refused to acknowledge this fear, even to herself, but she knew that it existed. The conversation in the Gallery recurred to her with disturbing vividnessnot that slander ever influenced her judgmentever! The person who was swayed by unkind criticism was, in her opinion, no better than the person who uttered it. At the same time, there was something about the Hon. Member for Morroway from which she instinctively shrank, without suspecting that she was making, by her attitude, a confession of her secret impression of the man. No amount of reasoning could correct this state of affairs. In vain did she tell herself that he was old enough to be her father, and that his frank affection for them all was merely the enthusiastic expression of a lonely mans dependence upon a kindly household. In vain did she try to overcome a sensation of shame and personal impurity after she had been alone with him. My own mind must be evil, she scourged herself, time and again. He never has done or said a thing that Raymond couldnt know. What _does_ make me feel so wicked when Im alone with him? It may have been a sense of impotence that frightened her. She could never see the wheels of Mr. Sullivans mind in operation, she could never tell what he was going to do. He seemed to arrive at a goal magically, without progressing step by step, and he had such an uncanny way of divining what she was thinking. She was not conscious of his footfall, nor of the opening of the doors that admitted him to a closer intimacy, but suddenly, he would stand before her, very near to the Inner Shrine of her Temple, catching her, as it were, unclad, or in the act of prayer, and she couldnt put him out. He was very quiet and respectful and walked as though aware that he was in a Holy place, but that didnt alter the fact that he had passed through those obstructing doors without a sound of warning, and without her permission. And he took such shocking liberties. For example, Marjorie couldnt possibly have told how he had been allowed to contract the habit of kissing her. To be sure, it had begun in fun, one evening, when they were playing with the children. But she couldnt explain why she found it impossible to deny him the privilege thereafter. It was very curious and disturbing. Perhaps her difficulty lay in the artful naturalness with which he performed his acts of pretty gallantry, taking so much for granted and trading on her clean simplicity. I dont want to behave so that he will think I have nasty notions, she said to herself, and Sullivan knew it. Youre tired, dear, he said to her, not wholly inattentive to the Vaudeville on the other side of the room. Lean back against me. Raymond wont be long, now! She felt his arm slip round her and moved away in sudden panic. Oh, Mr. Sullivan, not here, please! she cried. It wasnt in the least what she should have said; but there was no opportunity for explanations or corrections then. Youre right, little woman, he whispered, this is _not_ the place. I understand. It was only too obvious that he didnt; that he misconstrued her gentle repulse of all familiarity into a prudish discouragement of this particular expression of it, and his manner suggested satisfaction that she should prefer to receive his caresses when they were alone. It was a case of another door being opened and one which resisted her efforts to close it. Id like to go home, she said. Do you think you could find Raymond? The Hon. Member for Morroway knew his hostess too well to commit himself to a definite promise. But he murmured something hopeful and made his way with a good deal of bluster to the top of the house. The door of the Eyrie was closed. CHAPTER 16. Meanwhile, Dilling had been an unwilling victim to Hebe Barringtons charms. Your wife is coming home with me for a bite of supper, she had written him, and I want you, too. The bald truth isI dont trust Toddles with a pretty woman, so you must be on hand to see her home. But although he had signified his readiness to perform this happy task several times, she had made it impossible for him to break away. Dont you love my little nest? asked Hebe, closing the door and leading him by the arm to a deep couch, standing well beyond the faint light thrown by a winking oriental lantern. Its very unusual, said Dilling. Everything here has a history, she told him, but I wont tell you about any of my treasures just now. You need only know that this room is called the Eyrie, and I want you to feel that it is your own. Any time, day or night, that you want to run away from the abominations of politics, this place is ready for you. You need not even share it with meif you dont wish. Thank you, muttered Dilling, seeing that she expected him to speak. And now, lets talk about your speech. It was tremendous! How easy it seems to be for you to avoid the feeble word and choose those that thrill one with a sense of power. Every fibre of my being was alive with response to you, to-night. But why didnt you look at me, Raymond? I? ErwhyI didnt know that you were there, stammered the man who was supposed to avoid the trite and obvious. But why didnt you look and _see_? insisted Hebe. Is the admiration of mankind in general, and of woman in particular so unimportant? Does it give you no stimulation? Oh, it isnt that, said Dilling. He was very ill at ease. Admitting her intellectual attainments, yet he never enjoyed talking with Hebe Barrington as he enjoyed talking with Azalea. He was too conscious of her, too acutely aware of the fact that she sought to attach his scalp to her belt, his frail person to her chariot wheels. Instinctively, he was on his guard against a temptation to which he could not imagine himself surrendering. What is it, then? she asked, passing her fingers through his thin hair. As Marjorie recoiled from Sullivan, so Dilling tried to withdraw from the caresses of Mrs. Barrington. He had never received advances from womendecent womenand he was shocked, revolted. Even her use of his Christian name jarred unpleasantly upon him whose social standards decreed that although a man and woman might address one another familiarly before the marriage of either party, the instant they turned from the altar, rigid formality should be observed. To be called Raymond by a married woman whom he had known but a few weeks, smacked strongly of indecency. Is it possible that beneath your discomfiting iciness of manner, Hebe continued, you want to attract men, hold them and make them your friends? Do you feel the need of friends, Raymond Dilling? I am only human, he returned. Suddenly he felt an overpowering urge to talk, an imperious need for candour. He wanted to open his heart, deplore his failures and the unfulfilment of his desires. He saw his inability to draw men to him, and surround them with a vivid atmosphere of comradeship in political endeavour and a common patriotic inspiration. He felt that men did not like him, that he would never be an adornment to their clubs, one upon whom the success of a social event depended. And, unaccountably, he realised that he caredcared for himself, and for Marjorie, and for Azalea Deane. As though reading his thoughts, Hebe went on, Youll never do it as you are, Raymond. You are suffering the result of the habit contracted, I have learned, in your college days, when you withdrew yourself from all but the few who recognised your talents and thrust themselves upon you for your worldly, and other-worldly behoof. A native shyness of strangers and an inherited reluctance to spend money on the amenities of life, moved you to live in cloistered exclusiveness, when you should have been expanding your soul in joyous contact with your fellow men. Am I not right? I dont think it was so bad as that, said Dilling, fighting against the stupefying effect of the perfume he had learned to associate with her. But it was! You avoided human contact, and only by such means is life rid of its tendency to become set and small. Dont you remember the French axiom, _Lesprit de lhomme nest malleable que dans sa jeunesse_? You are still young, Raymond, but it is high time that you began remoulding. If you had only allowed yourself the Paganism of Youth, you would have spared yourself the Philistinism of Maturity. Its all very well to preach conviviality and _bon camaraderie_, Dilling returned, stung into making what he afterwards felt to be an undignified defence, but you must remember that I couldnt afford to hold my own with the roisterers at college. He moved, with a gesture of impatience, beyond the reach of her marauding fingers. It was not so much inherited caution as immediate limitations that made my exclusive cloistering necessary. I put myself through college, you know, he added, with a touch of unconscious pride, and I couldnt afford to enjoy it. But thats the very pointthe very point Im driving at, she triumphed. If only you _had_ spent beyond your meansif only once you had overstepped your limitations! We all do, all of us who have souls. One way or another, the artist is always spending. The lover never counts the cost. You cantyou shouldnt want toreduce emotions to blue prints and specifications, and thats what you have done! Listen, Raymond, and forgive me if I offend you. There is a corner of your personality that lies fallow because its dull atmosphere refuses nourishment to artistic taste and sensuous beauty. In other words, you are afraid to spend, even now, lest the ultimate cost may prove to be something you think you cant afford. You are afraid to let yourself go, for emotions lead one even farther than the tangible medium of exchange. Her tone changed. How you ever came to marry a pretty woman is something of a mystery to mea frump would have answered just as well. Indeed, I ask myself, why did you ever marry at all. Will you tell me? I dont think theres any mystery about it, parried Dilling. He was not prepared to confess that love had played a very small part in his relations with Marjorie, nor that his need of her was more that of an amiable associate than wife. With the simplicity that marked so many of his social adventurings, he believed that when he could support a wife and family he should marry; and he chose the least objectionableand most desirable externallywoman of his acquaintanceship. There was the explanation in a nutshell. Have you ever felt the appeal of sensuous beauty? Hebe Barrington persisted. No! I am answered. The very phrase revolts you as I speak it. It is an evocation of the Seventh Commandment and a ruined household. Queer fellow! Your insensibility to beauty in line and colour, not only in Art but in life, proclaims you a Philistine. Youve called me that before. And I call you so again. You had no ear for the cry from Paxos, When you are come to Pallodes announce that the Great Pan is dead, she cried theatrically. Little you understand how it was that Pans trumpet terrified and dispersed the Titans in their fight with the Olympian gods. You have a harsh opinion of me, said Dilling, a little nettled. I thought I knew my classics. You read themyou bathed in their sensuous beauty, but you never felt it, Raymond, even while imagining that you were mewing a mighty youth of the intellect. Deluded boy, she murmured. Blind boy! Her hand fluttered over his face and rested upon his eyes. For the life of him he could not respond to this woman, but at the same time he made no definite resistance, judging that by so doing he would lay himself open to the charge of priggishness. Dilling had little dread of ridicule when he trod upon familiar ground, but of late he had realised how virginal he was in the social struggle. Quite still he sat, while Hebe Barringtons hands moved softly about him. He did not know that to her his unresponsiveness was incredible; the web she was weaving was as apparent to him as his power to break it. It is not too late, she whispered, to save yourself, to save your soul alive. Am I to take that as encouragement? he enquired, with intentional rudeness. As the body in its vigour renews itself every seven years, so it is possible for the spirit to open its doors periodically upon new realms of percipience and creative power. Set about your own rebirth, Raymond! Dont imagine that you can achieve re-genesis by pondering the sources that gave the pagan Greek his apprehension, shall I say, of the joy of life. The Greek lived in a narrow time and in a narrow world, in spite of which he made living glorious. You, on the other hand, live in a big world where there is room for the coming of the superman. Oh, Raymond, lay hold of the sensuous beauty that lies within your very grasp. Come out of your barren cloister and inhale the warmth of the sun and perfume of the blossoming flowers! Mere intellect has never achieved perfect happiness for any man. He must develop his emotional nature in order to get the most life has to offer and in order that he may give her of his best, she added, quickly. He must learn to understand men and women, and to understand them he mustlive! You seem to be very certain that I am one of the unburied dead! Exactly! Every man who doesnt love is dead. Oh, dont point to your wife and children as contradictory evidence. You love neither, Raymond, I mean, with the love that is like a great, engulfing tide, the love that haunts and tortures, and racks and exalts. I mean the love that is like a deep, ecstatic pain, that simultaneously is a feast and a cruel hunger. Her words poured over him like a warm scented flood. He was conscious of a curious desire to plunge his body into their deeps, to feel their heat and moisture. But the impression eluded him. He could not abandon himself to the enchantment Hebe Barrington was trying to cast over him. No glamorous mist blurred his vision. He saw with penetrating clarity, and his only sensation was one of distaste. I am of opinion that life can be useful without these exaggerated, emotional outbursts, said Dilling, that where so much energy is expended in one direction the drain is felt in other lines of endeavour. But will you never open your eyes to the radiant truth that a great love is not a drain but a reservoir, a source of supply? It enlarges ones power and stimulates creation. Did not every conspicuous figure in history have his feminine complement, and is not at least a part of his achievement credited to the stimulation of an overmastering love? Dilling was not so sure. Average and sub-average persons, wholly unable to apprehend the subtle forces of will and intellect behind a great achievement, accept it with dull simplicity and dismiss it with a word of praise. But average and sub-average persons experiencing the driving power of emotion in varied degrees think themselves capable of understanding a sublime passion and therefore place itperhaps unconsciouslyahead of intellectual accomplishment. In fine, we bring others down to our own level, a fact that explains why human interest and heart interest make a wider appeal than things that live and move and have their being on the higher plane of mind and spirit. I doubt it, he said, answering Hebes question. I doubt, for example, that Parnells skill in leadership depended upon the dashing Kitty OShea, or that Nelson would have failed at Trafalgar save for Lady Hamilton. Do you mean that no _particular_ woman is necessary to a man, or that emotional relationship between two persons of opposite sexes is over-estimated? Either, and both, laughed Dilling, and rose. But I really must find my wife. She will think I have deserted her, and, anyway, late hours are forbidden in our house. Shall we go down? But Hebe held him. Just a moment, she begged. I cant allow you to leave me with a wrong impression. Oh, I know quite well how my conduct to-night must appear in your eyesyour blind eyes, Raymond, and it is not a sense of prudishness that impels me to explain that I do not throw myself at you for a narrow, personal satisfaction. It is true that I love you, but I love the big You, the public man, the orator, the statesman, and I have a supreme longing to see you attain greater honours and bring greater glory to Canada. To achieve this, I am firmly convinced that a closed door in your nature must be opened. You are like a man working in artificial light. He can see, yesbut he attains results through greater strain than is immediately apparent and, therefore, his season of usefulness is lessened. There is sunshine, Raymond, and in its radiance, much of what was work becomes play. Love is my sunshine and is a miraculous creative force. With your frail body, you must draw power from an outside source, Raymond, and what other reservoir is there but Love? Listen, dear, just a moment more, she cried, tightening her arms about him. I would rather see you love some other woman than not love at all, for I know that the awakening of your soul would be Canadas great gain. And now, she concluded, rising, will you kiss me before you go? Dilling hesitated, and in that instants delay a step sounded on the stair and a gentle tattoo beat upon the door. Come in, cried Hebe, crossly. Oh, Uncle Rufus, we were just going down! CHAPTER 17. Representing the constituency of Morroway by no means exhausted the dynamic energy of the Hon. Rufus Sullivan, and he had ample time for engaging in pursuits of a tenderer and more congenial nature. But occasions did arise when concentration upon Parliamentary problems became a necessary part of the days routine, for they affected not only the political standing of the Hon. Member, but the size and stability of his income. He sat alone in his office, oblivious for the moment, of the heavy gilt mirror that hung opposite his desk, and to the contents of the drawer marked Unfinished Business. He glared unwinkingly into space, forgetful of the existence of a fluffy-haired little manicurist who sat waiting for him in an over-decorated, under-lighted apartment of his choosing. Sullivan was carefully reviewing each step taken at the caucus he had just attended, and satisfying himself that his own part in the proceedings would react in an advantageous manner. The anticipated vacancy in the Cabinet had occurred, and the inevitable complications had developed. Howarth stepped modestly into the spotlight, and put forth claims that were not without justification. Gilbert, the Radical, stood out as an advocate for Reciprocity and felt the power of the Middle West behind him. Dilling, more or less thrust into the contest, was supported by the phalanxes of Eastlake and Donahue, and opposed any such trafficking with the United States. Sullivan endorsed him. This was an extraordinary thing. Even Howarth was surprised, and no one found it more unaccountable than Dilling, himself. The constituency of Morroway was divided on the Reciprocity issue, but the preponderance of sentiment was favourable. This involved a little difficulty for the Hon. Member, who did not approve it although he was confident that in securing the measure, the Borden Government would in no way imperil the existence of Canadian Federation. On the contrary, Mr. Sullivan was secretlyoh, very secretly!of the opinion that unrestricted Reciprocity with the United States would be the most effective antidote to the disintegration sentiment with which our National wells are being poisoned. He believed that it would mean peace, plenty, and a renewed ambition amongst a class of people in whom hope had almost died; that its immediate result would be employment in lieu of discontented idleness, and an instantaneous circulation of money. He saw clearly the advantage that would accrue to the fishermen of British Columbia and the Maritime Provinces, were they able to dispose of their perishable merchandise quickly in the American market at a maximum price and a minimum cost for transportation. He saw also that the Quebec and Ontario farmers could sell to the Middle States at an advanced profit, while the grain speculators of the Prairies could offer their wheat in the Chicago pit before it was harvested and at the lowest possible figure for haulage. Moreover, Mr. Sullivan realised that there would be no congestion at the freight terminals, because cars would be moving north and south as well as east and west; and, furthermore, the railways of both countries would be co-operating. Nor did he overlook the fact that the prairie farmers could buy their implements at fifty per cent less than present prices for Canadian manufacturesa Utopian condition for which every man with large holdings ardently prayed according to the particular doctrine he professed. But Mr. Sullivan opposed Reciprocity. For years he had opposed it. He held a considerable number of bonds issued by the Grand Trunk Pacific, which though guaranteed by the Government of Canada must inevitably depreciate if the silver stream continued to be diverted from the National coffers in to the channels fashioned by Eastlake and Donahuethose enterprising exponents of the cult whose treasure lies in earthen vessels. He also happened to be heavily invested in Eastern industrial corporations. Long ago, Mr. Sullivan had decided that anything less than an impregnable tariff barrier between the United States and Canada would spell his financial obliteration. Therefore, although it irked him to lift a finger towards Dillings political advancement, and although he found it extremely difficult to justify his support in the face of his traditional opposition to Eastlake and Donahue, Mr. Sullivan threw the weight of his influence against Howarth, who expected it, and Gilbert, who hoped for it, in order that Dilling might obtain the portfolio. In him we have a specimen of a genuine twentieth century man, he argued, one who actually believes there is such a thing as a British Constitution. He prints it in Capitals, (God save us all!) and he loves it with as much veneration as the younger Pitt. Furthermore, he believes that the incredible utterance of Pitt, in 1784, is true to-day and foreverThe British Constitution, he said, is equally free from the distractions of democracy and the tyranny of monarchy. It is the envy of the world . . . For myself, the Hon. Member continued, I think that Dilling is the best debater we have had in the Commons since Confederation. He eclipses Cartwrightthe best of his daybecause when that strict economist fell a victim to his own high temper, he swapped logic for vituperation and lost the ear of the Big Men of the House; he is a match for Denby, who too often talks to Hansard and the Galleries, and too seldom comes to grips with his antagonists on the floor of the Chamber. When, I ask you, gentlemen, has Sir Eric ever influenced a vote on a Division? Dilling, on the other hand, captures both parties by his earnestness, and his logic is as irrefragable as his temper is cold. Although I have heard him declare that he despises rhetoric, yet we all know his ability to draw deep from the pure wells of English undefiled. What Horace Walpole said of the youthful Fox as a debater, could be as aptly applied to Dilling . . . . Ciceros laboured orations are puerile in comparison with this boys manly reason. The Hon. Member brought his remarks to a climax by terming Gilbert a traitor, charging Borden with political locomotor ataxia for making no effort to stem the tide of Western opinion towards the Reciprocity movement, and pronounced it treason against the Imperial Crownthus serving at one and the same time, his ambition and his pocket-book. The contest was short and sharp. It was universally recognisedeven by those who held divergent political opinions and were personally antipatheticthat Dilling was the man for the Cabinet, and Sullivans speech left them no alternative but to support him. * * * * * Howarth and Turner rattled the handle of the door and demanded admission. Sullivan complied jauntily, giving no sign of the mental struggle in which he had been engaged. Indeed, at the moment of their entrance, he recalled the gilt mirror that hung opposite his desk, the drawer marked Unfinished Business and the fact that a little manicurist was disconsolately awaiting him. With an admirable gesture of preoccupation, he concerned himself with the telephone. Is that my dearie? he questioned into the instrument. Forgotten? Pon my soul, I hadnt! Simply couldnt break away . . . eh? Yes, in my office, certainly . . . No, there was no thought of another party. . . . Well, I wont come if you are going to be cross . . . Promise? All right . . . within five minutes . . . The business that was never finished while the three of them lived, was placed upon the desk and uncorked. Sullenly, two men drank, while the third tossed off his portion and then consulted his reflection with meticulous care. Sorry, he said, but I must rush off. Exacting little devilsthese women. _Trs exigante_, as our French friends say. But help yourselves, boys, and lock the drawer when you leavethat is if you have the grace to leave anything! His flair met with no response. Damned if I can understand you, Sullivan, Howarth burst out. Here, for months, weve been trying to freeze Dilling to death, and keep the E. D. Co. from establishing a firmer foothold in Parliament, and now you turn right round and boost him into the Cabinet. Surely, one of us is crazy! Only under stress, old man! Ordinarily, you are merely peculiar, returned Sullivan, with a smile. Gilberts a much safer man, Howarth went on, to say nothing of any qualification _I_ may possess. Yes, Turner cut in, what the devil were you thinking of, Rufus? Didnt Bill, here, deserve your support? Neither of you would believe me if I were to tell you my reason for backing Dillings claims, said the Hon. Member for Morroway, feeling that he must make some sort of explanation. Lets have it, anyway, said Howarth. Weller confessed the other man, pulling on his gloves, I acted according to my best judgment in the interest of the whole country. Oh, hell! remarked Mr. Turner, M.P. Ive been asked to swallow many a big mouthful, cried Howarth, but this one chokes me. And granting this noble patriotismthis alarmingly noble patriotism, I might say sneered Turner why such sudden interest in the welfare of our fair Dominion? By God! breathed Howarth. I believe in my soul that that little baby-faced simpleton has put one over on you, Rufus! Shes got you halter-broke and working for her husband! Mrs. Dilling? echoed Turner, incredulously. No fool like an old fool, quoted his friend. Ive become accustomed to seeing him lose his heart over a fine pair of shoulders and a well-turned ankle, but Im damned if I ever thought he would lose his head! Sullivan paused with his hand on the door. It strikes me, Billy, he said, that disappointment makes you rather coarse. Forgive my seeming inhospitality, gentlemen, but I dare not keep a lady waiting. * * * * * As he turned from the bright thoroughfare into a shadowy street, Mr. Sullivan was not free from disturbing reflections. This was a big game he played, and one that admitted of miscalculations. He tried to keep before him its analogy to Chess, when a man sees ultimate gain developing out of a temporary triumph won by his opponent. He tried to assure himself that he had been wise in helping Dilling to victory as a means whereby to accomplish his swifter defeat. Only the short-sighted player tries to vanquish his foe at every turn. There was nothing small about Rufus Sullivan. Even his defamers granted him a largeness that extended to his very vices. He sinned, but he sinned grandly, with a _joie de vivre_ that was lacking in the righteous deeds of confessed Christians. He loved readily and hated magnificently, but he did not begrudge the object of his hatred a modicum of pleasure. So, in this matter, he could look with equanimity upon Dillings attainment of the Ministership and feel no envy at his brief success. For it _must_ be brief . . . and yet . . . As he swung along, his eyes fixed on a window where a balloon of rose light swayed out into the darkness, the Hon. Member for Morroway realised that such schemes had been known to fail. By some totally unforeseen miracle, the anticipated downfall had not occurred, and men had lived to bite the hand that so calculatingly fed them. Would Dilling prove to be one of these exceptions? Would he survive to frustrate Rufus Sullivans ambitions? These and other cogent problems engaged the Hon. Member throughout the ensuing hours. The taffy-haired manicurist found him abstracted and singularly unresponsive. CHAPTER 18. The new Minister wore his honours with such an utter absence of hauteur, that, to many persons his manner was wanting in the dignity they had been taught to associate with the position. Never cordial and rarely responsive, Dilling now made the unfortunate error of trying to be both, and few there were possessed of sufficient astuteness to recognise in his changed attitude, a sincerity as native to him as it was embarrassing. Most people saw only the insinuating affability of the professional politician and added another black mark to his already heavy score. Marjorie, on the other hand, half-convinced that by following the advice of Lady Denby and Azalea, her stiffness had been a factor in securing Dilling the appointment, redoubled her efforts to appear ungraciouswith the result that the indifference of many acquaintances crystallised into active dislike. Theyre experimenting with _receets_ for popularity, remarked Mrs. Pratt to her social rival, Mrs. Prendergast. I dont mind anybody being popular, she graciously conceded, if I dont have to see how they go about it. But this business, she jerked her head towards the Dillings, is, in my opinion, perfeckly disgusting! The ladies sat in a corner of the Royal Ottawa Golf Club, and although they had just partaken of a dinner given in honour of Raymond Dilling, their mien was far from congratulatory. They had made astonishing progress in their ascent towards Societys Parnassian Heights, and once a week, at least, their names appeared in the local calendar of fame. Mrs. Pratt employed the methods of a battering ram, charging through obstructions with ruthless vigour, and indifferent alike to wounds inflicted or received. She spent her money shrewdly, squeezing double its worth from every dime. Even her victims respected her. Mrs. Prendergast adopted the opposite course. She slithered through the barriers lying in her path sublimely unaware that they were supposed to be barriers. It was related of her that one morning, happening to shop in a store sanctified by the immediate presence of a party from Government House, she preceded the Governors lady down a cleared passage, passed first through the door held open by an apoplectic Aide-de-Camp, and bestowed upon that young gentleman a gracious, if bovine, smile. She spent the proceeds from Prendergasts Anti-Agony Aliment lavishly, using two dollars to accomplish the work of one, with regal unconcern. Slowly, she was buying her way onward and upward. Both she and Mrs. Pratt entertainedif one may be permitted so euphemistic a wordwith resolute frequency. Mrs. Pratt rarely received anyone less important than a Senator, now, and Mrs. Prendergast had recently dined a lady, honourable in her own right. The fact was chronicled in the Montreal papers and also in Saturday Night. Both ladies saw the advantage of making their homes a rendezvous for the young, and using their childrens friends as a bridge, however precarious, to that happy land where Society dwelt. Moreover, both expressed the resentment of their class against one who, in their judgment, had been exalted above her station, and from that altitude demanded homage from people not only just as good but far better, i.e., themselves. There was no limit to the servility they would offer an unworthy aristocrat, but a deserving member of the bourgeoisienever! How do you mean experimenting? asked Mrs. Prendergast, referring to her friends remark. Well, its hard to explain, said Mrs. Pratt, in so many words, that is. The implication here was somewhat veiled. How many words legitimately belonged to an explanation, Mrs. Pratt didnt know. But Mrs. Prendergast was not embarrassingly curious, so she continued. When they first came, _he_ was the disagreeable one, so superior and grumpy you couldnt get a word out of him. Yes, assented the other. I remember saying to the Dawkter that it must be very trying to be married to a mute. On the other hand, _she_ was just the oppositeapparently trying to cover up his grouchiness and bad manners. I dont know whether you understand me, Mrs. Prendergast? Oh, yes! Oh, certainly, cried Mrs. Prendergast, emphatic in defence of her intelligence. I understand exactly. Indeed, I remember saying to the Dawkter that I found her quite a pleasant little thing. Well, shes fur from pleasant, now! Heaven knows I try to see good in everybody, but rully, Mrs. Prendergast, I think I may be purdoned for saying that by the airs she puts on, youd think she was a member of the Royal family! And now that _he_ has been given such a prominent position in the Partycan you blame me for asking what is politics coming to? Mrs. Prendergast hastened to assure her that such a question was blameless. She was not vitally interested in politics nor the intrigues that grew out of Party differences, and it concerned her very little who occupied the positions of prominence. That they should appreciate her and those belonging to her was a matter of far greater importance. She cherished an ambition to be associated with the Old Families of the Capitalthose who regarded the ever-changing political element with disfavour. Substantial clubs appealed to herthe Rideau for her husband, the Minto for her children, the Laurentian Chapter, I.O.D.E., for herself, and the Royal Ottawa for them all. As a matter of fact, she and the Doctor had just been admitted as Life Members of the latter. In the ordinary course of procedure, they might have waited twenty-years. A banging of doors and loud commotion in the hallway prevented further conversation, and Hebe Barrington, surrounded by a group of Naughty Niners, danced breezily into the room. Seeing Dilling, she ran forward and caught him by both arms. Congratulations, Raymond! she cried. Ive been out of town or you would have had them sooner. Arent you very proud and happy? Your friends are, for you! Whose funeral is this? she demanded looking with gay impudence over the group. Ugh! I can guess. One of these deadly Party affairs, givenof coursein your honour! How do you do, Mrs. Dilling? Why, hello, Mr. Pratt . . . _and_ Doctor Prendergast! She extended a naked left arm and shook hands across the enraged head of Lady Denby. Come along with us, Raymond. Were going to dance. Mona Carmichael will teach us some new convolutions, so to speak. Come! In a low, embarrassed voice, Dilling demurred. Oh, stuff and nonsense! They wont miss you. And, besides, a Minister must acquire a bagful of lightsome parlour tricks, otherwise hell be monstrously heavy wheeling. Gaze upon this company, Raymond, and take warning! She laughed gaily, ignoring the tensity with which the atmosphere was charged. Seize him! she cried. Lay violent hands upon him, and if he struggles, smother himwith affection. Half a dozen boys and girls rushed forward and dragged Dilling away. As Hebe moved off after them, Pratt called out to her. Wont you take me, Mrs. Barrington? I may be a Minister some dayyou never can tell. He bravely avoided his wifes eyes. You shall be my particular charge, retorted Hebe with well-feigned delight. Mr. Pratt bored her inexpressibly. He was rapidly acquiring the manner of the professional politician, who looks upon every individual as a vote and who conducts himself as though life were a perpetual election campaign. He had the air of one who thinks he is the soul of the very party, moving about from group to group, telling ancient political stories as having happened to himself, and releasing at set and stated intervals, borrowed and well-worn epigrams. Certainly, Hebe did not find the companionship of Augustus Pratt inspiring, but just now it pleased her to pretend the contrary and bear him off beneath the battery of angry eyes the women trained upon her. As they moved towards the door and his rather moist hand caressed her unclad elbow, she said in a loud voice, None but the immediate relatives of the deceased followed the body to the grave . . . I dont wonder people have wakes, do you, dear Mr. Pratt? Solemnity in massive doses is so depressing. Have you tried the Argentine? Its enchanting! You take three steps to the right . . . A brief silence followed their exit. The women glowered at Mrs. Pratt and Marjorie Dilling as though they were personally responsible for their husbands defection. The men fidgetted and offered one another fresh cigarettes. Lady Denby drew her lips into a thin line and remarked to Madame Valleau who was choking back a yawn, I do wish that woman would wear some clothes! It simply infuriates me to see her going abroad like that! The Frenchwoman smiled. Perhaps that is why she does it. I dont know what you mean, and I dont see anything funny, Lady Denby retorted. One observes so much! For myself, I think it very funny you do not realise that instead of dressing to please men, as most people think, women dress to annoy other women. Consider yourself, _par example_ and this gay Madame Barrington! There, you see? * * * * * The gay Madame Barrington presented a violently contrasting appearance the following morning, as she lay on the Eyrie Chesterfield and consumed a box of Russian cigarettes. Her eyes were heavy and dull. Her complexion, wearing the make-up of the night previous, looked thick and dead. Over her citron-tinted sleeping robe she had flung an inadequate _batik_ garment that required continuous adjustment or reclaiming from the floor. Sharp spears of light thrust themselves between the close-drawn mulberry curtains, and sought out the vulnerable spots in Hebes house-keeping. A thin film of dust lay on a teakwood table; flakes of ash and tobacco strewed the floor. A stale odour combining scent, cigarettes and anise-seed hung in the still air. Mr. Sullivan, correct in new spring tweeds, lay back in an easy chair and absently caressed the glass he held in his hand. Beside him on the table, stood a decanter and syphon. He sniffed, with disapproving discernment. Do you find absinthe a satisfying beverage, my dear? Oh, as satisfying as any other. Well, tastes differ . . . and stomachs. For my part, Im afraid of the stuff. The less subtle and more reliable Scotch is good enough for me, although there are occasions, it goes without saying, when the bouquet of a fine wine is somewhat more acceptable. I am fond of a high grade of Burgundy, and am unique, I believe, in fancying a glass of old Madeira, which, by the way, is not adequately appreciated among the English people. Hebe watched him sullenly, but said nothing. It was during the French war that our soldiers made the discovery of this delectable drink, and it was they who carried the taste for it back to England, where, I admit, its flavour deteriorates. Climate probably, though there are some who maintain that Englishmen dont know how to keep it. Why did you come to see me? Hebe asked the Hon. Member, bluntly. She lit a fresh cigarette and dragged her neglige from the floor, knowing that Mr. Sullivan had not called upon her to discuss the virtues of various intoxicants. She suspected that the real object of his visit would be even less agreeable as a topic of conversation. Her feeling towards Mr. Sullivan could never be accurately described as blind adoration, but this morning she unqualifiedly hated him. Why _did_ you come here at such an hour, Uncle Rufus? You know how I loathe to be disturbed early in the day. Im never human till noon. The artistic temperament is interesting in all its phases, murmured Mr. Sullivan, suavely. Dont be funny! Nothing is further from my intention. With perfect gravity I assert that a woman is infinitely appealing to me in her gentler moods. Her fragility, her beautiful feminine weakness . . . She inspires me with overwhelming tenderness . . . And how doubly charming when her verve returns. He smiled, reflectively, at the tip of his boots. Oh, drop that nonsense and tell me what brings you here! Well, my dear Hebe, I must plead a stupid mans irresistible desire to discuss a somewhat delicate situationalbeit of his own makingwith the cleverest woman of his acquaintance. Bosh! The unadulterated truth, I assure you. I am paying you no idle compliment, my child. Thanks, said Hebe, shortly. Go on. I succumbed to the imperious need for feminine companionship, sympathy, understanding. Eliminate the first two. Charming naivt! Delicious frankness! Hebe, you enchant me! The Hon. Member drained his glass, touched his lips with a lavender handkerchief and beamed upon his sulky hostess. But, tell me, what do you think of our new Minister? You know what I think. Not that my opinion matters a damn! A mistake, my dear. If you approve of the appointment, then your opinion coincides with my own, and that, in itself, lends it some importance. I feel that Dilling is the very man for the post . . . . . . which is the very best reason in the world for your opposition to his securing it. Sullivan laughed, indulgently. He raised his cuff and consulted the face of his watch. In ten minutes, said he, you will be human. Meanwhile, may I help myself? The hiss of a syphon filled the room and Hebe stretched out her hand for the glass. For a space neither of them spoke, and then the midday gun sounded its message over the city. Now, said the Hon. Member for Morroway, what about this business with Dilling? I cant do anything. Ive tried. Mr. Sullivan protested that she hardly did herself justice. A woman of your ageerexperience, he tactfully amended, _and_ talents . . . He smiled benignly at her. Now is your golden opportunity. The more prominent his position, the more conspicuous he becomes, and every act is subject to criticism. I tell you I cant do it. Dont be so childish. The world talks of men compromising women, but thats a difficult task compared with the ease with which women compromise men. Whats the matter? Are your weapons rusty with disuse? It seems to me that only just before you came up here I heard rumours of . . . Oh, but let that pass! The point is now, that there must be no further dallying. Befores theres any possibility of his obtaining any hold on the country, Dilling must go, must hang himself, must dig his own grave and bury himself! Its up to you! Hebe avoided his glance, and, as he regarded her, a change came over him. His suavity vanished, his smile disappeared, as his lips set themselves into firmer lines. In his eyes, tiny hot sparks gleamed like pinpoints of fire. There awoke in Mr. Sullivans breast a disturbing suspicion. Whats the matter? he repeated. Why dont you drag him through the streets at your chariot wheelsas is your playful wont? Let people see that this zealous prophet who preaches righteousness and a higher idealism, is bitten no deeper by his fine doctrine than is the average disciple of orthodoxy. Get busy, girl; get busy! He wont respond, muttered Hebe. Hes different. Bah! _Youre_ differentthats the trouble. Im half inclined to believe youve fallen for this aesthetic milk-veined Parliamentarianthat youve become the victim instead of the victorthat you have allowed your undisciplined emotions to play you tricks. But by God! you shant play any on me! Im a bad man to double cross, Hebe, and dont lose sight of that for an instant. You undertook to see this thing through . . . now, go to it! I tell you it cant be done! Ive worked like a dog, and anyhow, theres nothing in it for menothing but humiliation . . . Besides, she added, with seeming irrelevance, I cant live on Toddles salary! Mr. Sullivan laughed as he made his way to the door. With the knob in his hand he turned, and observed, I know you cant! Moreover, I know you _dont_ . . . my dear! CHAPTER 19. Everybody now called upon Marjorie. Even the A.D.C.s from Government House were to be found at her receptions on Monday afternoons. Invitations poured in upon her. She was an integral part of Canadas official life, and her presence was deemed necessary at all public assemblages. Socially, she was accounted of importance, and her attendance at private affairs lent to them that subtle odour of distinction whichwith a fine disregard for principledemocracy loves to inhale. Tradespeople solicited her custom, agents waited upon her pleasure and her patronage was sought for a bewildering variety of functions. She found herself in the hands of exploiters, who called at all hours, with slight excuse or no excuse, to crave favours or heap them upon her, with high hope that she would liquidate the debt in social currency, and Marjorie never learned to deny herself to these people. She was more embarrassed than flattered by their ambiguous attentions, and was positively distressed at having to take precedence over those who, but yesterday, had snubbed her. Life became a round of perplexing complications, and she yearned for the peace and quiet that used to be hers at home. Then, too, she was worried by the fierce light of publicity that played upon her. Interviewers distorted her timid utterances in half a dozen metropolitan papers. Illustrated weeklies requested her photograph for publication. Local reporters took a sudden and absorbing interest in her gowns, and the gatherings at which she was expected to wear themgatherings, which, under other conditions, would not have attracted the Press by so much as a line. The Sweet Arbutus Club enjoyed the distinction of entertaining Mrs. Raymond Dilling at its annual supper on Thursday evening. The President of the Club, Mrs. Horatio Gullep, received the members, and little Miss Ermyntrude Polduggan presented the distinguished guest with a shower bouquet of white carnations. The Secretary, Mrs. (Dr.) Deitrich, and the Treasurer, Miss Emmeline Crogganthorpe, presided at the supper table, while the following young ladies assisted . . . Throughout the evening several delightful selections were rendered by the Club Orchestra, consisting of the Messrs. . . . and the Misses . . . Mrs. (Rev.) Muldoon charmed her audience with three recitations, and the programme was brought to a close with a chorus sung by seven dainty little maidens all under the age of seven . . . This was the sort of thing that Mrs. Long claimed not to have read and that drove Lady Denby to a state closely akin to frenzy. I never saw anyone so intractable, she cried to Azalea. You would think that she actually preferred those awful people! I believe they are ardent workers in the church, murmured Azalea. Even so! Church work should be encouraged, and I admire her for undertaking so much of it. But you know as well as I do, Azalea, that a Ministers wife has her own peculiar duties to perform, and they are not fundamentally concerned with Church workers, suggested the girl. Well, I mean to say that she neednt be afraid we will contaminate her. There _are_ Christians outside the Church. Im glad to hear you say so, Lady Denby! There certainly arent many in it. Child! How can you think of such things? You flatter me, returned Azalea. Its not original. Nietzsche gave me the idea. He said there was but one Christian, and Him they crucified. Lady Denby was outraged by this blasphemy. She was not the only person who thought Azalea Deane had developed an unpleasant emancipation since the death of her father, and she took this occasion to mention her feeling in the matter. I have nothing to say against the Civil Service, she concluded, but I have noticed that so many of the women who enter it acquire an air of independence that is unbecoming to a lady. I am speaking as a friend, and for your own good, my dear, so I trust that you will give heed to what I say. Thank you, Lady Denby, murmured Azalea. Now to return to the Dillings You _must_ make her see that these parochial affairs should not claim her attention. I have tried to make her see that, but it is difficult. You will remember that her creed is a literal acceptance of the golden rule. Indeed, she is literal in everything. Lady Denby sighed. Well, keep on trying. Upon my word, I think the world is turning upside down! Where _are_ the nice young people, nowadays? Why couldnt she have been like Helena Chesley or Eva Leeds, or the Angus-McCallums, orereven you? You would have made him a very good wife, Azalea! Azalea turned a painful scarlet, but Lady Denby was too deeply immersed in her own trend of thought to notice her companions confusion or to read its meaning. There seem to be but two types of young woman, she complained, hers, and the one represented by that terrible Barrington person. Of the two I almost incline towards the latter. At least, she would give some tone to the Party. I grant it. Dont misunderstand me, Azalea! You know well enough what I mean. She has a manner . . . On the other hand, here is a young couple, qualified in many respects to adorn not only the Party but the Dominion. Heaven knows we need his brains. Except for a few of the older men, notably my husband, the country cant muster enough to fill a good-sized thimble! But what do they make of their gifts! Nothing! Less than nothing! They ignore advice, scorn convention and, unless they suffer a radical change of heart, they will undermine the foundations of the very structure which has made them, by refusing to adapt themselves to the exigencies of their official position. Can you imagine him a Prime Minister, representing Canada abroadfor example, at an Imperial Conference? Yes, I can! flared Azalea. And furthermore, I can imagine that in a broader field, associating with bigger people, Raymond Dilling would be accepted at his genuine worth. Proportions would be adjusted, and the gifts he undoubtedly possesses would shine with a brilliance undimmed by the shadow of his humble origin. I mean to say, she went on, a shadow that is formed, locally, by petty insistence upon a matter that is of no importance. Here, in this trivial atmosphere, heavy with a spurious culture, most of us regard the position as less significant than the man. We expect him to adorn his office, and the manner in which he wears his mantle means more to us than the manner in which he administers his public duty. Fine feathers . . . began Lady Denby. Moreover, continued Azalea, unheeding the interruption, we are impressed with his personality first and his political integrity later. People of a different calibre would relegate the mantle to its proper place, and Dilling, the orator, the statesman, would come into his own. Do you suppose, she cried, with more heat than she realised, that the men who mould our Imperial policies are influenced in their estimate of Raymond Dillings usefulness to Canadato the Empire, indeedby considerations of his talents and inflexibility of purpose, or by his adherence to custom in wearing a black tie or a white? Now you are being stupid, Azalea, pronounced Lady Denby. Conventions cannot be broken without harming both the offender and the cause he represents. There never has been a telling argument in favour of conventionality, yet it persists. My charwoman may be _gauche_ and amuse me, but similar behavior on the part of Lady Elton, for example, would disgust me and kill my respect. But the Dillings are _not gauche_, Azalea defended. I know few words that could be more inaptly applied to them. Mrs. Pratt is _gauche_, for if she followed her instincts she would do the clumsy, cruel and vulgar thing. The Dillings, on the other hand, do the orderly, kind and decent thing. They make no pretence, use no lacquer or veneer. If they err at all, it is not due to _gaucherie_, but utter simplicity. They do not think that it becomes them to ape or assume the manner of the great. They even go so far as to be _logical_, which is the last attribute that one should have to be socially presentable. Oh, why, Lady Denby, she cried, _why_ cant people let them alone, stop this carping criticism, and applaud, if they wont follow, the fine example that is being set them? As a man thinketh . . . They parted in some constraint, Lady Denby unpleasantly stirred by the truth behind Azaleas championship, and Azalea quivering with indignation at the unreasonableness of such attacks upon the Dillings. Never had she hated her townsfolk more bitterly than at this moment. They are like a swarm of vicious wasps, was her thought, as she raced along through the mild spring night, stinging a lovely and unoffending body until its sweetness is absorbed and its beauty marred. And Azalea was alive to another sensation. Above the clamour of her directed thinking, Lady Denbys words rushed unbidden into her mind, and would not be dislodged. You would have made him a good wife, Azalea! God, she thought, why must life be so cruel? Why is it that some of us are denied not only the privilege of having, but even that of giving? I could give him so much . . . so much . . . A verse filtered through her memory. It was the cry of Ibsens _Agnes_, and it spoke to her own heavy heart: Through the hours that drag so leaden, Think of me shut out of sight Of the struggles beacon-light; Think of me who cannot ask Aught beyond my petty task; Think of me beside the ember Of a silent hearthstone set, Where I dare not all remember And I cannot all forget . . . CHAPTER 20. Sleep eluded her. Wide awake, she lay on her back, staring into the tepid darkness and listening to the whisper of a thin, spring rain. Her thoughts were of Raymond Dilling. Only at night, beyond the reach of prying eyes, did Azalea dare to open the doors of her souls concealment. Only then did she allow herself the freedom of the emotion that possessed her, and enjoy the warmth of a communion that no one could suspect. Her thoughts were like perfumed caresses . . . tender, delicate, and as they held him in sweet contact, she glowed with the reflection of their radiance, conscious that her entire being was suffused with a lightan ectoplasmvisible to the naked eye. To-night, however, her thoughts were poisoned with acute bitterness. The world, as Lady Denby had said, was upside down. Clamouring for justice, it offered high reward for iniquity, nepotism and refined knavery of every colour. Give us Honour and Idealism, cried the voice of the People, but give them to us garbed in the motley of hypocrisy and alluring vice. If you must be good, disguise yourself, so that you are still a knave and a rattling good fellow! Would the Publicthat vague, vast body, of which none of us acknowledges himself a membernever come to the realisation that in Raymond Dilling the country had the man for whom it sought, a man of magnificent honesty, courage and fidelity to high purpose; a man whose talents were devoted to more lasting matters than the wearing of a morning coat, and the sequence of forks at a dinner-table? Would the Public never see that to him these things were non-essentials? Beau Brummel, she reminded herself with angry vehemence, spent several hours daily conferring with his tailor, and doubtless both found the association profitable. A pilot, on the other hand, has timeduring the pursuit of his callingfor no such recreation. That he guide his ship through shoal and reef, fog and other dangers of the sea, is all that is required of him. Nor is he adjudged a less worthy pilot because he appears unshaven to steer his vessel into port. Which did Canada needa Beau Brummel to lend her picturesqueness in the Council of the Nations, or a pilot to guide the destiny of her Ship of State through the reefs of ready disaster? Into her mind came the story of a young man who climbing in the Alps, lost his footing and was hurled to his death in the glacier hundreds of feet below. One of his companions, a scientist, computed that at the end of so many years, the body would reappear as the glacier moved towards a certain outlet. On the date specified, a group of the youths friends gathered at the spot signified, to see if the computation would prove correct. It did. There, before the company of old men, battered and scarred in their struggles against life, lay the body of the boyfair and unsullied as on the day he had left them. Azalea wondered whether Raymond Dilling, having climbed so far along the treacherous crags of politics, must lose his foothold and plunge into a glacier of oblivion; and she wondered, passionately, if such had to be, would he emerge after a lapse of years, beautiful and fair, to reproach the country that had rejected him. Azalea was, perhaps, the only person who saw Dillings reaction to Public Opinion. Universally, he was supposed to be indifferent, a man of stone, impervious alike to enmity and friendship. But she could recall half a dozen instances when the lack of sympathymore difficult to endure than active oppositionfrom men whose warm approbation he richly deserved, filled him with corroding discouragement. She knew that he felt his isolation keenly, and was depressed by it. Her thoughts turned to this new appointment, and her happiness for him was dulled by the manner in which Ottawa had received it. There had been noticeably lacking the warmth of genuine congratulation that made formal expression of it acceptable. The Press of the Dominion and many foreign countries commented enthusiastically upon the Governments action, and paid a worthy tribute to the young Minister, but the people amongst whom the Dillings lived, were lukewarm and perfunctory. Azalea knew that to Raymond, the honourthe cloakwas cold, and that he shivered as he wore it. She wondered what he thought about the attitude of Rufus Sullivan. There was something altogether extraordinary in the support of the Hon. Member for Morroway. Azalea did not agree with certain organs of the Press that credited him with sinking private considerations in the interest of public weal. She did not believe in the sincerity of Mr. Sullivans vaunted Imperialism. Unable to find any proof for her suspicions, yet she came very near the truth in listening to the warning of her instinct. Of Mr. Sullivans private affairs, she knew nothing. Nor of his ambitions. Amongst his friendsand he had friends!he was not adjudged an ambitious man. He kept modestly out of the Press, and appeared in Hansard only often enough to satisfy his rather easygoing constituents. He never gave interviews. Interviews, he had observed, had an unpleasant way of rising to condemn one. It was safer not to espouse a cause, for then one could not be accused of inconstancy when one disavowed it. This reticence on the part of Mr. Sullivan was variously regarded as humility towards those of superior wisdom, and an almost extinct distaste for publicity. There were many who thought that save for a certain moral obliquity, Mr. Sullivan was a very fine man! But Azalea distrusted him. With the feminine shrewdness that is really a manifestation of Bergsonian intuition, she saw his modesty as caution, and naturally inferred that caution is only necessary when one has something to conceal. The fact that he never declared himself definitely upon any stand, made her suspicious of his enthusiastic support of Dilling. Azalea sensed treachery behind it. Scattered bits of gossip, an odd suggestion dropped here and there, unremarked at the time, rose now to the surface of her mind, and strengthened her case against Rufus Sullivan. Besides, had not Lady Denby hinted that Sir Eric was not unqualifiedly pleased at the championship of the Hon. That, in itself, was cause for apprehension. So far as Azalea knew, Mr. Sullivan had never denounced Eastlake and Donahue, nor had he uttered any anti-Imperialistic shibboleths, but she simply could not bring herself to accept his attitude as sincere, and something warned her that this sudden flare of patriotism served an ignoble end. What, she asked herself, could he gain by putting Dilling in a position of honour and importance? Bribery was unthinkable, but might it not be that he sought some higher honour for himself, some post which could be more easily acquired by a friend at court than by personal application? Thats stupid, thought Azalea, for the man has hosts of influential friends, who, though hesitating to introduce him to their wives and daughters, would exert no end of energy to gratify a political whim. There must be something else . . . She drew in her breath sharply. What if animosity towards Dilling, and not friendship, or even self-interest, had prompted this extraordinary act of Mr. Sullivans! Was it possible, she asked herself, that he had built his policy on the theory that Dilling would be self-defeated by the deficiencies which Lady Denby so persistently deplored? Did he rely on the Capitals beguilement by a Beau Brummell, and its rejection of a pilot who placed the substance before the shadow? Sullivan was astute enough to aim at Dillings most vulnerable spot, realising that it was scarcely probable for him to be overthrown by a political misadventure. A motive was not far to seek . . . Marjorie! Did Mr. Sullivan wish to cripple his antagonist beyond the chance of giving battle, and then himself reap the spoils? He was, she decided, quite capable of such infamy. She required no complaints from Lady Denby to remind her of the Dillings social short-comings. Times without number, she had tried to convince Marjorie that in Ottawain any Capital, probablySuccess demands that aspect of good breeding which may be described as a superficial adaptability to others. But neither Marjorie nor her husband would conform to the standards set by other people, when those standards were opposed to the principles on which they had been nurtured. Its deceit, said Marjorie. Its duplicity, said Raymond. Success was not worth attaining unless it accompanied a cleanly heart. In such small matters did they transgress against the rules of that great governing body called Society. In such stupid little things! It was immaterial to Dilling whether he appeared in black shoes or tan. Marjorie developed a perfect genius for wearing the wrong clothes. At a luncheon given to some distinguished visitor, she could see no reason for dressing up, while for an affair confined to the humbler members of the Sunday School, she would wear the best that her wardrobe afforded. Similarly, in entertaining, she would provide the simplest repast for a guest of high degree, and spread before the officers of the Sweet Arbutus Club, a dinner that was elaborate by comparison. People like Lady Sommerville and the Countess of Lynwood, she argued, have so much better than I could give them, they wouldnt even notice any effort I could make. But with the others . . . it means something to them to be entertained in a Ministers house. When I have them here, I am giving somebody real pleasure. Dont you think it is worth a good deal of trouble? The caparisons of greatness would always remain for them non-essentials. All externalities were vain pomp and inglorious display. The things that counted lay withinwithin the heart and mind and soul of man, and these they pursued and cultivated ardently. Azalea began to fear that without a drastic shifting of ideals, life would soon become quite insupportable for them in their Land of Afternoon. The birds were stirring, and a sullen dawn was taking possession of the sky before she fell into a troubled doze. She was conscious of a disturbing dissonance, a harsh thumping that beat against her brain, and she awoke to the sound of Lady Denbys voice crying, You would have made him a good wife, Azalea! * * * * * Heavy-eyed, she entered the office in the morning. Hello, cried Dilling. Youre here, at last! Id begun to fear that you were ill. The eagerness in his manner enraptured her. She drew it into her being, and was refreshed as from a draught of wine. She was conscious of a lifting of the weight that lay upon her spirit. He had been watching for her . . . he had been anxious . . . afraid that she was ill . . . She looked at him, standing in the doorway, vibrant with unusual health and vigour, scarcely able to keep the glory of her happiness from shining through her eyes. Here you are, at last, he had said. It was wonderful but it was true. Dilling relapsed into his accustomed matter-of-factness. He was utterly unconscious of his dependence upon this girl. At least, he was unconscious of the extent of his reliance. During the time he was waiting here, when his thoughts were definitely concerned with her, he was by no means wholly aware that she stood for him as an absorbing problem, intensifying mysteries and contrasts, pricking strange and sensitive spots in the sheath of his imagination. He only dimly suspected how much he owed her for the enlargement of his world and the discovery of new regions of thought and feeling. He had looked at the clock, trying to summon a sense of irritation. Azalea had never been late before. Instead, he succumbed to anxiety. She must be ill . . . He tried to recall her appearance, yesterday, and failed. He was stupid, that way . . . intensely stupid. He never noticed people . . . Marjorie was very clever. She could have seen in an instant whether Azalea Deane was ill . . . A curious thought cut athwart the woof of his reflection, a thought that had disturbed him more than once. Might she be tiring of her work? Did she find ithimtoo exacting? Perhaps she wasnt coming back at all! He rose, opened the door and looked out into the corridor. She was not coming. Tired out, probably . . . sick of her job! How could he make the work more interesting, he wondered? How could he show her greater consideration? He found it difficult not to drive Azalea. She encouraged him to overtax her strength. If shed only tell me when shes had enough, he thought guiltily. But she wont stop . . . wont take advantage of the scheduled periods of rest! Dilling felt that he must put a stop to this sort of thing. For example, the girl must go out for lunch. He must see that she went. Anticipation of proposed tyranny sent an agreeable warmth over him. There were many Members who took their secretaries out to lunch . . . why should he not take Azalea? A very sensible solution, so far as it went. He would see that she ate a proper meal in the middle of the day. He might take her at noon . . . if she would only come. The sequence of his thoughts was shattered, and Dilling caught himself speculating upon a hitherto unconsidered problemAzaleas relations with other men. What were they? Had she any close friends? If so, which were the men, and if not, why? Had she ever been in love, and why had she not married? Hastily, he discarded all the men he knew as unworthy of such a relationship, and then he fell to wondering how much she liked him. Was she capable of any depth of feeling, or was a sort of consistent cordiality, the expression of an intellectual glow that substituted for emotion? But he made little headway. He found that the clear, cold reason that ate like an acid through the metal of ordinary barriers, was impotent to solve this subtler question . . . that he was slow and clumsy in considering the psychology of Romance. Not that Dilling scented the least romantic element in his relationship with Azalea Deane. On the contrary! Never had he consciously admitted her femininity; never was he aware of the slightest exoteric appeal. Truly, did women say of him, Hes a cold fish! Azalea was, to him, a fine mind, a sort of disembodied intelligence, upon whose judgment he unconsciously leaned, and whose approbation he keenly desired. As he drew the telephone towards him to put an end to his impatience, the door opened and she entered the room. * * * * * One might judge from your cheerful aspect, that the House would prorogue before lunch, she smiled at him. No such luck! Although, as a matter of fact, I believe the ends in sight. The Budget should be down this week. There wont be much more after that. This week? Azalea bent diligently over her desk, Then it wont be long before you start West, again. Marjorie and the kids will probably go home. But I have no intention of accompanying them. Well, what will you do? asked Azalea, in surprise. I shall stay around Ottawa and become a golf addict. I played eighteen holes yesterday afternoon. Above the mad singing of her heart, she caught a strange note in his voice, a note she was at a loss to diagnose. I shall stay in Ottawa . . . he said calmly, but in a peculiar way. She dared not trust herself to look at him. Eyes are responsible for more betrayals than are the lips. She wondered, nervously, whether he was looking at her. . . Surely, he had not meant . . . No, no! The thing was impossible! Never, by so much as a fleeting glance, had Raymond Dilling expressed anything more than friendliness towards her, and at that, it was the friendliness that man offers man. Had he not deplored the fact that she was born a woman? Hope that was as dear as it was unfounded, died under one smart blow of Reason and Azalea called herself a weak fool. She was ashamed. You are singularly uninterested in the affairs pertaining to your Minister, Dilling teased. Why dont you ask me some intelligent questions? He looked at her with a sudden softening in his glance that was almost warm enough to be affectionate. Very well. Why are you going to stay in Ottawa? she asked, looking squarely at him. Ah, thats the wrong question. I cant tell you at this moment. But you may make a note and refer to it, again. The same curious sombreness crept into his voice. A new intensity shone in his face. Later, I will remind you that I _had_ a reason! But ask another . . . With whom did you play golf? None other than His Royal Highness. Are you impressed? Not a whit! Im not even surprised. What? No! Ive already seen it in the papers. Youre joking! Really! Its the first item in the Social Column. Only the reporter neglected to mention the score. Dilling thanked heaven for that. The Duke, he thought, must be one of the best players in the United Kingdom. He beat me, he added. Indeed, Pratt, who followed us round with fatuous insistence, called it a wallop. Do you know, said Azalea, I can scarcely picture you being beaten. Somehow, one feels that you ought to do everything well. Heaven forfend! You dont understand me, Miss Deane! You think me always and inevitably seriousthat my disposition will not permit me to do things by halves. Nothing is further from the truth. But you dont agree with Horace, do you? Remember, he said that it is pleasant to play the fool deliberately, and be silly now and then. I do not! No one who recognises the thin line that divides sanity from its awful opposite, can ever willingly approach that line. On the other hand, however, I believe that it is an expedient of great psychonomic value to do things which one knows he does badlyor let us say inartisticallyat times. Golf certainly offers rare opportunities to many persons, murmured Azalea. And dancing! Look at me . . . I dance as badly as I play golf, but candidly, I dont _want_ to do either of them well. My mind rests itself in the conviction that I am doing badly, and so I am refreshed. What harm do you see in doing them well? Speaking for myselfand myself alone, you understandI should be ashamed of excelling in either of these arts, because excellence spells much long and arduous labour in acquiring perfection. You remember Herbert Spencers rebuke to the young man who beat him handily at billiards . . . Your exceedingly great skill argues a mis-spent youth, he said. Thats just it! Skill in trivial things is not worth while unless you are earning your bread thereby. For example, were I a golf pro. or a dancing master . . . No, Miss Deane, I despise the crack amateur. Oh! Its true, and having said so much, you will be prepared to hear me add that I dispute the sonorous counsel, Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might. Utter nonsense, I call it! Alack, alack! cried Azalea. What shall we do for copybook mottoes? Ill give you a better one . . . Whats only worth doing once in a while, should be forgotten until the next time! Now for the foreign papers. This parcel? Thank you. He glanced rapidly through half a dozen of themEnglish, French and German. Azalea, watching him, saw his expression darken into apprehension, the meaning of which she could not fathom. Nor was she able to interpret his increasing preoccupation until one August morning he called her to the telephone. I can tell you now why I stayed in Ottawa, he said. Despatches have just arrived . . . England has declared war on Germany . . . Canada will have to fight! PART THREE They Conquered CHAPTER 21. Destiny seemed to be setting the stage for Armageddon, the last tragic scene in the play of human life. Pandoras box had been opened and every mortal ill loosed to the bonds of hate. For more than three years, the sword of War had maimed the body of civilisation. It was a time when the vision of young men was carnage, and the dream of old men, despair. Prussian frightfulness was still exacting dreadful tribute from Celt and Anglo-Saxon battlefields that had lost all trace of old-time chivalry. The virtue of sheer sacrifice was confined to the English-speaking Dominions, the flower of whose youth had gone forth against a foe that had not directly challenged them; gone forth with joy to build their splendid bodies into ramparts that might be shattered but never stormed. The Blond Beast was shaking the blood from his eyes and looking anxiously across the Atlantic. But America had not yet decided to step into the breach. Thus with the men. Nor was the mettle of our women lacking in the hour of trial. Spartan mothers never sent their sons into battle with finer renunciation than did the mothers of the unconscripted youths who crowded the transports in the first two years of conflict. Women stepped into the gaping ranks of industry at homeinto the farms and fields, and into factories originally designed for making ploughshares and pruning hooks, but now converted into plants for fashioning the panoplies of war. Thousands of these women clad themselves in the overalls of labour, and hundreds put on the uniform of the Red Cross. Life so lived was hard but it was intense, and Carry on, came to express one of the spiritual values of the ages. This was one picture of the activities of women during the grim tourney of Might against Right. There was another, not so inspiring. It revealed the cocotte and the flapper. Birds of beautiful plumage, these, who thronged London, Paris, OstendGod knows where they were notand sang their siren songs into masculine ears echoing with the shriek of shot and shell . . . songs that offered forgetfulness, Nirvana, to men who came out of a stinking Hell where the form of Death stalked grinning at their side. These were they who filled the theatres, cabarets, and tea shops, providing fat profits for jewellers, modistes, motor liveries; the hotels and inconspicuous road-houses. How swiftly in our own land came the changes wrought by war! One grew inured to bobbed hair, knee-length skirts, universal smoking, Einstein, trousered women, camouflage, expensive economy and economical extravagance, unashamed macquillage, weddings la vole, War Babies, and appetency for divorce. The social limousine, as it sped on the road of Hysteria, was not alone in its responsiveness to the influences of the time. The car of politics was jolted from its accustomed track. Union Government was formed under the leadership of Sir Robert Borden, and both the great parties lost their distinctiveness, not so much from the deliberate fusion as from the departure of the pick of capable men from each. To complete the debacle of the Liberal Party, Sir Wilfrid Laurierthe thaumaturge of Canadas peaceful days of growthpassed away, stupefied by the alarms of war. The nation lost its beautiful Parliament House by fire, set it was generally thought, by the myrmidons of the Kaiser. In the Dillings home, changes had also made their way. Marjorie found the top floor convenient as a meeting place for the dozen and one organisations over which she was asked to preside. Dilling had an office on the ground floor as well as at the Victoria Museumwhither the burnt-out Members of Parliament had been driven for refuge, and Azalea practically lived at the house. Mr. Sullivan was by no means an infrequent visitor and Lord Ronald Melville, the A.D.C., found a curious respite from Societys kaleidoscopic demands upon him in the prim ugliness of Marjories drawing-room. I like him better than any man I ever knew, she confided to Azalea, one evening as they sat waiting for the children to return from a masquerade at Government House. Hes so old-fashioned. Azalea laughed. In what way? Ever so many ways! He doesnt like women who smoke or swear, and hes so fond of children. That _is_ old-fashioned! Marjorie nodded. I dont think he likes Ottawa very much. He said that the Society here was like a blurred and microscopic reflection of London life. Wasnt that pretty strong, Azalea? Well, it certainly is a definite view. I find it easy to get on with him, Marjorie continued. All the things I like to talk about seem interesting to him. With other people, no matter what I say, it doesnt sound quite right, but with Their Excellencies and Lord Ronald, there is such a different feeling! She sighed. Long ago, she had observed that famous people whose names she used to revere in Pinto Plains, neither talked nor acted like the sons of God; gradually, she discovered that age was not to be confused with sapience or high life with respectability. She realised that to succeed she must say daring things to people from whom she shrunk, and repeat the latest gossip freshened by a spraying of her own invention. She divined that in being kind to men and allowing them to talk frankly with her, she earned the enmity of their wives, and that if she held herself aloof, these same women considered her a stick and a fool. She could acquire neither the smart badinage of people of parts, nor the air of those who used ponderosity to cloak their native insipidities. You should be very grateful for being clever, Marjorie said. If I were only a little bit cleverer, I shouldnt have found Ottawa half sosodifficult. She blushed. Do you know, Azalea, I used to think that everybody here would be like Lord Ronald, good and kind and friendly. I used to think Society was exactly like _that_! Azaleas mouth grew hard. She knew, without being told, that some one had inflicted a hurt upon Marjories tender spirit, and all her love rose up in revolt. Society! she cried. Cant you see that what we dignify by that name is merely a mechanism devised to give a certain class of climbers and parasites the power to lead a comfortably otiose existence at the expense of the shrinking and the credulous? Im afraid I dont understand quite all of that, confessed Marjorie. But I know its clever. There are so many clever people, here. That is what makes me seem stupider than I really am, by comparison. They are not clever, contradicted Azalea. They are simply experts in the art of pretence. They succeed by bluff. You have to be clever to do that, argued Marjorie. Then suddenly, I hope you wont mind my saying so, Azalea, but you know Ive often thought how much better everything would have been for everybody if you had been married to Raymond! Azalea raised startled eyes to see Dilling standing in the doorway. That he had overheard Marjories words was obvious. He stood regarding her with a strange interest as if studying her in the light of a sudden revelation. With an onrush of knowledge, he became conscious of his soul, for the first time. He knew its needs and how Azalea had met them during the months they had worked together. He saw Azalea as a woman . . . as the luminous source of all his inspiration. A moment passed . . . a moment that held an eternity of understanding. Soul met soul, disdaining the barriers of sense. The room was filled with the sound of Marjories knitting needles. The clock began to chime . . . The pell-mell entrance of the children shattered the spell that gripped them. Baby, drunk with excitement, staggered to Marjorie and climbed, a crumpled heap of tarltan and tinsel, into her lap. Besser, proudly wearing a jesters cap over one ear, retrieved from his pocket, three sticky lumps that had once been cake, and laid them on the table. Althea, infected by the snobbery in which she had so lately been a participant, flipped up her skirts at the back, and wriggled decorously upon a chair. Well, my treasures, and was the party boo-ti-fool? demanded Marjorie. A torrent of speech answered her. And were you dear, good children? she asked. What of my tomboy, Althea? I was the goodest one at the party, replied that young person. Mind you, Mummie, I was the _only child_ what folded up my napkin! CHAPTER 22. Dilling and Azalea met on the following morning, in all outward respects, exactly as they had met for nearly five years. A third person watching them would have detected no change in their manner, no relaxing in their poise, no studied indifference. Neither was there discernible the strained control proclaiming a furtive curiositya hungerto see how the other would behave. Good morning, said Dilling, finding her engrossed with the mail. I hope you are well. Azalea echoed this clich and observed that their correspondence seemed to increase daily. It was the sort of thing they often said. Ill be ready in just a moment, he told her, and passed quickly behind the green baize door that gave into his private office. All this was as it had been many times before. Azalea caught her breath in two fluttering little sighs. That was over; and without any of the embarrassments she had dreaded. It had been quite easyalmost disappointingly easybut altogether fine. That was what she had prayed that Dilling should remain; it was what she knew he would always remainfine! At the same time, she wondered how he felt, exactly what minute little thoughts had come to him since he stood between the dull, fringed portieres and stared at her, stunned, yet with the light of a sublime revelation dawning in his eyes. She wondered with a hot stab of pain, if he felt himself duped, humbugged, betrayed. She visualised the brief and pregnant scene again, imaginingor was it divining?the thought that must have come to him as his eyes held hers in that sudden bond of understanding. This is a piece of staggering news to me, he must have said. I am taken at a disadvantage . . . emotionally naked . . . but you knew . . . you knew . . . And she saw herself mutely admitting the accusation, but with sadness, as a mother might have felt when some disturbing information could no longer be withheld from the child she loved. And she wondered if he suffered at losing the false serenity in which he had been living. Did he resent the age-old wisdom that enabled her to see, while he groped and stumbled, fatuous in his blindness? Did he feel humiliation? On her desk the buzzer sounded. His summons. For a moment, Azalea sat quite still, looking at the little instrument that had called her in exactly the same way countless times before. And yet, not quite the same. To-day, there was something different. No, it would never be the same again. As she gathered up her notebook, pencil and a sheaf of papers, her heart ached for him. Why, she asked herself, rebelliously, why must the cup of knowledge be so bitter? Why must the coming of truth be so difficult and hard to bear? He did not raise his eyes when she entered the room, but presently, he seemed to know that she was seated and ready. Taking up the matter of the Quebec Bridge, he began, is the report down from Council, yet? Then, without waiting for an answer, But first, are there any Imperial despatches? The routine of the morning progressed as usual. Reports to Council, petitions from small centres demanding votes from the Public Treasury out of all proportion to their possible returns, eternal complaints and criticisms from malcontents, applications for pensions from War Widows, enquiries from distracted mothersall the departmental _acta-diurna_ of a ministerial incumbency that had to be cleared away before he was free to undertake the pressing matters that fell to his especial talents to perform. And he compelled his brain to function along its accustomed channels, while some inner chamber of his mind carried on a separate trend of thoughtseparate, and, at the same time, veiled, like the thinking that is part of a dream. He wondered how Azalea felt, sitting there so composedly; and beautiful, like Lambs divinely plain _Miss Kelly_. Was there an element of pity, even contempt beneath her consistent consideration, for the man who was insentient to the message of his own heart? Dilling recoiled from the mawkish flavour of the phrase. He despised all sentimentality, and had he been called upon to debate the subject would have denied the heart the conspicuous place universally accorded it, in emotional relations between the sexes. Imbeciles and sensualists fell in love, because the world refuses to countenance the cruder, if more honest, passion. Dilling had never been in loveneither with Marjorie nor any other woman. Even now he refused to connect the term with Azalea. He had suddenly become aware of joy in her companionship, of his dependence upon the mental stimulation she provided, of a hitherto unsuspected peace in their spiritual communion. In her, he had found the priceless thing for which men seek throughout their livesUnderstanding. I couldnt get along without her, he said to himself. She understands me. And having thus spoken, he could say no more. It was the highest tribute he could paythe highest tribute any man can pay to woman. With Azalea, he felt himself the man he wished to be; not smug and stodgily content, but rejoicing in the struggle towards an ideal which he believed was one that she approved. Sitting opposite her, apparently engrossed in matters of a widely divergent nature, Dilling examined himself, detachedly. He had no desire to touch her . . . to cry to her, I love you! But the thought of losing her companionship, mental contact with her, produced a pain so intolerable that it dismayed him. And in that flash of utter wretchedness, he saw how completely he was wedded to Azalea; how sublime was this cold, pure marriage of the spirit. With Marjorie, mental companionship was absolutely non-existent. They were bound together by duty, habit, and the intimacies permitted those who have accepted man-made ritual as final . . . and Divine. They had no need of one another. Fondness expressed the extent of his emotion, and for several years, he had realised that a fierce maternalism on her part was substitute for the rarer ecstasy of love. He was as free from connubial fetters as it is given man to be. Marjorie was never exacting, but even so, Dilling was conscious of restriction, bondage. He wanted to be free! He thought of other married men, and saw for the first time how their wives crowded into their lives; they were like two snails trying to crowd into the same shell. Through no fault of hers, Marjorie often crowded him. Then his mind turned to Azalea, who never had provoked that sensation in all the years of their association. On the contrary, she always seemed to liberate his mind, to give him light and space and air. She was his mate, not his keeper or his charge. He wondered when she first began to love him, and whether the knowledge had brought her pleasure or unrest. Had she felt humiliation at his unresponsiveness, perhaps? Had he ever hurt her? What a contrast between Azalea and Hebe Barrington! A gentle perspiration broke out on his brow, and he lost the trend of his thought for an instant. One was suggestive of the hot breath of the jungle; the other, the cool freshness of the open sea. Mentally, Dilling removed his sandals as he looked across the crowded desk, and reverently kneeled at Azaleas feet. Im glad I know . . . he said to himself. Not that it will make the slightest difference. We will go on exactly as before. Thank God, she is sensiblenot like other women! It did not occur to him, however, that he was like other menin one respect, at least; that this was a matter differing from any problem that had entered into his career. It would not be settled once and for all. It would not be laid away beyond the need of further consideration. He was soon to find that he could not ignore the insistency of this strange emotion that caught him at most unexpected, inconvenient moments. At first, such unaccustomed tyranny annoyed him. But gradually, he grew to like it, to seek the refreshment of it, as one who finds refreshment in the perfume of a flower. Mechanically, he selected a letter from the wire basket under his hand, and dictated, Dear Mr. Jackson, (The Jackson case again. Ill finish it this morning!) . . . I have just had your letter, dated 22nd ultimonow a week overdue, hereby this mornings mail. It does not occur to me that carelessness caused your delay in sending it off. I note that it was posted only four days ago. I am inclined to think that it was some evocation of your better judgment, I will even go so far as to say conscience, in this extremely unpleasant affair, that provoked a debate within yourself as to whether the letter should be mailed to me, at all. It is necessary at times to speak plainly to ones friends, and a moments reflection will convince you, I am sure, that this is such a time. Frankly, your letter and its suggestion that I should use my political influence to forward the project of the Moccasin Realty Co. Ltd., which is only the business name cloaking that of yourself and your son-in-law, to sell the jerry-built Cameron Terrace to the Dominion Government at five times the price for which you built it two years since, is a stark offence to me. I will have no part or lot in such an unpleasantI speak euphemisticallytransaction, and I ask you to consider this answer final. The Terrace has twice been reported against by the Inspector of the Indian Department as quite unfit for the purpose of an Indian School. You, sir, are perfectly well aware that it is ill-drained and impossible to heat without being veneered, or stuccoed, at great additional cost. I shall say no more about the matter, but if my refusal to aid your attempt upon the Treasury of this overburdened country costs me the loss of your supportif it should cost me the loss of my entire constituencyI shall accept the situation in the knowledge that, at least, I have done my duty. It is only upon such a footing that I can remain in public life . . . He raised his eyes, hard and cold with anger, and asked, Do you think hell believe Im sincere? Azalea shook her head. Hell complain, as so many of them do. Hows that? He will say when in power the Liberals forget their principles and the Conservatives, their friends. They both sighed. The banging of doors and quivering of beaver-board partitions that had converted the spaciousness of the Victoria Memorial Museum into cubicles wherein Canadas Parliamentarians might be temporarily housed, the scurrying along corridors and clang of the elevator gate, told Azalea that noon had come. When immersed in work, Dilling was utterly oblivious to the flight of time. What about lunch? she asked, as soon as he paused. The gun sounded some time ago. How often had she said exactly the same thing! Are you so hungry? he asked, astonished to miss the playful effect he had intended to convey. Dropping into the still room, the silly words had almost a nervous note. Starving, lied Azalea, easily, and knowing his unadmitted dependence upon food. Very well. Ill go, too. But Im coming back early, to-day. We must unearth that Hansard before I go to Council. It will never do to let Bedford get away with his want-of-confidence Motion on the British Preference, in this high-handed fashion! We must make him eat his words . . . and while I think of it. Miss Deane, please dont let anyone_anyone_disturb me. CHAPTER 23. Azalea lunched lightly, and then found herself an inconspicuous bench in the little park off Lewis Street. The sun was warm and golden; the air soft with the promise of approaching summer. The trees had already burst into leaf. Careless children had left their toys about on the moist walks. Gardeners, taking advantage of the dinner hour, had deserted the wire-fenced enclosures that would presently break into a melody of colour. But Azalea saw none of these things. She was at variance with spring. More autumnal was her mood. She sat quite still, unfidgetting, yet with the air of one who is tense, who is waiting for the storm that is bound to break. How long can this go on? she was thinking. He wont continue the pretence that things are the same. He is too honest. But what will he do, then? A wave of exultation surged over her. It wouldnt be easy for him to find another secretary, she said. He would miss her in the office, to say the least. And not only in the office. His eyes had betrayed so much. Why could they not go on, she asked herself, with passionate vehemence? They could. The whole thing rested upon her. The type of relationship that exists between men and women, always rests upon the determination of the woman. In this case, Azalea knew that she must keep Dilling from being too conscious of her. She must make none of the unspoken demands that even the least exacting woman makes upon the man who has confessed himself in love. Neither must she allow him to feel that a secret bond was held between them. Above all, she must keep his emotional temperature at its accustomed low ebb. Any suggestion of coquetry on her part, now, would disturb his tranquility, and remind him that he had violated the spirit of the narrow law governing his moral code. Could she do all this? If so, she knew they could go on. Azalea believed that love could exist between a man and a woman without emotional gratification and without expression save in the terms of friendship. She believed that it can be fed freely, by the mind and by the spirit, just as the body can be fed sanely without the bizarre concoctions demanded by self-encouraged neurasthenics. The secret lies in a womans power, and wish, to keep the association free from the tempering of passion. It is not enough to control it, argued Azalea. It must never be aroused. And this is rare, but not impossible. She was not a vain woman. There was no conceit in her, and illusions had long since flown on the wings of dreams that were unfulfilled. She knew that she was plain, unlovely, unmagnetic; that never since adolescence had she awakened the readily distinguishable expression in mans eyes that proclaims his discovery of the femaleness in his companion. But it was because she hadnt tried! According to her theory, the physical envelope matters comparatively little. The mysterious force that is called attraction, magnetism, passion, what you will, exists in plain and beautiful alike, and can be projected at will. Therefore, she possessed the females instinctual power to project this forcethis beam that is like a shaft of light, and blinds the man upon whom it is thrown. He beholds the woman in a flame of radiance, unmindful of her lack of pulchritude. And not only is his physical sight impaired, but his mental eye loses its clarity of vision, and he invests this uncompanionable female with every quality he thinks desirable. He wants her. He starves for her. He will not be denied. And after marrying her, what happens? The woman, having acquired the man upon whom she has fixed her choice, grows careless, indifferent, lazy. She no longer lights the shaft that dazzled him; she no longer projects it in his direction. He blinks, looks, and rubs his eyes; half the time, he doesnt understand . . . Where is the woman he loved and married? Who is this creature, this unattractive stranger who pushes herself into his life, and tries to dominate, absorb it? There has been some hideous mistake . . . Steeped in the delusion that man is the determining factor in the mockery of emotional marriage, he takes the blame upon himself, persuaded that the fault is his. At first, he tries to hide his disenchantment. He says nothing . . . He determines to do nothing . . . just go on . . . They both go on . . . spiritually too far apart, physically too close together . . . bound by Church and State, and accustoming themselves to the functioning of two persons who live in that abominable intimacyironically termed the bonds of Holy Wedlock! Azalea believed that the bond of wedlock could only be holy when it is not artificially constructed by predative females in search of economic ease, with a possible thrill or two, to boot. She agreed with the cynicism that marriage is mans after-thought and womans first intention. She further believed that by continuing the rigid control of herselfcontrol that neutralised and de-natured hershe and Dilling could maintain a relationship that not only was free from irregularity, but embarrassment. Mingling with the stream of Civil Servants that flowed in and out of the Museum, Azaleas mind was still concerned with the relationships between men and women, married and single. She thought of her sisters with something very like disgust; of Lady Elton, Eva Leeds, Mrs. Pratt, Mrs. Blaine, Mrs. Hudson, Mme. Valleau . . . what real comradeship did they offer their husbands? Swifts words came to her as being especially applicable. There would be fewer unhappy marriages in the world, he said, if women thought less of making nets, and more of making cages. She had never tried to make a net, not even for Raymond Dilling. She loved him too deeply to trapto ensnare him. And if she longed to make a cage for him, it was as a means of protection, safety, refuge; not the terrible gilt-barred thing in which he would feel a sense of shame at his imprisonment. She could hear him pacing about his little room, muttering fragmentary sentences now and then. The sound disturbed her. He was not, as a rule, stimulated to intensive thought by prowling. Was she already responsible for disorganising the methodical workings of his mind? Poise, control, fell from her. She turned the pages of Hansard feverishly and without intelligence. She longed to go to him, to take his frail body in her arms, to soothe him in her self-effacing renunciatory way. She longed to whisper to him, There, my dear, you neednt dread me. You neednt be afraid. Instead, she sat at her desk and fluttered the leaves of Hansard, and suffered the anguish of one who cannot take on the suffering of that beloved other . . . A knock on the door startled her. She turned to see Hebe Barrington advancing into the room. Oh! _You_ are still here? was her greeting. I find the work congenial, returned Azalea. The two women faced one another, understood one another. Neither made a pretence of concealing the animosity that had always existed between them. Azalea resented Hebes habit of establishing herself, taking complete possession of situations and people, and ordering the destiny of all with whom she came in contact. Hebe hated Azalea for the calm tenacity and cold superiority that had thwarted her so many times in the past. She had just returned from England, whither patriotic fervour and the personal attractions of a certain fulgid major had drawn her. The zest with which she had undertaken a particular form of War Work had strained even Toddles indulgence, until the only way they could live together was to live apart. Hebe had abandoned her pursuit of Dilling, and renounced all complicity in Sullivans plans after a stormy interview with that gentleman. What she demanded, grandly, were his nugatory projects compared with the clarion call of Empire? He felt very bitterly towards her, blaming her for the miscarriage of his schemes. Had he foreseen the outbreak of the War, or Hebes defection, he never in the world would have assisted Dilling to a position of prominence where his public record commanded respectful admiration and where his private life was above reproach. Isnt this a killing little hole? Hebe observed, alert to every detail. Sordid, undignified. You should see the quarters of the British politicians . . . and the War Offices . . . Tiny flames of anger gathered in Azaleas eyes. There was something in the insolence of the other woman that suggested a personal criticismas though she could have arranged the room more fittingly, prevented its sordidness, its displeasing atmosphere. A few flowers would make a difference, she went on, appraising Azaleas coat and hat that hung near the door. We dont spend much money on flowers, now, merely for decorative purposes, answered the other. What a pity! I always think thats what theyre for. Is RaymondMr. Dillingin there? Yes, but hes too busy to be disturbed. Their eyes met in open hostility. I object to the word disturbed, said Hebe. My visit is supposed to have exactly the opposite effect. She smiled, a brilliantly ugly smile. Azalea lifted her shoulders almost imperceptibly. Mr. Dilling gave me definite instructions to allow no one to see him. Im sorry, but I cant make an exception, even in your favour. What fidelity to duty, mocked Hebe. You are very kind, bowed Azalea, as though receiving a compliment. You know very well that your employer would not refuse to admit me, cried Hebe. Dont you think I can see the vicious pleasure behind this rigid adherence to your instructions? Let me pass! You are making a ridiculous scene, said Azalea, white to the lips. I am treating you just as I would treat anybody elsethe Prime Minister, himself. You are not going to disturbinterruptMr. Dilling! How are you going to prevent me? taunted Hebe. Lay violent hands upon me and fling me to the floor? I shant touch you, retorted Azalea, her voice trembling with cold anger. But I shall regard intrusion upon Mr. Dilling as a personal attack, and shall not have the slightest hesitation in ordering the policeman to protect his privacy. She stretched out her hand towards the telephone and held it ready for use. Hebe burst into a peal of derisive laughter. She advanced with an air of high daring. Then an expression of cunning crept into her fire-shot eyes. Azalea had threatened to call a policeman. He would lay restraining hands upon her. She would struggle upon the very threshold of the young Ministers office. She would scream. People would rush from their rooms into the corridor to see . . . A splendid scene! Magnificent! There would be a glorious scandal . . . Two women fight over the Hon. Mr. Dilling. Shocking episode in the temporary House of Parliament. She laughed again. Uncle Rufus would be not only placated; he would be grateful. Ive warned you, said Azalea. You wont dare! Stop! Im going in, I tell you! Raising her hand to push open the door, Hebe found Azalea directly in her path. But it was too late to change her intention, and she struck the girl a smart blow in the face. Exactly at that moment, Dilling stepped into the room. There was a painful silence. Of the three, the Minister felt the greatest embarrassment. He could readily guess what had happened. Hebe spoke, In another moment, we should have been almost angry, Raymond, she cried. I couldnt make this dear girl see that I was an exception to your iron-bound rule covering the ordinary visitor. When did you come back? asked Dilling, allowing his hand to lie limply between hers for an instant. Only this morning. Half past twelve, from Montreal. Landed yesterday, and here I am to pay my respects. And your faithful secretary wanted to turn me out. Scold her, Raymond, she cried, archly. Please do! Im afraid I havent time, just now, replied Dilling. Then, as he passed the desk to which Azalea had returned with a fine show of absorption in Hansard, he said, Can you stay after five? We must consult together as to my future policy following to-days eventful meeting. We? echoed Hebe, with a noticeable touch of derision. La, la! _Que cest charmant!_ Ive heard that a successful politician is merely a matter of having a clever secretary, but I never credited the statement until now. She turned directly to Dilling. You are going out? Yes. I will come with youas far as you go. Thank you, said Dilling. We meet in this building. He opened the door, started to pass through, then, remembering the conventions, waited for Hebe to precede him. Azalea did not raise her eyes, but she knew without looking that he did not glance behind him. She sat motionless after they had gone, while her heart stilled its wild plunging, and the air cleared of crimson-hot vibrations. She did not think of herself or review the part she had played in the absurd drama of Hebes making. She did not ask herself whether her attitude had been convincing or ridiculous. Strangely enough, she did not think, I might have said . . . Her concern was for Raymond Dilling. She knew that he did not, never could, love Hebe Barrington. Jealousy was far removed from her considerations. But a slow, cold fear crawled through her as she thought of another contingency. Dillings balance had shifted. He had become conscious of new and disturbing emotions. He was like an instrument tuned by a gentle hand and therefore prepared to respond even to the coarsest touch. Would not the very fact of his awakened love for her, make him an easier victim of Hebes seductive beleaguerment? The thought racked her throughout the afternoon. She could not keep her mind on her work. She spent herself in a sort of helpless passion of protection, feeling that she would give her very life to save him from the toils of the other woman. She had set him on a lofty pedestal, high above the ruck of mud and slime. Her pride in him was renunciatory, fiercely maternal. She wanted to keep him fair and pure for himself . . . not in the slightest sense for her. She had grown strong in a fanatical belief that one of the chief elements of Britains power is the moral weight behind it; that her statesmen are clean, straight-forward and honourable, on the whole, and that intrigue and deception are alien to their nature. Furthermore, she felt that now, in the Empires hour of supreme trial, it was upon the power and pressure of this conviction throughout the world, that the future of England must depend. CHAPTER 24. The Premiers health had been sadly broken by the War. This pandemic scourge had come into being while Canada was still in her nonage, and what she needed most in leadership throughout the conflict, was what he had most to give, namely, a fine obstinacy of purpose. Possessing this, the lack of dramatic picturesqueness was forgiven him by a spectacle-loving people. But inflexibility is always a target and a challenge for assault, and when not engaged in repelling his foes on Mr. Speakers Left, Sir Robert was called upon to reckon with the mutiny of his colleagues whose sense of honour was not inconveniently high. Throughout the actual ordeal of battle, the edge of the weapons of menace found him adamant. But towards the end of the four years darkness, the strain became too heavy, and several months before the world settled to enjoy the hostility of peace, rumours of his impending resignation drifted along the currents of the House. The break came laterafter he had gone to France to sign the Treaty of Versailles on our behalfa glorious mission, truly, and significant of Canadas entry into the Council of the Nations. It was then that the burden of his great labour and achievement levied a heavier toll than he could pay. Atropos threatened him with her shears. He sank into the relaxation of a profound collapse, and offered his resignation as Prime Minister. Holding the Rudder of the Ship of State with a world in arms, had broken him, as it broke the great Commoner, Pitt. That the parallel was not completed by his death, was a matter of national rejoicing, and he lived to know that his purity of conduct, his strength of purpose and his courage in the supreme crisis of civilisation, marked him as one of the real forces in history. And so it happened that in Canada there was no man like Lloyd George who held his position unchallenged throughout the duration of the War. Political and military scandals had their ugly day. Heroes were exalted and overthrown almost within the same hour. Dilling offered the closest analogy, perhaps, to the great British statesman. He retained not only his own portfolio, but undertook the directing of several others, while an interregnum occurred and there had been discovered no incumbent to fill the office. He had acted as Prime Minister on more than one occasion, and when these resignation rumours began to float about, his name was mentioned as a possible successor. Public Works were paralyzed. The gargantuan ambitions of Eastlake and Donahue hung in abeyance. They dared not intrude their demands for further subsidies while war taxes bled the country white. Dilling turned his eyes from the elevators, and saw only the Empires present need. Grain moved heavily eastward, but the great driving power of the West was crippled. The hand that rocked her cradle was engaged in destroying the very manhood she had suckled at her prairie breast. Capable of producing food for more than half the world, she was starving for sustenance to keep herself alive. Never had the Hon. Member for Morroway been so deeply engrossed in the business of politics. Never had he applied himself so sedulously to the successful culmination of his vast schemes and secret projects, or neglected for so lengthy a period the gentler pursuits that so intrigued him. It was rumoured in some quarters that he had reformed. The rumour was not received with universal satisfaction, for the penitent has only the applause of the devotee who reclaims him. Howarth and Turner watched him with mingled concern and respect, and wondered as to the nature of his game. After the entry of the United States into the War, and when the outcome was a foregone conclusion, these two gentlemen became somewhat apprehensive as to the future of the Party (and incidentally their own place in the political sun). The rumours of Sir Roberts resignation moved them profoundly. Of course, said Turner, as the three sat in Mr. Sullivans cheerful office, Sir Adrian Grant will be a candidate, but I dont believe he has the ghost of a chance. It looks to me like a walk-over for Dilling. Hell march to the seat of honour, terrible as an army with banners. Yes, agreed Howarth. I dont know whos going to stop him. That damned silly boost of yours, Sullivan, has done us in the eye, if you ask me. Mr. Sullivan examined the contents of his glass against the pale spring twilight, and remarked that he was always glad to hear the opinions of his friends, even though he had not asked for them. In the present instance, however, he seemed to detect some thing monstrous and repetitive. Sure, Ive said it before, and Ill say it again, announced Howarth, warmly. Whats going to keep him from stepping into the P. M.s shoes, if we have to go to the country? Hasnt he made good! Dont the people think hes a little tin god? Hasnt he got a lot of useful experience out of the last few years? All because of this Minister business, supplemented Turner. Except for that, we could have kept him down. He wouldnt have had a chance. But now, as matters stand, hell walk in, put over the Elevator project, and . . . . . . the E. D. Company will flourish like a green bay tree, and where will our little plans come in? demanded Turner, bitterly. If you want to eat honey in peace, say the Russians, you must first kill all the bees. Mr. Sullivan nodded, but preserved an inscrutable silence. Have you got something up your sleeve, old man? asked Howarth, in a foolish, coaxing tone. Theres no denying youre a pretty shrewd lad in your own way, Rufus, and you dont often make mistakes. Personally, I rely absolutely upon your judgment, and am ready to followoh, _absolutely_, he insisted, conscious of a slight twitching at the corners of Mr. Sullivans full lips. At the same time, there are occasions recorded in history, when the most astute persons have been misled, when the best-laid schemes have taken a most unprecedented and disastrous twist. If you have a plan, why not take us into your confidence, Rufus? Why not discuss your ideas . . . three heads, you know . . . Reminiscent of Cerberus, cut in Turner. Pretty good watch dog, eh? Sure, assented Howarth. Three heads . . . as I say. And besides, Im just restless in my desire to help. But it was Marjorie who was the Hon. Members first confidante. She neither realised the importance of this, nor appreciated the honour that he did her. He had begged for an uninterrupted momenta moment clipped from her over-full days, when appointment followed appointment in a continuous, dizzying successionand, because he had said it was urgent, she agreed to receive him one night at ten oclock. An earlier release was impossible from the pandemonium advertised as a Patriotic Bazaar. The dear little woman looks tired, he said, taking her hand. Isnt she trying to push a great heavy Mercedes up a very steep hill, with a Ford engine? Arent you doing far too much of this hysterical War Work, little Marjorie? Wednesday is my worst day, she told him, and tried to withdraw her hand . . . not the actual work, but going to things. You see, she explained, it makes such a difference . . . I cant understand it, really . . . If we go to these patriotic things . . . the Ministers wives, I mean. We dont do anything but walk around, and have people introduced to us, and its _so_ useless and tiring! My dear . . . my dear! murmured the sympathetic Member. I dont mind the work, a bit, Marjorie continued, trying to force a note of weariness out of her voice. The sewing and sorting of donations and that kind of thing. I feel as thoughas though, well, I feel that I am really doing something for our boys over there, whereas walking around these bazaars and sitting idle at Executive meetings she shook her head and left the sentence unfinished. But you wanted to see me about something in particular, you said. The Hon. Member for Morroway assumed his most charmingly avuncular air. Little by little, he overcame Marjories instinctive resistance. She was always so eager to like people, to believe in them and find them good. He asked if she could keep a secreteven from her husband, and gaining a somewhat hesitant answer, whispered, How would you like to see him Prime Minister, my dear? Marjories tired brain reeled. She couldnt grasp the thought, at all. Prime Minister . . . Raymond . . . so soon to see the fulfilment of his hearts desire? No, no! She shrunk away from the idea. There must be some mistake. They were so young, so inexperienced. They were not properly prepared, not sufficiently worthy. She felt an overwhelming pity for all those women whose lives were broken, and whose hearts were torn by the War. It shadowed the satisfaction, the joyousness she might have taken for herself. Prime Minister! Sullivan sat quiet, watching her, and the changing expressions that sped across her haggard face. He read them as easily as though they had been printed there, and he waited. Do you want Raymond to be Prime Minister? Marjorie finally whispered. Do you think he _ought_ to be? There is little doubt on either score. Mr. Sullivan was soothing, reassuring. As you know, I am only an inconspicuous cog in the political machine, but even the smallest cog can control the working of the whole. Just as it can obstruct, he added, lightly. Without meaning to boast, I believe that my influence is sufficient to secure him the Premiershipjust as I was somewhat instrumental in putting him into the Cabinet. Oh, Mr. SullivanUncle Rufus, do you really mean to help? With all my heart, little woman, he replied, and so must you. I? Her confused mind translated the assistance he suggested into a need for increasing stiffness. Of course! Why not? What must I do? Mr. Sullivan became affectionately confidential. The most important thing, he assured her, was persuading Dilling how ardently she wanted him to accept the position. But he wont refuse . . . will he? There is just that little possibility . . . yes, it is conceivable that he might. I mustnt tire you with an exposition of the complicated question, he went on, but to secure the support he needs, would require a slight change of policy . . . not quite superficially, either. I might go so far as to say _ab imo pectore_, if you know what I mean. He watched the strained bewilderment in her eyes with something akin to brutal pleasure. Raymond is a strong man, determined almost to stubbornness, may I say? He is guideder misguided, many of the older parliamentarians thinkby an ide fixe. If I know him as I think I do, it will be hard to convince him that relinquishing it will be a sign not of weakness, but of strength. Im afraid I dont understand all of this . . . Dont bother your lovely head with it! I did not come here to worry you with tedious politics, but I do want you to understand me . . . so that we can work together in this most momentous matter. Raymond must be made to see that all previous measures now require adjustment to the changed times. The end of War is in sight, thank God, but we cant delude ourselves with the thought that the world will find immediate peace, that it will pick up its burdens and its pleasures where it left them off, and that the policies we followed prior to 1914 are those to take us forward to-day. He must change. Cant you persuade him? I never interfere, said Marjorie, in a low voice. He would think I was crazy to suggest anything about politics. Im so stupid, you know. But you can plead your own causeconvince him of the happiness this promotion would mean to you . . . and, he hurried on, you realise what it would mean for him, for the children, for the country! Why, he would be the youngest, the most brilliant Prime Minister in the world! Think of it, little Marjorie . . . our own splendid Raymond, of Pinto Plains! He rose to take his leave. Marjorie got rather dizzily to her feet. The room heaved in gentle waves, and the harsh lights suddenly went dim. An awful sickness attacked her, and out of the curious amethyst fog, the face of Mr. Sullivan advanced upon her, huge, satyric, terrible. What is it? she whispered. Oh, dear, what is the matter? Arent you going to kiss me? he asked, in a voice that scorched her. Oh . . . please . . . Marjorie escaped from the hand that came towards her. She slipped behind the table. Mr. Sullivan followed. She ran to the Morris chair and took refuge on the other side of it, for a moment. Her knees would scarcely support her. This cloud threatened to blind her. The room was filled with a noise as of some ones heavy breathing. It occurred to her that Althea must be sobbing, upstairs. Come on, child! Dont be silly! The voice of the Hon. Member sounded husky, but very loud. It thumped against her consciousness. Arent you going to give me one little kiss in return for the help Im giving Raymond? No, no! Please . . . She circled unsteadily around the table, again. Well, by God, you will, then! cried Mr. Sullivan. Ive had just about enough of this catch-as-catch-can. You come here! No . . . oh, no . . . Marjorie crumpled in a heap on the floor, and burst into wild sobbing. She was beside herself with terror. Never again in his gentlest moments, would the Hon. Member deceive her with his avuncular air. Always, she would see him as a beast of prey, his eyes flaming, his hands searching for her. Quite unconsciously, she began to pray. Oh, God, please . . . Dear God . . . Mr. Sullivan paused in his advance. He looked at the disordered heap on the floor. A revulsion of feeling came over him, and he turned away. Bah! he said, angrily. _Women!_ and, seizing his hat, he left the house. CHAPTER 25. The Cathedral was palpitant with Fashion. For the moment, its dim religious light was lost in the flamboyance of smart Societys glare. Its serene atmosphere was fractured by cross-currents that blew in from an impious world. The Flesh and the Devil walked on the feet that pressed the red carpet to save from pollution the soles of those who were bidden to the Sloane-Carmichael wedding. And there were many, for Mona Carmichael was a Ministers daughter and the moving spirit of the Naughty Nine. Also, she was a bride extremely good to look upon. She possessed the slender body of the _jeune fils_, and an age-old wisdom in the advantageous exhibition of it. When not engaged in devising spectacular stunts for her eight disciples, she was usually enjoying masculine approbation expressed in terms that described the speaker as being simply crazy about her. She had reached the point when a modest man was the most boresome thing on earth. No sermon that was ever preached from the pulpit of the sacred fane would have exposed the mephistophelean cynicism of the present day in its attitude towards the Solemnization of Matrimony by the Church, as did this particular wedding. It might have been a deliberate revival of some medieval mystery play, staged for the purpose of provoking a recreant world to repentance. Men in youth and age were there, whose thoughts throughout the ceremony were never lifted above the level of lubricity. Their presence at any of the matrimonial pageants of that gallant Defender of the Faith, Henry the Eighth, would have lent a distinct flavour to the atmosphere. The younger married women among the guests recalled their own weddings, and endeavoured to convey the impression that they had relinquished themselves to their husbands with protest, if not martyrdom. They wore an unconvincingly pensive air. The spinsters betrayed a touch of malice, although they tried to look as though feeling that any woman who married was a fool. Bitterly, they realised the transparency of their attitude, and that here and there, people were saying, Oh, theres So-and-so. Isnt it a pity _she_ never married? Over all the Church, there was a restlessness, a strange suppression, louder and more definite than the syllabub of broken conversation. Ushers, khaki-clad, passed ceaselessly up and down the aisles, wearing a manner of mixed hauteur and nervousness. They showed the effect of too much prenuptial and anti-prohibition entertainment. Groups of guests gathered, argued, accepted the places provided with scantily veiled distaste, and became part of the general unrest. Few there were who regarded marriage in the light of a spiritual concept, nor was it easy to see in these exotic social episodes any striving towards an sthetic ideal. On the contrary, two young people came together, drained the moment of its last dram of pleasure, and separatedif not in a physical sense, certainly in a spiritual one, seeking amusement elsewhere, and with hectic sedulousness. The family of the bride persistently referred to the spectacle as simple, and endeavoured to preserve the illusion of economy throughout. This was a War Wedding. A jungle of palms crowded the chancel and reared their feathered heads against the pillars of the Church. Masses of yellow tulips and daffodils suggested the simplicity of spring. Some twenty pews on either side of the centre aisle were barricaded against intrusion by plain silken cords instead of the richer bands of ribbon that ordinarily would have been used to separate those who had presented gifts in ridiculous excess of their means and affection, from those who had blessed the happy pair with sugar spoons and bon-bon dishes. Even the gowns of the womenaccording to their own descriptionharmonised with the note of rigid simplicity that prevailed. Mrs. Long, securely imprisoned by the yellow silken cord, smiled as she watched the procession, for she had seenby the merest accidentMiss Caplins advance copy on the function. Miss Caplin was the Society editress of The Chronicle. The mother of the bride wore a rich but simple creation of dove-grey radium satin, panelled with bands of solid grey pearls. The sleeves were formed of wings that fell to the hem of the gown and were made of dyed rose point. Mrs. Carmichaels hat was of grey tulle with no trimming save a simple bird of Paradise. That was the sort of thing she had been instructed to say. Mrs. Blaine passed in review. She was gowned in a black crepe meteor, with bands of rhinestones forming the corsage, and she wore a hat of uncurled ostrich feathers. Mrs. Pratts idea of economy was expressed by a royal purple chiffon velvet, trimmed with ornaments of amethyst and pearl. Lady Elton had managed to pick up an imported creation at a figure that was reduced no more than her own, but she called it a simple frock of Delft georgette over silver cloth. Owing to some unfortunate confusion in the composing room, a few lines reporting work on the Civic Playgrounds crept into the account of the wedding, and the following extraordinary announcement appeared: Lady Elton looked exceptionally charming in a dull blue chiffon over three lavatories and two swimming baths. A trembling usher, green-white from fatigue and dissipation, bowed Mr. and Mrs. Hudson into the pew. Mrs. Longs practised eye noted that the latter wore a sapphire charmeuse, relieved by old Honiton and showing a motif of fleur-de-lys done in hand embroidery. I dont know whether Im all here or not, panted Mrs. Hudson. Such a scramble at the last minute! There doesnt seem to be any of you missing, murmured Mrs. Long. Oh, how do you do? she bowed, as Sir Eric and Lady Denby crowded in. Commonplaces were exchanged. I havent seen you for some time, observed Lady Denby, leaning across the Hudsons. Ive been keeping very quiet, returned Mrs. Long. In fact, Im going into the hospital to-morrow for rather a beastly operation. Vague expressions of sympathy were dropped into the subdued noise about them. Im so sorry . . . No, you dont look well . . . Oh, theres Mrs. . . . I hope its nothing serious . . . What _has_ Eva Leeds got on? Thats the dress Haywood made for Lady Elton and she wouldnt accept, volunteered Mrs. Hudson. They say he gave it to her. . . . Lady Denby interrupted. What hospital have you chosen? she asked, making a mental note of the fact that the event called for floral recognition. St. Christophers. Oh, how perfect! breathed Mrs. Hudson, indifferently. Youll love it, there. The nurses are _so_ good to your flowers! The recently-created knight, Sir Enoch Cunningham, lumbered up the aisle in the wake of his wife. Sir Enoch had established a record for patriotic service by charging the Government only four times a reasonable profit on the output of his mill. He was prominently listed in the Birthday Honours and on this, his first public appearance, was profoundly self-conscious. There go the Cunninghams, whispered Lady Elton from the pew behind Mrs. Long. Arent they sickening? When Knighthood was in Flour, murmured Lady Denby, over her shoulder. He always reminds me of a piece of underdone pastry, said Mrs. Long. Well, remarked Mrs. Hudson, with a giggle, theyll be pie for everyone now. Across the aisle, Pamela de Latour was agitating herself over the fact that Major and Mrs. Beverley were sitting amongst the intimate friends of the groom. Why, in heavens name, do you suppose _they_ have been put _there_? she demanded of Miss Tyrrell and the Angus-McCallums, who shared her pew. Didnt he and Sloane fly together? suggested one of the latter. Or did he save his life . . . or something? I dont know. But it seems odd to put them away up there. I heard hed lost his job, said Miss de Latour. I heard that, too, agreed Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum. Miss Tyrrell couldnt believe it. She urged her companions to recall everything that looked like corroborative evidence, and even then cried skeptically, But are you _sure_? May he not have taken on something else? Miss Latour didnt think so. She had the news on pretty good authority. She regretted, however, to have caused Miss Tyrrell such acute distress, and hoped the report might be incorrect. Although I doubt it, she said. Colonel Mayhew told me that they were going back to England. I had no idea they were such great friends of yours, Lily, whispered Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum. In most quarters they were not very popular. Friends? echoed Miss Tyrrell, indignantly. They were no friends of mine, I assure you! Then why began the other three why are you so upset by hearing that hes lost his job? Because, answered Miss Tyrrell. I was afraid it wasnt so! Several rows behind them, Azalea Deane sat crushed against the ample folds of Miss Leila Brant. She had refused to accompany Marjorie Dilling, despite the latters threat that she would stay at home rather than go alone. I know you are not serious, returned Azalea, in her gently insistent way, for, of course, you should be there. A special seat will be reserved for you, and you must pretend to enjoy hob-snobbing with the notables. Miss Brant fidgetted, fretting at her failure to impress Azalea with a sense of her importance. Like Mr. Sullivan, her activities were conducted largely and with a certain grandeur that was pleasing even to those who recognised its intense untruth. She adorned the cheap and commonplace, and had really a shrewd eye for transforming simple articles into pieces of expensive and decorative uselessness. Furthermore, she shared with Dilling a perfect genius for discovering clever assistantsartisanswhose ideas were better than her own, and whom she never tried to lead, but was content to follow. Moreover, she learned long ago to cultivate none but the wealthiest of patrons. Her shop, her wares, even she, herself, exuded an atmosphere of opulent exclusiveness. To be a regular patron of the Ancient Chattellarium was to attain a certain social eminence, to share the air breathed by Millionaires, Knights and Ladiesby Government House. One never stepped into the shop without meeting somebody of importance. At the moment, however, she was not entirely happy. She had a vast respect for Azalea, but didnt like her. Azalea always made her uncomfortable. She was conscious of secret amusement, perhaps a tinge of contempt behind the enigmatic expression in her etiolated eyes. Whereas Dilling, in Azaleas presence, felt himself the man he wished to be, Miss Brant recognised a very inferior person hiding behind the arras of her very superior manner, and she felt that Azalea saw this creature plainly, penetrating its insincerity, its petty ambitions; in short, that she perceived all the weaknesses that Miss Brant hoped none would suspect. Theres So-and-So, she cried, incessantly. In strict confidence, I will tell you that they have just given me rather a nice commission to do theirOh, and theres So-and-So! Where in the world, _do_ you suppose they will seat all these people? Azalea smiled and shrugged. Miss Brant felt snubbed, as though her companion had said, Why bother? Its not your affair. You always take such delight in meddling in other peoples business. She took refuge in that too-little used harbour, Silence. But briefly. She left it to remark, Oh, there go the Prendergasts! How do you do? she bowed, with extreme affability, catching Mrs. Prendergasts eye. Then she flushed. Azalea was regarding her with a smile that seemed to strip every particle of cordiality from her salutation and reduce it to a medium of barter exchanged for the extremely expensive gift Mrs. Prendergast had been cajoled into buying for the bridal pair. Miss Brant felt somehow that Azalea was thinking, If she hadnt made a satisfactory purchase, you wouldnt even bother to nod your head. You never used to. You may not believe it, Azalea, she said, as though moved to self-justification, but Mrs. Prendergast is _really_ rather a dear. It sounds stupid, but one cant help seeing that her intentions are good. Really! Aristotle said that Natures intentions were always good. The trouble was that she couldnt carry them out. But they really _are_ getting on, protested Miss Brant, watching the ostentatious progress of her patron down the aisle. Dont you think they are acquiring _quite_ an air? I think the Dawkter is acquiring quite a pragmatic walk. And its especially conspicuous in church. Yes, isnt it? assented Miss Brant, hastily, and wondering if Azalea referred to some physical disability that had resisted the effects of Anti-Agony. There! Theyve been put with the Pratts. Confidentially, Ill tell you that _she_ bought rather a good bit, too . . . didnt want to be eclipsed by the Prendergasts, you know. _Isnt_ their rivalry amusing? And lucrative, I should say. Miss Brant veered away from the sordid business angle. Look at them, now, she cried. Mrs. Pratt has the floor. She doesnt even pause for breath. Azalea, what _can_ she be saying? Wordswordswords! Im afraid Mr. Pratt frequently regrets ignoring Nietzsches advice. Whose? Nietzsches. Dont you remember, he said, Before marriage this question should be putWill you continue to be satisfied with this womans conversation until old age? Everything else in marriage is transitory. Miss Brant cast an inward glance upon her own conversational powers, and wondered if there was anything personal behind Azaleas remark. Aloud, she said, How clever of you to remember all those quotations, my dear! I always wishOh, there goes Mrs. Dilling! Heavens, doesnt she look like a ghost? Azalea had already noted the haggardness of Marjories appearance, and, knowing nothing of her encounter with Mr. Sullivan, attributed it solely to the over-strain of War Work. She doesnt know how to save herself, she said. Yes, she really has been rather splendid, hasnt she? assented Miss Brant. _Everyone_ says so . . . I remember the first time I ever saw her. She wanted a terrible what-not-thing repaired. Little did I imagine, then, that some day she would be the wife of a Minister of the Crown. And have you heard a rumour about the Premiership? It makes me feel _quite_ weepy. OnlyonlyI _wish_ she wouldnt wear such _awful_ hats! What do people say? asked Azalea, ignoring the latter remark. Oh, _you_ know the sort of thingthat she has done so much more than lend her name to patriotic functions and sit on platforms; that she has actually worked in the War Gardens, packed boxes, sewed, cooked and visited the soldiers wives. You know, it _is_ rather splendid! Azalea nodded and raised her eyes to the stained glass window memorialising another Gentle Spirit who found His happiness in ministering to the needs of the humbler folk. It _is_ rather splendid, she agreed. It must be very late, said Miss Brant. I wonder if that little minx, Mona, has been up to some of her tricks. By the way, have you heard about the Trevelyans? Mercy, no! Not already? Positively! Why, it seems only last week since we were watching them get married. Is it a boy or a girl? Both! And the screaming part of it is that the instant Mona heard the news, she _had herself insured against twins_! Youre joking! Its a fact. Lloyds took her on. I say, Azalea, doesnt Mrs. Dilling look ghastly? Marjorie sat next Mrs. Blaine and Lady Fanshawe, feeling more ghastly than she looked. She had never been ill in her life, save when the babies came and that, of course, didnt count. One just naturally had babies and made no fuss about it. But this was different. She had no particular pain. She wasnt quite sure that her head ached. But she felt strangely weak and uncertain of herself. Lady Fanshawe and Mrs. Blaine were complaining of their servants. Neither would admit the others supremacy in having the worst the Dominion afforded. But you have a very good cook, Mrs. Blaine protested. My dear, how _can_ you say so? cried Lady Fanshawe. Twice, she has nearly poisoned us! Well, the dinner I ate last Thursday at your house couldnt have been better. A happy exception, I assure you. Why dont you get rid of her? asked Mrs. Blaine. I shall . . . but not at oncenot until I have some one else in view. However, if you need a cook, dear, she went on, why not try Mrs. Hudsons Minnie? _She_ is really an excellent woman, and can always be tempted with higher wages. Mrs. Blaine turned away with a fine assumption of indifference, and Marjorie ventured a sympathetic word in Lady Fanshawes ear. Its very bothersome, isnt it? she murmured, especially when one does so much entertaining. You always seem to have such bad luck with your servants. I believe I could send you a cook. The older woman flung a peculiar look at her, and whispered, You dear, simple soul! Ive a perfect _treasure_! But I dont dare say so; every one of my friends would try to take her from me! Outside, the handsome departmental car drew smartly to a standstill, and the Hon. Peter Carmichael assisted his daughter to alight. She tripped up the carpeted stairs with no more concern than though she were going to a Golf Club Tea. The trembling, green-white usher came forward to meet her. A group of bridesmaids stood near the door. Well, old thing, cried Mona, hows the silly show, anyway? Full house, returned the usher. S.R.O. as the theatres say. At five dollars a head, youd have quite a tidy nest egg, yknow! Rotten businessushing, cried Mona. You look all in, young fella me lad. I am. A company of duds, I call em. Balky as mules. Nobody wants to sit with anybody else. Do you blame them? My God, no! As the poet sang, Id rather live in vain than live in Ottawa! Come, daughter, said the Hon. Peter, fussily crooking his elbow. The lovely bride entered the church on the arm of her father, simpered Mona, pinching his ear. Forward, everybody. Were off! Four little flower girls led the way, four being a simple number, much less intricate than forty-four or ninety-four and a fraction. Their costumes were beautifully simpleflesh-coloured tights and a pair of wings, in cunning imitation of Dan Cupid. They carried bows and a quiver full of arrows, the latter tipped with yellow daffodils. They were followed by the six bridesmaids, who also carried out this note of extreme simplicity. Their costumes were composed of yellow tulle, sprinkled with a profusion of brilliants, and were supposed to suggest early morning dew upon a field of tulips. In place of flowers, they carried simple parasols of chiffon, and each wore the gift of the grooma gold vanity box bearing a simple monogram in platinum. The bride was gowned in plainest ivory satin. She had dispensed with the conventional wreath of orange blossoms, and her brow was crowned with a simple rose-point cap, whose billowy streamers fell to the tip of her slender train. She wore no ornaments save the gift of the grooma simple bar of platinum supporting thirty-two plain diamonds. At the sight of her, a ripple of admiration ran through the crowd. She felt it and was pleased in her youthfully insolent fashion. She bore herself with none of the modesty that characterised the bride of fifty years ago. Rather was she suggestive of the mannequin on parade. The bridal party was just turning from the altar to the inspiriting strains from Mendelssohn, when Hebe Barrington entered the church with Mr. Sullivan. Oh, Lord, were late, she muttered, pulling him quickly along the aisle. Well have to find seats somewhere before the parade reaches us. Not so far forward, protested the Hon. Rufus, trying to hang back. Dont be so bashful, returned Hebe. Were creating quite a sensation and stealing some of the limelight from the bride. _La vice appuy sur la bras de crime_, she whispered, enjoying herself enormously. This is a damned awkward mess, growled Mr. Sullivan, under his breath. I cant see a seat, anywhere. Nor I, and theyre nearly upon us. Well have to stop here. The location selected for the enforced halt was not a happy one for Lady Denbynor, indeed, for any of the occupants of that pew. In order to prevent confusion and a disarrangement of the procession, Mrs. Barrington and her escort were obliged to disregard the silken cord and squeeze in beside Sir Eric, and thus cut off quite successfully the view of the spectacle from his diminutive and enraged wife. She accepted their apologies frostily, and made an obvious effort to escape from the offending pair, but the density of the crowd frustrated her design. She found herself impinged upon Mrs. Barringtons scented shoulder, and absolutely unable to free herself. The colour mounted hotly to her delicate cheeks. Her eyes sparkled dangerously. You _must_ come to some of my parties, dear Lady Denby, Hebe said, sweetly. You, and Sir Eric . . . just simple affairs, you know, where we can snatch an hours relaxation. A little drink . . . a cigarette, a game of cardserdo you dance? I do not, said Lady Denby. Ah! What a pity! Nor do I smoke. What? Nor drink, nor gamble. Perhaps you swear, suggested Hebe, with elaborate mischievousness. One must have some vices. I dont agree with you, snapped Lady Denby, relieved to find that they had almost reached the door. Well, what _do_ you do, then? queried Hebe, in a tone that was louder than was at all necessary. Lady Denby stepped into the vestibule. In a space momentarily cleared, she turned and faced her tormentor. What do I do? she repeated. I mind my own business . . . wear untransparent petticoats, and . . . sleep in my _own_ husbands bed! CHAPTER 26. Dilling had refused to go to the wedding. Work was his excuse. He intended to clear up the accumulation of departmental business that lay massed in an orderly disarray upon his desk. But he didnt work. Each attempt proved to be a failure. He was conscious of fatigueor, if not precisely thatof the ennui one feels when work is universally suspended, as on a rainy, dispiriting holiday. The outer office was hushed and empty. That Azaleas absence could so utterly bereave the atmosphere, struck him as preposterous, an incomprehensible thing. He struggled against it, but without success. He was lapped about by a feeling of isolation, of stark desolation. Staring at Azaleas vacant chair, it seemed as if he stood in the midst of a dead and frozen world. With an effort at pulling himself together, he closed the door and returned to his position by the window. He looked with blind eyes towards the southern sky, where pennons of smoke followed the locomotive that crossed and re-crossed the little subway bridge. Winter had been industrious during the past months and seemed loath, even now, to relinquish her supremacy to Spring. Tall pyramids of snow still clung to the corners of the Museum where abutments of the building shut off the warmth of a pale gold sun. The ground was black and spongy, and in every gutter, rivulets of water stirred the urge of the sea in the minds of swarms of children. But Dilling saw none of these things. He was fighting the oppression of this curious lassitude and striving to recapture his ardour for work. The effect was not noticeably successful. He felt tired, stupid, drugged, as though some vital part of him was imprisoned and inert. He longed to be free, to abandon himself to a riot of emotion, to feel as acutely with his body as with his mind. He longed to overcome this numbness, this nostalgia of the senses, and to taste the fruits that gave to life its pungent tang and flavour. For the first time he saw himself emotionally shrivelled, inappetent of joy, and he veered away from the knowledge, wishing that he could remodel himself to love and suffer and hunger like other men. He forced himself to a perception of the panorama at which he had been staring, the clumps of bushes heavy with uncurled buds, the gay costumes of the children playing in the icy gutters opposite, a sharp red tulip bravely facing the frosty air. He knew now that never had he taken into account the vital force behind living objectscattle, flowers, trees, even the wheat itself, and he began to feel that all these and even inanimate things, such as the chair and desk in the desolate outer office, were instinct with life; Azaleas life! How pitiful his limitations! He loved her. He wanted her. He needed her. Life was without form and void lacking the stimulation, the inspiration of her presence. She was his _alter ego_, upon whom his mind and spirit depended as did his frail body upon food. Thinking upon her made him free of the hitherto remote pleasance of comradeship between the sexes. What torment, he muttered, repeatedly. What torment to know this joy and be unable to possess it! The telephone rang. He turned impatiently to the instrument. Sullivan? he echoed. Nonot too busy. Ill be up there shortly. During the week preceding his conversation with Marjorie, the Hon. Member for Morroway had busied himself in a cautious testing of the extent of his influence. He found that a majority of the Western Members needed no incentive from him to support Raymond Dilling, and from them he withheld all mention of the proposed change in policy he had suggested to Dillings wife. With the Maritime Members, however, he employed slightly different tactics, approaching them as one entrusted with confidential information, and hinting that in exchange for the premiership, Dilling would be willing to foreswear his platform, betray his original sponsors, and stand forth as a defender of Eastern interests, with especial emphasis upon those concerned in the annihilation of the Freight Bill, the abandonment of the Elevator project, and the indefinite postponement of the Eastlake and Donahue railway measures. With but an odd exception or two, his self-imposed mission was entirely successful. He called on Marjorie. He arranged for an interview with Dilling. Five men rose as the youthful Minister entered the room: Howarth, Turner, young Gilbert, the Radical, the Hon. Gordon Blaine, who administered his Ministerial officewithout portfoliowith unbroken suavity and bonhomie, and Mr. Sullivan, himself. Good afternoon, gentlemen, said Dilling. No, I wont drink, if you will excuse me. He accepted the chair that Howarth offered, and waited for some one to speak. What a scene it was, and what an episode for the Muse of History . . . Over in France, the flower of Canadas youththe heirs of the ageswere freely offering their splendid bodies upon the altar of War in testimony of the eternal need of human sacrifice for things that transcend all human values. Over there, the spirit of the young nation was responding magnificently to a supreme test of its fineness. Here at home, within the very walls of the buildings dedicated to the purpose of moulding and directing the welfare of the nation, men of mature years were not ashamed, by plot and intrigue, to make of Canada a scorn and a byword. A man of the highest instincts for public service was being tempted by his political associates to foreswear his ideals by a sordid bargaining for power. The Hon. Member for Morroway was the first to break the silence. Mr. Dilling, he began, we are all men of plain speech, here, and there is nothing to be gained by euphemisms or beating about the bush. In a word, then, we wish to sound you on this question of the Premiership, and to offer you an optionlet us call iton the post. * * * * * So, and in this wise, the supreme moment of his career had come to Raymond Dilling. The shock was such that his mind refused for a moment to function. The Premiership! The goal for which he had striven! The pinnacle of his ambition! And to be reached so soon! What would Azalea say? . . . and poor little Marjorie? Youertake me at a disadvantage, gentlemen, he said. I am unprepared for this . . . and he turned again to the spokesman. Mr. Sullivan felt his way after the manner of a cautious pachyderm, This offer, he said, is contingent upon a slight change of policy. You would, no doubt, be willing to reverse your attitude on what I may describe as the Wheat and Railway proposals. I need not say, he continued, smoothly, that this can be done without any forfeiture of your honesty of purpose, or any reflection upon your acumen as a statesman. Understand that we approach you in the true and best interest of the Canadian people. Once understand that, Mr. Dilling, and I am convinced that you will allow no consideration of personal disadvantage to weigh against your compliance with our wishes. Dilling made no reply, but a pungent French phrase that he had read somewhere, welled up to him curiously from the subconscious . . . _Il faut faire tout le rebours de ce quil dit._ This gave him pause, the instinct for caution was touched. Was this his cue for the answer he should ultimately give? Did this not warn him to take the very opposite course to that pointed out to him? He must have no illusions as to the right of the matter. Then temptation gripped him. His soul was in tumult. Principle cried out, Abhor that which is evil, while the Will to Power smote him with the reminder that Opportunity knocks but once at the door of kings. What could he not accomplish for his beloved country with sovereign power in his hands and his talents in the very flower of their prime! How subtle was the lure. Must he not recognise in this offer the call of destiny to complete the work of nation-building begun by those fathers of ConfederationMacdonald, and Cartier and Tupper? These were names never to be erased from the scroll of Fame, and why should not he be numbered of their immortal company? The torch of constructive patriotism lighted by them, had burned low. Let it be his to revive the waning flame. Was this not the vision that had inspired him, that had drawn him from the Last Great West? That Dilling was powerfully moved was patent to those who had come to tempt him. His frail body quivered with the strain, and Sullivan was too astute a politician to neglect this fleeting advantage. He pressed for an answer before sober second-thought could evoke for Dilling a suspicion of the duplicity underlying the offer. What do you think of the idea, Dilling? This challenge to a swift decision served to impress him with the danger of the situation, and Dillings mind reacted with fine discernment. No matter how he decided, he would not be swayed by impulse. What do I think of the idea? I think your proposal is most generous in its implication of my fitness for so tremendous a post. I am overwhelmed by the honour you would do me, deeply grateful to you and your influential friends for this frank appreciation of my efforts in public life. But I fear you estimate them too highly. Nothing of the kind, the Hon. Gordon Blaine interrupted, amiably. The only man for the job, muttered Turner. Be that as it may, Dilling continued, I must take time to consider. For you, as well as for the country and myself, my decision must not be arrived at on the low plane of personal advantage. But I shall not delay you longer than to-morrow morning, gentlemen. There is need, I see, for prompt decision. Meanwhile, accept my assurance of obligation, and allow me to bid you good afternoon. CHAPTER 27. It was only natural perhaps, that Dilling should suffer the full and terrible force of Sullivans temptation after he thought he had conquered it, for it was only then that he permitted himself the dangerous pleasure of examining its possibilities. In his silent office, surrounded by the hush of a building deserted now save by the Dominion Police who never relaxed their vigilance, he considered the might-have-beens, and wrestled with beasts that threatened to rise up and devour him. Sullivans implications recurred in their most convincing aspect. Sullivan was so nearly right. Must not a statesman possess flexibility of mind as well as rigidity of principle? Must not he be able to adapt himself to the exigencies of the time? Dilling required none to remind him that the whole fabric of Canadas political life was changed, that the policy in ante-bellum days was, in many cases, inimical to the public good, to-day. He saw, clearly, that concentration of the Dominions resources upon Returned Soldiers and their re-establishment was an inevitable consequence of War. He knew that Freight, Elevator and Railway projects must be postponed. And he was in favour of postponing them. But Sullivan asked more. He asked that the very principles that had inspired his support be abandoned in exchange for a post of power. Ambitions seductive voice whispered of compromise. What else is diplomacy, indeed? Supreme issues have been won by a trick; statesmanship is permitted greater latitude than is allowed the private individual. He had learned that a sensitive conscience is a disability in political life. If a man is revolted by the corruptness of his Party, he can not lead it with spirit, nor can he justify it as a medium for serving the State. It is sadly true that rather to his imperfections than to the fineness of his qualities is the success of the statesman due. On the other hand, public men of genius, in these days, are not excused for their _dulcia vitia_ as they used to be. I would be damned, he reflected, for the frailties that seemed to endear Pitt to the populace. So long as a leader is chaste and sober, he may be unscrupulous with impunity. His spirit cried out in anguish, and he was tortured by the whirling orb of thought that compels great minds to suffer the perturbation of a common life-time in the space of a moment. He raised his eyes to the window, unconsciously seeking strength from the glory framed there. Suddenly, his soul was quickened; he became alive to the wonder of God in Nature . . . the sun was setting in amber dust . . . pale greenish streaks stretched overhead and dissolved in a pansy mist. Upon the horizon, masses of heavy cloud lay banked like a mountain range bathed in violet rain. The words of the psalmist flashed across Dillings mind and he murmured, I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. If God can pour strength into a frail vessel, may He pour it generously into me. There was a light tap on the door, and Azalea entered the room. Dilling stared at her without speaking. He had never attached much importance to coincidences. They were, he thought, significant only in the world of fiction. When they occurred in reality, they only emphasised the incoherency of the substance. But Azaleas coming was like an answer to prayer. He could think of nothing to say. Marjorie told me you had not come home, she began, and I thought that perhaps the workWhy, what is it? Her tone changed. What is the matter? Briefly, he told her. They have given me until to-morrow morning to make up my mind. Perhaps Id better go, she said. No, no! Stay and help me. I dont feel as if I could fight this thing out alone. Heavily, he threw himself into a chair. His thinness, his pallor, his general air of frailness, made Azalea faint with pity for him. Sitting in the half-tone of departing daylight, his hair seemed silvered with frost, his face was drawn, his body sagged like that of an old man. What do you think I should do? he asked her. What you know is right. But if I dont know what is right? Ah, but you must! None knows it better. Education is only a matter of knowing what is right and then having the courage to do it. He objected almost petulantly, supposing that he lacked the necessary courage. Azalea smiled, and there was pride behind the gesture. That, above all others, is the virtue you possess. It is the foundation upon which all the rest are built. It is that which helps them to endure . . . Dilling listened to the quiet confident voice with an emotion so profound that it was like a deep-bosomed bell ringing in his soul. He was conscious of a curious sensation, as though his spirit had escaped a crushing weight(a weight that still cramped his body)as though it had been set free. In a low voice, and in phrases that were disjointed and but half spoken, he began to talk about himself, his ambitions, his career; and Azalea listened feeling that part of him had died, and that she was hearing but the echo of his voice. It never occurred to me that my life was barren, she heard him say, barren and grim . . . just a brain . . . a machine that, given direction, could drive on with peculiar force and vanquish those of different constitution . . . Never felt the need of friends . . . nor the lack of them . . . Alone and grim . . . But I loved Canada! A suggestion of warmth stole into his voice. I loved the West . . . I asked for nothing better than to serve my countryit may be that some men serve women that way . . . I wanted to get into the heart of it, to feel the throb, the life-waves beating out across the land . . . Then the Capital . . . so different . . . The men, the administration . . . Bewildering to find that I could take my place with those upon whom I had looked as gods . . . Poor Marjorie! This would mean much to her . . . When the facts are known, you will go down in history, Azalea told him, as a shining example of political integrity. Im not so sure. More likely, I will be held up to illustrate the failure of Success. My God, he cried, suddenly, why cant I live . . . why cant I live? His suffering was terrible for her to bear. Yet, she held herself in strict control. Success has become an odious word to me, she said, a juggernaut to which Truth and Justice are too often sacrificed. You have achieved . . . there is achievement even in failure . . . Her words filled him with bleak despair. He had hoped that she would argue his decision, try to persuade him to alter it, show him that he was wrong. For a fleeting second, he was guilty of resentment, doubting that she divined his pain at relinquishing his career. But he looked into her face and was ashamed. Azalea! Raymond! A flame of delight ran through his being. It was as though his whole body had been transfused with the ultimate beauty of life. Do you think I have achieved? Yes . . . the expression of a great spiritual truth, she answered. No compromise, no diplomacyanother name for deceit. That you have been misunderstood and defamed was only to have been expected. It is the price men pay for putting forth the truth. But you, who have been so fearlessyou are not weakening now? No, he said. I cannot weaken with you to help me. I will go back. There is no other way. Go back? she echoed. Go back to the West? Life would be intolerable hereespecially for Marjorie. You will leave Ottawa altogether? The words were scarcely audible. She had not anticipated this. Not altogether. Part of me will remain. This is my souls graveyard, Azalea . . . They say a soul cannot die, but never was there a more soothing untruth spread abroad for the peace of the credulous. Mine died to-dayonly a few hours after it was born. My dear, my dear, she whispered, trying to keep her voice free from the coldness of death that lay upon her own spirit. They sat in silence a space, while waves of misery welled up about them. Then Azaleas control broke. She covered her face with her hands. Dont! cried Dilling, sharply. Dont! Tell me the truthdo you want me to stay? No! Suddenly, he left his chair and knelt beside her, burying his face in the folds of her dress, and groping for her hand. For a time, he could not speak, could not tell how much he loved her, could not articulate the thought that hers was the power to make vocative his lifes stern purpose. He could only cling to her and suffer. Azalea, he cried, at last, how can I go? I cant live without youIm not even sure that I can die! She felt strangled and heard words falling from her lips without understanding how she spoke them. Are you forgetting the needs of the Westthe opportunity for your talents, there? Will you close your ears to the call of your ambition? He denied the existence of ambition. It had died when life was stricken from his soul. She raised his head between her hands. They trembled and were cold. Raymond, do you love me? You know it. Then pick up the standard once more! Carry on! Respond to that inner voice that presently will cry out to you. Ambition is inspired by emotion rather than intellect. If you love me, dont fling down the torch! But I need you, he protested. You are the fount, the source of all my power. You are my torch. Without you, the world is plunged in darkness. I can see to do nothing. There is an inextinguishable beam of friendship. More . . . When one achieves an understanding such as ours, one enters into a spiritual romance. He bowed his head against her breast. Gently, she encircled his body with her arms. Twilight quivered in the still room. Presently, he looked up. And what of you, my dear? Yours is the harder part . . . Will you suffer very much, Azalea? She closed her eyes to hide from him her agony. Emotions, even the most happy ones, are shot with pain, she said. Yes, Im learning that, myself, God pity me! But I dont want you to suffer through my love. Oh, Azalea . . . woman . . . you have been my white angel, my guiding star, that I took for granted as naturally as that one, in the sky! You have been for me the Truth and the Light, the balm for which I cried in all my agony and strife. You have accepted me as I am, nor asked a profession of my love in any way that was not _me_. And I leave you, never having served you. What is there of me that can hold a place in your life? She thought a moment, then, Listen, she whispered. Here is my answer. I wrote it yesterday . . . Sometimes I wake and say, I love him! And sometimes, He loves me! But whichever way it is The day is filled with a finer purpose. Azalea, let me kneel at your feet! No, no! Kiss me . . . Oh, my dear love, kiss me . . . For a time, they clung to one another, and when at last she withdrew from him, the room was plunged in utter darkness. CHAPTER 28. Of the five men who were left in Mr. Sullivans office, the Hon. Member for Morroway was not the least abashed. He had never confronted a moral quality like this in his whole experience. After all, he thought, recalling the sheer fineness of the man, men are something more than a mere merchantable commodity in the market of politics. Possibly, there are others who, like Dilling, disproved Walpoles _mot_, that every man has his price . . . It was not, however, on the knees of the gods that Mr. Sullivan should be diverted from his purpose by considerations such as these. He felt that Dilling was the only man to play the lead in the interesting drama he desired to stage, that he must win him beyond all doubt, and soon. Nothing but a refusal could be expected if so lofty and withal so astute a mind had time for reflection. Dilling had just finished a solitary dinnerMarjorie served in a canteen every Wednesday eveningwhen his visitor was announced. The Hon. Member for Morroway was conscious of a change in him; there was the rapture of a seer in his eyes, and a bearing of victorya jocund note of heroism in him. Why did you follow me, Mr. Sullivan? were his words of greeting. I thought I said I needed time for my decision. Indeed, you did, Mr. Dilling. But it is important that I should have your answer at once, and besides, you gave me no chance to persuade you that you would be right in accepting the Premiership at this juncture in our history. Will you consent to hear what I would like to say? Dilling led the way into his study and motioned the Hon. Member to a chair. He stood. Proceed, Mr. Sullivan. I shall need much encouragement if I am to meet your views. Hang it all, Dilling, lets get off our high horses and down to brass tacksif you will allow me to mix my metaphors! You left us before I had a chance to show you, as I had intended, that the interests of Canada imperatively demand that no more money be spent at this time in facilitating the marketing of wheatfor that is what your Elevator and Railway policy means in the last analysis. First and foremost the Returned Soldiers are to be considered if we are to shut off Bolshevism from rearing its ugly head here. Are you in accord with me, so far? Quite, returned Dilling. What then? The inevitable. The Governmental money bags will be kept lean for some years in meeting the just demands of the returned men, and the sentiment of the whole community will be behind them. Not only will the bankers of Eastern Canada put a spoke in your wheelfor they are spiteful over losing so much money in the Westbut you will find it difficult to borrow money in the States when the people recognise that an extension of Canadian railroads means hostility to the pet scheme of many of their financiers. Financiers are traditionally hostile, said Dilling. True, but the situation here is particularly acute, for these men to whom I refer have sought to obtain the sanction of this country to a greater utilisation of the Great Lakes and St. Lawrence waterways for transportation. They can scarcely be expected to lend money for a diverting project . . . and you can wring blood from a turnip as easily as you can borrow money in England! Im afraid your last observation is only too true, Mr. Sullivan. Im sure of it. I dont think I need elaborate the national argument in favour of your change of front, Ive said enough on that head. Coming to the more personal side of things, every statesman from Julius Csar to George Washington has had to compromise. You cant be stiff in your adherence to principle even in appointments to government posts! Sir John Macdonald, Laurierall of themhave had to appoint incompetent persons to the Civil Service over the heads of men thoroughly qualified in ability and character to serve the State in the finest way . . . a matter of expediency . . . expediency . . . Dilling said nothing, so Sullivan went on. Whats the use of quoting Lincoln as a model of probity in dispensing officesLincoln was the only man in the world who could be prophet, priest and king in politics at one and the same timeand _he_ couldnt save his face, to-day! Somewhere, a door closed, and the treble of childish voices blended in happy confusion. Think of your wife and children, Dilling . . . Marjorie . . . I use her Christian name by right of a deep and esteemed friendship . . . Marjorie has suffered greatly from the snobocracy of Ottawa. She has confided much to me, that out of respect for your busy life, has been withheld fromerher natural confidant, and it is only to be expected that you should seize the opportunity to furnish her the pleasure of playing a supreme stellar role in the social life of the nation. Moreover . . . Stop, Mr. Sullivan! You have said enough . . . more than enough! You have offended me by the casuistry of your argument on behalf of the public need for my desertion of the policies I have proclaimed. Your appeal on the personal side is a gross insult to me. However I may have seemed to waver until this moment, I now unhesitatingly and absolutely decline to accept your overtures. More than that, you have persuaded me that I must leave public life. No, I beg of you, say nothing further! Let me bid you good night, Mr. Sullivanbut do not leave me without the conviction that you have done me a real service. Sullivan lowered his head as he left the room. A curious aching had taken possession of his throat. He had been accustomed to swear after unsuccessful interviews with politicians . . . Just now, profanity refused to rise at his command. * * * * * Marjories tired voice roused him. Its very late, dearie, she said. Wont you try to get some rest? Presently. Ive something to tell you, first. Will you come in and sit down? With unaccustomed gentleness, he arranged a chair for her. She dropped into it as though suddenly bereft of the power to stand. Her eyes were feverishly bright, and fixed upon him with apprehension that amounted almost to fear. Dilling was conscious of intense pity for her. How unequal she was to the demand hehis lifeimposed! How gamely she had borne the strain! He hated her appearance to-night. Evidently, she had returned from the canteen only in time to dress for some more brilliant function. She wore a peach-coloured satin, covered with a sort of iridescent lacea hideously sophisticated dress, too low and too light; it bedizened her, overlaid all her native simplicity. Dilling was, as a rule, oblivious to the details of womens clothes, but to-night his perceptions were sharpened, and he examined his wife critically. As he did so, a horrid thought took possession of his mind. He saw her dress, her mannerher barricade of behavioras something degrading, detestable, utterly foreign to her. A more imaginative man would have fallen back upon the fancy that the pure gold of her nature was being covered with the whitewash of social pretense. So deeply did it offend him. I have been offered the Premiership, he announced. Oh! That was all she could say. Months ago she had arrived at the point where she stood on guard over every act and utterance, fearing to proceed lest she should violate some sacred creed and call forth criticism and disdain. And now, when she wanted to speak, she could not. Inarticulate and frightened, she sat, like a person paralysed by nightmare. Yes, this afternoon, Dilling continued, and then as he had told Azalea, they have given me until to-morrow morning to decide. Its splendid, said Marjorie. Its wonderful . . . but then you deserve it, dearie. Youve worked so hard! So have you, Marjorie! Exactly what will it mean? she questioned, timidly. Will we have to move again, and do more entertaining? You take it for granted that Ill accept? Oh! You _cant_ refuse? Why not? Wellwell Mr. Sullivans promptings eluded her entirely. The premiership? . . . Oh, Raymond, you mustnt refuse! She began to argue, falteringly, but with a desperate earnestness that betrayed her own lack of conviction. And as he listened, an odious suspicion crept into Dillings mind. Whos been putting you up to this? he demanded. You are voicing arguments that are not your own. Tell me, Marjorie, who has been putting words into your mouth? Marjorie refused to meet his eyes, but her lips framed the name Sullivan. It was her manner more than her speech that caused the dawn of a slow horror. Dilling recalled evidences of the mans frequent visitsbooks, flowers, chocolates, games for the childrenYes, he remembered now, that the children called him Uncle Rufus . . . and hadnt Sullivan, himself, hinted at an unsuspected intimacy? Had he not boasted of being Marjories close confidant? How long has this been going on? he asked, pursuing his own line of thought. Ever since we first came, whispered his wife, failing wholly to follow him. You dont mean _years_? She bowed her head. Why did I never know? He put the query more to himself than to her. I never tried to keep it from you, Raymond! she was stung into making a defence. The very first night . . . you were right in the house. No, not this housethe other one. I should think you would have heard us coming downstairs . . . Always, I have tried not to bother you! Coming downstairs? he echoed. My God . . . my God! A sudden blackness enshrouded him. He was swallowed up in the wreckage of a too-long life, lived in too short a span. His career had been swept away his love was denied him, and now he had lost his wife . . . My God, he said againelemental words wrung by elemental anguish. A cry, low and terrible, penetrated his misery. Marjorie flung herself at his feet, and gasped, Nononot _that_, Raymond . . . Are you listening to me? Not _that_! What, then? he muttered. Oh, how could you, Raymond? You couldnt think I would do a thing like that? Then what do you mean? The story of her association with the Hon. Member for Morroway fell in broken sentences, often misleading, by reason of the very shame she felt in its avowal. As he listened to the innocent little tale, Dillings heart was torn with pity, and more clearly than before he saw the futility of attempting to mould their simplicity to the form of conduct required by their position. He thought of the Westhis Westof a rugged people who were still alive to the practical advancement of idealism, divorced from stultifying subservience to convention. He felt an overpowering urge to return, to identify himself once again with those sturdy people, whom, he believed, would answer the guidance of his hand. He was theirs. They were his. The West was his kingdom, and there he would be content to reign. A crushing weight seemed lifted from his spirit. Shackles fell away. Would you like to go home, he asked Marjorie, to go home for good and all, I mean? The light in her face answered him. It is abundantly true that experiences realised, are a glorified incarnation of dead wishes. The promised return to Pinto Plains was, for Marjorie, a dream that was coming true. She knew the exquisite pain of seeing the complete fulfilment of a passionate desire. No words could translate her feeling. * * * * * And so, with gratulation that was void of all regret, they went back to happy mediocrity, far from The Land of Afternoon. THE END TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. Book name and author have been added to the original book cover. The resulting cover is placed in the public domain. be renamed. 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The included with this eBook or online at 1901, From "Wall Street Stories" THE TIPSTER By Edwin Lefevre From "Wall Street Stories." Copyright, 1901, by McClure, Phillips & Co. I Glmartin was still laughing professionally at the prospective buyer's funny story when the telephone on his desk buzzed. He said: "Excuse me for a minute, old man," to the customer--Hopkins, the Connecticut manufacturer. "Hello; who is this?" he spoke into the transmitter. "Oh, how are you?--Yes--I was out--Is that so?--Too bad--Too bad--Yes; just my luck to be out. I might have known it!--Do you think so?--Well, then, sell the 200 Occidental common--You know best--What about Trolley?--Hold on?--All right; just as you say--I hope so--I don't like to lose, and--Ha! ha!--I guess so--Good-by." "It's from my brokers," explained Gilmartin, hanging up the receiver. "I'd have saved five hundred dollars if I had been here at half-past ten. They called me up to advise me to sell out, and the price is off over three points. I could have got out at a profit this morning; but no, sir; not I. I had to be away, trying to buy some camphor." Hopkins was impressed. Gilmartin perceived it and went on, with an air of comical wrath which he thought was preferable to indifference: "It isn't the money I mind so much as the tough luck of it. I didn't make my trade in camphor after all and I lost in stocks, when if I'd only waited five minutes more in the office I'd have got the message from my brokers and saved my five hundred. Expensive, my time is, eh?" with a woful shake of the head. "But you're ahead of the game, aren't you?" asked the customer, interestedly. "Well, I guess yes. Just about twelve thousand." That was more than Gilmartin had made; but having exaggerated, he immediately felt very kindly disposed toward the Connecticut man. "Whew!" whistled Hopkins, admiringly. Gilmartin experienced a great tenderness toward him. The lie was made stingless by the customer's credulity. This brought a smile of subtle relief to Gilmartin's lips. He was a pleasant-faced, pleasant-voiced man of three-and-thirty. He exhaled health, contentment, neatness, and an easy conscience. Honesty and good-nature shone in his eyes. People liked to shake hands with him. It made his friends talk of his lucky star; and they envied him. "I bought this yesterday for my wife; took it out of a little deal in Trolley," he told Hopkins, taking a small jewel-box from one of the desk's drawers. It contained a diamond ring, somewhat showy, but obviously quite expensive. Hopkins's semi-envious admiration made Gilmartin add, genially: "What do you say to lunch? I feel I am entitled to a glass of 'fizz' to forget my bad luck of this morning." Then, in an exaggeratedly apologetic tone: "Nobody likes to lose five hundred dollars on an empty stomach!" "She'll be delighted, of course," said Hopkins, thinking of Mrs. Gilmartin. Mrs. Hopkins loved jewelry. "She's the nicest little woman that ever lived. Whatever is mine is hers; and what's hers is her own. Ha! ha! But," becoming nicely serious, "all that I'll make out of the stock market I'm going to put away for her, in her name. She can take better care of it than I; and, besides, she's entitled to it, anyhow, for being so nice to me." That is how he told what a good husband he was. He felt so pleased over it that he went on, sincerely regretful: "She's visiting friends in Pennsylvania or I'd ask you to dine with us." And they went to a fashionable restaurant together. Day after day Gilmartin thought persistently that Maiden Lane was too far from Wall Street. There came a week in which he could have made four very handsome "turns" had he but been in the brokers' office. He was out on business for his firm and when he returned the opportunity had gone, leaving behind it vivid visions of what might have been; also the conviction that time, tide, and the ticker wait for no man. Instead of buying and selling quinine and balsams and essential oils for Maxwell & Kip, drug brokers and importers, he decided to make the buying and selling of stocks and bonds his exclusive business. The hours were easy; the profits would be great. He would make enough to live on. He would not let the Street take away what it had given. That was the great secret: to know when to quit! He would be content with a moderate amount, wisely invested in gilt-edged bonds. And then he would bid the Street good-by forever. Force of long business custom and the indefinable fear of new ventures for a time fought successfully his increasing ticker-fever. But one day his brokers wished to speak to him, to urge him to sell out his entire holdings, having been advised of an epoch-making resolution by Congress. They had received the news in advance from a Washington customer. Other brokers had important connections in the Capital and therefore there was no time to lose. They dared not assume the responsibilty of selling him out without his permission. Five minutes--five eternities!--passed before they could talk by telephone with him; and when he gave his order to sell, the market had broken five or six points. The news was "out." The news agencies' slips were in the brokers' offices and half of Wall Street knew. Instead of being among the first ten sellers Gilmartin was among the second hundred. II The clerks gave him a farewell dinner. All were there, even the head office-boy to whom the two-dollar subscription was no light matter. The man who probably would succeed Gilmartin as manager, Jenkins, acted as toastmaster. He made a witty speech which ended with a neatly turned compliment. Moreover, he seemed sincerely sorry to bid good-by to the man whose departure meant promotion--which was the nicest compliment of all. And the other clerks--old Williamson, long since ambition-proof; and young Hardy, bitten ceaselessly by it; and middle-aged Jameson, who knew he could run the business much better than Gilmartin; and Baldwin, who never thought of business in or out of the office--all told him how good he had been and related corroborative anecdotes that made him blush and the others cheer; and how sorry they were he would no longer be with them, but how glad he was going to do so much better by himself; and they hoped he would not "cut" them when he met them after he had become a great millionaire. And Gilmartin felt his heart grow soft and feelings not all of happiness came over him. Danny, the dean of the office boys, whose surname was known only to the cashier, rose and said, in the tones of one speaking of a dear departed friend: "He was the best man in the place. He always was all right." Everybody laughed; whereupon Danny went on, with a defiant glare at the others: "I'd work for him for nothin' if he'd want me, instead of gettin' ten a week from any one else." And when they laughed the harder at this he said, stoutly: "Yes, I would!" His eyes filled with tears at their incredulity, which he feared might be shared by Mr. Gilmartin. But the toastmaster rose very gravely and said: "What's the matter with Danny?" And all shouted in unison: "He's all right!" with a cordiality so heartfelt that Danny smiled and sat down, blushing happily. And crusty Jameson, who knew he could run the business so much better than Gilmartin, stood up--he was the last speaker--and began: "In the ten years I've worked with Gilmartin, we've had our differences and--well--I--well--er--oh, damn it!" and walked quickly to the head of the table and shook hands violently with Gilmartin for fully a minute, while all the others looked on in silence. Gilmartin had been eager to go to Wall Street. But this leave-taking made him sad. The old Gilmartin who had worked with these men was no more and the new Gilmartin felt sorry. He had never stopped to think how much they cared for him nor indeed how very much he cared for them. He told them, very simply, he did not expect ever again to spend such pleasant years anywhere as at the old office; and as for his spells of ill-temper--oh, yes, they needn't shake their heads; he knew he often was irritable--he had meant well and trusted they would forgive him. If he had his life to live over again he would try really to deserve all that they had said of him on this evening. And he was very, very sorry to leave them. "Very sorry, boys; very sorry. _Very_ sorry!" he finished lamely, with a wistful smile. He shook hands with each man--a strong grip, as though he were about to go on a journey from which he might never return--and in his heart of hearts there was a new doubt of the wisdom of going to Wall Street. But it was too late to draw back. They escorted him to his house. They wished to be with him to the last possible minute. III Everybody in the drug trade seemed to think that Gilmartin was on the highroad to Fortune. Those old business acquaintances and former competitors whom he happened to meet in the street-cars or in the theatre lobbies always spoke to him as to a millionaire-to-be, in what they imagined was correct Wall Street jargon, to show him that they too knew something of the great game. But their efforts made him smile with a sense of superiority, at the same time that their admiration for his cleverness and their good-natured envy for his luck made his soul thrill joyously. Among his new friends in Wall Street also he found much to enjoy. The other customers--some of them very wealthy men--listened to his views regarding the market as attentively as he, later, felt it his polite duty to listen to theirs. The brokers themselves treated him as a "good fellow." They cajoled him into trading often--every one hundred shares he bought or sold meant $12.50 to them--and when he won, they praised his unerring discernment. When he lost they soothed him by scolding him for his recklessness--just as a mother will treat her three-year-old's fall as a great joke in order to deceive the child into laughing at its misfortune. It was an average office with an average clientle. From ten to three they stood before the quotation board and watched a quick-witted boy chalk the price changes, which one or another of the customers read aloud from the tape as it came from the ticker. The higher stocks went the more numerous the customers became, being allured in great flocks to the Street by the tales of their friends, who had profited greatly by the rise. All were winning, for all were buying stocks in a bull market. They resembled each other marvelously, these men who differed so greatly in cast of features and complexion and age. Life to all of them was full of joy. The very ticker sounded mirthful; its clicking told of golden jokes. And Gilmartin and the other customers laughed heartily at the mildest of stories without even waiting for the point of the joke. At times their fingers clutched the air happily, as if they actually felt the good money the ticker was presenting to them. They were all neophytes at the great game--lambkins who were bleating blithely to inform the world what clever and formidable wolves they were. Some of them had sustained occasional losses; but these were trifling compared with their winnings. When the slump came all were heavily committed to the bull side. It was a bad slump. It was so unexpected--by the lambs--that all of them said, very gravely, it came like a thunderclap out of a clear sky. While it lasted, that is, while the shearing of the flock was proceeding, it was very uncomfortable. Those same joyous, winning stock-gamblers, with beaming faces, of the week before, were fear-clutched, losing stock-gamblers, with livid faces, on what they afterward called the day of the panic. It really was only a slump; rather sharper than usual. Too many lambs had been over-speculating. The wholesale dealers in securities--and insecurities--held very little of their own wares, having sold them to the lambs, and wanted them back now--cheaper. The customers' eyes, as on happier days, were intent on the quotation board. Their dreams were rudely shattered; the fast horses some had all but bought joined the steam yachts others almost had chartered. The beautiful homes they had been building were torn down in the twinkling of an eye. And the demolisher of dreams and dwellings was the ticker, that instead of golden jokes was now clicking financial death. They could not take their eyes from the board before them. Their own ruin, told in mournful numbers by the little machine, fascinated them. To be sure, poor Gilmartin said: "I've changed my mind about Newport. I guess I'll spend the summer on my own _Hotel de Roof!_" And he grinned; but he grinned alone. Wilson, the dry goods man, who laughed so joyously at everybody's jokes, was now watching, as if under a hypnotic spell, the lips of the man who sat on the high stool beside the ticker and called out the prices to the quotation boy. Now and again Wilson's own lips made curious grimaces, as if speaking to himself. Brown, the slender, pale-faced man, was outside in the hall, pacing to and fro. All was lost, including honor. And he was afraid to look at the ticker, afraid to hear the prices shouted, yet hoping--for a miracle! Gil-martin came out from the office, saw Brown and said, with sickly bravado: "I held out as long as I could. But they got _my_ ducats. A sporting life comes high, I tell you!" But Brown did not heed him, and Gilmartin pushed the elevator button impatiently and cursed at the delay. He not only had lost the "paper" profits he had accumulated during the bull market, but all his savings of years had crumbled away beneath the strokes of the ticker that day. It was the same with all. They would not take a small loss at first, but had held on, in the hope of a recovery that would "let them out even." And prices had sunk and sunk until the loss was so great that it seemed only proper to hold on, if need be a year, for sooner or later prices must come back. But the break "shook them out," and prices went just so much lower because so many people had to sell whether they would or not. IV After the slump most of the customers returned to their legitimate business--sadder, but it is to be feared not much wiser men. Gilmartin, after the first numbing shock, tried to learn of fresh opportunities in the drug business. But his heart was not in his search. There was the shame of confessing defeat in Wall Street so soon after leaving Maiden Lane; but far stronger than this was the effect of the poison of gambling. If it was bad enough to be obliged to begin lower than he had been at Maxwell & Kip's, it was worse to condemn himself to long weary years of work in the drug business when his reward, if he remained strong and healthy, would consist merely in being able to save a few thousands. But a few lucky weeks in the stock market would win him back all he had lost--and more! He should have begun in a small way while he was learning to speculate. He saw it now very clearly. Every one of his mistakes had been due to inexperience. He had imagined he knew the market. But it was only now that he really knew it, and therefore it was only now, after the slump had taught him so much, that he could reasonably hope to succeed. His mind, brooding over his losses, definitely dismissed as futile the resumption of the purchase and sale of drugs, and dwelt persistently on the sudden acquisition of stock market wisdom. Properly applied, this wisdom ought to mean much to him. In a few weeks he was again spending his days before the quotation board, gossiping with those customers who had survived, giving and receiving advice. And as time passed the grip of Wall Street on his soul grew stronger until it strangled all other aspirations. He could talk, think, dream of nothing but stocks. He could not read the newspapers without thinking how the market would "take" the news contained therein. If a huge refinery burned down, with a loss to the "Trust" of $4,000,000, he sighed because he had not foreseen the catastrophe and had sold Sugar short. If a strike by the men of the Suburban Trolley Company led to violence and destruction of life and property, he cursed an unrelenting Fate because he had not had the prescience to "put out" a thousand shares of Trolley. And he constantly calculated to the last fraction of a point how much money he would have made if he had sold short just before the calamity at the very top prices and had covered his stock at the bottom. Had he only known! The atmosphere of the Street, the odor of speculation surrounded him on all sides, enveloped him like a fog, from which the things of the outside world appeared as though seen through a veil. He lived in the district where men do not say "Good-morning" on meeting one another, but "How's the market?" or, when one asks: "How do you feel?" receives for an answer: "Bullish!" or "Bearish!" instead of a reply regarding the state of health. At first, after the fatal slump, Gilmartin importuned his brokers to let him speculate on credit, in a small way. They did. They were kindly enough men and sincerely wished to help him. But luck ran against him. With the obstinacy of unsuperstitious gamblers he insisted on fighting Fate. He was a bull in a bear market; and the more he lost the more he thought the inevitable "rally" in prices was due. He bought in expectation of it and lost again and again, until he owed the brokers a greater sum than he could possibly pay; and they refused point blank to give him credit for another cent, disregarding his vehement entreaties to buy a last hundred, just one more chance, the last, because he would be sure to win. And, of course, the long-expected happened and the market went up with a rapidity that made the Street blink; and Gilmartin figured that had not the brokers refused his last order, he would have made enough to pay off the indebtedness and have left, in addition, $2,950; for he would have "pyramided" on the way up. He showed the brokers his figures, accusingly, and they had some words about it and he left the office, almost tempted to sue the firm for conspiracy with intent to defraud; but decided that it was "another of Luck's sockdolagers" and let it go at that, gambler-like. When he returned to the brokers' office--the next day--he began to speculate in the only way he could--vicariously. Smith, for instance, who was long of 500 St. Paul at 125, took less interest in the deal than did Gilmartin, who thenceforth assiduously studied the news slips and sought information on St. Paul all over the Street, listening thrillingly to tips and rumors regarding the stock, suffering keenly when the price declined, laughing and chirruping blithely if the quotations moved upward, exactly as though it were his own stock. In a measure it was as an anodyne to his ticker fever. Indeed, in some cases his interest was so poignant and his advice so frequent--he would speak of _our_ deal--that the lucky winner gave him a small share of his spoils, which Gilmartin accepted without hesitation--he was beyond pride-wounding by now--and promptly used to back some miniature deal of his own on the Consolidated Exchange or even in "Percy's"--a dingy little bucket shop, where they took orders for two shares of stock on a margin of 1 per cent; that is, where a man could bet as little as two dollars. Later, it often came to pass that Gilmartin would borrow a few dollars when the customers were not trading actively. The amounts he borrowed diminished by reason of the increasing frequency of their refusals. Finally, he was asked to stay away from the office where once he had been an honored and pampered customer. He became a Wall Street "has been" and could be seen daily on New Street, back of the Consolidated Exchange, where the "put" and "call" brokers congregate. The tickers in the saloons nearby fed his gambler's appetite. From time to time luckier men took him into the same be-tickered saloons, where he ate at the free lunch counters and drank beer and talked stocks and listened to the lucky winners' narratives with lips tremulous with readiness to smile and grimace. At times the gambler in him would assert itself and he would tell the lucky winners, wrathfully, how the stock he wished to buy but couldn't the week before had risen 18 points. But they, saturated with their own ticker fever, would nod absently, their soul's eyes fixed on some quotation-to-be; or they would not nod at all, but in their eagerness to look at the tape, from which they had been absent two long minutes, would leave him without a single word of consolation or even of farewell. V One day, in New Street, he overheard a very well-known broker tell another that Mr. Sharpe was "going to move up Pennsylvania Central right away." The overhearing of the conversation was a bit of rare good luck that raised Gil-martin from his sodden apathy and made him hasten to his brother-in-law, who kept a grocery store in Brooklyn. He implored Griggs to go to a broker and buy as much Pennsylvania Central as he could--that is, if he wished to live in luxury the rest of his life. Sam Sharpe was going to put it up. Also, he borrowed ten dollars. Griggs was tempted. He debated with himself many hours, and at length yielded with misgivings. He took his savings and bought one hundred shares of Pennsylvania Central at 64, and began to neglect his business in order to study the financial pages of the newspapers. Little by little Gilmartin's whisper set in motion within him the wheels of a ticker that printed on his day-dreams the mark of the dollar. His wife, seeing him preoccupied, thought business was bad; but Griggs denied it, confirming her worst fears. Finally, he had a telephone put in his little shop, to be able to talk to his broker. Gilmartin, with the ten dollars he had borrowed, promptly bought ten shares in a bucket shop at 63%; the stock promptly went to 62%; he was promptly "wiped"; and the stock promptly went back to 64%. On the next day a fellow-customer of Gilmartin of old days invited him to have a drink. Gil-martin resented the man's evident prosperity. He felt indignant at the ability of the other to buy hundreds of shares. But the liquor soothed him, and in a burst of mild remorse he told Smithers, after an apprehensive look about him as if he feared some one might overhear: "I'll tell you something, on the dead q. t., for your own benefit." "Fire away!" "Pa. Cent, is going 'way up." "Yes?" said Smithers, calmly. "Yes; it will cross par sure." "Umph!" between munches of a pretzel. "Yes. Sam Sharpe told"--Gilmartin was on the point of saying a "friend of mine," but caught himself and went on, impressively--"told me, yesterday, to buy Pa. Cent., as he had accumulated his full line, and was ready to whoop it up. And you know what Sharpe is," he finished, as if he thought Smithers was familiar with Sharpe's powers. "Is that so," nibbled Smithers. "Why, when Sharpe makes up his mind to put up a stock, as he intends to do with Pa. Cent., nothing on earth can stop him. He told me he would make it cross par within sixty days. This is no hearsay, no tip. It's cold facts, I don't _hear_ it's going up; I don't _think_ it's going up; I _know_ it's going up. Understand?" And he shook his right forefinger with a hammering motion. In less than five minutes Smithers was so wrought up that he bought 500 shares and promised solemnly not to "take his profits," s. o. sell out, until Gilmartin said the word. Then they had another drink and another look at the ticker. "You want to keep in touch with me," was Gilmartin's parting shot. "I'll tell you what Sharpe tells me. But you must keep it quiet," with a sidewise nod that pledged Smithers to honorable secrecy. Had Gilmartin met Sharpe face to face, he would not have known who was before him. Shortly after he left Smithers he buttonholed another acquaintance, a young man who thought he knew Wall Street, and therefore had a hobby--manipulation. No one could induce him to buy stocks by telling him how well the companies were doing, how bright the prospects, etc. That was bait for "suckers," not for clever young stock operators. But any one, even a stranger, who said that "they"--the perennially mysterious "they," the "big men," the mighty "manipulators" whose life was one prolonged conspiracy to pull the wool over the public's eyes--"they" were going to "jack up" these or the other shares, was welcomed and his advice acted upon. Young Freeman believed in nothing but "their" wickedness and "their" power to advance or depress stock values at will. Thinking of his wisdom had given him a chronic sneer. "You're just the man I was looking for," said Gilmartin, who hadn't thought of the young man at all. "Are you a deputy sheriff?" "No." A slight pause for oratorical effect. "I had a long talk with Sam to-day." "What Sam?" "Sharpe. The old boy sent for me. He was in mighty good humor too. Tickled to death. He might well be--he's got 60,000 shares of Pennsylvania Central. And there's going to be from 50 to 60 points profit in it." "H'm!" sniffed Freeman, sceptically, yet impressed by the change In Gilmartin's attitude from the money-borrowing humility of the previous week to the confident tone of a man with a straight tip. Sharpe was notoriously kind to his old friends--rich or poor. "I was there when the papers were signed," Gilmartin said, hotly. "I was going to leave the room, but Sam told me I needn't. I can't tell you what it is about; really I can't. But he's simply going to put the stock above par. It's 64 1/2 now, and you know and I know that by the time it is 75 the newspapers will all be talking about inside buying; and at 85 everybody will want to buy it on account of important developments; and at 95 there will be millions of bull tips on it and rumors of increased dividends, and people who would not look at it thirty points lower will rush in and buy it by the bushel. Let me know who is manipulating a stock, and to h--l with dividends and earnings. Them's _my_ sentiments," with a final hammering nod, as if driving in a profound truth. "Same here," assented Freeman, cordially. He was attacked on his vulnerable side. Strange things happen in Wall Street. Sometimes tips come true. It so proved in this case. Sharpe started the stock upward brilliantly--the movement became historic in the Street--and Pa. Cent, soared dizzily and all the newspapers talked of it and the public went mad over it and it touched 80 and 85 and 88 and higher, and then Gilmartin made his brother-in-law sell out and Smithers and Freeman. Their profits were: Griggs, $8,000; Smithers, $15,100; Freeman, $2,750. Gilmartin made them give him a good percentage. He had no trouble with his brother-in-law. Gilmartin told him it was an inviolable Wall Street custom and so Griggs paid, with an air of much experience in such matters. Freeman was more or less grateful. But Smithers met Gilmartin, and full of his good luck repeated what he had told a dozen men within the hour: "I did a dandy stroke the other day. Pa. Cent. looked to me like higher prices and I bought a wad of it. I've cleaned up a tidy sum," and he looked proud of his own penetration. He really had forgotten that it was Gilmartin who had given him the tip. But not so Gilmartin, who retorted, witheringly: "Well, I've often heard of folks that you put into good things and they make money and afterward they come to you and tell how damned smart they were to hit it right. But you can't work that on me. I've got witnesses." "Witnesses?" echoed Smithers, looking cheap. He remembered. "Yes, wit-ness-es," mimicked Gilmartin, scornfully, "I all but had to get on my knees to make you buy it. And I told you when to sell it, too. The information came to me straight from headquarters and you got the use of it, and now the least you can do is to give me twenty-five hundred dollars." In the end he accepted eight hundred dollars. He told mutual friends that Smithers had cheated him. VI It seemed as though the regeneration of Gilmartin had been achieved when he changed his shabby raiment for expensive clothes. He paid his tradesmen's bills and moved into better quarters. He spent his money as though he had made millions. One week after he had closed out the deal his friends would have sworn Gilmartin had always been prosperous. That was his exterior. His inner self remained the same--a gambler. He began to speculate again, in the office of Freeman's brokers. At the end of the second month he had lost not only the $1,200 he had deposited with the firm, but an additional $250 he had given his wife and had been obliged to "borrow" back from her, despite her assurances that he would lose it. This time the slump was really unexpected by all, even by the magnates--the mysterious and all-powerful "they" of Freeman's--so that the loss of the second fortune did not reflect on Gilmartin's ability as a speculator, but on his luck. As a matter of fact, he had been too careful and had sinned from over-timidity at first, only to plunge later and lose all. As the result of much thought about his losses Gilmartin became a professional tipster. To let others speculate for him seemed the only sure way of winning. He began by advising ten victims--he learned in time to call them clients--to sell Steel Rod preferred, each man 100 shares; and to a second ten he urged the purchase of the same quantity of the same stock. To all he advised taking four points' profit. Not all followed his advice, but the seven clients who sold it made between them nearly $3,000 overnight. His percentage amounted to $287.50. Six bought, and when they lost he told them confidentially how the treachery of a leading member of the pool had obliged the pool managers to withdraw their support from the stock temporarily, whence the decline. They grumbled; but he assured them that he himself had lost nearly $1,600 of his own on account of the traitor. For some months Gilmartin made a fair living, but business became very dull. People learned to fight shy of his tips. The persuasiveness was gone from his inside news and from his confidential advice from Sharpe and from his beholding with his own eyes the signing of epoch-making documents. Had he been able to make his customers alternate their winnings and losses he might have kept his trade. But, for example, "Dave" Rossiter, in Stuart & Stern's office, stupidly received the wrong tip six times in succession. It wasn't Gilmartin's fault, but Rossiter's bad luck. At length, failing to get enough clients in the ticker district itself, Gilmartin was forced to advertise in an afternoon paper, six times a week, and in the Sunday edition of one of the leading morning dailies. They ran like this: WE MAKE MONEY for our Investors by the best system ever devised. Deal with genuine experts. Two methods of operating; one speculative, the other ensures absolute safety. NOW is the time to invest in a certain stock for ten points sure profit Three points margin will carry it. Remember how correct we have been on other stocks. Take advantage of this move. IOWA MIDLAND. Big movement coming in this stock. If s very near at hand. Am waiting daily for word. Will get it in time. Splendid opportunity to make big money. It costs only a 2-cent stamp to write to me. CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION. Private secretary of banker and stock operator of world-wide reputation has valuable information. I don't wish your money. Use your own broker. All I want is a share of what you will surely make if you follow my advice. WILL ADVANCE $40 PER SHARE. A fortune to be made in a railroad stock. Deal pending which will advance same $40 per share within three months. Am in position to keep informed as to developments and the operations of a pool. Parties who will carry for me 100 shares with a New York Stock Exchange house will receive the full benefit of information. Investment safe and sure. Highest references given. He prospered amazingly. Answers came to him from furniture dealers on Fourth Avenue and dairymen up the State and fruit growers in Delaware and factory workers in Massachusetts and electricians in New Jersey and coal miners in Pennsylvania and shopkeepers and physicians and plumbers and undertakers in towns and cities near and far. Every morning Gilmartin telegraphed to scores of people--at their expense--to sell, and to scores of others to buy the same stocks. And he claimed his commissions from the winners. Little by little his savings grew; and with them grew his desire to speculate on his own account. It made him irritable not to gamble. He met Freeman one day in one of his dissatisfied moods. Out of politeness he asked the young cynic the universal query of the Street: "What do you think of 'em?" He meant stocks. "What difference does it make what I think?" sneered Freeman, with proud humility. "I'm nobody." But he looked as if he did not agree with himself. "What do you _know?_" pursued Gilmartin mollifyingly. "I know enough to be long of Gotham Gas. I just bought a thousand shares at 180." He really had bought a hundred only. "What on?" "On information. I got it straight from a director of the company. Look here, Gilmartin, I'm pledged to secrecy. But, for your own benefit, I'll just tell you to buy all the Gas you possibly can carry. The deal is on. I know that certain papers were signed last night, and they are almost ready to spring it on the public. They haven't got all the stock they want. When they get it, look out for fireworks." Gilmartin did not perceive any resemblance between Freeman's tips and his own. He said, hesitatingly, as though ashamed of his timidity: "The stock seems pretty high at 180." "You won't think so when it sells at 250. Gilmartin, I don't _hear_ this; I don't _think_ it; I _know_ it!" "All right; I'm in," quoth Gilmartin, jovially. He felt a sense of emancipation now that he had made up his mind to resume his speculating. He took every cent of the nine hundred dollars he had made from telling people the same things that Freeman told him now, and bought a hundred Gotham Gas at $185 a share. Also he telegraphed to all his clients to plunge in the stock. It fluctuated between 184 and 186 for a fortnight. Freeman daily asseverated that "they" were accumulating the stock. But, one fine day, the directors met, agreed that business was bad, and having sold out most of their own holdings, decided to reduce the dividend rate from 8 to 6 per cent. Gotham Gas broke seventeen points in ten short minutes. Gilmartin lost all he had. He found it impossible to pay for his advertisements. The telegraph companies refused to accept any more "collect" messages. This deprived Gilmartin of his income as a tipster. Griggs had kept on speculating and had lost all his money and his wife's in a little deal in Iowa Midland. All that Gilmartin could hope to get from him was an occasional invitation to dinner. Mrs. Gilmartin, after they were dispossessed for non-payment of rent, left her husband, and went to live with a sister in Newark who did not like Gilmartin. His clothes became shabby and his meals irregular. But always in his heart, as abiding as an inventor's faith in himself, there dwelt the hope that some day, somehow, he would "strike it rich" in the stock market. One day he borrowed five dollars from a man who had made five thousand in Cosmopolitan Traction. The stock, the man said, had only begun to go up, and Gilmartin believed it and bought five shares in "Percy's," his favorite bucket shop. The stock began to rise slowly but steadily. The next afternoon "Percy's" was raided, the proprietor having disagreed with the police as to price. Gilmartin lingered about New Street, talking with other customers of the raided bucket shop, discussing whether or not it was a "put up job" of old Percy himself, who, it was known, had been losing money to the crowd for weeks past. One by one the victims went away and at length Gilmartin left the ticker district. He walked slowly down Wall Street, then turned up William Street, thinking of his luck. Cosmopolitan Traction had certainly looked like higher prices. Indeed, it seemed to him that he could almost hear the stock shouting, articulately: "_I'm going up, right away, right away!_" If somebody would buy a thousand shares and agree to give him the profits on a hundred, on ten, on one! But he had not even his carfare. Then he remembered that he had not eaten since breakfast. It did him no good to remember it now. He would have to get his dinner from Griggs in Brooklyn. "Why," Gilmartin told himself with a burst of curious self-contempt, "I can't even buy a cup of coffee!" He raised his head and looked about him to find how insignificant a restaurant it was in which he could not buy even a cup of coffee. He had reached Maiden Lane. As his glance ran up and down the north side of that street, it was arrested by the sign: MAXWELL & KIP At first he felt but vaguely what it meant. It had grown unfamiliar with absence. The clerks were coming out. Jameson, looking crustier than ever, as though he were forever thinking how much better than Jenkins he could run the business; Danny, some inches taller, no longer an office boy, but spick and span in a blue serge suit and a necktie of the latest style, exhaling health and correctness; Williamson, grown very gray and showing on his face thirty years of routine; Baldwin, happy as of yore at the ending of the day's work, and smiling at the words of Jenkins--Gilmartin's successor, who wore an air of authority, of the habit of command which he had not known in the old days. Of a sudden Gilmartin was in the midst of his old life. He saw all that he had been, all that he might still be. And he was overwhelmed. He longed to rush to his old associates, to speak to them, to shake hands with them, to be the old Gilmartin. He was about to step toward Jenkins, but stopped abruptly. His clothes were shabby, and he felt ashamed. But, he apologized to himself, he could tell them how he had made a hundred thousand and had lost it. And he even might borrow a few dollars from Jenkins. Gilmartin turned on his heel with a sudden impulse and walked away from Maiden Lane quickly. All that he thought now was that he would not have them see him in his plight. He felt the shabbiness of his clothes without looking at them. As he walked, a great sense of loneliness came over him. He was back in Wall Street. At the head of the Street was old Trinity; to the right the Sub-Treasury; to the left the Stock Exchange. From Maiden Lane to the Lane of the Ticker--such had been his life. "If I could only buy some Cosmopolitan Traction!" he said. Then he walked forlornly northward, to the great bridge, on his way to Brooklyn, to eat with Griggs, the ruined grocery man. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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The included with this eBook or online at Translator: Katharine F. Boult Proofreading Team at (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.) THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ _All rights reserved._ THE LIFE OF HECTOR BERLIOZ AS WRITTEN BY HIMSELF IN HIS LETTERS AND MEMOIRS TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY KATHARINE F BOULT LONDON J. M. DENT & CO. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. 1903 CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. LA CTE SAINT-ANDR 1 II. ESTELLE 5 III. MUSIC AND ANATOMY 10 IV. PARIS 16 V. CHERUBINI 22 VI. MY FATHERS DECISION 27 VII. PRIVATION 31 VIII. FAILURE 37 IX. A NIGHT AT THE OPERA 42 X. WEBER 46 XI. HENRIETTE 50 XII. MY FIRST CONCERT 56 XIII. AN ACADEMY EXAMINATION 64 XIV. FAUST--CLEOPATRA 71 XV. A NEW LOVE 80 XVI. LISZT 91 XVII. A WILD INTERLUDE 96 XVIII. ITALIAN MUSIC 108 XIX. IN THE MOUNTAINS 113 XX. NAPLES--HOME 120 XXI. MARRIAGE 128 XXII. NEWSPAPER BONDAGE 135 XXIII. THE REQUIEM 143 XXIV. FRIENDS IN NEED 152 XXV. BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT 159 XXVI. HECHINGEN--WEIMAR 167 XXVII. MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER 177 XXVIII. A COLOSSAL CONCERT 187 XXIX. THE RAKOCZY MARCH 193 XXX. PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON 200 XXXI. MY FATHERS DEATH--MEYLAN 211 XXXII. POOR OPHELIA 216 XXXIII. DEAD SEA FRUIT 222 XXXIV. GATHERING TWILIGHT 230 XXXV. THE TROJANS 241 XXXVI. ESTELLE ONCE MORE 251 XXXVII. THE AFTERGLOW 272 XXXVIII. DARKNESS AND LIGHT 289 ILLUSTRATIONS BERLIOZ _Frontispiece_ THE VILLA MEDICI _to face page_ 112 MONTMARTRE CEMETERY 216 GRENOBLE 257 INTRODUCTION Autobiography is open to the charge of egoism; somewhat unjustly since, in writing of oneself, the personal note must predominate and, in the case of a genius--sure of his goal and of his power to reach it--faith in himself amounts to what, in a smaller man, would be mere conceit. This must be condoned and discounted for the sake of the priceless gift of insight into a personality of exceptional interest. Berlioz Memoir, graphic as it is, cannot be called satisfactory as a character-study. He says plainly that he is not writing confessions, but is simply giving a correct account of his life to silence the many false versions current at the time. Therefore, while describing almost too minutely some of his difficulties and most of his conflicts--whereby he gives the impression of living in uncomfortably hot water--his very real heroism comes out only in his Letters, and then quite unconsciously. The Memoir and Letters combined, however, make up an interesting and fascinating picture of the heights, depths, limitations and curious inconsistencies of this weird and restless human being. The music-ridden, brutal, undisciplined creature of the Autobiography--more a blind, unreasoning force of Nature than an ordinary being, subject to the restrictions of common humanity--could not possibly be the man who was rich in the unswerving affection of such widely different characters as Heine, Liszt, Ernst, Alexandre, Heller, Hiller, Jules Janin, Dumas and Bertin; there must be something unchronicled to account for their loyalty and patience. This something is revealed in the Letters. There stands the real Berlioz--musician and poet; eager to drain life to the dregs, be they sweet or bitter, to taste the fulness of being. There we find a faithful record of thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and a reflection of every passing mood. With one notable exception: even to Ferrand he never admitted that the poor reception of _The Trojans_ (for it met with but a _succs destime_) broke his heart. * * * * * As a record of events the Autobiography is deficient, and after 1848 becomes a mere sketch. Thus, while writing pages of description of orchestral players and musical institutions in German and Austrian cities--quite suitable to his newspaper articles, but wearisome in their iteration, and throwing no light upon himself--he is almost entirely silent on his later trips to London. And the visits to Baden--brightest days of his later years--are dismissed in a footnote. He lingers pathetically over young days, and hurries through the dreary time close at hand. So, for a record of the daily conflict with physical pain; of the overshadowed domestic life--none the easier to bear in that it was partly his own fault; of the grinding, ever-present shortness of money; of his wild and beautiful dreams; and of the large place that Ferrand, Morel, Massart, Damcke and Lwoff (many of whom are not named in the memoir) held in his heart--we turn to the Letters. The fearless, unbroken affection for his Jonathan--Humbert Ferrand; the passionate love for his only son, mingled with impatience at Louis youthful instability; the whole-hearted ungrudging appreciation he extended to young and honest musicians--particularly to Camille Saint-Sans--are a grateful contrast to the gloomy defiance, tornado-like fury, and eternal jeremiads over the hypocrisy and hollowness of Paris that mar the Memoir. * * * * * Of his ill-starred first marriage he says but little, either in Memoir or Letters. He and Miss Smithson were far too highly-strung for peaceful life to be possible, even without the added friction of ill-health, want of money (which, however, he says never daunted her), and the probable misunderstandings so likely to arise from their different nationalities. It may be due to his special form of artistic temperament--that well-worn apology for everything _drgl_--that he could find room in his heart, or head, for more than one love at a time, and could even analyse and classify each. Within a month he bounds from the nethermost despair over the uncertainties of his English divinity to the highest rapture over his Camille, his Ariel, as he calls Marie Pleyel. Later on, when Marie is safely disposed of and Henriette is again in the ascendant, while she vacillates between family and lover, he seriously contemplates running off to Berlin with a poor girl whom he has befriended, and whom, when Henriette finally relents, he calmly hands over to Jules Janin to provide for. Of his second wife we hear but little, except that even affection did not blind him to the defects in her musical gifts. For, on his first German tour, he wrote to Morel: Pity me! Marie wished to sing at Stuttgart, Mannheim and Hechingen. The two first were bearable, but the last!... Yet she would not hear of my engaging another singer. Then he incidentally and whimsically mentions an innocent embryo love-affair in Russia, and, in 1863, makes such tragic and mysterious reference to an impossible love, that Ferrand, seriously alarmed, thinks that Louis must have become more than usually troublesome. The influence of Estelle Fournier, which pervaded his whole life, comes under a different category. He was without religion; she supplied its place. She was his dream-lady, the Beatrice to his Dante, that necessary worship which no great soul can forego. The proof of this is that, when he met her again--old, sweet, dignified and still beautiful to him--his allegiance never wavered; she was still the Mountain Star of his childhoods days. If his capacity for love was unlimited, it was not so with his sense of humour, which was curiously circumscribed. Occasionally he rivals Heine in power of seeing the odd side of his own divagations; his account of his headlong flight from Rome to murder the whole erring Moke family is inimitable. Yet he never discovers--as a man with a true sense of humour would have done--that, in sharpening his rapier on Wagner and the Music of the Future, he is meting out to a struggling composer precisely the same measure that the Parisians had meted out to himself. It speaks volumes for the strength of his friendship with Liszt that even Wagnerism could not divide them. * * * * * La Cte Saint-Andr is a large village some thirty odd miles from Grenoble; here, in a handsome house in the Rue de la Rpublique, Louis Hector Berlioz was born. His home education and seclusion from healthy school-life and the society of other children of his age ill-fitted him for the battle of life, which began with his medical student career in Paris. He describes the quarrels with his parents and stoppage of his allowance in 1826, but passes lightly over the privations and semi-starvation that undoubtedly laid the foundations of that internal disease which embittered his latter years. His graphic account of those early Parisian days is one of the most interesting parts of the Memoir. He declared that his time in Italy, after gaining the Prix de Rome, was musically barren. Yet this must be a mistake, since, to the memory of his mountain wanderings he owed the inspiration of _Harold_. And even if he apparently gained nothing in music, the experience of what to avoid and the influence of beautiful scenery--to which he was always peculiarly sensitive--counted for much in his general development. With his return to Paris his character took form, and he began his life-long warfare against shams and empiricism. Newspaper work, hated as it was, had a great share in moulding him. Each year he grew more autocratic, and each year more hated for his uncompromising sledge-hammer speech. But Ferrand was correct in saying that he could write. His style is clear, incisive, perfect and even elegant French, although, naturally, owing to the exigencies of its production, it is often unequal. The first years of his marriage were ideal in spite of their penury. The young couple had a cterie of choice friends, amongst whom Liszt took a foremost place, but gradually the clouds gathered, the rift within the lute widened, until a separation became inevitable; even then Berlioz does not attempt--as so many men of his impatient spirit might have done--to shirk responsibility and throw upon others the burden of his hostage to fortune--an unsympathetic invalid--but works the harder at his literary tread-mill to provide her indispensable comforts. Poor Henriettes side of the story is untold, and one can but say: The pity of it! His troubles in Paris and the triumphs abroad that were their antidote made up the rest of his stormy, restless pilgrimage; yet even in ungrateful Paris he was not entirely neglected. He received the Legion of Honour, and although professing to despise it, he always wore the ribbon. He was also chosen one of the Immortals, apropos of which M. Alexandre tells a funny story. Alexandre was canvassing for him and found great difficulty in managing Adolph Adam, who was from Berlioz as the poles asunder. First he went to Berlioz, who had flatly refused to make the slightest concession to Adams prejudices. Come, said he, do at least be amiable to Adam; you cannot deny that he is a musician, at any rate. I dont say he is not; but, being a great musician, how can he lower himself to comic-opera? If he chose he could _write such music as I do_. Undismayed, Alexandre went to Adam. You will give your vote to Berlioz, will you not, dear friend? Although you cannot appreciate each other, you will own that he is a thorough musician. Certainly, he is a great musician, a really great one, but his music is awfully tiresome. Why!--and little Adam straightened his spectacles--why, if he chose he could compose ... as well as I do. But, seriously, he is a man of some importance, and I promise that, after Clapisson, who already has our votes, Berlioz shall have the next vacancy. By a strange coincidence, the next _fauteuil_ was Adams own, to which Berlioz was elected by nineteen votes. In his weak state of health, Berlioz was quite unfit to face the innumerable worries incidental to the production of _The Trojans_. For seven years it had been his chief object in life, and if, as he said, he could have had everything requisite at his command, with unlimited capital to draw upon--as Wagner had with Louis of Bavaria--all might have been well. But to fight, contrive, temporise and propitiate all at once was more than his enfeebled frame and irascible spirit could stand. Hence his great injustice to Carvalho, who, for Arts sake, sacrificed money, time and reputation to an extent that crippled him for many years. Embittered by the failure of his opera, which ran for about twenty-five nights, he shut himself up in his rooms with Madame Recio, his devoted mother-in-law, and an old servant, and from that time visited only a few intimate friends. One last shock Fate held in store. Louis died of fever abroad, and for his lonely father life had no more savour--he simply existed, with, however, two last flashes of the old bright flame. One when, at Herbecks desire, he went to Vienna to conduct the _Damnation de Faust_, and the other when the Grand Duchess Helen prevailed on him to visit St Petersburg again. That was the real end. On leaving Russia he wandered drearily to Nice--a ghost revisiting its old-time haunts--then made one last appearance at Grenoble, and so the flame went out. He who had never peace in life was at rest at last. * * * * * Of his music this is not the place to speak. He has fully described his own ideas, others have analysed them, and we are now concerned with the man himself. To this is due the somewhat disjointed form of the translation--the mixture of Memoir and Letters. It seemed the only possible way of showing Berlioz in all his aspects and of keeping the record chronologically correct. Yet we could wish that he, who had so much affinity with England and its literature, could meet with due appreciation here. He has founded no school (in spite of Krebs prophecy), unless the programme music now so much in vogue can be traced back to him, but, beginning with Wagner, every orchestral composer since his day owes him a debt of gratitude for his discoveries--his daring and original combinations of instruments, and his magnificent grouping and handling of vast bodies of executants. CHRONOLOGY 1803. Louis Hector Berlioz born. 1822. Medical student in Paris. 1824. Mass failed at Saint-Roch under Masson. 1825. Mass succeeded. 1826. Failed in preliminary examination for Conservatoire competition. 1827. Passed preliminary and entered for competition. His _Orpheus_ declared unplayable. 1828. Third attempt. _Tancred_ obtained second prize. Saw Miss Smithson. Gave first concert. 1829. Fourth attempt. _Cleopatra._ No first prize given. 1830. Gained Prix de Rome with _Sardanapalus_. Marie Pleyel. 1831. Rome. _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Llio_. 1832. Concert at which Miss Smithson present on 9th December. 1833. Marriage. In November Henriettes benefit and failure. 1834. Louis born. _Harold_ performed in November. 1835. _Symphonie Funbre_ begun. 1836. _Requiem._ 1837. _Benvenuto Cellini_ finished. 1838. Paganinis present. 1839. _Romeo and Juliet._ 1840. _Funbre_ performed. First journey to Brussels. 1841. Festival at Paris Opera House. 1842-3. First tour in Germany. 1844. _Carnaval Romain._ Gigantic concert in the Palais de lIndustrie. Nice. 1845. Cirque des Champs Elyses concert. Marseilles. Lyons. Austria. 1846. Hungary. Bohemia. In December, failure of _Damnation de Faust_. 1847. Russia. Berlin. In November, London, as conductor at Drury Lane. 1848. London. In July, Paris. Death of Dr Berlioz. 1849. _Te Deum_ begun. 1850. _Childhood of Christ_ begun. 1851. Member of Jury at London Exhibition. 1852. _Benvenuto Cellini_ given by Liszt at Weimar. In March, London, _Romeo and Juliet_. May, conducted Beethovens _Choral Symphony_. June, _Damnation de Faust_. 1854. March, Henriette died. Dresden. Marriage with Mdlle. Rcio. 1855. North German tour. Brussels. _Te Deum._ In June, London. _Imperial Cantata._ On Jury of Paris Exhibition. 1856. _The Trojans_ begun. 1858. Concerts in the Salle Herz brought in some thousands of francs. 1861. Baden. 1862. Marie Berlioz died. _Beatrice and Benedict_ performed at Baden. 1863. Weimar. _Childhood of Christ_ at Strasburg. In November, _The Trojans_. 1864. In August, made officer of Legion of Honour. Dauphiny. Meylan. Estelle Fournier. 1865. Geneva, to see Estelle. 1866. In December to Vienna, to conduct _Damnation de Faust_. 1867. In June Louis died. In November, Russia. 1868. Russia. Paris. Nice. In August, Grenoble. 1869. Died 8th March. THE LIFE OF BERLIOZ I LA CTE SAINT-ANDR Decidedly ours is a prosaic century. On no other grounds can my wounded vanity account for the humiliating fact that no auspicious omens, no mighty portents--such as heralded the birth of the great men of the golden age of poetry--gave notice of my coming. It is strange, but true, that I was born, quite unobtrusively, at La Cte Saint-Andr, between Vienne and Grenoble, on the 11th December 1803. As its name implies, La Cte Saint-Andr lies on a hillside overlooking a plain--wide, green, and golden--of which the dreamy majesty is accentuated by the mountain belt that bounds it on the southeast, being in turn crowned by the mystic glory of distant Alpine glaciers and snowy peaks. Needless to say, I was brought up in the Catholic faith. This--of all religions the most charming, since it gave up burning people--was for seven years the joy of my life, and although we have since fallen out, I still retain my tender memories of it. Indeed, so greatly am I in sympathy with its creed that, had I had the misfortune to be born in the clutches of one of the dreary schisms hatched by Luther and Calvin, I should certainly, at the first awakening of my poetic instinct, have thrown off its benumbing grasp and have flung myself into the arms of the fair Roman. My sweet remembrance of my first communion is probably due to my having made it with my elder sister at the Ursuline convent, where she was a boarder. At early morn, accompanied by the almoner, I made my way to that holy house. The soft spring sunlight, the murmuring poplars swaying in the whispering breeze, the dainty fragrance of the morning air, all worked upon my sensitive mind, until, as I knelt among those fair white maidens, and heard their fresh young voices raised in the eucharistic hymn, my whole soul was filled with mystic passion. Heaven opened before me--a heaven of love and pure delight, a thousand times more glorious than tongue has told--and thus I gave myself to God. Such is the marvellous power of genuine melody, of heart-felt expression! Ten years later I recognised that air--so innocently adapted to a religious ceremony--as When my beloved shall return, from dAleyracs opera _Nina_. Dear, dead dAleyrac! Even your name is forgotten now! This was my musical awakening. Thus abruptly I became a saint, and such a desperate saint! Every day I went to mass, every Sunday I took the communion, every week I went to confession in order to say to my director: Father, I have done nothing. Well, my son, would the worthy man reply, continue. I followed his advice strictly for many years. Louis Berlioz, my father, was a doctor. It is not my place to sing his praises. I need, therefore, only say that he was looked upon as an honoured friend, not only in our little town, but throughout the whole country side. Feeling acutely his responsibility as the steward of a difficult and dangerous profession, every minute he could spare from his sick people was given to arduous study, and never did the thought of gain turn him aside from his disinterested service to the poor and needy. In 1810, the medical society of Montpellier offered a prize for the best treatise on a new and important point in medicine, which was gained by my fathers monograph on Chronic Diseases. It was printed in Paris, and many of its theories adopted by physicians, who had not the common honesty to acknowledge their source. This somewhat surprised my dear, unsophisticated father, but he only said, If truth prevails, nothing else matters. Now (I write in 1848) he has long since ceased to practise, and spends his time in reading and peaceful thought. Of the highest type of liberal mind, he is entirely without social, political, or religious prejudices; for instance, having promised my mother to leave my faith undisturbed, I have known him carry his tolerance so far as to hear me my catechism. This is considerably more, I must own, than I could do were my own son in question. For many years my father has suffered from an incurable disease of the stomach. He scarcely eats at all, and nothing but constant and increasing doses of opium keep him alive. He has told me that, years ago, worn out by the prolonged agony, he took thirty-two grains at once. It was not as a cure that I took it, he said, significantly. But, strange to say, this terrific dose of poison, instead of killing him, gave him for some time a respite from his sufferings. When I was ten years old he sent me to a priests school in the town to learn Latin, but the result not proving satisfactory he resolved to teach me himself. And with the most untiring patience, the most intense care, my father became my instructor in history, literature, languages, geography--even in music. Yet I must own that I do not think a solitary education like mine half as good for a boy as ordinary school life. Children brought up among relations, servants, and specially chosen friends only, do not get accustomed to the rough-and-tumble that best fits them to face the world. Real life is to them a dosed book, their angles are not rubbed off, and I know that, in my own case, at twenty-five I was still nothing but an awkward, ignorant child. Indulgent as my father was over my work, yet, for a long while, he was unable to make me love the classics. It seemed impossible to me to concentrate my thoughts long enough to learn by heart a few lines of Horace and Virgil; impatient of the beaten track my wayward mind flew off to the entrancing unknown world of the atlas, roving gaily through the labyrinth of islands, capes, and straits of the Pacific and the Indian Archipelago. This was the origin of my love for travel and adventure. My father truly said of me: He knows every isle of the South Seas, but cannot tell me how many departments there are in France! Every book of travel in the library was pressed into my service, and I should most certainly have run away to sea if we had lived in a seaport. My son inherits my taste. He chose the navy for his profession long ere he saw the sea. May he do honour to his choice! However, in the end the love of poetry and appreciation of its beauty awoke in me. The first spark of passion that fired my heart and imagination was kindled by Virgils magnificent epic, and I well remember how my voice broke as I tried to construe aloud the fourth book of the neid. One day, stumbling along, I came to the passage where Dido--the presents of neas heaped around her--gives up her life upon the funeral pyre; the agony of the dying queen, the cries of her sister, her nurse, her women; the horror of that scene that struck pity even to the hearts of the Immortals, all rose so vividly before me that my lips trembled, my words came more and more indistinctly, and at the line-- Qusivit clo lucem ingemuitque reperta, I stopped dead. Then my dear fathers delicate tact stepped in. Apparently noticing nothing, he said, gently: That will do for to-day, my boy; I am tired. And I tore away to give vent to my Virgilian misery unmolested. II ESTELLE Will it be credited that when I was only twelve years old, and even before I fell under the spell of music, I became the victim of that cruel passion so well described by the Mantuan? My mothers father, who bore a name immortalised by Scott--Marmion--lived at Meylan, about seven miles from Grenoble. This district, with its scattered hamlets, the valley of the winding Isre, the Dauphiny mountains that here join a spur of the Alps, is one of the most romantic spots I know. Here my mother, my sisters, and I usually passed three weeks towards the end of summer. Now and then my uncle, Felix Marmion, who followed the fiery track of the great Emperor, would pay a flying visit during our stay, wreathed with cannon smoke and ornamented with a fine sabre cut across the face. He was then only adjutant-major in the Lancers; but young, gallant, ready to lay down his life for one look from his leader, he believed the throne of Napoleon as stable as Mont Blanc. His taste for music made him a great addition to our gay little circle, for he both sang and played the violin well. High over Meylan, niched in a crevice of the mountain, stands a small white house, half-hidden amidst its vineyards and gardens, behind which rise the woods, the barren hills, a ruined tower, and St Eynard--a frowning mass of rock. This sweet secluded spot, evidently predestined to romance, was the home of Madame Gautier, who lived there with two nieces, of whom the younger was called Estelle. Her name at once caught my attention from its being that of the heroine of Florians pastoral _Estelle and Nmorin_, which I had filched from my fathers library, and read a dozen times in secret. Estelle was just eighteen--tall, graceful, with large, grave, questioning eyes that yet could smile, hair worthy to ornament the helmet of Achilles, and feet--I will not say Andalusian, but pure Parisian, and on those little feet she wore ... pink slippers! Never before had I seen pink slippers. Do not smile; I have forgotten the colour of her hair (I fancy it was black), yet, never do I recall Estelle but, in company with the flash of her large eyes, comes the twinkle of her dainty pink shoes. I had been struck by lightning. To say I loved her comprises everything. I hoped for, expected, knew nothing but that I was wretched, dumb, despairing. By night I suffered agonies, by day I wandered alone through the fields of Indian corn, or sought, like a wounded bird, the deepest recesses of my grandfathers orchard. Jealousy--dread comrade of love--seized me at the least word spoken by a man to my divinity; even now I shudder at the clank of a spur, remembering the noise of my uncles while dancing with her. Every one in the neighbourhood laughed at the piteously precocious child, torn by his obsession. Perhaps Estelle laughed too, for she soon guessed all. One evening, I remember, there was a party at Madame Gautiers, and we played prisoners base. The men were bidden choose their partners, and I was purposely told to choose first. But I dared not, my heart-beats choked me; I lowered my eyes unable to speak. They were beginning to tease me when Estelle, smiling down from her beauteous height, caught my hand, saying: Come! I will begin; I choose Monsieur Hector. But ah! she laughed! Does time heal all wounds; do other loves efface the first? Alas, no! With me time is powerless. Nothing wipes out the memory of my first love. I was thirteen when we parted. I was thirty when, returning from Italy, I passed near St Eynard again. My eyes filled with tears at the sight of the little white house--the ruined tower. I loved her still! On reaching home I heard that she was married; but even that could not cure me. A few days later my mother said: Hector, will you take this letter to the coach-office. It is for a lady who will be in the Vienne diligence. While they change horses ask the guard for Madame F., give her this letter, and look carefully at her. You may recognise her, although you have not met for seventeen years. Without suspicion I went on my errand and asked for Madame F. I am she, Monsieur, said a voice that thrilled my heart. It is Estelle, said my heart. Estelle! still lovely, still the nymph, the hamadryad of Meylans green slopes. Still lovely with her proud carriage, her glorious hair, her dazzling smile. But ah! where were the little pink shoes? She took the letter. Did she know me? I could not tell, but I returned home quite upset by the meeting. My mother smiled at me. So Nmorin has not forgotten his Estelle, she said. _His_ Estelle! Mother! mother! was that trick quite fair? * * * * * With love came music; when I say music I mean composition, for of course I had long since been able to sing at sight and to play two instruments, thanks, needless to say, to my fathers teaching. Rummaging one day in a drawer, I unearthed a flageolet, on which I at once tried to pick out Malbrook. Driven nearly mad by my squeaks, my father begged me to leave him in peace until he had time to teach me the proper fingering of the melodious instrument, and the right notes of the martial song I had pitched on. At the end of two days I was able to regale the family with my noble tune. Now, how strikingly this shows my marvellous aptitude for wind instruments. What a fruitful subject for a born biographer! My father next taught me to read music, explaining the signs thoroughly, and soon after he gave me a flute. At this I worked so hard that in seven or eight months I could play quite fairly. Wishing to encourage my talent, he persuaded several well-to-do families of La Cte to join together and engage a music-master from Lyons. He was successful in getting a second violin, named Imbert, to leave the Thtre des Clestins and settle in our outlandish little town to try and musicalise the inhabitants, on condition that we guaranteed a certain number of pupils and a fixed salary for conducting the band of the National Guard. I improved fast, for I had two lessons a day; having also a pretty soprano voice I soon developed into a pleasant singer, a bold reader, and was able to play Drouets most intricate flute concertos. My master had a son a few years older than myself, a clever horn-player, with whom I became great friends. One day, as I was leaving for Meylan, he came to see me. Were you going without saying good-bye? he asked. You may never see me again. His gravity struck me at the moment, but the joy of seeing Meylan and my glorious _Stella montis_ quite put him out of my head. But on my return home my friend was gone; he had hanged himself the very day I left, and no one has ever been able to discover why. It was a sad home-coming for me! Among some old books I found dAlemberts edition of Rameaus _Harmony_, and how many weary hours did I not spend over those laboured theories, trying vainly to evolve some sense out of the disconnected ideas. Small wonder that I did not succeed, seeing that one needs to be a past master of counterpoint and acoustics before one can possibly grasp the authors meaning. It is a treatise on harmony for the use of those only who know all about it already. However, I thought I could compose, and began by trying arrangements of trios and quartettes that were simply chaos, without form, cohesion, or common sense. Then, quite undaunted, I listened carefully to the quartettes by Pleyel, that our music-lovers performed on Sundays, and studied Catels _Harmony_, which I managed to buy. Suddenly I rent asunder the veil of the inmost temple, and the mystery of form and of the sequence of chords stood revealed. I hurriedly wrote a pot-pourri in six parts on Italian airs, and, as the harmony seemed tolerable, I was emboldened to compose a quintette for flute, two violins, viola, and cello, which was played by three amateurs, my master, and myself. This was indeed a triumph though, unfortunately, my father did not seem as pleased as my other friends. Two months later another quintette was ready, of which he wished to hear the flute part before we performed it in public. Like most provincial amateurs, he thought he could judge the whole by a first-violin part, and at one passage he cried: Come now! That is something like music. But alas! this elaborate effusion was too much for our performers--particularly the viola and cello--they meandered off at their own sweet will. Result--confusion. As this happened when I was twelve and a half, the writers who say I did not know my notes at twenty are just a little out. Later on I burnt the two quintettes, but it is strange that, long afterwards in Paris, I used the very _motif_ that my father liked for my first orchestral piece. It is the air in A flat for the first violin in the allegro of my overture to the _Francs-Juges_. III MUSIC AND ANATOMY After the death of his son, poor Imbert went back to Lyons; his place was taken by Dorant, a man of far higher standing. He was an Alsacian, and played almost every instrument, but he excelled in clarinet, cello, violin, and guitar. My elder sister--who had not a scrap of musical instinct, and could never read the simplest song, although she had a charming voice and was fond of music--learnt the guitar with Dorant and, of course, I must needs share her lessons. But ere long our master, who was both honest and original, said bluntly to my father: Monsieur, I must stop your sons guitar lessons. But why? Is he rude to you or so lazy that you can do nothing with him? Certainly not. Only it is simply absurd for me to pretend to teach anyone who knows as much as I do myself. So behold me! Past master of those three noble instruments--flageolet, flute, and guitar! Can anyone doubt my heaven-sent genius or that I should be capable of writing the most majestic orchestral works, worthy of a musical Michael Angelo! Flute, guitar, flageolet!!! I never was any good at other instruments. Oh yes! I am wrong, I am not at all bad at the side-drums. My father would never let me learn the piano--if he had, no doubt I should have joined the noble army of piano thumpers, just like forty thousand others. Not wishing me to be a musician, he, I believe, feared the effect of such an expressive instrument on my sensitive nature. Sometimes I regret my ignorance, yet, when I think of the ghastly heap of platitudes for which that unfortunate piano is made the daily excuse--insipid, shameless productions, that would be impossible if their perpetrators had to rely, as they ought, on pencil and paper alone--then I thank the fates for having forced me to compose silently and freely by saving me from the tyranny of finger-work--that grave of original thought. As with most young folks, my early work was downright gloomy, it simply grovelled in melancholy. Minor keys were rampant. I knew it was a mistake, but it seemed impossible to escape from the black crape folds that had enshrouded my soul ever since the Meylan affair. The natural result of constantly reading Florians _Estelle_ was that I ended by setting parts of that mawky pastoral to music. The faded old-time poetry comes back to me as I write here in London, in the pale spring sunshine. Torn as I am by anxiety, worried by sordid, petty obstacles, by stupid opposition to my plans, it is strange to recall the sickly-sentimental words of a song I wrote in despair at leaving the Meylan woods, which were lighted by the eyes--and, may I add, by the little pink slippers of my cruel lady love. I am going to leave forever This dear land and my sweet love, So alas! must fond hearts sever, As my tears and grief do prove! River, that has served so gaily To reflect her lovely face, Stop your course to tell her, daily, I no more shall see this place! Although it joined the quintettes in the fire before I went to Paris, yet in 1829, when I planned my _Symphonie Fantastique_, this little melody crept humbly back into my mind; it seemed to me to voice so perfectly the crushing weight of young and hopeless love that I welcomed it home and enshrined it, without any alteration, for the first violins in the largo of the opening movement--_Rveries_. But the fatal hour of choosing a profession drew rapidly nearer. My father made no secret of his intention that I should follow in his footsteps and become a doctor, since this he considered the finest career in the world; I, on the other hand, made no secret of my opinion that it was, to me, the most repulsive. Without knowing exactly what I did want, I was absolutely certain that I did _not_ want to be tied to the bedsides of sick people, to pass my days in hospitals and operating theatres, and I determined that no power on earth should turn me into a doctor. My resolve was intensified by the lives of Gluck and Haydn that I read about this time in the Biographie Universelle. How glorious, I cried, to live for Art, to spend ones life in her beautiful service! and then came a mere trifle which threw open the gates of that paradise for which I had been so blindly groping. As yet I had never seen a full score; all I knew of printed music was a few scraps of solfeggi with figured bass or bits of operas with a piano accompaniment. But one day I stumbled across a piece of paper ruled with twenty-four staves, and, in a flash, I saw the splendid scope this would give for all kinds of combinations. What orchestration I might get with that! I said, and from that minute my music-love became a madness equalled only in force by my aversion to medicine. As I dared not tell my parents, it happened that by means of this very passion for music, my father tried decisive measures to cure me of what he called my babyish antipathy to his loved profession. Calling me into his study where Munros _Anatomy_, with its life-size pictures of the human framework, lay open on the table, he said: See, my boy, I want you to work hard at this. I cannot believe that you will let unreasoning prejudice stand in the way of my wishes. If you will do your best, I will order you the very finest flute to be got in Lyons, with all the new keys. What could I say? My fathers gravity, my love and respect for him, the temptation of the long-coveted flute, were altogether too much for me. Muttering a strangled Yes, I rushed away to throw myself on my bed in the depths of misery. Be a doctor! Learn to dissect! Help in horrible operations! Bury myself in the hideous realities of hospitals, wounds, and death, when I might tread the clouds with the immortals!--when music and poetry wooed me with open arms and divine songs. No, no, no! Such a tragedy _could_ not happen! Yet it did. My cousin, A. Robert--now one of the first doctors in Paris--was to share my fathers lessons. Unluckily he played the violin well, being a member of my quintette party, and, of course, we spent more time over music than over osteology. Still he worked so hard at home that he was always ready with his demonstrations, and I was not. Hence frequent scoldings and the vials of my fathers wrath poured out on my poor head. Nevertheless, by hook or by crook, I managed to learn all that my father could teach me without dissections, and when I was nineteen, I consented to go with Robert to Paris to embark on a medical career. * * * * * Before beginning to tell of the deadly conflict that, almost immediately on my arrival in Paris, I began with ideas, people and things generally, and which has continued unremittingly up to this day, I must have a short breathing space. Moreover, to-day--the 10th April 1848--has been chosen for the great Chartist demonstration. Perhaps, in a few hours, these two hundred thousand men will have upset England, as the revolutionists have upset the rest of Europe, and this last refuge will have failed me. I shall know soon. 8 P.M.--Chartists are rather a decent sort of revolutionists. Those powerful orators--big guns--took the chair, and their mere presence was so convincing that speech was superfluous. The Chartists quite understood that the moment was not propitious for a revolution, and they dispersed quietly and in order. My good folks, you know as much about organising an insurrection as the Italians do about composing symphonies. _12th July._--No possibility of writing for the last three months, and now I am going back to my poor France--mine own country, after all! I am going to see whether an artist can live there, or how long it will take him to die amid those ruins beneath which Art lies--crushed, bleeding, dead! Farewell, England! _France, 16th July._--Home once more. Paris has buried her dead. The paving-stones, torn up for barricades, are replaced; but for how long? The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is one mass of desolation and ruin; even the Goddess of Liberty on the Bastille column has a bullet through her. Trees, maimed and uprooted; houses tottering to a fall; squares, streets, quays, still palpitating from the riot--all bear witness to the horrors they have suffered. Who could think of Art at such a time! Theatres are closed, artists undone, professors idle, pupils fled, pianists become street musicians, painters sweep the gutters, and architects mix mortar in the national work-sheds. Although the National Assembly has voted a subsidy to the theatres, and some help to the poorest of the artists, what is that among so many? Take a first violin of the opera, for instance; his pay is nine hundred francs a year, which is eked out by private lessons. What chance has he of saving? Transportation would be a boon to him and his colleagues, for they might earn a living in America, Sydney, or the Indies. But even this is denied them. They fought _for_ the Government and against the insurgents, and being only deserving poor instead of malefactors, they cannot even claim this last favour--it is reserved for criminals. Surely this way--in this awful, hideous confusion of just and unjust, of good and evil, of truth and untruth--this way doth madness lie! I must write on and try to forget. IV PARIS When Robert and I got to Paris in 1822, I loyally kept my promise to my father by studying nothing but medicine. My first trial came when my cousin, telling me that he had bought a _subject_, took me to the hospital dissecting room. But the foul air, the grinning heads, the scattered limbs, the bloody cloaca in which we waded, the swarms of ravenous rats and sparrows fighting for the debris of poor humanity, overwhelmed me with such a paroxysm of wild terror that, at one bound, I was through the nearest window, and tearing home as if Death and the Devil were at my heels. The following night and day were indescribable. Hell seemed let loose upon me, and I felt that no power on earth should drag me back to that Gehenna. The wildest schemes for evading my horrible fate--each madder than the last--chased each other through my burning brain; but finally, worn out and despairing, I yielded to Roberts persuasion, and went back to the charnel house. Strange to say, this time I felt nothing but cold, impersonal disgust, worthy of an old soldier in his fiftieth battle. I actually got to the point of ferretting in some poor dead creatures chest for scraps of lung to feed the sparrow-ghouls of this unsavoury den, and when Robert said, laughing: Hallo! you are getting quite civilised. Giving the birds their meat in due season! I retorted: And filling all things living with plenteousness, as I threw a blade-bone to a wretched famished rat that sat up watching me with anxious eyes. Life, however, had some compensations. Some secret affinity drew me to my anatomy demonstrator, Professor Amussat, probably because he, like myself, was a man of one idea, and was as passionately devoted to his science--medicine--as I to my beloved art, music. His marvellous discoveries have brought him world-wide fame, but, insatiable searcher after truth as he is, he takes no rest. He is a genius, and I am honoured in being allowed to call him friend. I also enjoyed the chemistry lectures of Gay-Lussac, of Thnard (physics) and, above all, the literature course of Andrieux, whose quiet humour was my delight. Drifting on in this sort of dumb quiescence, I should probably have gone to swell the disastrous list of commonplace doctors, had I not, one night, gone to the Opera. It was Salieris _Danades_. The magnificent setting, the blended harmonies of orchestra and chorus, the sympathetic and beautiful voice of Madame Branchu, the rugged force of Drivis, Hypermnestras air--which so vividly recalled Glucks style, made familiar to me by the scraps of _Orpheus_ I had found in my fathers library--all this, intensified by the sad and voluptuous dance-music of Spontini, sent me up to fever-pitch of excitement and enthusiasm. I was like a young man, who, never having seen any boat but the cockle-shells on the mountain tarns of his homeland, is suddenly put on board a great three-decker in the open ocean. I could not sleep, of course, and consequently my next days anatomy lesson suffered, and to Roberts frenzied expostulations I responded with airs from the _Danades_, humming lustily as I dissected. Next week I went to hear Mhuls _Stratonice_ with Persuis ballet _Nina_. I did not think much of the music, with the exception of the overture, but I was greatly affected by hearing Vogt play on the _cor anglais_ the very air sung, years before, by my sisters friends at my first communion in the Ursuline chapel. A man sitting near told me that it was taken from dAleyracs opera _Nina_. In spite of this double life of mine and the hours spent in brooding over my hard fate, I stuck doggedly to my promise for some time longer. But, hearing that the Conservatoire library, with its wealth of scores, was open to the public, I could not resist the temptation to go and learn more of my adored Gluck. This gave the death-blow to my promise; music claimed me for her own. I read and re-read, I copied, I learnt Glucks scores by heart, I forgot to eat, drink, or sleep, and when at last I managed to hear _Iphigenia in Tauris_, I swore that, despite father, mother, relations and friends, a musician I would be and nothing else. Without waiting till my courage oozed away, I wrote to my father telling him of my decision, and begging him not to oppose me. At first he replied kindly, hoping that I should see the error of my ways; but, as time went on, he realised that I was not to be persuaded, and our letters grew more and more acrimonious, until they ended in a perfect bombardment of mutual passion and recrimination. In the midst of the storm I started composing, and wrote, amongst other things, an orchestral cantata on Millevoyes poem _The Arab Horse_. I also, in the Conservatoire library, made friends with Gerono, a pupil of Lesueur, and, to my great joy, he offered to introduce me to his master, in the hope that I might be allowed to join his harmony class. Armed with my cantata, and with a three-part canon as a sort of aide-de-camp, I appeared before him. Lesueur most kindly read through the cantata carefully, and said: You have plenty of dramatic force, plenty of feeling, but you do not know how to write yet. The whole thing is so crammed with mistakes that it would be simply waste of time for me to point them out. Get Gerono to teach you harmony--just enough to make my lectures intelligible--then I will gladly take you as a pupil. Gerono readily agreed, and, in a few weeks, I had mastered Lesueurs theory, based on Rameaus chimera--the resonance of the lower chords, or what he was pleased to call the bass figure--as if thick strings were the only vibrating bodies in the world, or rather as if their vibrations could be taken as the fundamental basis of vibration for all sonorous bodies! However, I saw from Geronos manner of laying down the law that I must swallow it whole, since it was religion and must be blindly followed, or else say good-bye to my chance of joining Lesueurs class. And such is the force of example that I ended by believing in it so thoroughly and honestly that Lesueur considered me one of his most promising and fervent disciples. Do not think me ungrateful for his kindliness and for the affection he shewed me up to his last hour, but, oh! the precious time wasted in learning and unlearning his mouldy, antediluvian theories. At one time I really did admire his little oratories, and it grieved me sorely to find my admiration fading, slowly and surely. Now I can hardly bear to look at one of his scores; it is to me as the portrait of a dear friend, long loved, lost and lamented. When I compare to-day with that far-off time when, regularly each Sunday, I went to the Tuileries chapel to hear them, how old, how tired, how bereft of illusions I feel. That was the day of great enthusiasms, of rich musical passions, of beautiful dreams, of ineffable, infinite joys. As I usually arrived early at the Chapel Royal, my master would spend the time before service began in explaining the meaning of his composition. It was as well, for the music had no earthly connection with the words of the mass! Lesueur inclined mostly to the sweet pastorals of the Old Testament--idylls of Naomi, Ruth, Rachel--and I shared his taste. The calm of the unchanging East, the mysterious grandeur of its ruins, its majestic history, its legends--these were the magnetic pole of my imagination. He often allowed me to join him in his walks, telling me of his early struggles, his triumphs and the favour of Napoleon. He even let me, up to a certain point, discuss his theories, but we usually ended on our common meeting-ground of Gluck, Virgil and Napoleon. After these long talks along the edge of the Seine or under the leafy shade of the Tuileries gardens, I would leave him to take the solitary walks which had become to him a necessity of daily life. Some months after I had become his pupil, but before my admission to the Conservatoire, I took it into my head to write an opera, and nothing would do but that I must get my witty literary master, Andrieux, to write me a libretto. I cannot remember what I wrote to him, but he replied: MONSIEUR,--Your letter interests me greatly. You cannot but succeed in the glorious art you have chosen, and it would afford me the greatest pleasure to be your collaborateur. But, alas! I am too old, my studies and thoughts are turned in quite other directions. You would call me an outer barbarian if I told you how long it is since I set foot in the Opera. At sixty-four I can hardly be expected to write love songs, a requiem would be more appropriate. If only you had come into the world thirty years earlier, or I thirty years later, we might have worked together. With heartiest good wishes, ANDRIEUX. _17th June 1823._ M. Andrieux kindly brought his own letter, and stayed a long time chatting. As he was leaving he said: Ah! I, too, was an ardent lover of Gluck ... and of Piccini, too!! This failure discouraged me, so I turned to Gerono, who was something of a poetaster, and asked him (innocent that I was) to dramatise _Estelle_ for me. Luckily no one ever heard this lucubration, for my ditties were a fair match for his words. This pink-and-white namby-pamby effusion was followed by a dark and dismal thing called _The Gamester_. I was really quite enamoured of this sepulchral dirge, which was for a bass voice with orchestral accompaniment, and I set my heart on getting Drivis to sing it. Just then the Theatre-Franais advertised a benefit for Talma--_Athalie_, with Gossecs choruses. With a chorus, said I, they must have an orchestra. My scena is not difficult, and if only I can persuade Talma to put it on the programme Drivis will certainly not refuse to sing it. Off I posted to Talma, my heart beating to suffocation--unlucky omen! At the door I began to tremble, and desperate misgivings seized me. Dared I beard Nero in his own palace? Twice my hand went up to the bell, twice it dropped, then I turned and fled up the street as hard as I could pelt. I was but a half-tamed young savage even then! V CHERUBINI A short time after this M. Masson, choirmaster of St Roch, suggested that I should write a mass for Innocents Day. He promised me a months practice, a hundred picked musicians, and a still larger chorus. The choir boys of St Roch should copy the parts carefully, so that that would cost me nothing. I started gaily. Of course the whole thing was nothing but a milk-and-water copy of Lesueur, and--equally of course--when I showed it to him he gave most praise to those parts wherein my imitation was the closest. Masson swore by all his gods that the execution should be unrivalled, the one thing needful being a good conductor, since neither he nor I was used to handling such _vast masses of sound_. However, Lesueur most kindly induced Valentino, conductor of the opera, to take the post, dubious though he was of our vocal and instrumental legions. The day of the general rehearsal came, and with it our _vast masses_--twenty choristers (fifteen tenors and five basses), twelve children, nine violins, one viola, one oboe, one horn, one bassoon. My rage and despair at this treatment of Valentino--one of the first conductors in the world--may be imagined. Its all right, quoth Master Masson, they will all turn up on the day. Valentino shrugged his shoulders resignedly, raised his baton, and they started. In two seconds all was confusion; the parts were one mass of mistakes, sharps and flats left out, ten-bar pauses omitted, a little further on thirty bars clean gone. It was the most appalling muddle ever heard, and I simply writhed in torment. There was nothing for it but to give up utterly my fond dream of a grand orchestral performance. Still, it was not lost time as far as I was concerned, for, in spite of the shocking execution, I saw where my worst faults lay, and, by Valentinos advice, I rewrote the whole mass--he generously promising to help me when I should be ready for my revenge. But alas! while I worked my parents heard of the fiasco, and made another determined onslaught by ridiculing my chosen vocation, and laughing my hopes to scorn. Those were the bitter dregs of my cup of shame; I swallowed them and silently persevered. Unable, for lack of money, to employ professional copyists, and being justly afraid of amateurs, when my score was finished I wrote out every part myself. It took me three months. Then, like Robinson Crusoe with the boat he could not launch, I was at a stand-still. How should I get it performed? Trust to M. Massons musical phalanx? That would be too idiotic. Appeal to musicians myself? I knew none. Ask the help of the Chapel Royal? My master had distinctly told me that was impossible, no doubt because, had he allowed me such a privilege, he would have been bombarded with similar requests from my fellow-students. My friend, Humbert Ferrand, came to the rescue with a bold proposal. Why not ask M. de Chteaubriand to lend me twelve thousand francs? I believe that, on the principle of it being as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I also asked for his influence with the Ministry. Here is his reply: PARIS, _31st Dec. 1824_. MONSIEUR,--If I had twelve thousand francs you should have them. Neither have I any influence with the ministers. I am indeed sorry for your difficulties, for I love art and artists. However, it is through trial that success comes, and the day of triumph is a thorough compensation for past sufferings. With most sincere regret, CHTEAUBRIAND. Thus I was completely disheartened, and had no plausible answer to make when my parents wrote threatening to stop the modest sum that alone made life in Paris possible. Fortunately I met, at the opera, a young and clever music-lover, Augustin de Pons, belonging to a Faubourg St Germain family, who, stamping with impotent rage, had witnessed my disaster at St Roch. He was fairly well off then, but, in defiance of his mother, he later on married a second-rate singer, who left him after long wanderings through France and Italy. Entirely ruined he returned to Paris to vegetate by giving singing lessons. I was able to be of some use to him when I was on the staff of the _Journal des Dbats_, and I greatly wish I could have done more, for his generous and unasked help was the turning-point of my career, and I shall never forget it. Even last year he found life very hard; I tremble to think what may have become of him since the February revolution took away his pupils. Seeing me one day in the foyer, he shouted: I say, what about your mass? When shall we have another go at it? It is done, I answered, but what chance have I of getting it performed? Chance? Why, confound it all, you have only got to pay the performers. How much do you want? Twelve or fifteen hundred francs? Two thousand? Hu-s-s-sh, dont roar so, for heavens sake! If you really mean it I shall be most grateful for twelve hundred francs. All right. Hunt me up to-morrow and well engage the opera chorus and a real good orchestra. We must give Valentino a good innings this time. And we did. The mass was grandly performed at St Roch, and was well spoken of by the papers. Thus, thanks to that blessed de Pons, I got my first hearing and my foot in the stirrup--as it were--of all things most difficult and most important in Paris. I boldly undertook to conduct the rehearsals of chorus and orchestra myself, and, with the exception of a slip or two, due to excitement, I did not do so badly. But alas! how far I was from being an accomplished conductor, and how much labour and pains it has cost me to become even what I am. After the performance, seeing exactly how little my mass was worth, I took out the Resurrexit--which seemed fairly good--and held an _auto-da-f_ of the rest, together with the _Gamester_, _Estelle_, and the _Passage of the Red Sea_. A calm inquisitorial survey convinced me of the justice of their fate. * * * * * Mournful coincidence! After writing these lines I met a friend at the Opra Comique, who asked: When did you come back? Some weeks ago. Then you know about de Pons? No? He poisoned himself last week. He said he was tired of living, but I am afraid that, really, he was unable to live since the Revolution scattered his pupils. Horrible! horrible! most horrible! I must rush out and work off this horror in the fresh air. * * * * * Lesueur, seeing how well I got on, thought it best for me to become a regular Conservatoire student and, with the consent of Cherubini, the director, I was enrolled. It was a mercy I had not to appear before the formidable author of _Medea_, for the year before I had put him into one of his white rages by thwarting him. Now the Conservatoire had not been run on precisely Puritanic lines, so, when Cherubini succeeded Perne as director, he thought proper to begin by making all sorts of vexatious rules. For instance, men must use only the door into the Faubourg Poissonire and women that into the Rue Bergre--which were at opposite ends of the building. One day, knowing nothing of the new rule, I went in by the feminine door, but was stopped by a porter in the middle of the courtyard and told to go back and all round the streets to the masculine door. I told the man I would be hanged if I did, and calmly marched on. I had been buried in _Alcestis_ for a quarter of an hour, when in burst Cherubini, looking more wicked and cadaverous and dishevelled even than usual. With my enemy, the porter, at his heels, he jerked round the tables, narrowly eyeing each student, and coming at last to a dead stop in front of me. Thats him, said the porter. Cherubini was so furious that, for a time, he could not speak, and, when he did, his Italian accent made the whole thing more comical than ever--if possible. Eh! Eh! Eh! he stuttered, so it is you vill come by ze door I vill not ave you? Monsieur, I did not know of the new rule; next time---- Next time? Vhat of zis next time? Vhat is it zat you come to do ere? To study Gluck, Monsieur, as you see. Gluck! and vhat is it to you ze scores of Gluck? Vhere get you permission for enter ze library? Monsieur (I was beginning to lose my temper too), the scores of Gluck are the most magnificent dramatic works I know, and I need no permission to use the library since, from ten to three, it is open to all. Zen I forbid zat you return. Excuse me, I shall return whenever I choose. That made him worse. Vha-Vha-Vhat is your name? he stammered. My name, Monsieur, you shall hear some day, but not now. Hotin, to the porter, catch im and make im put in ze prison. So off we went, the two--master and servant--hot foot after me round the tables. We knocked over desks and stools in our headlong flight, to the amazement of the quiet onlookers, but I dodged them successfully, crying mockingly as I reached the door: You shant have either me or my name, and I shall soon be back here studying Gluck. That was my first meeting with Cherubini, and I rather wondered whether he would remember it when I met him next in a less irregular manner. It is odd that, twelve years later, in spite of him, I should have been appointed first curator, then librarian of that very library. As for Hotin, he is now my devoted slave and a rabid admirer of my music. I have many other Cherubini stories to tell. Any way, if he chastised me with whips, I certainly returned the compliment with scorpions. VI MY FATHERS DECISION The hostility of my people had somewhat died down, thanks to the success of my mass, but, naturally another reverse started it with renewed fury. In the 1826 preliminary examination of candidates for admission to the Institute I was hopelessly plucked. Of course my father heard of it, and promptly wrote that, if I persisted in staying on in Paris, my allowance would stop. My dear master kindly wrote asking him to reconsider his letter, saying that my eventual success was certain, since I _oozed music at every pore_. But, by ill luck, he brought in religious arguments--about the worst thing he could have done with my free-thinking father, whose blunt--almost rude--answer could not but wound Lesueur on his most susceptible side. From the beginning: Monsieur, I am an atheist, the rest may be guessed. The forlorn hope of gaining my end by personal pleading sent me back to La Cte, where I was received frostily and left to my own reflections for some days, during which I wrote to Ferrand: No sooner away from the capital than I want to talk to you. My journey was tiresome as far as Tarare, where I began a conversation with two young men, whom I had, so far, avoided, thinking they looked _dilettanti_. They told me they were artists, pupils of Gurin and Gros, so I told them I was a pupil of Lesueur. They said all sorts of nice things of him, and one of them began humming a chorus from the _Danades_. The _Danades_! I cried, then you are not a mere trifler? Not I, he answered; have I not heard Drivis and Madame Branchu thirty-four times as Danas and Hypermnestra? O-o-oh! and we fell upon each others neck. I know Drivis, said the other man. And I Madame Branchu. Lucky fellows! I said. But how is it that, since you are not professional musicians, you have not caught Rossini fever and turned your backs on nature and common sense? Well, I suppose it is because, being used to seeking all that is grandest and best in nature for our pictures, we recognise the same spirit in Gluck and Salieri, and so turn our backs on fashionable music. Blessed people! Such as they are alone worthy of being allowed to listen to _Iphigenia_! * * * * * Again my parents returned to the charge, telling me to choose my profession, since I refused to be a doctor. Again I replied that I could and would only be a musician and must return to Paris to study. Never, said my father, you may give up that idea at once. I was crushed; with paralysed brain I sank into a torpor from which nothing roused me. I neither ate nor spoke nor answered when spoken to, but spent part of the day wandering in the woods and fields and the rest shut up in my own room. I was mentally and morally dying for want of air. Early one morning my father came to my bedside: Get up and come to my study, he said, I want to talk to you. He was grave and sad, not angry. I have decided, after many sleepless nights, that you shall go back to Paris, but only for a time. If you should fail on further trial, I think you will do me the justice to own that I have done all that can be expected, and will consent to try some other career. You know my opinion of second-rate poets--every sort of mediocrity is contemptible--and it would be a deadly humiliation to feel that you were numbered among the failures of the world. Without waiting to hear more, I promised all he wished. But, he continued, since your mothers point of view is diametrically opposed to mine, I desire, in order to avoid trouble, that you do not mention this, and that you start for Paris secretly. But it was impossible to hide this sudden bound from utter despair to delirious joy and Nanci, my sister, with many promises not to tell, wormed my secret out of me. Of course she kept it as well as I did, and by nightfall, everyone, including my mother, knew my plans. Now it will hardly be believed that there are still people in France who look upon anyone connected with theatres or theatrical art as doomed to everlasting perdition, and since, according to French ideas, music hardly exists outside a theatre, it, too, shares the same fate. Apropos of this I nearly made Lesueur die of laughing over a reply of one of my aunts. We were arguing on this very point, and I said at last: Come, Auntie, I believe you would object to have even Racine a member of your family! Well, Hector, she said seriously, we _must_ be respectable before everything. Lesueur insisted that such sentiments could only emanate from an elderly maiden aunt, in spite of my asseverations that she was young and as pretty as a flower. Needless to say, my mother believed I was setting my feet in the broad road that led not only to destruction in the next world, but to social ruin in this. I quickly saw by her wrathful face that she knew all, and did my best to slink out of her way, but it was useless. Trembling with rage and using you instead of the old familiar thou, she said: Hector, since your father countenances your folly I must speak and save you from this mortal sin. You shall not go; I forbid it. See, here I--your mother--kneel at your feet to beg you humbly to give up this mad design and---- Mother! mother! I interrupted, I cannot bear it! For pitys sake dont kneel to me. But she knelt on, looking up at me as I stood in miserable silence, and finally she said: You refuse, wretched boy? Then go! Drag our honoured name through the fetid mud of Paris; kill your parents with shame and disgrace. Curses on you! You are no more my son, and never again will I look upon your face. Could narrow-mindedness towards Art and provincial prejudice go farther? I truly believe that my hatred of these medival doctrines dates from that horrible day. But that was not the end of the trial. My mother hurried off to our little country house, Le Chuzeau, and when the time of my departure came my father begged me to make one final effort at reconciliation. We all went to Le Chuzeau, where we found her reading in the orchard. As we drew near she fled. We waited, we hunted, my father called her, my sisters and I cried bitterly, but all in vain. Without a kind word or look from my mother, with her curse upon my head, I started on my lifes career. VII PRIVATION Once back in Paris, and fairly started in Lesueurs class, I began to worry about my debt to de Pons. It would certainly never be paid off out of my monthly allowance of a hundred and twenty francs. I therefore got some pupils for singing, flute and guitar, and, by dint of strict economy, in a few months I scraped together six hundred francs, with which I hurried off to my kind creditor. How could I save out of such a sum? Well, I had a tiny fifth-floor room at the corner of the Rue de Harley and the Quai des Orfvres, I gave up restaurant dinners and contented myself with a meal of dry bread with prunes, raisins or dates, which cost about fourpence. As it was summer time I took my dainties, bought at the nearest grocers, and ate them on that little terrace on the Pont Neuf at the foot of Henry IV.s statue; watching the while the sun set behind Mont Valerien, with its exquisite reflections in the murmuring river below, and pondering over Thomas Moores poems, of which I had lately found a translation. But de Pons, troubled at my privations--which, since we often met, I could not hide from him--brought fresh disaster upon me by a piece of well-meant but fatal interference. He wrote to my father, telling him everything, and asking for the balance of his debt. Now my father already repented bitterly his leniency towards me; here had I been five months in Paris without in the least bettering my position. No doubt he thought that I had nothing to do but present myself at the Institute to carry all before me: win the Prix de Rome, write a successful opera, get the Legion of Honour, and a Government pension, etc., etc. Instead of this came news of an unpaid debt. It was a blow and naturally reacted on me. He sent de Pons his six hundred francs, and told me that, if I refused to give up my musical wild-goose chase, I must depend on myself alone, for he would help me no more. As de Pons was paid, and I had my pupils, I decided to stay in Paris--my life would be no more frugal than heretofore. I was really working very steadily at music. Cherubini, of the orderly mind, knowing I had not gone through the regular Conservatoire mill to get into Lesueurs class, said I must go into Reichas counterpoint class, since that should have preceded the former. This, of course, meant double work. I had also, most happily, made friends some time before with a young man named Humbert Ferrand--still one of my closest friends--who had written the _Francs-Juges_ libretto for me, and in hot haste I was writing the music. Both poem and music were refused by the Opera committee and were shelved, with the exception of the overture; I, however, used up the best _motifs_ in other ways. Ferrand also wrote a poem on the Greek Revolution, which at that time fired all our enthusiasm; this too I arranged. It was influenced entirely by Spontini, and was the means of giving my innocence its first shock at contact with the world, and of awakening me rudely to the egotism of even great artists. Rudolph Kreutzer was then director of the Opera House, where, during Holy Week, some sacred concerts were to be given. Armed with a letter of introduction from Monsieur de Larochefoucauld, Minister of Fine Arts, and with Lesueurs warm commendations, I hoped to induce Kreutzer to give my scena. Alas for youthful illusions! This great artist--author of the _Death of Abel_, on which I had written him heaven only knows what nonsense some months before--received me most rudely. My good friend (he did not know me in the least), he said shortly, turning his back on me, we cant try new things at sacred concerts--no time to work at them. Lesueur knows that perfectly well. With a swelling heart I went away. The following Sunday Lesueur had it out with him in the Chapel Royal, where he was first violin. Turning on my master in a temper, he said: Confound it all! If we let in all these young folks, what is to become of us? He was at least plain spoken! Winter came on apace. In working at my opera I had rather neglected my pupils, and my Pont Neuf dining-room, growing cold and damp, was no longer suitable for my feasts of Lucullus. How should I get warm clothes and firewood? Hardly from my lessons at a franc a piece, since they might stop any day. Should I write to my father and acknowledge myself beaten, or die of hunger in Paris? Go back to La Cte to vegetate? Never. The mere idea filled me with maddening energy, and I resolved to go abroad to join some orchestra in New York or Mexico, to turn sailor, buccaneer, savage, anything, rather than give in. I cant help my nature. It is about as wise to sit on a gunpowder barrel to prevent it exploding as it is to cross my will. I was nearly at my wits end when I heard that the Thtre des Nouveauts was being opened for vaudeville and comic opera. I tore off to the manager to ask for a flautists place in the orchestra. All filled! A chorus singers? None left, confound it all! However the manager took my address and promised to let me know if, by any possibility there should be a vacancy. Some days later came a letter saying that I might go and be examined at the Freemasons Hall, Rue de Grenelle. There I found five or six poor wights in like case with myself, waiting in sickening anxiety--a weaver, a blacksmith, an out-of-work actor and a chorister. The management wanted basses, my voice was nothing but a second-rate baritone; how I prayed that the examiner might have a deaf ear. The manager appeared with a musician named Michel, who still belongs to the Vaudeville orchestra. His fiddle was to be our only accompaniment. We began. My rivals sang, in grand style, carefully prepared songs, then came my turn. Our huge manager (appropriately blessed with the name of St Leger) asked what I had brought. I? Why nothing. Then what do you mean to sing? Whatever you like. Havent you a score, some singing exercise, anything? No. And besides--with resigned contempt--I dont suppose you could sing at sight if we had. Excuse me, I will sing at sight anything you give me. Well, since we have no music, do you know anything by heart? Yes. I know the _Danades_, _Stratonice_, the _Vestal_, _dipus_, the two _Iphigenias_, _Orpheus_, _Armida_---- There, that will do! That will do! what a devil of a memory you must have! Since you are such a prodigy, give us _Elle ma prodigu_ from Sacchinis _dipus_. Can you accompany him, Michel? Certainly. In what key? E flat. Do you want the recitative too? Yes. Lets have it all. And the glorious melody: Antigone alone is left me, rolled forth, while the poor listeners, with pitifully down-cast faces, glanced at each other recognising that, though I might be bad, they were infinitely worse. The following day I was engaged at a salary of fifty francs a month. And this was the result of my parents efforts to save me from the bottomless pit! Instead of a cursed dramatic composer I had become a damned theatre chorus-singer, excommunicated with bell, book and candle. Surely my last state was worse than my first! One success brought others. The smiling skies rained down two new pupils and a fellow-provincial, Antoine Charbonnel, whom I met when he came up to study as an apothecary. Neither of us having any money, we--like Walter in the _Gambler_--cried out together: What! no money either? My dear fellow, lets go into partnership. We rented two small rooms in the Rue de la Harpe and, since Antoine was used to the management of retorts and crucibles, we made him cook. Every morning we went marketing and I, to his intense disgust, would insist on bringing back our purchases under my arm without trying to hide them. Oh, pharmaceutical gentility! it nearly landed us in a quarrel. We lived like princes--exiled ones--on thirty francs a month each. Never before in Paris had I been so comfortable. I began to develop extravagant ideas, bought a piano--_such_ a thing! it cost a hundred and ten francs. I knew I could not play it, but I like trying chords now and then. Besides, I love to be surrounded by musical instruments and, were I only rich enough, would work in company with a grand piano, two or three Erard harps, some wind instruments and a whole crowd of Stradivarius violins and cellos. I decorated my room with framed portraits of my musical gods, and Antoine, who was as clever as a monkey with his fingers (not a very good simile, by-the-way, since monkeys only destroy) made endless little useful things--amongst others a net with which, in spring-time, he caught quails at Montrouge, to vary our Spartan fare. But the humour of the whole situation lay in the fact that, although I was out every evening at the theatre, Antoine never guessed--during the whole time we lived together--that I had the ill-luck to _tread the boards_ and, not being exactly proud of my position, I did not see the force of enlightening him. He supposed I was giving lessons at the other end of Paris. It seems as if his silly pride and mine were about on a par. Yet no; mine was not all foolish vanity. In spite of my parents harshness, for nothing in the world would I have given them the intense pain of knowing how I gained my living. So I held my tongue and they only heard of my theatrical career--as did Antoine Charbonnel--some seven or eight years after it ended, through biographical notices in some of the papers. VIII FAILURE It was at this time that I wrote the _Francs-Juges_ and, after it, _Waverley_. Even then, I was so ignorant of the scope of certain instruments that, having written a solo in D flat for the trombones in the introduction to the _Francs-Juges_, I got into a sudden panic lest it should be unplayable. However one of the trombone players at the opera, to whom I showed it, set my mind at rest. On the contrary, said he, D flat is a capital key for the trombone; that passage ought to be most effective. Overjoyed, I went home with my head so high in the air that I could not look after my feet, whereby I sprained my ankle. I never hear that thing now without feeling my foot ache; probably other people get the ache in their heads. Neither of my masters could help me in the least in orchestration--it was not in their line. Reicha did certainly know the capacity of most wind instruments, but I do not think he knew anything of the effect of grouping them in different ways; besides it had nothing to do with his department, which was counterpoint and fugue. Even now it is not taught at the Conservatoire. However, before being engaged at the Nouveauts I had made the acquaintance of a friend of Gardel, the well-known ballet-master, and he often gave me pit tickets for the opera, so that I could go regularly. I always took the score and read it carefully during the performance, so that, in time, I got to know the sound--the voice, as it were--of each instrument and the part it filled; although, of course, I learnt nothing of either its mechanism or compass. Listening so closely, I also found out for myself the intangible bond between each instrument and true musical expression. The study of Beethoven, Weber and Spontini and their systems; searching enquiry into the gifts of each instrument; careful investigation of rare or unused combinations; the society of _virtuosi_ who kindly explained to me the powers of their several instruments, and a certain amount of instinct have done the rest for me. Reichas lectures were wonderfully helpful, his demonstrations being absolutely clear because he invariably gave the reason for each rule. A thoroughly open-minded man, he believed in progress, thereby coming into frequent collision with Cherubini, whose respect for the masters of harmony was simply slavish. Still, in composition Reicha kept strictly to rule. Once I asked his candid opinion on those figures, written entirely on _Amen_ or _Kyrie eleison_, with which the Requiems of the old masters bristle. They are utterly barbarous! he cried hotly. Then, Monsieur, why do you write them? Oh, confound it all! because everyone else does. Miseria! Now Lesueur was more consistent. He considered these monstrosities more like the vociferations of a horde of drunkards than a sacred chorus, and he took good care to avoid them. The few found in his works have not the slightest resemblance to them, and indeed his Quis enarrabit clorum gloriam is a masterpiece of form, style and dignity. Those composers who, by writing such abominations, have truckled to custom, have prostituted their intelligence and unpardonably insulted their divine muse. Before coming to France Reicha had been in Bonn with Beethoven, but I do not think they had much in common. He set great value on his mathematical studies. Thanks to them, he used to say, I am master of my mind. To them I owe it that my vivid imagination has been tamed and brought within bounds, thereby doubling its power. I am not at all sure that his theory was correct. It is quite possible that his love for intricate and thorny musical problems made him lose sight of the real aim of music, and that what the eye gained by his curious and ingenious solution of difficulties the ear did not lose in melody and true musical expression. For praise or blame he cared nothing; he lived only to forward his pupils, on whom he lavished his utmost care and attention. At first I could see that he found my everlasting questions a perfect nuisance, but in time he got to like me. His wind instrumental quintettes were fashionable for a time in Paris; they are interesting but cold. On the other hand, I remember hearing a magnificent duet, from his opera _Sappho_, full of fire and passion. * * * * * When the Conservatoire examinations of 1827 came on I went up again, and fortunately passed the preliminary, thereby becoming eligible for the general competition. The subject set was Orpheus torn by the Bacchantes. I think my version was fair, but the incompetent pianist who was supposed to do duty for an orchestra (such is the incredible arrangement at these contests) not being able to make head or tail of my score, the powers that were--to wit, Cherubini, Per, Lesueur, Berton, Boeldieu and Catel, the musical section of the Institute--decided that my music was impracticable, and I was put out of court. So, after my Kreutzer experience of selfish jealousy, I now had a sample of wooden-headed sticking to the letter of the law. In thus taking away my modest chance of distinction did none of them think of the consequences of driving me to despair like this? I had got a fortnights leave from the Nouveauts for the competition; when it was over I should have again to take up my burden. But just as the time expired I fell ill with a quinsy that nearly made an end of me. Antoine was always trotting after grisettes and left me almost entirely alone. I believe I should have died without help had I not one night, in a fit of desperation, stuck a pen-knife into the abscess that choked me. This somewhat unscientific operation saved me, and I was beginning to mend when my father--no doubt touched by my steady patience and perhaps anxious as to my means of livelihood--wrote and restored me my allowance. Thanks to this unhoped-for kindness, I gave up chorus-singing--no small relief, since, apart from the actual bodily fatigue, the idiotic music I had to suffer from would soon have either given me cholera or turned me into a drivelling lunatic. Free from my dreary trade I gave myself up, with redoubled zest, to my Opera evenings and to the study of dramatic music. I never thought of instrumental, since the only concerts I had heard were the cold and mean Opera performances, of which I was not greatly enamoured. Haydn and Mozart, played by an insufficient orchestra in too large a building, made about as much effect as if they had been given on the _plaine de Grenelle_. Beethoven, two of whose symphonies I had read, seemed a sun indeed, but a sun obscured by heavy clouds. Webers name was unknown to me, while as for Rossini---- The very mention of him and of the fanaticism of fashionable Paris for him put me in a rage that is not lessened by the obvious fact that he is the antithesis of Gluck and Spontini. Believing these great masters perfect, how could I tolerate his puerilities, his unmerciful big drum, his constant repetition of one form of cadence, his contempt for great traditions? My prejudice blinded me even to this exquisite instrumentation of the _Barbiere_ (without the big drum too!) and I longed to blow up the _Thtre Italien_ with all its Rossinian audience and so put an end to it at one fell swoop. When I met one of the tribe I eyed him with a Shylockian scowl. Miscreant! I growled between my teeth, would that I might impale thee on a red-hot iron. Time has not changed my opinion, and though I think I can refrain from blowing up a theatre and impaling people on hot irons, I quite agree with our great painter, Ingres, who, speaking of some of Rossinis work, said: It is the music of a vulgar-minded man. IX A NIGHT AT THE OPERA Here is a picture of one of my opera evenings. It was a serious business for which I prepared by reading over and studying whatever was to be given. My faithful pit friends and I had but one religion, with one god, Gluck, and I was his high priest. Our fanaticism for our favourites was only equalled by our frantic hatred of all composers whom we judged to be without the pale. Did one of my fellow-worshippers tremble or waver in his faith, promptly would I drag him off to the opera to retract--even going so far sometimes as to pay for his ticket. On one special seat would I place my victim, saying, Now for pitys sake dont move. Nowhere else can you hear so well--I know because I have tried the right place for every opera. Then I would begin to expound, reading and explaining obscure passages as I went along; we were always in very good time, first to get the places we wanted; next, so as not to miss the opening notes of the overture; lastly, in order to taste to the uttermost the exciting, thrilling expectation of a great pleasure of which one knows the realisation will exceed ones hopes. The gradual filling of the orchestra--at first as dreary as a stringless harp; the distribution of the parts--an anxious moment this, for the opera might have been changed; the joy of reading the hoped-for title on the desks of the double-basses, which were nearest to us; or the horror of seeing it was replaced by some wretched little drivel like Rousseaus _Devin du Village_--when we would rush out in a body, swearing at all and sundry. Poor Rousseau! What would he have said if he could have heard our curses? He, who thought more of his feeble little opera than of all the masterpieces through which his name lives. How could he foresee that it would some day be extinguished for ever by a huge powdered periwig, thrown at the heroines feet by some irreverent scoffer. As it happened, I was present that very night and, naturally, kind friends credited me with this little unrehearsed effect. I am really quite innocent, I even remember being quite as angry about it as I was amused--so I do not think I should or could have done such a thing. Since that night of joyous memory the poor _Devin_ has appeared no more. But to go back to my story. Reassured on the subject of the performance, I continued my preachment, singing the leading motifs, explaining the orchestration and doing my best to work my little gang up to a pitch of enthusiasm, to the great wonderment of our neighbours who--mostly simple country folks--were so wrought upon by my speeches that they quite expected to be carried away by their emotions, wherein they were usually grievously disappointed. I also named each member of the orchestra as he came in and gave a dissertation on his playing until I was stopped short by the three knocks behind the scenes. Then we sat with beating hearts awaiting the signal from Kreutzer or Valentinos raised baton. After that, no humming, no beating time on the part of our neighbours. Our rule was Draconian. Knowing every note of the score, I would have let myself be chopped in pieces rather than let the conductor take liberties with it. Wait quietly and write my expostulations? Not exactly! No half-measures for me! There and then I would publicly denounce the sinners and my remarks went straight home. For instance, I noticed one day that in _Iphigenia in Tauris_ cymbals had been added to the Scythian dance, whereas Gluck had only employed strings, and in the Orestes recitative, the trombones, that come in so perfectly appropriately, were left out altogether. I decided that if these barbarisms were repeated I would let them know it and I lay in wait for my cymbals. They appeared. I waited, although boiling over with rage, until the end of the movement, then, in the moments silence that followed, I yelled: Who dares play tricks with Gluck and put cymbals where there are none? The murmuring around may be imagined. The public, not being particularly critical, could not conceive why that young idiot in the pit should get so excited over so little. But it was worse when the absence of the trombones made itself evident in the recitative. Again that fatal voice was heard: Where are those trombones? This is simply outrageous! The astonishment of audience and orchestra were fairly matched by Valentinos very natural anger. I heard afterwards that the unlucky trombones were only obeying orders; their parts were quite correctly written. After that night the proper readings were restored, the cymbals were silent, the trombones spoke; I was serene. De Pons, who was just as crazy as I on this point, helped me to put several other points straight but once we went too far and dragged in the public at our heels. A violin solo advertised for Baillot was left out. We clamoured for it furiously, the pit fired up, then the whole house rose and howled for Baillot. The curtain fell on the confusion, the musicians fled precipitately, the audience dashed into the orchestra smashing everything they could lay hands on and only stopping when there was nothing left to smash. In vain did I cry: Messieurs, messieurs! what are you doing? To break the instruments is too barbarous. Thats Father Chnis glorious double-bass with its diabolic tone. But they were too far gone to listen, and the havoc was complete. This was the bad side of our unofficial criticism; the good side was our wild enthusiasm when all went well. How we applauded anything superlative that no one noticed, such as a fine bass, a happy modulation, a telling note of the oboe! The public took us for embryo _claqueurs_, the _claque_ leader, who knew better and whose little plans were upset, tried to wither us with thunderbolt glances, but we were bomb-proof. There is no such enthusiasm in France nowadays, not even in the Conservatoire, its last remaining stronghold. Here is the funniest scene I ever remember at the opera. I had swept off Leon de Boissieux, an unwilling proselyte, to hear _dipus_; however, nothing but billiards appealed to him, and, finding him utterly impervious to the woes of Antigone and her father, I stepped over into a seat in front, giving him up in despair. But he had a music-loving neighbour and this is what I heard, while my young man was peeling an orange and casting apprehensive glances at the other man, who was evidently in a state of wild excitement. Sir, for pitys sake, do try to be calm. Impossible! Its killing me! It is so terrible, so overwhelming! My good man, you will be ill if you go on like this. You really shouldnt. Oh! oh! Leave me alone! Oh! Come! come! Do cheer up a bit. Remember it is nothing but a play. Here, take a piece of my orange. Its sublime---- Yes, its Maltese---- What glorious art! Dont say No. Oh, sir! what music! Yes, its not bad. By this time the opera had got to the lovely trio, Sweet Moments, and the exquisite delicacy of the simple air overcame me too. I hid my face in my hands, and tears trickled between my fingers. I might have been plunged in the depths of woe. As the trio ended two strong arms lifted me off my seat, nearly crushing my breast-bone in; the enthusiast, recognising one fellow-worshipper amongst the cold-blooded lot around, hugged me furiously, crying: B-b-b-by Jove, sir! isnt it beautiful? Are you a musician? No, but I am as fond of it as if I were. Then, regardless of surrounding giggles and of my orange-devouring neophyte, we exchanged names and addresses in a whisper. He was an engineer, a mathematician! Where, the devil, will true musical perception next find a lodging, I wonder? His name was Le Tessier, but we never met again. X WEBER Into the midst of this stormy student life of mine came the revelation of Weber, by means of a miserable, distorted version of _Der Freyschtz_, called _Robin des Bois_, which was performed at the Odon. The orchestra was good, the chorus fair, the soloists simply appalling. One wretched woman alone, Madame Pouilley, by the imperturbably wooden way in which she went through her part--even that glorious air in the second act--would have been enough to wreck the whole opera. Small wonder that it took me a long while to unearth all the beauty of its hidden treasures. The first night it was received with hisses and laughter, the next the audience began to see something in the Huntsmens Chorus, and they let the rest pass. Then they rather fancied the Bridesmaids Chorus and Agathas Prayer, half of which was cut out. A glimmering notion that Maxs great aria was fairly dramatic followed; finally it burst upon them that the Wolfs Glen scene was really quite comic; so all Paris rushed to see this misshapen horror, the Odon got rich, and Castilblaze netted a hundred thousand francs for destroying a masterpiece. Now I must own frankly that I was getting rather tired of high tragedy, in spite of my conservatism, and, chopped about as it was, the sweet wild savour of this woodland pastoral, its dainty grace and tender melancholy opened to me a new world of music. I deserted the opera in favour of the Odon, where I had the _entre_ to the orchestra, and soon knew _Der Freyschtz_ (according to Castilblaze) by heart. More than twenty years have passed since Weber himself passed through Paris for the first and last time. He was on his way to his London death-bed, and breathlessly I followed in his track, hoping and longing to meet him face to face. One morning Lesueur said: Why were you not here five minutes sooner? Weber has been playing our French scores by heart to me. A few hours later in a music shop-- Whom do you think we had here just now? Why, Weber! At the Odon people were saying: Weber has just gone by. He is up in one of the boxes. It was maddening--I, alone, never saw him. Unlike Shakespeares apparitions, he was visible to all but one. Too obscure to dare to write, without a friend who could introduce me, he passed out of my world. Ah, why do not the thrice-gifted ones of this world know of the passionate love and devotion their works inspire! If they could but divine the suppressed admiration of a few faithful hearts! Would they not gladly gather these chosen disciples about them to become a bulwark against the shafts of envy, hatred, malice, and luke-warm tolerance of which a thoughtless world makes them the target! Weber was justly angry when he found out how Castilblaze--veterinary surgeon of music--had butchered his beautiful work, and he published a complaint before leaving Paris. Castilblaze actually had the audacity to play the injured innocent, and to say that it was entirely owing to his adaptation that _Freyschtz_ had succeeded at all! The wretch!----yet a poor sailor gets fifty lashes for the slightest insubordination. Exactly the same thing had been done a few years earlier with Mozarts _Magic Flute_. It had been botched into a ghastly _pot-pourri_ by Lachnith--whom I hereby pillory with Castilblaze--and given as the _Mysteries of Isis_. Thus mocked, travestied, deprived of a limb here, an eye there--twisted and maimed--these two men of genius were introduced to the French public. How is it that they put up with these atrocities? Mozart assassinated by Lachnith. Weber by Castilblaze--who did the same for Gluck, Mozart, Rossini, and Beethoven. Beethovens symphonies corrected by Ftis, by Kreutzer, and by Habeneck (of this I have more to say). Molire and Corneille chopped up by Thtre Franais demons. Shakespeare arranged for performance in England by Colley Cibber! The list is endless. No, a thousand times no! No man living has a right to try and destroy the individuality of another, to force him to adopt a style not his own, and to give up his natural point of view. If a man be commonplace, let him remain so; if he be great--a choice spirit set above his fellows--then, in the name of all the gods, bow humbly before him, and let him stand erect and alone in his glory. I know that Garrick improved _Romeo and Juliet_ by putting his exquisite, pathetic ending in the place of Shakespeares; but who are the miscreants who doctored _King Lear_, _Hamlet_, _The Tempest_, _Richard the Third_? That all comes from Garricks example. Every mean scribbler thinks he can give points to Shakespeare. But to go back to music. At the last sacred concerts, after Kreutzer had experimentalised by making cuts in one Beethoven symphony, did not Habeneck follow suit by dropping out several instruments in another, and M. Costa, in London, try all sorts of weird conclusions with big drums, ophicleides, and trombones in _Don Giovanni_ and _Figaro_? Well! if conductors lead the way, who can blame the small fry for following after? But is not this the ruin of Art? Ought not we, who love and honour her, who are jealous for the prescriptive rights of human intellect, to hound down and annihilate the transgressor; to cry aloud: Thy crime is ridiculous. Thy stupidity beneath contempt. Despair and die! Be thou contemned, be thou derided, be thou accursed! Despair and die!!! * * * * * My devotion to Gluck and Spontini at first somewhat blinded me to the glories of Mozart. Not only had I a prejudice against Italian, both language and singers, but in _Don Giovanni_ the composer has written a passage that I call simply criminal. Doa Anna bewails her fate in a passage of heart-rending beauty and sorrow, then, right in the middle, after _Forse un giorno_ comes an impossible piece of buffoonery that I would give my blood to wipe out. This and other similar passages that I found in his compositions sent my admiration for Mozart down below zero. I felt I could not trust his dramatic instinct, and it was not until years later, when I found the original score of the _Magic Flute_ instead of its travesty, the _Mysteries of Isis_, and made acquaintance with the marvellous beauty of his quartettes and quintettes, and some of his sonatas, that this Angelic Doctor took his due place in my mind. XI HENRIETTE I cannot go minutely into all the sorrowful details of the great drama of my life, upon which the curtain rose about this time (1827). An English company had come over to Paris to play Shakespeare, and at their first performance--_Hamlet_--I saw in Ophelia the Henriette Smithson who, five years later, became my wife. The impression made upon my heart and mind by her marvellous genius was only equalled by the agitation into which I was plunged by the poetry she so nobly interpreted. Shakespeare, coming upon me unawares, struck me down as with a thunderbolt. His lightning spirit, descending upon me with transcendent power from the starry heights, opened to me the highest heaven of Art, lit up its deepest depths, and revealed the best and grandest and truest that earth can shew. I realised the paltry meanness of our French view of that mighty brain. The scales fell from my eyes, I saw, felt, understood, lived; I arose and walked! But the shock was overwhelming, and it was long ere I recovered. Intense, profound melancholy, combined with extreme nerve-exhaustion, reduced me to a pitiable state of mind and body that only a great physiologist could diagnose. A martyr to insomnia, I lost all elasticity of brain, all concentration, all taste for my best loved studies, and I wandered aimlessly about the Paris streets and through the country round. By dint of overtiring my body, I managed, during this wretched time, to get four spells of death-like sleep or torpor, and four only; one night in a field near Ville-Juif, one day near Sceaux; a third in the snow by the frozen Seine near Neuilly, and the last on a table in the Caf Cardinal, where I slept five hours, to the great fright of the waiters, who dared not touch me lest I should be dead. Returning one day from this dreary wandering in search of my lost soul, I noticed Moores _Irish Melodies_ open on the table at When he who adores thee, and, catching up a pen, I wrote the music to that heart-rending farewell straight off. It is the _Elgie_ at the end of my set of songs called _Ireland_. This is the only time I can remember being able to depict a sentiment while actively under its influence, and seldom have I gone so direct to the heart of it. It is a most difficult song both to sing and to accompany. To do it justice the singer must create his own atmosphere, so must the pianist and only the most sensitive and artistic souls should attempt it. For this reason, during all the twenty odd years since it was written, I have never asked anyone to try it; but one day Alizard picked it up and began trying it without the piano. Even that upset me so terribly that I had to beg him to stop. He understood. I know he would have interpreted it perfectly, and it was more than I could bear. I did begin to set it to an orchestral accompaniment, but I thought: No, this is not for the general public. I could not stand their calm indifference, and I burnt the score. Yet some day it may chance, in England or Germany, to find a niche in some wounded breast, some quivering soul--in France and Italy it is a hopeless alien. Coming away from _Hamlet_, I vowed that never more would I expose myself to Shakespearian temptation, never more singe my scorched wings in his flame. Next morning _Romeo and Juliet_ was placarded. In terror lest the free list of the Odon should be suspended by the new management, I tore round to the box-office and bought a stall. I was done for! Ah! what a change from the dull grey skies and icy winds of Denmark to the burning sun, the perfumed nights of Italy! From the melancholy, the cruel irony, the tears, the mourning, the lowering destiny of Hamlet, what a transition to the impetuous youthful love, the long-drawn kisses, the vengeance, the despairing fatal conflict of love and death in those hapless lovers! By the third act, half suffocated by my emotion, with the grip of an iron hand upon my heart, I cried to myself: I am lost--am lost! Knowing no English I could but grope mistily through the fog of a translation, could only see Shakespeare as in a glass--darkly. The poetic weft that winds its golden thread in network through those marvellous creations was invisible to me then; yet, as it was, how much I learnt! An English critic has stated in the _Illustrated London News_ that, on seeing Miss Smithson that night, I said: I will marry Juliet and will write my greatest symphony on the play. I did both, but I never said anything of the kind. I was in far too much perturbation to entertain such ambitious dreams. Only through much tribulation were both ends gained. After seeing these two plays I had no more difficulty in keeping away from the theatre. I shuddered at the bare idea of renewing such awful suffering, and shrank as if from excruciating physical pain. Months passed in this state of numb despair, my only lucid moments being dreams of Shakespeare and of Miss Smithson--now the darling of Paris--and dreary comparisons between her brilliant triumphs and my sad obscurity. As I gradually awoke to life again, a plan began to take shape in my mind. She should hear of me; she should know that I also was an artist; I would do what, so far, no French artist had ever done--give a concert entirely of my own works. For this three things were needed--copies, hall, and performers. Therefore (this was early in the spring of 1828) I set to work, and, writing sixteen hours out of twenty-four, I copied every single part of the pieces I had chosen, which were the overtures to _Waverley_ and the _Francs-Juges_, an aria and trio from the latter, the scena _Heroic Greek_, and the cantata on the _Death of Orpheus_, that the Conservatoire committee had judged unplayable. While copying furiously I saved furiously too, and added some hundreds of francs to my store, wherewith to pay the chorus; for orchestra I knew I might count on the friendly help of the staff of the Odon, with a sprinkling of assistants from the Opera and the Nouveauts. My chief difficulty was the hall; it always is in Paris. For the only suitable one--the Conservatoire--I must have a permit from M. de Larochefoucauld and also the consent of Cherubini. The first was easily obtained; not so the second. At the first mention of my design Cherubini flew in a rage. Vant to gif a conchert? he said, with his usual suavity. Yes, monsieur. Must ave permission of Fine Arts Director first. I have it. M. de Larossefoucauld, e consent? Yes, monsieur. But me, I not consent. I vill oppose zat you get ze all. But, monsieur, you can have no reasonable objection, since the hall is not engaged for the next fortnight. But I tell to you zat I vill not ave zat you gif zis conchert. Everyone is avay and no profit vill be to you. I expect none. I merely wish to become known. Zere is no necessity zat you become known. And zen for expense you vill want monee. Vhat ave you of monee? Sufficient, monsieur. A-a-ah! But vhat vill you make ear at zis conchert? Two overtures, some excerpts from an opera and the _Death of Orpheus_. Zat competition cantata? I vill not ave zat! She is bad--bad; she is impossible to play. You say so, monsieur; I judge differently. That a bad pianist could not play it is no reason that a good orchestra should not. Zen it is for insult of ze Acadmie zat you play zis? No, monsieur; it is simply as an experiment. If, as is possible, the Academy was right in saying my score could not be played, then certainly the orchestra will not play it. If the Academy was wrong, people will only say that I made good use of its judgment and have corrected my score. You can only ave your conchert on ze Sunday. Very well, I will take Sunday. But zose poor _employs_--ze doorkeepers--zey ave but ze Sunday for repose zem. Vould you take zeir only rest-day? Zey vill die--zose poor folks--zey vill die of fatigue. On the contrary, monsieur. These poor folks are delighted at the chance of earning a few extra francs, and they will not thank you for depriving them of it. I vill not ave it; I vill not! And I write to ze Director zat he vizdraw permission. Most hearty thanks, monsieur, but M. de Larochefoucauld never breaks his word. I also shall write and retail our conversation exactly. Then he will be able to weigh the arguments on both sides. I did so, and was afterwards told by one of his secretaries that my dialogue-letter made the Director laugh till he cried. He was, above all, touched at Cherubinis tender consideration for those poor devils of _employs_ whom I was going to kill with fatigue. He replied, as any man blessed with commonsense would, repeating his authorisation and adding: You will kindly show this letter to M. Cherubini, who has already received the necessary _orders_. Of course I posted off to the Conservatoire and handed in my letter; Cherubini read it, turned pale, then yellow, and finally green, then handed it back without a word. This was my first Roland for the Oliver he gave me in turning me out of the library. It was not to be my last. XII MY FIRST CONCERT Having secured orchestra, hall, chorus and parts, I only wanted soloists and a conductor. Bloc, of the Odon, kindly accepted the latter post, and Alexis Dupont, although very unwell, took under his wing my _Orpheus_, which he had promised to sing before the jury of the Institute, had it been passed. But unluckily his hoarseness got so much worse that, when the day came, he was unable to sing at all, so I was deprived of the wicked joy of putting on the programme, _Death of Orpheus_; lyric poem, judged impossible of execution by the Acadmie des Beaux Arts, performed May 1828. A concert at which most of the executants helped for love and not for money naturally came off poorly in rehearsals; still, at the final rehearsal the overtures went fairly well, the _Francs-Juges_ calling forth warm applause from the orchestra; the finale of the cantata being even more successful. In this, after the _Bacchanal_, I made the wind carry on the motif of Orpheus love-song to a strange rushing undertone accompaniment by the rest of the players, while the dying wail of a far-off voice cries: Eurydice! Eurydice! hapless Eurydice! The wild sadness of my music-picture affected the whole orchestra, and they hailed it with wild enthusiasm. I am sorry now that I burnt it, it was worth keeping for those last pages alone. With the exception of the _Bacchanal_--the famous piece in which the Conservatoire pianist got hung up--which was given with magnificent verve, nothing else in the cantata went very well and, thanks to Duponts illness, it was withdrawn. No doubt Cherubini preferred to say that it was because the orchestra could not play it. In this cantata I first noticed how impossible conductors, unused to grand opera, find it to give way to the capricious and varied time of the recitative. Bloc, only accustomed to songs interspersed with spoken dialogue, was quite confused and, in some places, never got right at all, which made a learned periwigged amateur, who was at rehearsal, say, as he shook his head at me: Give me good old Italian cantatas! Now thats the music that never bothers a conductor. It plays itself, it runs alone. Yes, I said dryly, just as old donkeys plod round and round their treadmill. That is how I set about making friends. Much against the grain I replaced _Orpheus_ by the _Resurrexit_ from my mass, and finally the concert came off. Duprez, with his sweet, weak voice, did well in the aria; the overtures and _Resurrexit_ were also a success, but the trio with chorus was a regular failure. Not only was the trio miserably sung, but the chorus missed its entry and never came in at all! I need hardly say that, after paying expenses, including the chorus that held its tongue in such a masterly manner, I was completely cleaned out. However, the concert was a most useful lesson to me. Not only did I become known to artists and public, which (_pace_ Cherubini!) was a necessity, but, by doggedly facing the innumerable difficulties of a composer, I gained most valuable experience. Several of the papers praised me, and even Ftis--Ftis, who afterwards ... spoke of me, in a drawing-room, as a coming man. But what of Miss Smithson? Alas! I found out that, absorbed in her own engrossing work, of me and my concert she never heard a whisper! _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. _6th June 1828._--Are you parched with anxiety to know the result of my concert? I have only waited in order to send you the papers too. Triumphant success! After the applause at the general rehearsals of Friday and Saturday I had no more misgivings. Our beloved _Pastoral_ was ruined by the chorus that only found out it had not come in just as the whole thing finished. But oh, the _Resurrexit_! and oh, the applause! As soon as one round finished another began until, being unable to stand it all, I doubled up on the kettle-drum and cried hard. Why were you not there, dear friend, faithful champion? I thought of and longed for you. At that wild trombone and ophicleide solo in the _Francs-Juges_, one of the first violins shouted: The rainbow is the bow of your violin, the winds play your organ and the seasons beat time! Whereupon the whole orchestra started applauding a thought of which they could not possibly grasp the extent. The drummer by my side seized my arm, ejaculating, Superb--sublime, while I tore my hair and longed to shriek: Monstrous! Gigantic! Horrible! All the opera people were present, and there was no end to the congratulations. The most pleased were Habeneck, Drivis, Dupont, Mademoiselle Mori, Hrold, etc. Nothing was lacking to my success--not even the criticisms of Panseron and Brugnires, who say my style is new and bad, and that such writing is not to be encouraged. My dear, dear fellow! in pity send me an opera. How can I write without a book? For heavens sake finish something! _June._--All day long I have been tearing about the country, leagues upon leagues, and I still live. I feel so lonely! Send me something to work at, some bone to gnaw! The country was lovely; the people all looked happy. In the flooding light the trees rustled softly; but, oh! I was alone--all alone in that wide plain. Space, time, oblivion, pain and rage held me in their terrific grasp. Struggle wildly as I might, life seemed to escape me; I held but a few pitiful fragments in my trembling hands. Oh! the horror, at my age and with my temperament, to have these harrowing delusions, and, with them, the miserable persecutions of my family! My father has again stopped my allowance; my sister writes to-day that he is immovable. Oh, for money! money! Money _does_ bring happiness. Still ... my heart beats as if with joy, the blood courses through my veins. Bah! I am all right. Joy, hang it! I will have joy! _Sunday morning._ DEAR FRIEND,--Do not worry over my aberrations--the crisis is past. I cannot explain in a letter, which might go astray; but I beg you will not breathe a word of my state of mind to anyone, it might get round to my father and distress him. All that I can do is suffer in silence until time changes my fate. Yesterdays wild excursion did for me entirely. I can hardly move.--_Adieu._ In an artists life sometimes wild tempests succeed each other with bewildering rapidity, and so it was with me about this time. Hardly had I recovered from the successive shocks of Weber and Shakespeare, when above my horizon burst the sun of glorious Beethoven to melt for me that misty inmost veil of the holiest shrine in music, as Shakespeare had lifted that of poetry. To Habeneck, with all his shortcomings, is due the credit of introducing the master he adored to Paris. In order to found the Conservatoire concerts, now of world-wide fame, he had to face opposition, abuse and irony, and to inspire with his own ardour a set of men who, not being Beethoven enthusiasts, did not see the force of slaving for poor pay at music that, to them, appeared simply eccentric. Oh! the nonsense I have heard them airing on those miracles of inspiration and learning--the symphonies! Even Lesueur--honest, but devoted to antiquated dogmas--stood aside with Cherubini, Per, Kreutzer and Catel, until, one day, I swept him off to hear the great C minor symphony. I told him it was his duty to know and appreciate personally such a notable fact as this revelation of a new and glorious style to us, the children of the old classicism. Conscientiously anxious to judge fairly, he would not have me by to distract him, but shut himself up with strangers at the back of a box. The symphony over, I hurried round to hear his verdict, and found him, with flushed face, striding up and down a passage. Ouf! he cried, let me get out; I must have air! Its incredible! Marvellous! It has so upset and bewildered me, that when I wanted to put on my hat I _couldnt find my head_. Let me go by myself. I will see you to-morrow. I felt triumphant, and took care to go round next day. We spoke of nothing but the masterpiece we had heard; yet he seemed to reply to my ravings rather constrainedly. Still I persevered, until, after dragging out of him another acknowledgment of his heart-felt appreciation, he ended, with a curious smile: Yes, its all very well; but such music ought not to be written. No fear, dear master, I retorted; there will never be too much of it! Poor human nature! Poor master! How much regret, envy, narrow-mindedness; what a dread of the unknown and confession of incapacity lay beneath your words! Such music should not be written, because the speaker knows instinctively that he himself could never write it. Thus do all great men suffer from their contemporaries. Haydn said much the same of Beethoven, whom he called a _great pianist_. Grtry of Mozart, who, he said, had put the statue in the orchestra and the pedestal on the stage. Handel, who said his cook was more of a musician than Gluck. Rossini, who vowed that Webers music gave him a stomach-ache. But the antipathy of the two latter to Gluck and Weber I believe to be due to quite another reason--a natural inability in these two comfortable portly gentlemen to understand the point of view of the two men of heart and sensibility. This deliberately obstinate attitude of Lesueur towards Beethoven opened my eyes to the utter worthlessness of his conservative tenets, and from that moment I left the broad, smooth road wherein he had guided my footsteps, for a hard and thorny way over hedges and ditches, hills and valleys. But I could not hurt the old man by my apostasy, so did my best to dissimulate my change of mind, and he only found it out long after, on hearing a composition I had never shewn him. It was just at this time that I set out on my treadmill round as critic for the papers. Ferrand, Cazals and de Carn--well-known political names--agreed to start a periodical to air their views, which they called _Rvue Europenne_, and Ferrand suggested that I should undertake the musical correspondence. But I cant write, I objected; my prose is simply detestable. And, besides---- No, it is not, said Ferrand; have I not got your letters? You will soon be knocked into shape. Besides, we shall revise what you write before it is printed. Come along to de Carn and hear all about it. What a weapon this writing for the press would be wherewith to defend truth and beauty in art! So, ignorant of the web of fate I was throwing around my own shoulders, I smiled innocently and walked straight into the meshes. I was likely to be diffident of my writing powers, for, once before, being furious at the attacks made upon Gluck by the Rossini faction, I asked M. Michaud, of the _Quotidienne_, to let me reply. He consented, and I said to myself, gaily: Now, you brutes, I have got you; Ill smite you hip and thigh! But I smote no one and nothing. My utter ignorance of journalism, of the ways of the world, of press etiquette and my untamed musical passions, landed me in a regular bog. My article went far beyond the bounds of newspaper warfare, and M. Michauds hair stood on end. But, my dear fellow, you know, I cannot possibly publish a thing like that. You are pulling peoples houses down about their ears. Take it back and whittle it down a bit. But I was too lazy and too disgusted, so there it ended. This laziness of mine does not apply to composition, which comes naturally to me. Hour after hour I labour at a score, sometimes for eight hours at a time; no work is too minute, no pains too great. Prose, however, is always a burden. Sometimes I go back eight or ten times to an article for the _Journal des Dbats_; even a subject I like takes me at least two days. And what blots, what scrawls, what erasures! My first copy is a sight to behold. Propped up by Ferrand, I wrote for the _Rvue Europenne_ appreciative articles on Beethoven, Gluck and Spontini that made a certain mark, and thus began my apprenticeship to the difficult and dangerous work that has taken such a fatal hold on my life. Never since have I shaken myself free, and strangely diversified have been its influences on my career both in France and abroad. XIII AN ACADEMY EXAMINATION Torn by my Shakespearian love, which seemed intensified instead of diverted by the influence of Beethoven; dreamy, unsociable, taciturn to the verge of moroseness, untidy in dress, unbearable alike to myself and my friends, I dragged on until June 1828 when, for the third time, I tempted fate at the Institute and won a second prize. This was a gold medal of small value, but it carried with it a free pass to all the lyric theatres, and a fair prospect of the first prize the following year. The Prix de Rome was much better worth having. It insured three thousand francs a year for five years, of which the two first must be spent in Italy, and the third in Germany. The remaining two might be passed in Paris, after which the winner was left to sink or swim at his own sweet will. This is how the affair was worked until 1865, when the Emperor revised the statutes. I shall hardly be believed, but, since I won both prizes, I only state what I know to be absolutely true. The competition was open to any Frenchman under thirty, who must go through the preliminary examination, which weeded out all but the most promising half dozen. The subject set is always a lyric scena, and by way of finding out whether the candidates have melody, dramatic force, instrumentation, and other knowledge necessary for writing such a scena, they are set down to compose a _vocal fugue_! _Each fugue must be signed._ Next day the musical section of the Academy sits in judgment on the fugues, and, since some of the signatures are those of the Academicians pupils, this performance is not entirely free from the charge of partiality. The successful competitors then have dictated to them the classical poem on which they are to work. It always begins this way: And now the rosy-fingered dawn; or, And now with lustre soft the horizon glows; or, And now fair Phbus shining car draws near; or, And now with purple pomp the mountains decked. Armed with this inspiring effusion the young people are locked up in their little cells with pens, paper, and piano until their work is done. Twice a day they are let out to feed, but they may not leave the Institute building. Everything brought in for their use is carefully searched lest outside help should be given, yet every day, from six to eight, they may have visitors and invite their friends to jovial dinners, at which any amount of assistance--verbal or written--might be given. This lasts for twenty-two days, but anyone who has finished sooner is at liberty to go, leaving his manuscript--_signed as before_--with the secretary. Then the grave and reverend signors of the jury assemble, having added to their number two members of any other section of the Institute--either engravers, painters, sculptors or architects--anything, in short, but musicians. You see, they are so thoroughly competent to judge an art of which they know nothing. There they sit and solemnly listen to these scenas boiled down on a piano. How _could_ anyone profess to judge an orchestral work like that? It might do for simple old-fashioned music, but nothing modern--that is, if the composer knows how to marshal the forces at his command--could by any possibility be rendered on the piano. Try the Communion March from Cherubinis great Mass. What becomes of those long-drawn, mystical wind-notes that fill ones soul with religious ecstasy; of those exquisitely interwoven flutes and clarinets to which the whole effect is due? They have completely vanished, since the piano can neither hold nor inflate a sound. Does it not follow, then, that the piano, by reducing every tone-character to one dead level, becomes a guillotine whereby the noblest heads are laid low and mediocrity alone survives? Well! After this precious performance the prize is awarded, and you conclude that this is the end of it all? Not a bit! A week later the whole thirty-five Academicians, painters and architects and sculptors and engravers on copper and engravers of medals all turn up to give the final verdict. They do not shut out the six musicians, although they are going to judge music. Again the pianists and the singers go through the compositions, then round goes the fatal urn, in order that the judgment of the previous week may be confirmed, modified, or reversed. Justice compels me to add that the musicians return the compliment by going to judge the other arts, of which they are as blindly ignorant as are their colleagues of music. On the day of the distribution of prizes the chosen cantata is performed by a full orchestra. It seems just a little late; it might have been more serviceable to get the orchestra before judgment--seeing that after this there is no repeal--but the Academy is inquisitive; it really does wish to know something about the work it has crowned. Laudable curiosity! * * * * * In my time there was an old doorkeeper at the Institute whose indignation at all this procedure was most amusing. It was his duty to lock us up and let us out, and, being also usher to the Academicians, he was on the inside track and made some very odd notes. He had been a cabin boy, which at once enlisted my sympathies; for I always loved sailors, and can listen imperturbably to their long-winded yarns; no matter how far they wander from the point I am always ready with a word to set them right again. We were the best of friends, Pingard and I. One day, talking of Syria, he mentioned Volney. M. le Comte, he said, was so good and easy-going that he always wore blue woollen stockings. But his respect for me became unbounded enthusiasm when I asked whether he knew Levaillant. M. Levaillant! he cried, Rather! One day at the Cape I was sauntering along, whistling, when a big sun-burnt man with a beard turned round on me. I suppose he guessed I was French from my whistle. Of course I whistle in French, monsieur. I say, you young rogue, youre French? I should say I was. Givet is my part of the country. Oh, you _are_ French? Yes. And he turned his back and strode off. You see I did know M. Levaillant! The good old boy made such a friend of me that he told me a lot he would not have dared to repeat to anyone else. I remember a lively conversation with him the day I got the second prize. We had a piece of Tasso set that year, towards the end of which the Queen of Antioch invokes the god of the Christians she has contemned. I had the impudence to think that, although the last section was marked _agitato_, this ought to be a prayer, and I wrote it _andante_. I was rather pleased with it on the whole. When I got to the Institute to hear whether the painters and sculptors, and architects, and engravers of medals, and line-engravers had settled whether I were a good or bad musician, I ran against Pingard on the stairs. Well? I asked, what have they decided? Oh, hallo, Berlioz! I am glad you have come. I was hunting for you. What have I got? Do hurry up! First? Second? Nothing? Oh, do wait; Im all of a tremble. Will you believe you were only two votes short of the first prize? The first Ive heard of it. Its true, though. The second is all very well, but I call it beastly that you missed the first by two votes. I am neither a painter, nor a sculptor, nor an architect, so of course I know nothing about music, but Ill be hanged if that _God of the Christians_ of yours didnt set my heart gurgling and rumbling to such a tune that if I had met you that minute I should have--have--stood you a drink! Thanks awfully, Pingard. I admire your taste. But, I say--you have been on the Coromandel coast? Yes, of course. Why? To Java? Yes, but---- Sumatra? Yes. Borneo? Yes. You are a friend of Levaillant? I should think so. Hand in glove with him. You know Volney? The good Count with the blue woollen stockings? Certainly. Very well, then, you _must_ be a splendid judge of music. But--why? How? Well, I dont know exactly how or why. But it seems to me that your title is just as good as that of the gentlemen who do judge. Tell me, though, what happened. Oh, my goodness! Its always the same old game. If I had thirty children, devil take me if one of them should be an artist of any sort. You see, I am on the inside track, and know how they sell their votes. Its nothing but a blessed old shop. See here! Once I heard M. Lethire asking M. Cherubini for his vote for a pupil. Dont refuse, my dear fellow, he said, we are such old friends, and my pupil really has talent. No, he shall not have my vote, Cherubini answered. He promised my wife an album of drawings that she wanted badly. He hasnt even done her a single tree! Thats rather too bad of you, said M. Lethire. I vote for your people, and you might vote for mine. Look here! Ill do you the album myself. I cant say more than that. Ah, thats another pair of boots. What is your pupils name and picture? I must not get muddled. Pingard, a pencil and paper! They went off into the window corner and wrote something, then I heard the musician say-- All right, I will vote for him. Now, isnt that disgusting? If I had had a son in the competition and they had played him a trick like that, wouldnt it have been enough to make me chuck myself out of window? Come, Pingard, calm down a bit and tell me about to-day. Well, when M. Dupont had finished singing your cantata they began writing their verdicts, and I brought the hurn (Pingard always would stick in that h). There was a musician close by whispering to an architect, Dont give him your vote; hes no good at all, and never will be. He is gone on that eccentric creature Beethoven, and we shall never get him right again. Really! said the architect. Yet-- Well, ask Cherubini. You will take his word, wont you? He will tell you that Beethoven has turned the fellows head-- I beg pardon, said Pingard, breaking off his story, but who is this M. Beethoven? He doesnt belong to the Academy, and yet everyone seems to be talking of him. No, no! Hes a German. Go on. There isnt much more. When I passed the hurn to the architect I saw that he gave his vote to No. 4 instead of to you. Suddenly one of the musicians said, Gentlemen, I think you ought to know that, in the second part of the score we have just heard, there is an exceedingly clever and effective piece of orchestration to which the piano cannot do justice. This ought to be taken into consideration. Dont tell us a cock-and-bull story like that, cried another musician. Your pupil has broken the rules and written two quick arias instead of one, and he has put in an extra prayer. We cannot allow rules to be set at nought like this; it would be establishing a precedent. Oh, this is too ridiculous! What says the secretary? I think that we might pardon a _certain_ amount of licence, and that the jury should distinctly understand that passage that you say cannot be properly given by the piano. No, no! cried Cherubini, its all nonsense. There is no such clever piece of work. It is a regular jumble, and would be abominable for the orchestra. Then on all sides rose the architects, painters, sculptors, etc., saying, Gentlemen, for pitys sake agree somehow! We can only judge by what we hear, and if you will not agree-- And all began to talk at once, and it became distinctly a bore, so M. Rgnault and two others marched out without voting. They counted the votes. You only got second prize. Thanks, Pingard, but, I say--they manage things better at the Cape Academy, dont they? The Cape? Why, you know they have not got one. Fancy a Hottentot Academy! Well then, Coromandel? None there. Java? None either. What, no Academy at all in the East? Poor Orientals! They manage to get along pretty well without. What outer barbarians! I bade the old usher good-bye, thinking what a blessing it would be if I could send the Academy to civilise Borneo. Two years later the Prix de Rome was mine, but poor old Pingard was dead. It was a pity. If he had heard my Burning of the Palace of Sardanapalus he might have stood me ... two drinks! XIV FAUST--CLEOPATRA Again I relapsed into my habitual gloom and indolence. Like a dead invisible planet I circled round that radiant sun that alas! was doomed so soon to fade into mournful oblivion. Estelle, star of my dawn, was eclipsed and lost in the noontide brilliance of her mighty rival--my overwhelming and glorious love. Although I took care never to pass the theatre, never willingly to look at Othelias portraits in the shop windows, yet still I wrote--receiving never a sign in reply. My first letters frightened her, and she bade her maid take her no more. The company was going to Holland, and its last nights were advertised. Still I kept away; to see her again was more than I could bear. However, hearing that she was to act two scenes from _Romeo and Juliet_ with Abbott, for the benefit of Huet, the actor, I had a sudden fancy to see my own name on a placard beside that of the great actress. I _might_ be successful under her very eyes! Full of this childish notion I got permission from the manager and conductor of the Opra Comique to add an overture of my own to the programme. On going to rehearsal I found the English company just finishing; broken-hearted Romeo held Juliet in his arms. At sight of the group I gave a hoarse, despairing cry and wringing my hands wildly, I fled from the theatre. Juliet saw and heard me; terror-stricken she pointed me out to those around, begging them to _beware of the gentleman with the wild eyes_. An hour later I went back to an empty theatre. The orchestra assembled and my overture was run through--like a sleep walker I listened, hearing nothing--when the performers applauded me I wondered vaguely whether Miss Smithson would like it too! Fool that I was!! It seems impossible that I could, even then, have been so ignorant of the world as not to know that, be the overture what it may, at a benefit, no one in the audience listens. Still less the actors, who only arrive in time for their turns and trouble themselves not at all about the music. My overture was well played, fairly received--but not encored--Miss Smithson heard nothing of it and left next day for Holland. By a strange chance (I could never get her to believe it _was_ chance) I had taken lodgings at 96 Rue de Richelieu, opposite her house. Worn out, half dead, I lay upon my bed until three the next afternoon; then, rising, I crawled wearily to the window. Cruel Fate! At that very minute she came out and stepped into her carriage _en route_ for Amsterdam. Was ever misery like mine? Oh God! my deadly, awful loneliness; my bleeding heart! Could I bear that leaden weight of anguish, that empty world; that hatred of life; that shuddering shrinking from impossible death? Even Shakespeare has not described it; he simply counts it, in _Hamlet_, the cruellest burden left in life. Could I bear more? I ceased to write; my brain grew numb as my suffering increased. One power alone was left me--to suffer. GRENOBLE, _Sept. 1828_. DEAR FRIEND,--I cannot go to you; come to me at La Cte! We will read _Hamlet_ and _Faust_ together, Shakespeare and Goethe! Silent friends who know all my misery, who alone can fathom my strange wild life. Come, do come! No one here understands the passion of genius. The sun blinds them, they think it mere extravagance. I have just written a ballad on the King of Thule, you shall have it to put in your _Faust_--if you have one. Horatio, thou art een as just a man As eer my conversation copd withal. I am wretched. Do not be so cruel as not to come! PARIS, _November 1828_. Forgive me for not writing sooner; I was so ill, so stupid, it was better to wait. La Fontaine might well say: Absence is the greatest of ills. She is gone; this time to Bordeaux and I live no more; or rather I live too acutely, for I suffer, hourly, the agonies of death. I can hardly drag through my work. You know that I am appointed Superintendent of the Gymnase-Lyrique and have to choose or replace the players and to take care of instruments, parts and scores. Subscribers are coming in; so are malicious anonymous letters. Cherubini sits on the fence wondering whether to help or to hinder us, and we go calmly on. I have not seen Chteaubriand; he is in the country, but I will speak of your piece directly I do. _End of 1828._ Do you know M. dEckstein, and can you give me an introduction to him? I hear that he is connected with a new and powerful paper, in which Art is to be given prominence. If I am considered good enough, I should like to be musical correspondent. Help me if you can. Another landmark in my life was the reading of Goethes _Faust_; I could not lay it down, but read and read and read--at table, in the streets, in the theatres. Although a prose translation, songs and rhymed pieces were scattered throughout, and these I set to music, then, without having heard a note of them, was crazy enough to have them engraved. A few copies, under the title of _Eight Scenes from Faust_ were sold in Paris, and one fell into the hands of M. Marx, the great Berlin critic, who wrote most kindly to me about it. This unexpected encouragement from such a source gave me real pleasure, particularly as the writer did not dwell too much on my many and great faults. I know some of the ideas were good, since I afterwards used them for the _Damnation de Faust_, but I know, also, how hopelessly crude and badly written they were. As soon as I realised this, I collected and burnt all the copies I could lay hands on. Under Goethes influence I wrote my _Symphonie Fantastique_--very slowly and laboriously in some parts, incredibly quickly and easily in others. The _Scne aux Champs_ worried me for three weeks, over and over again I gave it up, but the _Marche au Supplice_ was dashed off in a single night. Of course they were afterwards touched and retouched. Bloc, being anxious that my new symphony should be heard, suggested that I should be allowed to give a concert at the Thtre des Nouveauts. The directors, attracted by the eccentricity of my work, agreed, and I invited eighty performers to help, in addition to Blocs orchestra. On my making enquiries about accommodation for such an army of executants the manager replied, with the calm assurance of ignorance: Oh, thats all right. Our property man knows his business. The day of rehearsal arrived, and so did my hundred and thirty musicians--with nowhere to put them! I just managed to squeeze the violins into the orchestra, and then arose an uproar that would have driven a calmer man than myself out of his senses. Cries for chairs, desks, candles, strings, room for the drums, etc., etc. Scene shifters tore up and down improvising desks and seats, Bloc and I worked like sixty--but it was all useless; a regular rout; a passage of the Brsina. However Bloc insisted on trying two movements to give the directors some idea of the whole. So, all in a muddle, we struggled through the _Ball Scene_ and the _Marche au Supplice_, the latter calling forth frantic applause. But my concert never came off. The directors said that they had no idea so many arrangements were necessary for a symphony. Thus my hopes were dashed, and all for want of a few desks. Since then I always look into the smallest details for myself. Wishing to console me for this disappointment, Girard, conductor of the Thtre Italien, asked me to write something shorter than my unlucky symphony, that he could have carefully performed at his theatre. I therefore wrote a dramatic fantasia with choruses on the _Tempest_, but no sooner did he see it than he said: This is too big for us; it must go to the opera. Without loss of time I interviewed M. Lubbert, director of the Royal Academy. To my relief and delight, he at once agreed to have it played at a concert for the Artists Benevolent Fund that was to take place shortly. My name was known to him through my Conservatoire concert, and he had seen notices of me in the papers. He, therefore, believed in me, put me through no humiliating examination, gave me his word, and kept it religiously. He was a man, Horatio. All went splendidly at rehearsal; Ftis did his best for me, and everything seemed to smile, when, with my usual luck, an hour before the concert there broke over Paris the worst storm that had been known for fifty years. The streets were flooded and practically impassable, and during the first half of the concert, when my _Tempest_--damned tempest!--was being played, there were not more than three hundred people in the place. _Extracts from Letters to_ H. FERRAND. _April 1829._--Here is _Faust_, dear friend. Could you, without stinting yourself, lend me another hundred francs to pay the printer? I would rather borrow from you than from anyone else; yet had you not offered, I should not have dared to ask. Your opera (_Franc-Juges_) is splendid. You are indeed a poet! That finale of the Bohemians at the end of the first act is a master stroke. I do not believe anything so original has ever been done in a libretto before. And I repeat, it is magnificent. _June._--No word from you for three months. Why is it? Does your father suppress our letters, or can it be that you, at last, believe the slanders you hear of me? I got a pupil, so have managed to pay the printer. I am very happy, life is charming--no pain, no despair, plenty of day dreams; to crown all, the _Francs-Juges_ has been refused by the Opera Committee! They find it long and obscure, only the Bohemian scene pleases them; but Duval thinks it remarkable and says there is a future for it. I am going to make an opera like _Freyschtz_ of it, and if I win the prize perhaps Spohr (who is not jealous, but is most helpful to young musicians) will let me try it at Cassel. No word have I had from you since I spoke of my hopeless love. Nothing more has happened. This passion will be my death; how often one hears that hope alone keeps love alive--am I not a living proof of the contrary? All the English papers ring with her praises; I am unknown! When I have written something great, something stupendous, I must go to London to have it performed. Oh for success!--success under her very eyes. I am writing a life of Beethoven for the _Correspondant_, and cannot find a minute for composition--the rest of my time I copy out parts. What a life! Once more came June, and with it my third attempt on the Prix de Rome. This time I really did hope, for not only had I gained a second prize, but I heard that the musical judges thought well of me. Being over-confident I reasoned (falsely, as it turned out), Since they have decided to give me the prize, I need not bother to write exactly in the style that suits them; I will compose a really artistic cantata. The subject was Cleopatra after Actium. Dying in convulsions, she invokes the spirits of the Pharaohs, demanding--criminal though she be--whether she dare claim a place beside them in their mighty tombs. It was a magnificent theme, and I had often pondered over Juliets-- But if when I am laid into the tomb, which is, at least in terror of approaching death, analogous to the appeal of the Egyptian Queen. I was fool enough to head my score with those very words--the unpardonable sin to my Voltairean judges--and wrote what seemed to me a weird and dramatic piece, well suited to the words. I afterwards used it, unchanged, for the _Chorus of Shades_ in _Lelio_; I think it deserved the prize. But it did not get it. None of the compositions did. Rather than give it to a young composer of such revolutionary tendencies they withheld it altogether. Next day I met Boeldieu, who, on seeing me, said: My dear boy, what on earth possessed you? The prize was in your hand, and you simply threw it away. But, monsieur, I really did my best. Thats just it! Your _best_ is the opposite of your _good_. How could I possibly approve? I, who like nice gentle music--cradle-music, one might say. But, monsieur, could an Egyptian queen, passionate, remorseful, and despairing, die in mortal anguish of body and soul to the sound of cradle-music? Oh, come! come! I know you have plenty of excuses, but they go for nothing. You might at least have written gracefully. Gladiators could die gracefully, but not Cleopatra. She had not to die in public. There! you _will_ exaggerate so! No one expects her to dance a quadrille. Why need you introduce such odd, queer harmonies into that invocation? I am not well up in harmony, and I must own that those outlandish chords of yours are beyond me. I bit my lip, not daring to make the obvious reply: Is it my fault that you know no harmony? And then, he went on, why do you introduce a totally new rhythm in your accompaniments? I never heard anything like it. I did not understand, monsieur, that we were not to try new modes if we were fortunate enough to find the right place for them. But, my dear good fellow, Madame Dabadie is a capital musician, yet one could see it took all her care and talent to get her through. Really, monsieur, I have yet to learn that music can be sung without either talent or care. Well, well! you will have the last word. But do be warned for next year. Come and see me and we will talk it over like _French gentlemen_. And, chuckling over the point he had made (for his last words were a quotation from his own _Jean de Paris_), he walked off. Yes, Boeldieu was right. The Parisians liked soothing music, even for the most dramatic and harrowing situations. Pretty, innocent, gentlemanly music, pleasant and making no demand upon ones deepest feelings. Later on they wanted something different, and now they do not know what they want, or rather they want nothing at all. Ah me! what was the good God thinking of when He dropped me down in this pleasant land of France? Yet I love her whenever I can forget her idiotic politics. How gay she is, how dainty in wit, how bright in retort--how she boasts and swaggers and humbugs, royally and republicanly! I am not sure, though, that this last _is_ amusing. XV A NEW LOVE _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. _July 1829._--I am sorry I did not send your music before, but I may as well own that I am short of money. My father has taken another whim and sends me nothing, so I could not afford the thirty or forty francs for the copying. I could not do it myself, as I was shut up in the Institute. That abominable but necessary competition! My only chance of getting the filthy lucre, without which life is impossible. Auri sacra fames quid non mortalia pectora cogis! My father would not even pay my expenses in the Institute. M. Lesueur did so for me. _August._--Forgive my negligence. My only excuses are the Academy competition and the new pangs of my despised love. My heart can be likened only to a virgin forest, struck and kindled by the thunderbolt; now and again the fire smoulders, then comes the whirlwind, and in a second the trees are a mass of living, hissing flame and all is death and desolation. I will spare you a description of the latest blows. That shameful competition! Boeldieu says I go further than Beethoven, and he cannot even understand Beethoven; and that, to write like that, _I must have the most hearty contempt for the Academicians!_ Auber told me much the same thing, and added, You hate the commonplace, but you need never be afraid of writing platitudes. The best advice I can give you is to write as insipidly as you can, and when you have got something that sounds to you horribly flat, _you will have just what they want!_ That is all very well, but when I go writing for butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers I certainly shall not go to the passion-haunted, crime-stained Queen of Egypt for a text. _To_ FERDINAND HILLER. 1829.--What is this overwhelming emotion, this intense power of suffering that is killing me? Ask your guardian angel, that bright spirit that has opened to you the gate of Heaven. Oh, my friend! can you believe that I have burnt the manuscript of my prose elegy? I have Ophelia ever before me; her tears, her tragic voice; the fire of her glorious eyes burns into my soul--I am so miserable, so inexpressibly unhappy, oh, my friend! I seem to see Beethoven looking down on me with calm severity; Spontini--safely cured of woes like mine--with his pitying indulgent smile; Weber from the Elysian Fields, whispers consoling words into my ear.... Mad, mad, mad! is this sense for a student of the Institute; a domino-player of the Caf de la Rgence? Nay, I _will_ live--live for music--the highest thing in life except true love! Both make me utterly miserable but at least I shall have lived! Lived, it is true, by suffering, by passion, by lamentation and by tears--yet I _shall_ have lived! Dear Ferdinand! a year ago to-day I saw _her_ for the last time. Is there for us a meeting in another world? Ah, me! miserable! Alone! cursed with imagination beyond my physical strength, torn by unbounded, unsatisfied love!--still, I have known the great ones of the heaven of music; I have laughed as I basked in the radiance of their glory! Immortals, stretch out your hands, raise me to the shelter of your golden clouds that I may be at rest! Voice of Reason: Peace, fool! ere many years have passed your pain will be no more. Henriette Smithson and Hector Berlioz will rest in the oblivion of the grave and other unfortunates will also suffer and die! ... _To_ H. FERRAND. _November 1829._--Oh Ferrand! Ferrand! why were you not here for my concert? Yesterday I was so ill that I could not crawl; to-day the fire of hell that inspired my _Francs-Juges_ overture, courses through my veins. All my heart, my passion, my love are in that overture. After the crowd had dispersed the performers waited for me in the courtyard and greeted me with wild applause. At the Opera in the evening it was the same thing--a regular ferment! My friend, my friend! Had you but been there! But it was more than I could stand, and now I am a prey to the most awful depression and despair; tears choke me, I long to die. After all, there will be a small profit--about a hundred and fifty francs, of which I must give two-thirds to Gounet, who so kindly lent it me--I think he is more in need than you. But my debt to you troubles me, and as soon as I can get together enough to be worth sending, you shall have it. ... * * * * * _December._--I am bored! wretched! That is nothing new, but I get more and more soul-weary, more utterly bored as time goes on. I devour time as ducks gobble water, in order to live and, like the ducks, I find nothing but a few scrubby insects for nourishment. What will become of me! What shall I do! _To_ H. FERRAND. _January 1830._--I do not know where to turn for money. I have only two pupils, they bring me in forty-four francs a month; I still owe you money besides the hundred francs to Gounet--this eternal penury, these constant debts, even to such old and tried friends as you, weigh on me terribly. Then again your father still nurses the mistaken idea that I am a gambler--I, who never touch a card and have never set foot in a gaming house--and the thought that he disapproves of our friendship nearly drives me mad. For pitys sake, write soon! * * * * * _February._--Again, without warning and without reason, my ill-starred passion wakes. She is in London, yet I feel her presence ever with me. I listen to the beating of my heart, it is like a sledge-hammer, every nerve in my body quivers with pain. Woe upon her! Could she but dream of the poetry, the infinite bliss of such love as mine, she would fly to my arms, even though my embrace should be her death. I was just going to begin my great symphony (_Episode in an Artists Life_) to depict the course of this infernal love of mine--but I can write nothing. * * * * * _May._--Your letter comforts me, dear friend, how good it is to be blessed with a friend such as you! A man of heart, of soul, of imagination! How rare that kindred spirits such as ours should meet and sympathise. Words fail to tell the joy your affection gives me. You need not fear for me with Henriette Smithson. I am no longer in danger in that quarter; I pity and despise her. She is nothing but a commonplace woman with an instinct for expressing the tortures of the soul that she has never felt; she is quite incapable of appreciating the noble, all-devouring love with which I honoured her. The rehearsals of my symphony begin in three days; all the parts are copied--there are two thousand three hundred pages. I hope to goodness we shall have good receipts to pay for it all. The concert takes place on the 30th May. And you alone will not be there! Even my father wishes to come. Ah, my symphony! I wish the theatre people would somehow plot to get _her_ there--that wretched woman! But she certainly would not go if she read my programme. She could not but recognise herself. What will people say? My story is so well known. At this time a new influence came into my life which, for a time, eclipsed my Shakespearian passion. Hiller, the German composer-pianist, whom I had known intimately ever since his arrival in Paris, fell violently in love with Marie Moke, a beautiful and talented girl, who, later on, became one of our greatest pianists. Her interest in me was aroused by Hillers account of my mental sufferings, and--so Fate willed--we were thrown much together at a boarding-school where we both gave lessons--she on the piano and I on--the guitar! Odd though it be, I still figure in the prospectus of Madame dAubr as professor of that noble instrument. Meeting Mademoiselle Moke constantly, her dainty beauty and bewitching mockery of my high-tragedy airs and dismal visage soon turned my thoughts from my absorbing passion and won her a shrine in my heart. She was but eighteen! Hiller, poor fellow, behaved admirably. He recognised that it was Fate, not treachery on my part and, heart-broken as he was, he wished me every happiness and left for Frankfort. This is all I need say of this violent interlude that, by stirring my senses, turned me aside for a while from the mighty love that really held my heart. In my Italian journey I will tell of the dramatic sequel. Mademoiselle Moke nearly proved the proverb that it is not well to play with fire! * * * * * In 1830 the Competition took place later than usual--on the 15th July. For the fifth time I went up, firmly resolved, if I should fail, to go no more. As I finished my cantata the Revolution broke out and the Institute was a curious sight. Grape shot rattled on the barred doors, cannon balls shook the faade, women screamed and, in the momentary pauses, the interrupted swallows took up their sweet, shrill cry. I hurried over the last pages of my cantata, and on the 29th was free to maraud about the streets, pistol in hand, with the blessed riffraff as Barbier said. I shall never forget the look of Paris during those few days. The frantic bravery of the gutter-snipe, the enthusiasm of the men, the calm, sad resignation of the Swiss and Royal Guards, the odd pride of the mob in being masters of Paris and looting nothing. One day, just after this harmonious revolution, I had a strange musical shock. Going through the Palais Royal, I heard some young men singing a familiar air; it was my own: Forget not our wounded companions, who stood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood They stirred not, but conquered and died. Not used to such fame I, in great delight, asked the leader whether I might join in, and incontinently began a hot argument with him as to the time at which it should be taken. Of course I was not recognised. As we sang, three of the National Guard handed round their shakos to collect money for the wounded and there was a welcome deluge of five franc pieces. The crowd increased and our breathing space became less and less; we should have ended in being smothered had not a kindly haberdasher asked us up to her first floor windows, that looked out upon the covered gallery, whence we could rain down our music upon the crowd below, as the Pope does his blessing from the balcony of St Peters. First we gave them the _Marseillaise_. At the opening bar the noisy crowd stood motionless; at the end of the second verse the same silence; even so with the third. Irate at their apparent coldness, I roared out-- Confound it all! SING! And they sang. Remember, those four or five thousand tightly packed people were--men, women and children--hot from the barricades, inflamed with lust for combat, and imagine how their Aux armes, citoyens! rolled out. Aghast at the explosion we had provoked, our little band stood silent as birds after a thunder clap. I, literally not metaphorically, sank on the floor. Some time before this I had arranged the _Marseillaise_ for full orchestra and double chorus and had dedicated it to Rouget de Lisle, who wrote inviting me to go and see him at Choisy, as he had several proposals to make to me. Unfortunately I could not go then, as I was on the point of starting for Italy, and he died before I returned. I only heard much later that he had written many fine songs besides the _Marseillaise_ and had also a libretto for _Othello_ put aside; it is probably this that he wished to discuss with me. As soon as peace was patched up and Louis Philippe introduced by Lafayette as the best of republics the Academy started work once more. And as the judges, thanks to a piece which I have since burnt, believed me reclaimed from my heresies, they gave me the first prize. Although, in former years, I had been greatly disappointed at not getting it I was not in the least pleased when I did. Of course I appreciated its advantages; my parents pride, the kudos, the freedom for five years from money troubles--yet, knowing the system on which prizes were awarded, could I feel any proper pride in my success? Two months after came the distribution of prizes and the performance of the successful work. It was all very hackneyed. Every year the same musicians perform pieces turned out on the same pattern; the same prizes, awarded with the same discrimination, are handed over with the same ceremony. Every year on the same day, at the same time, standing on the same step of the same staircase, the same Academician repeats the same words to the winner. Day, first Saturday in October; time, four in the afternoon; step, the third; the Academician--we all know who. Then comes the performance with full orchestra (in my case it was not quite full, for there was only a clarinet and a half, the old boy who played the first--having only one tooth and being asthmatic besides--being only able to squeeze out a note here and there). The conductor raises his baton---- The sun rises; cello solo, gentle crescendo. The little birds wake; flute solo, violin tremolo. The little rills gurgle; alto solo. The little lambs bleat; oboe solo. And as the crescendo goes on and the little birds and little brooks and little beasts finish their performance, one suddenly discovers that it is noon; then follow the successive airs up to the third, with which the hero usually expires and the audience once more breathes freely. Then the secretary, holding in one hand the artificial laurel wreath and in the other the gold medal, worth enough to keep the recipient until he leaves for Rome (in point of fact, I have proved that it is worth exactly a hundred and sixty francs) pompously enunciates the name of the author. The laureate rises, His smooth, chaste forehead, newly shorn, is wreathed with modest blushes. He embraces the secretary--faint applause. He embraces his master, seated close by--more applause. Next come his mother, his sisters, his cousins, and his aunts to the tune of more applause; then his fiance, after which--treading on peoples toes and tearing ladies dresses in the blind confusion of his headlong career--he regains his seat, bathed in perspiration. Loud applause and laughter. This is the crowning moment, and I know lots of people who go for nothing but the fun of it. I do not say this in bitterness of spirit, although, when my turn came, neither father nor mother, nor fiance were there to congratulate me. My master was ill, my parents estranged, my mistress--ah! So I only embraced the secretary, and I do not fancy that my modest blushes were noticed because, instead of being newly shorn, my forehead was buried in a shock of long red hair, which, in conjunction with certain other points in my physiognomy certainly earned me a place in the owl tribe. Besides, I was not in at all an embrace-inspiring humour that day. Truth obliges me to confess that I was in a howling, rampant rage. I must go back a little and explain why. The subject set was the _Last Night of Sardanapalus_, and it ended with his gathering his most beautiful slaves around him and, with them, mounting the funeral pyre. I was just going to write a symphonic description of the scene--the cries of the unwilling victims; the kings proud defiance of the flames, the crash of the falling palace--when I suddenly bethought me that that way lay suicide--since the piano, as usual, would be the only means of interpretation. I therefore waited and, as soon as the prize was awarded and I knew I could not be deprived of it, I wrote my CONFLAGRATION. At the final orchestral rehearsal it made such a sensation that several of the Academicians came up and congratulated me most warmly, without a trace of pique at the trick I had played upon them. The rumour of it having gone abroad, the hall was packed--for I found I had already made a sort of bizarre reputation. Not feeling particularly confident in the powers of Grasset, the conductor, I stood close beside him, manuscript in hand, while Madame Malibran, who had been unable to find a seat in the hall, sat on a stool at my elbow between two double-basses. That was the last time I ever saw her. All went smoothly; Sardanapalus assembled his slaves, the fire was kindled, everyone listened intently, and those who had been at rehearsal whispered: Now its coming. Just listen. Its simply wonderful! Curses and excommunications upon those musicians who do not count their rests!! That damned horn, that should have given the signal to the side-drums, never came in. The drums were afraid to begin, so gave no signal to the cymbals, nor the cymbals to the big-drum. The violins went wobbling on with their futile tremolo and my fire went out without one crackle! Only a composer who has been through a like experience can appreciate my fury. Giving vent to a wild yell of rage, I flung my score smash into the middle of the band and knocked over two desks. Madame Malibran jumped as if she had been shot, and the whole place was in an uproar. It was a regular catastrophe--worst and cruellest of all I had hitherto borne; but alas! by no means the last. XVI LISZT _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. _24th July 1830._ DEAR FRIEND,--All that the most tender delicate love can give is mine. My exquisite sylph, my Ariel, loves me more than ever and her mother says that, had she read of love like mine, she could not have believed it. I am shut up in the Institute _for the last time_, for the prize _shall_ be mine this year, our happiness hangs on it. Every other day Madame Moke sends her maid with messages. Can you credit it, Humbert? This angel, with the finest talent in Europe, is mine! I hear that M. de Noailles, in whom her mother believes greatly, has pleaded my cause, despite my want of money. If only you could hear my Camille _thinking aloud_ in the divine works of Beethoven and Weber, you would lose your head as I do. _23rd August 1830._ I have gained the Prix de Rome. It was awarded unanimously--a thing that has never been known before. What a joy it is to be successful when it gives pleasure to those one adores! My sweet Ariel was dying of anxiety when I took her the news, her dainty wings were all ruffled until I smoothed them with a word. Even her mother, who does not look too favourably on our love, was touched to tears. On the 1st November there is to be a concert at the Thtre Italien. The new conductor, Girard, whom I know well, has asked me to write him an overture for it. I am going to take Shakespeares _Tempest_; it will be quite a new style of thing. My great concert with the _Symphonie Fantastique_ is to be on the 14th November, but I must have a _theatrical_ success; Camillas parents insist upon that as a condition of our marriage. I hope I shall succeed. I do not want to go to Italy. I shall go and ask the King to let me off. It is a ridiculous journey for me to take, and I might just as well be allowed my scholarship in Paris. As soon as I have collected the money you so kindly lent me, you shall have it. Good-bye, good-bye. I have just come from Madame Mokes, from touching the hand of my adored Camille, that is why mine trembles and my writing is so bad. Yet to-day she has not played me either Beethoven or Weber. _P.S._--That wretched Smithson girl is still here. I have not seen her. _October 1830._--You will be glad to hear that I am to be heard at the Opera. All thanks to Camille! In her slender form, witching grace, and musical genius I found Ariel personified. I have planned a tremendous overture, which I have submitted to the director. Ariel! Ariel! Camille! I bless, I adore, I love thee more than poor language can express. Give me a hundred musicians, a hundred and fifty voices, then can I tell thee all! * * * * * That poor Ophelia comes again and again to my mind. She has lost more than six thousand francs in the Opra Comique venture. She is still here, and met me the other day quite calmly. I was utterly miserable the whole evening, and went and told Ariel, who laughed at me tenderly. In spite of all my eloquence, I could not get out of that tiresome journey to Rome. But I would not leave Paris without having _Sardanapalus_ performed properly, and for the third time my artist friends most generously offered me their aid, and Habeneck consented to conduct. The day before the concert Liszt came to see me. We had not, so far, met. We began talking of _Faust_, which he had not read, but which he afterwards got to love as I did. We were so thoroughly sympathetic to each other that, from that day, our friendship neither faltered nor waned. At my concert everyone noticed his enthusiasm and vociferous applause. As my work is exceedingly complicated, it is not surprising that the execution was by no means perfect; yet some parts of the Symphony made a sensation. The _Scne aux Champs_ fell quite flat, and, on the advice of Ferdinand Hiller, I afterwards entirely rewrote it. _Sardanapalus_ was well done, and the _Conflagration_ came off magnificently. It raised a conflagration in Paris too, in the shape of a war of musicians and critics. Naturally the younger men--particularly those with that sixth sense, artistic instinct--were on my side, but Cherubini and his gang were wild with rage. He happened to pass the concert-room doors as people were going in, and a friend stopped him, asking: Are you not coming to hear Berliozs new thing? I need not zat I go hear how sings should not be done, he replied. He was much worse after the concert, and sent for me. You go soon, he said. Yes, monsieur. It vill be zat you are cross off ze register of Conservatoire, zat your studies are finish. But it seem to me zat you should make visit to me. One goes not out of Conservatoire like out of a stable. I very nearly said: Why not, since we are treated like horses? but luckily had the good sense merely to say that I had not the slightest intention of leaving Paris without saying farewell to him. So to Rome, _nolens volens_, I had to go, useless as it seemed. The Roman Academy may be of service to painters and sculptors, but, as far as music is concerned, it is lost time, considering the state of music in Italy. Neither is the life led by the students exactly conducive to study and progress. Usually the five or six laureates arrange to travel in company, and share expenses. A coach-driver agrees, for a modest sum, to take charge of this cargo of great men, and dump it down in Italy. As he never changes horses it takes a long time, and must be rather amusing. I did not try it, as I had to stay in Paris for various reasons till the middle of January and then wished to go round by La Cte Saint-Andr--where my laurel wreath earned me a warm welcome--after which, alone, and dreary, I turned my face towards Italy. _November 1830._--Just a few lines in haste to tell you that I am giving a gigantic concert at the Conservatoire--the _Francs-Juges_ overture, the _Sacred Song_ and _Warriors Song_ from the Melodies, and _Sardanapalus_ with one hundred performers for the CONFLAGRATION, and last of all, the _Symphonie Fantastique_. Come, oh, do come. It will be terrible. Habeneck conducts. The _Tempest_ is to be played a second time at the Opera. It is new, fresh, strange, grand, sweet, tender, surprising. Ftis wrote two splendid articles on it for the _Revue Musicale_. Some one said to him the other day that I was possessed of a devil. The devil may possess his body, but, by Jove! a god possesses his head, he retorted. _December._--You really must come; I had a frantic success. They actually encored the _Marche au Supplice_. I am mad! mad! My marriage is fixed for Easter 1832, on condition that I do not lose my pension, and that I go to Italy for a year. My blessed symphony has done the deed, and won this concession from Camilles mother. My guardian angel! for months I shall not see her. Why cannot I--cradled by the wild north wind upon some desolate heath--fall into the eternal sleep with her arms around me! LA CTE SAINT-ANDR, _January 1831_.--I am at home once more, deluged with compliments, caresses, and tender solicitude by my family, yet I am miserable; my heart barely beats, the oppression of my soul suffocates me. My parents understand and forgive. I have been to Grenoble, where I spent half my time in bed, the other half in calling upon people who bored me to extinction. On my return I found awaiting me my longed-for letter from Paris. Now comes yours, to spoil all! Devil take you! Was it necessary to tell me that I am luxuriating in despair, that _no one_ cares twopence for me, least of all the people for whom I am pining? * * * * * In the first place, I am not pining for _people_, but for one person; in the second, if you have your reasons for judging her severely I have mine for believing in her implicitly, and I understand her better than any one. How can you tell what she thinks? What she feels? Because you saw her gay, and apparently happy, at a concert why should you draw conclusions adverse to me? If it comes to that, you might have said the same of me if you had seen me at a family dinner at Grenoble, with a pretty young cousin on either side of me. My letter is brusque, my friend, but you have upset me terribly. Write by return and tell me what the world says of my marriage. _31st January 1831._--Although my overpowering anxiety still endures, I can write more calmly to-day. I am still too ill to get up, and the cold is frightful here. Tell me what you mean by this sentence in your last letter: You wish to make a sacrifice; I fear me sadly that, ere long, you will be forced to make a most painful one. For heavens sake never use ambiguous words to me, above all in connection with _her_. It tortures me. Tell me frankly what you mean. XVII ITALY A WILD INTERLUDE The weather was too severe to cross the Alps, I therefore determined to out-flank them and go by sea from Marseilles. It was the first time I had seen the sea and, as some days passed before I could hear of a boat, I spent most of my time wandering over the rocks near Notre Dame de la Garde. After a while I heard of a Sardinian brig bound for Leghorn, and engaged a passage in her in company with some decent young fellows I had met in the Cannebire. The captain would not undertake to feed us, so, reckoning that we should make Leghorn in three or four days, we laid in provisions for a week. In fine weather, few things are more delightful than a Mediterranean voyage--particularly ones first. Our first few days were glorious; all my companions were Italians, and had many stories to tell--some true, some not, but all interesting. One had fought in Greece with Canaris, another--a Venetian--had commanded Byrons yacht, and the tales he told accorded well with what one might expect of the author of _Lara_. Time went on, but we got no nearer Leghorn. Each morning, going on deck, my first question was, What town is that? and the eternal answer was, Nizza, signor, still Nizza. I began to think that the charming town of Nice had some sort of magnetic attraction for our boat. I found out my mistake when a furious Alpine wind burst down upon us. The captain, to make up for lost time, crowded on all sail and the vessel heeled over and drove furiously before the gale. Towards evening we made the Gulf of Spezzia, and the tramontana increased to such a pitch that the sailors themselves trembled at the captains foolhardiness. I stood by the Venetian, holding on to a bar and listening to his maledictions on the captains madness, when suddenly a fresh gust of wind caught the boat and sent her over on her beam-ends, the captain rolling away into the scuppers. In a flash the Venetian was at the tiller, shouting orders to the sailors, who were by this time calling on the Madonna: Dont bother about the Madonna now, he cried, get in the sails. The sails were reefed, the ship righted, and next day we reached Leghorn with only one sail, so strong was the wind. A few hours after, our sailors came to the hotel in a body to congratulate us on our escape. And, though the poor devils hardly earned enough to keep body and soul together, nothing would induce them to take a farthing. It was only by great persuasion that we got them to share an impromptu meal. My friends had confided to me that they were on the way to join the insurrection in Modena; they had great hopes of raising Tuscany and then marching on Rome. But alas for their young hopes! Two were arrested before reaching Florence and thrown into dungeons, where they may still lie rotting; the others, I heard later, did well in Modena, but finally shared the fate of gallant and ill-starred Menotti. So ended their sweet dream of liberty. I had great trouble in getting from Florence to Rome. Frenchmen were revolutionists and the Pope did not welcome them warmly. The Florentine authorities refused to _viser_ my passport, and nothing but the energetic protests of Monsieur Horace Vernet, the director of the Roman Academy, prevailed on them to let me go. Still alone, I made my way to Rome. My driver knew no French so I was reduced to reading the memoirs of the Empress Josephine, as we dawdled on our road. The country was not interesting; the inns were most uncomfortable; nothing gave me reason to reverse my decision that Italy was a horrid country and I most unlucky in being compelled to stay in it. But one morning we reached a group of houses called La Storta and, as he poured out a glass of wine, my _vetturino_ said casually, with a jerk of his head and thumb: There is Rome, signore. Strange revulsion of feeling! As I gazed down on the far-off city, standing in purple majesty in the midst of its vast desolate plain, my heart swelled with awe and reverence, and suddenly I realised all the grandeur, all the poetry, all the might of that heart of the world. I was still lost in dreams of the past when the carriage stopped in front of the Academy. The Villa Medici, the home of the students and director of the _Acadmie de France_, was built in 1557 by Annibale Lippi, one wing being added by Michael Angelo. It stands on the side of the Pincian, overlooking the city; on one side of it is the Pincian Way, on the other the magnificent gardens designed in Lentres style, and opposite, in the midst of the waste fields of the Villa Borghese, stands Raphaels house. Such are the royal quarters that France has munificently provided for her children. Yet the rooms of the pupils are mostly small, uncomfortable, and very badly furnished. The studios of the painters and sculptors are scattered about the grounds as well as in the palace, and from a little balcony, looking over the Ursuline gardens, there is a glorious view of the Sabine range, Monte Cavo and Hannibals Camp. There is a fair library of standard classics, but no modern books whatever; studiously-minded people may go and kill time there up to three in the afternoon, for there is really nothing to do. The sole obligation of the students is, once a year, to send a sample of their work to the Academy in Paris; for the rest of the time they do exactly as they please. The director simply has to see that rules are kept and the whole establishment well managed; with the inmates work he has nothing to do whatever. It would be hardly fair that he should; to overlook and advise twenty-two young men in five different branches of art would hardly be within one mans compass. The Ave Maria was ringing as I entered the portals of the Villa and, as that was the dinner-hour, I went straight to the refectory. As soon as I appeared in the doorway there was a hurrah that raised the roof. Ho! ho! Berlioz! Oh that blessed head! that fiery mop! that dainty nose! I say, Jalay, his nose knocks spots out of yours; take a back-seat, my good man! He can give _you_ points in hair anyway. Ye gods, _what_ a crop! Heigh, Berlioz! how about those infernal side-drums that wouldnt start the _Fire_! By Jove! he was in a wax. Good reason, too! I say, have you forgotten me? I know your face well enough, but your name---- He says you. Dont give yourself airs, old boy, we are all thou here. Well, what is _thy_ name? Signol. No, it isnt; its _Ros_signol. Lord, what a beastly bad pun! Do let him sit down. Whom? The pun? Get out! Berlioz, of course. I say, Fleury, bring us some punch--real good stuff. Well stop this idiots mouth. Now our musical section is complete. Montfort (the laureate of the year before me), embrace your comrade. No, he shant! Yes, he shall! and they all yelled together. Look here; while you others are fighting, hes eating all the macaroni. Leave me a bit! Well, embrace him all round and get it done with. Oh, bother! Now its going to begin all over again. I say, Im not going to drink wine when theres punch. Not much! Break the bottles. Look out, Fleury! Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Dont break the glasses, please! You will want them for the punch. You would not like to drink punch out of little glasses. Perish the thought! You are a man of sense, Fleury. You were only just in time, though. Fleury was the prop of the house; a thoroughly good fellow, who well deserved the trust of the Academy directors. Nothing ruffled him; he was so used to our scenes that he kept the aspect of a graven image, which made it all the funnier for us. When I had got over my tempestuous reception, I looked round the hall. On one wall were about fifty portraits of former students, on the other a series of the most outrageous life-sized caricatures, also of inmates of the Academy. Unluckily, for want of wall-space, these soon came to an end. That evening, after an interview with M. Vernet, I followed my comrades to the Caf Greco--the dirtiest, darkest, dampest hole imaginable. How it justifies its existence as the artists favourite caf I cannot imagine. We smoked abominable cigars and drank coffee that was none the nicer for being served on dirty little wooden tables, as sticky and greasy as the walls. Next day I made Mendelssohns acquaintance; but more of this when I come to write of Germany. For a while I got on fairly well in this new life, then gradually my anxiety about my Paris letters, which were not forthcoming, increased to such an extent that, in defiance of the kindly expostulations of M. Horace Vernet, who tried to restrain me by saying that I must be struck off the list of _pensionnaires_ if I broke the Academys most stringent rule, I decided to return to Paris. I started, but at Florence was kept in bed a week by quinsy, and so made the acquaintance of Schlick, the Danish sculptor, a thoroughly good fellow of much talent. During this week I rewrote the Ball Scene for my _Symphonie Fantastique_, and added the present Coda. It was not quite finished when, the first time I was able to go out, I fetched my letters from the post. Among them was one of such unparalleled impudence that I fairly took leave of my senses. Needless to say, it was from Camillas mother. In it, after accusing me of _bringing annoyance_ into her household, she announced the marriage of my _fiance_ to M. Pleyel. In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry to Paris to kill two guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act of justice done, I, too, must die! They would expect me, therefore I must go disguised. I hurried to Schlick and showed him the letter. It is scandalous, he said. What will you do? I thought it best to deceive him so as to be absolutely free. Do? Why, return to France. But I will go to my fathers, not to Paris. Right! he replied. Your own home will best soothe your wounded heart. Keep up your spirits. I will; but I must go at once. You can easily go this evening. I know the official people here, and will get your passport and a seat for you in the mail. Go and pack. Instead of packing, I went to a milliner in the Lung Arno. Madame, I said, I want a ladys-maids outfit by five oclock--dress, hat, green veil, everything. Money is no object. Can you do it? She agreed, and leaving a deposit, I went back to the hotel. Taking the score of the Ball Scene, I wrote across it: I have not time to finish, but if the Concert Society will perform the piece in the absence of the composer, I beg that Habeneck will double the flute passage at the last entry of the theme, and will write the following chords for full orchestra. That will be sufficient finale, threw it into a valise with a few clothes, loaded my pistols, put into my pockets two little bottles, one of strychnine, the other of laudanum; then, conscience-clear with regard to my arsenal, spent the rest of the time raging up and down the streets of Florence like a mad dog. At five, I went back to the shop to try on my clothes, which were satisfactory, and with the modistes good wishes for the success of my little comedy, I went back to say good-bye to Schlick, who looked upon me as a lost sheep returning to the fold! A farewell glance at Cellinis _Perseus_, and we were off. League after league went by and I sat with clenched teeth. I could neither eat nor speak. About midnight the driver and I exchanged a few words about my pistols, he remarking that, if brigands attacked us, we must on no account attempt to defend ourselves, proceeded to take off the caps and hide them under the cushions. As you like, I said, indifferently. I have no wish to compromise you. On our arrival at Genoa (I having tasted nothing but the juice of an orange, to the astonishment of the courier, who could not make out whether I belonged to this world or the next), I found that, in changing carriages at Pietra Santa, my finery had been left behind. Confound it all! I thought; this looks as if some cursed good angel stood in the way of my plan. Again I hunted up a dressmaker, and after trying three, succeeded in getting a new outfit. Meanwhile, the Sardinian people, seeing me trotting after work-girls like this, took it into their sapient heads that I must be a conspirator, a _carbonero_, a liberator, and refused to _viser_ my passport for Turin. I must go by Nice. Then, for heavens sake, _viser_ it for Nice. I dont care. Ill go _vi_ the infernal regions so long as I get through. Which was the greater fool--the policeman, who saw in every Frenchman an emissary of the Revolution, or myself, who thought I could not set foot in Paris undisguised; forgetting that, by hiding for a day in a hotel, I could have found fifty women to rig me out perfectly? Self-engrossed people are really delightful. They fancy everyone is thinking about them, and the deadly earnest with which they act up to the idea is simply delicious! So, behold me on my way to Nice, going over and over my little Parisian drama. Disguised as the Countess de M.s ladys-maid, I would go to the house about nine oclock with an important letter. While it was being read, I would pull out my double-barrelled pistols, kill number one and number two, seize number three by the hair and finish her off likewise; after which, if this vocal and instrumental concert had gathered an audience, I would turn the fourth barrel upon myself. Should it miss fire (such things happen occasionally), I had a final resource in my little bottles. Grand climax! It seems rather a pity it never came off. Now, despite my rage, I began to say: Yes, it will be most agreeable, but--to have to kill myself too, is distinctly annoying. To say farewell to earth, to art; to leave behind me only the reputation of a churl, who did not understand the gentle art of living; to leave my symphony unfinished, the scores unwritten--those glorious scores that float through my brain.... Ah! But no; they shall, they must all die! Each minute I drew nearer to France. That night, on the Cornice road, love of life and love of art whispered sweet promises of days to come, and I sat listening, vaguely, dreamily, when the driver stopped to put on the drag. Roused mentally by the thunder of the waves upon the iron cliffs below, the stupendous majesty of Nature burst upon me with greater force than ever before, and woke anew the tempest in my heart--the awful wrestling of Life and Death. Holding with both hands on to my seat, I let out a wild Ha! so hoarse, so savage, so diabolic that the startled driver bounced aside as if he had indeed had a demon for his fellow-traveller. In my first lucid moments I remember thinking, If only I could find some solid point of rock to cling to before the next wave of fury and madness sweeps over my head, I might yet be saved! I found one. We stopped to change horses at a little Sardinian village--Ventimiglia, I believe--and, begging five minutes from the guard, I hurried into a caf, seized a scrap of paper, and wrote to M. Vernet, praying him to keep me on the roll of students, if I were not already crossed off, assuring him that I had not yet broken the rule, and promising not to cross the frontier until I received his answer at Nice, where I would await it. Temporarily safeguarded by my word of honour, yet free to take up my Red Indian scheme of vengeance again, should I be excluded from the Academy, I got quietly into the carriage and suddenly discovered that ... I was hungry, having eaten nothing since leaving Florence. Oh, good, gross Nature! I was positively reviving! I got to Nice, still growling at intervals; but, after a few days came M. Vernets answer--a friendly paternal letter that touched me deeply. Though ignorant of the reason of my trouble, the great artist gave me the best advice, showing me that hard work and love of art were the sovereign remedies for a mind diseased; telling me that the Minister knew nothing of my escapade, and that I should be received with open arms in Rome. They are saved! I sighed. Suppose I live too?--live quietly, happily, musically? Why not? Lets try! So for a month I dwelt alone at Nice, writing the _King Lear_ overture, bathing in the sea, wandering through orange groves, and sleeping on the healthy slopes of the Villefranche hills. Thus passed the twenty happiest days of my life. Oh, Nizza! But the King of Sardinias police put an end to this idyllic life. I had spoken to one or two officers of the garrison, and had even played billiards with them. This was sufficient to rouse the darkest suspicions. This musician cannot have come to hear _Mathilde de Sabran_ (the only opera given just then), since he never goes near the theatre. He wanders alone on the hills, no doubt expecting a signal from some revolutionary vessel; he never dines at _table dhte_ in order to avoid spies; he is ingratiating himself with our officers in order to start negotiations with them in the name of Young Italy. It is a flagrant conspiracy! I was summoned to the police office. What are you doing here, sir? Recruiting after a terrible illness. I compose, I dream, I thank God for the glorious sun, the sea, the flower-clothed hillsides---- You are not an artist? No. Yet you wander about with a book in your hand. Are you making plans? Yes, the plan of an overture to _King Lear_--at least the instrumentation is nearly finished, and I believe its reception will be tremendous. What do you mean by reception? Who is this King Lear? Oh, a wretched old English king. English king? Yes; according to Shakespeare he lived about eighteen hundred years ago, and was idiotic enough to divide his kingdom between two wicked daughters, who kicked him out when he had nothing more to give them. You see, there are few kings that---- Never mind kings now. What do you mean by instrumentation? It is a musical term. Same excuse again! Sir, I know that you cannot possibly compose wandering about the beach with only a pencil and paper, and no piano, so tell me where you wish to go, and your passport shall be made out. You cannot remain here. Then I will go back to Rome, and, by your leave, continue to compose without a piano. Next day I left Nice, greatly against the grain, but I was brisk and light-hearted, well and thoroughly cured. Thus once more loaded pistols missed fire. Never mind. My little drama was interesting, and I cannot help regretting it--just a little! _To_ H. FERRAND. _11th May 1831._--Well, Ferrand, I am getting on. Rage, threats of vengeance, grinding of teeth, tortures of hell--all over and done with! If your silence means laziness on your part, it is too bad of you. When one comes back to life, as I have done, one feels the need of a friendly arm, of an outstretched hand. Yes, Camille has married Pleyel, and I am glad of it. I see now the perils that I have escaped. What meanness! what shabbiness! what apathy! what infinite--almost sublime--villainy, if sublime can agree with ignobility (I have stolen that newly coined word from you). _P.S._--I have just finished a new overture--to _King Lear_. XVIII ITALIAN MUSIC I did not hurry back to Rome, but spent some time in Genoa, where I heard Pars _Agnese_, and where I could find no trace of bust or statue or tradition of Columbus. I also tried in vain to hear something of Paganini, who at that moment was electrifying Paris, while I--with my usual luck--was kicking my heels in his native town. Thence I went back to Florence, which of all Italian cities appeals to me most. There the spleen that devours me in Rome and Naples takes flight. With barely a handful of francs--since my little excursion had made a big hole in my income, knowing no one and being consequently entirely free--I passed delicious days visiting odd corners, dreaming of Dante and Michael Angelo, and reading Shakespeare in the shady woods on the Arno bank. Knowing, however, that the Tuscan capital could not compare with Naples and Milan in opera, I took no thought for music until I heard people at _table dhte_ talking of Bellinis _Montecchi_, which was soon to be given. Not only did they praise the music, but also the libretto. Italians, as a rule, care so little for the words of an opera that I was surprised, and thought: At last I shall hear an opera worthy of that glorious play. What a subject it is! Simply made for music. The ball at Capulets house, where young Romeo first sees his dazzling love; the street fight whereat Tybalt presides--patron of anger and revenge; that indescribable night scene at Juliets balcony; the witty sallies of Mercutio; the prattle of the nurse; the solemnity of the friar trying to soothe these conflicting elements; the awful catastrophe and the reconciliation of the rival families above the bodies of the ill-fated lovers. I hurried to the Pergola Theatre. What a disappointment! No ball, no Mercutio, no babbling nurse, no balcony scene, no Shakespeare! And Romeo sung by a small thin _woman_, Juliet by a tall stout one. Why--in the name of all things musical--why? Do they think that womens voices sound best together? Then why not do away with mens entirely? Why should Juliets lover be deprived of all virility? Could a woman or a child have slain Tybalt, having burst the gates of Juliets tomb and stretched County Paris a corpse at his feet? Surely Othello and Moses with high womens voices would not be more utterly incongruous. In justice, I must say that Bellini has got a most beautiful effect in a really powerful incident. The lovers, dragged apart by angry parents, tear themselves free and rush into each others arms, crying: We meet again in heaven. He has used a quick, impassioned _motif_, sung in unison, that expresses most eloquently the idea of perfect union. I was unwontedly moved, and applauded heartily. Thinking that I had better know the worst that Italian opera could perpetrate, had better--as it were--drink the cup to the dregs, I went to hear Paccinis _Vestal_. Although I knew it had nothing in common with Spontinis opera, I little dreamed of the bitterness of the cup I had to face. Licinius, again, was a woman.... After a few minutes painfully strained attention I cried, with Hamlet, Wormwood! wormwood! and fled, feeling I could swallow no more, and stamping so hard that my great toe was sore for three days after. Poor Italy! At least, thought I, it will be better in the churches. This was what I heard. A funeral service for the elder son of Louis Bonaparte and Queen Hortense was being held. What thoughts crowded into my mind as I stood amid the flaming torches in the crape-hung church! A Bonaparte! _His_ nephew, almost his grandson, dead at twenty; his mother, with his only brother, an exile in England. I thought of the gay creole child dancing on the deck of the ship that carried her to France, untitled daughter of Madame Beauharnais, adopted daughter of the master of Europe, Queen of Holland, exiled, forgotten, bereft, without a kingdom, without a home! Oh, Beethoven! Great soul! Titan, who couldst conceive the _Eroica_ and the _Funeral March_, is not this a meet subject for thy genius?... The organist pulled out the small flute stops and fooled about over twittering little airs at the top of the key-board, exactly like wrens preening themselves on a sunny wall in winter! Again, hearing great things of the Corpus Christi music in Rome, I hurried there in company with several Italians bent on the same errand. They raved all the way of the wonders we should see, dangling before my eyes tiaras, mitres, chasubles, etc., etc. But the music? I asked. Oh, signor, there will be an immense choir, then they went back to their crosses and incense, and bell-ringing and cannon. But the music? I repeated. Oh, there will be a gigantic choir. Well, anyway, I thought, things will be on a magnificent scale, and my vivid imagination raced off to the glories of Solomons Temple and the colossal pageants of ancient Egypt. Cruel gift of Nature that clothes dull life in a golden veil! It simply made more appalling and impossible the shrill nasal voices of the singers, the quacking clarinets, the bellowing trombones, and the rampant vulgarity of the big drums. It was brutal unadulterated cacophony. Rome calls this military music! Then, behold me once more safe at the Villa Medici, welcomed by the director and my comrades, who most kindly and tactfully hid their curiosity concerning my crazy journey. I had gone off having good reason to go; I had come back--so much the better. No remarks, no questions. _To_ GOUNET, HILLER, ETC. _6th May 1831._--I have made acquaintance with Mendelssohn; Monfort knew him before. He is a charming fellow; his execution is as perfect as his genius, and that is saying a good deal. All I have heard of his is splendid, and I believe him to be one of the great musicians of his time. He has been my cicerone. Every morning I hunt him up; he plays me Beethoven; we sing _Armida_; then he takes me to see ruins that, I must candidly own, do not impress me much. His is one of those clear pure souls one does not often come across; he believes firmly in his Lutheran creed, and I am afraid I shocked him terribly by laughing at the Bible. I have to thank him for the only pleasant moments I had during the anxious days of my first stay in Rome. You may imagine what I felt like when I received that astonishing letter from Madame Moke announcing her daughters marriage. She calmly said that she never agreed to our engagement, and begs me, dear kind creature! not to kill myself. Hiller knows the whole story, and how I left Paris with her ring upon my finger, given in exchange for mine. However, I am quite recovered and can eat as usual. I am saved, they are saved! I threw myself into the arms of music, and felt how blessed it is to have friends. I am working hard at _King Lear_. Write to me, each of you, a particular and separate and individual letter. _To_ F. HILLER. Has Mendelssohn arrived yet? His talent is wonderful, extraordinary, sublime. You need not suspect me of partiality in saying this, for he frankly owns that he cannot in the least understand my music. Greet him for me; he does not think so, but I truly like him thoroughly. XIX IN THE MOUNTAINS I quickly fell into the Academy routine. A bell called us to meals, and we went as we were--with straw hats, blouses plastered with clay, slippered feet, no ties--in fact, in studio undress. After breakfast we lounged about the garden at quoits, tennis, target practice, shooting the misguided blackbirds who came within range, or trained our puppies; in all of which amusements M. Horace often joined us. In the evening, at that everlasting Caf Greco, we smoked the pipe of peace with the men down below, as we dubbed artists not attached to the Academy. After which we dispersed; those who virtuously returned to the Academy barracks gathering in the garden portico, where my bad guitar and worse voice were in great request, and where we sang _Freyschtz_, _Oberon_, _Iphigenia_ or _Don Giovanni_, for, to the credit of my messmates be it spoken, their musical taste was far from low. On the other hand, we sometimes had what we called English concerts. We each chose a different song and sang it in a different key, beginning by signal one after another; as this concert in twenty-four keys went on crescendo, the frightened dogs in the Pincio kept up a howling obligato and the barbers on the Piazza di Spagna down below winked at each other, saying slyly, French music! On Thursdays we went to Madame Vernets receptions, where we met the best society in Rome; and on Sundays we usually went long excursions into the country. With the directors permission, longer journeys might be undertaken and usually several of our number were absent. As for me, since Rome never appealed to me, I took refuge in the mountains; had I not done so, I doubt whether I could have lived through that time. It may seem strange that the mighty shade of old Rome should not impress me, but I had come from Paris, the centre of civilisation, and was at one blow severed from music, from theatres (they were only open for four months), from literature, since the Papal censor excluded almost everything that I cared to read, from excitements, from everything that, to me, meant real life. Balls, evening parties, shooting days in the Campagna, and rides made up the inane mill-round in which I turned. Add to that the scirocco, the incessant yearning for my beloved art, my sorrowful memories, the misery of being for two years exiled from the musical world, and the utter impossibility of composing in that stagnating atmosphere, and it will hardly be wondered at that I was as savage as a trained bull-dog, and that the well-meant efforts of my friends to divert me only drove me to the verge of madness. I remember in one of my Campagna rides with Mendelssohn expressing my surprise that no one had ever written a scherzo on Shakespeares sparkling little poem _Queen Mab_. He, too, was surprised, and I was very sorry I had put the idea into his head. For years I lived in dread that he had used it, for he would have made it impossible--or, at any rate, very risky--for anyone to attempt it after him. Luckily he forgot. My usual remedy for spleen was a trip to Subiaco, which seemed to put new life into me. An old grey suit, a straw hat, a guitar, a gun and six piastres were all my stock-in-trade. Thus I wandered, shooting or singing, careless where I might pass the night; sometimes hurrying, again stopping to investigate some ancient tomb, to listen silently to the distant bells of St Peters, far away in the plain; interrupting my hunt for a flock of lapwing to jot down a note for a symphony, and, in short, enjoying to the full my absolute freedom. Sometimes--a glorious landscape spread before me--I chanted, to the guitar accompaniment, long-remembered verses of the neid, the death of Pallas, the despair of Evander, the sad end of Amata, and the death of Lavinias noble lover, and worked myself up to an incredible pitch of excitement that ended in floods of tears. Elicited originally by the woes of these mythical beings, my overwhelming grief ended by becoming personal, and my tears flowed in self-pity for my sorrows, my doubtful future, my broken career. The odd thing was that, all the time, I was quite able to analyse my feelings, although I ended by collapsing under these chaotic miseries, murmuring a mixture of Virgil, Dante and Shakespeare--Nessun maggior dolore--che ricordarsi--O poor Ophelia!--good-night, sweet ladies--vitaque cum gemitu--sub umbras-- and so fell fast asleep. How crazy, you say? Yes, but how happy. Sensible people cannot understand this intensity of being, this actual joy in existing, in dragging from life the uttermost it has to give in height and depth. Here, in the Parisian whirlpool, how well I recall the wild Abruzzi country where I spent so long. Bitter-sweet memories of days now passed for ever. Days of utter irresponsible freedom to abolish time, to scorn ambition, to forget love and glory. Oh strong, grand Italy! Wild Italy! Heedless of that sister Italy--the Italy of Art! In time I became friendly with many of the villagers; one in particular, named Crispino, grew very fond of me; he not only got me perfumed pipe-stems (I had not then found out that I disliked the sort of excitement produced by tobacco) but balls, powder and even percussion caps. I first won his affection by helping to serenade his mistress and by singing a duet with him to that untameable young person; then fixed them by a present of two shirts and a pair of trousers. Crispino could not write, so when he had anything to tell me he came to Rome. What were thirty leagues to him? At the Academy we usually left our doors open; one January morning--having left the mountains in October I had had three months boredom--on turning over in bed, I found, standing over me, a great sun-burnt scamp with pointed hat and twisted leggings, waiting quite quietly till I woke. Hallo, Crispino! What brings you here? Oh, I have just come to--see you. Yes; what next? Well--just now---- Just now? To tell the truth--Ive got no money. Now come! Thats something like the truth. You have no money; what business is that of mine, oh mightiest of scamps? Im no scamp. If you call me a scamp because I have no money, you are right, but if it is because I was two years at Civita Vecchia, you are wrong. I wasnt sent to the galleys for stealing, but just for good honest shots at strangers in the mountains. It was all nonsense, of course, I dont believe he ever shot so much as a monk. However, he was hurt in his feelings and would only accept three piastres, a shirt and a neckerchief. The poor fellow was killed two years ago in a brawl. Shall I meet him in a better world? * * * * * In the miserable oblivion and dishonour into which music has sunk in Rome I found but one small sign of honest life. It was among the pfifferari, players of a little popular instrument, a surviving relic of antiquity. They were strolling musicians who, at Christmastide, came down from the mountains in groups of four or five armed with bagpipes and _pfifferi_, a kind of oboe, to play before the images of the Virgin. I used to spend hours in watching them, there was something so quaintly mysterious in their wild aspect as they stood--head slightly turned over one shoulder, their bright dark eyes fixed devoutly on the holy figure, almost as still as the image itself. At a distance the effect is indescribable and few escape its spell. When I heard it in its native haunts, among the volcanic rocks and dark pine forests of the Abruzzi, I could almost believe myself transported back through the ages to the days of Evander, the Arcadian. Of this time, musically, I have little to tell. I wrote a long and incoherent overture to _Rob Roy_, which I burnt immediately after its performance in Paris; the _Scne aux Champs_ of the _Symphonie Fantastique_, which I rewrote entirely in the Borghese gardens; the _Chant de Bonheur_ for _Lelio_, and lastly a little song called _La Captive_, inspired by Victor Hugos lovely poem. One day I was at Subiaco with Lefebvre, the architect. As he drew, he knocked over a book with his elbow; it was _Les Orientales_. I picked it up and it opened at that particular page. Turning to Lefebvre I said: If I had any paper I would write music to this exquisite poem; I can _hear it_. That is soon done, said he, and he ruled a sheet whereon I wrote my song. A fortnight later I remembered it and shewed it to Mademoiselle Vernet, saying: I wish you would try this, for I have quite forgotten what it is like. I scribbled a piano accompaniment, and it took so well that, by the end of the month, M. Vernet, driven nearly mad by its reiteration, said: Look here, Berlioz. Next time you go up to the mountains dont evolve any more songs; your _Captive_ is making life in the Villa impossible. I cant go a yard without hearing it sung or snored or growled. It is simply distracting! I am going to discharge one of the servants to-day, and I shall only engage another on condition that he does not sing the _Captive_. The only other thing I did was the _Resurrexit_ that I sent as my obligatory work to Paris. The Powers said that I had made _great progress_. As it was simply a piece of the mass performed at St Roch several years before I got the prize, it does not say much for the judgment of the Immortals! _January 1832._--Why did you not tell me of your marriage? Of course, I believe, since you say so, that you did not get my letters, but--even so--how could you keep silence? Your _Noce des Fes_ is exquisite; so fresh, so full of dainty grace, but I cannot make music to it yet. Orchestration is not sufficiently advanced; I must first educate and dematerialise it, then perhaps I may think of treading in Webers footsteps. But here is my idea for an oratorio--the mere carcase, that you must vitalise: The Worlds Last Day. The height of civilisation, the depth of corruption, under a mighty tyrant, throughout the earth. A faithful handful of Gods people, left alive by the tyrants contempt, under a prophet, Balthasar, who confronts the ruler and announces the end of the world. The tyrant, in amused scorn, forces him to be present at a travesty of the Last Day, but during its performance, the earth quakes, angels sound gigantic trumpets, the True Christ appears, the Judgment has come. * * * * * That is all. Tell me if the subject appeals to you. Do not attempt detail, it is lost in the Opera House. And, if possible, do not be tied down by the absurd bond of rhyme--use it or not, as seem best. I want to leave here in May; if possible, I will get the whole of my pension; if I cannot I must just go on a tour here. I have just finished an important article on the state of music in Italy for the _Revue Europenne_. * * * * * _March._--Many thanks for your confession of colossal idleness. Will you never be cured? You have read me a fine homily, but you are entirely out in your conjecture. I shall never admire ugliness in art. What I said about rhyme was only to make things easier for you. I could not bear you to waste time and talent over unnecessary difficulties. You know as well as I do that, in hundreds of cases, in verses set to music the rhymes disappear entirely--then why bother about them? As for the literary side of the question, I am quite sure it is only custom and education that make you dislike blank verse. Just think! Three quarters of Shakespeare is so written, so is Klopstocks _Messiah_. Byron used it, and lately I read a translation of _Julius Csar_ that ran perfectly, although you had prepared me to be utterly shocked. So my subject appeals to you? It is new, grand and fertile, so imagine into it all that you like. As far as the music is concerned I am exploring a virgin Brazilian forest and great are the treasures I hope to find. XX NAPLES--HOME Again did that wretched malady--call it moral, nervous, imaginary, what you will, _I_ call it spleen--which is really the fever of loneliness, seize upon me. I had first felt it at La Cte Saint-Andr, when I was sixteen. One lovely May morning I was sitting in a meadow, under the shade of a spreading oak, reading Montjoies _Manuscript found at Posilippo_. Engrossed in my story, I only gradually became aware of sweet and plaintive songs trembling in the breeze. It was the Rogation procession; in the old time-honoured way, that has always seemed to me most poetical and touching, the peasants were going round the fields, praying for the blessing of heaven on their crops. I watched them kneel before a green-wreathed wooden cross, while the priest blessed the land, then they passed on, and the sweet voices died in the distance. Silence--the gentle rustling of the flowering wheat, the faint cry of the quail to his mate, a dead leaf floating from an oak, the deep throbbing of my own heart. Life seemed so very far away! On the horizon the Alpine glaciers shone in the rising sun. Here was Meylan; far over those mountains lay Italy, Naples, Posilippo--the whole world of my story. Oh! for the wings of a dove, to leave this clogging earth-bound body! Oh! for life at its highest and best; for love, for rapture, for ecstasy; for the clinging clasp of hot embraces! Love! glory! where is my bright particular star, O my heart? my Stella Montis? Gone for ever? Then came the crisis with crushing force. I suffered horribly, rolling on the earth, spreading wide my empty arms, tearing up handfuls of grass and daisies--that opened wide their innocent eyes--as I fought my awful sense of oppression and desolation and bereavement. Yet what was all this compared to the agony I have suffered since, to the torment of my soul that increases daily? I never thought of death; suicide had no place in my mind. I wanted life, life in its fullest capacity of love and joy and happiness--furious and all-devouring--life that would use to the uttermost my superabundant energies. That is not spleen. Spleen follows upon it; it is the mental, moral and physical exhaustion that is the inevitable sequence to such a crisis. * * * * * One day as I slept, worn out by this reaction, in the laurel wood of the Villa, rolled up like a hedgehog in a heap of dry leaves, two of my comrades woke me. Now then, Silenus, get up and come to Naples. Were off. Off to the devil! You know I have no money. Idiot! Cant we lend you some? Come, Dantan, help me to heave him up or we shall get no sense out of him. There you are! Brush him down a bit. Now be off and get a months leave from Monsieur Horace. And I went. What shall I say of Naples? Clear bright sky, fecund earth, dazzling sunlight! So many have described this lovely land that I need not do it again. I wandered in the grounds of the Villa Reale, pondering on the woes of Tasso, and rowed to Nisita to watch the sun go down behind Capo Miseno to the accompaniment of the thousand minor chords of the rippling sea. As I stood, a soldier, who spoke very fair French, came up and offered to show me the curiosities of the island. I accepted gratefully, and after an hours stroll together I took out my purse. Drawing back, he put my hand aside, saying: Monsieur, I want nothing. I ask nothing but--but--that you will pray God for me. Indeed I will, I said; its an odd notion, but I will do it. And that night I seriously did say a Paternoster for him after I got to bed. I was beginning a second when I went into fits of laughter. So I am afraid that, as far as my intervention is concerned, the poor man is still a plain sergeant. Next day the wind had freshened, and our passage back was stormy. However, we landed at last, and my sailors, overjoyed at the thirty francs I had promised them, insisted on my dining with them. They were such ruffianly-looking creatures that, when they led me through a lonely poplar wood, I began to doubt them, poor lazzaroni! However, we soon came to a cottage where my amphitryons gave orders for the feast--a mountain of macaroni, into which I plunged my hand with them; a great pot of Posilippo wine, from which we drank in turn--I after a toothless old man, the eldest of the family, for, with these good fellows, respect for age comes before even courtesy to guests. Then the old man began discussing politics, and talking of King Joachim, who was very near his heart, until he got so deeply affected that, to turn his thoughts, his children made him tell me of a long and dangerous voyage he had once made when, after _three days and two nights_ at sea, he had been thrown on a far-off island which the aborigines called Elba, and where it was rumoured Napoleon had once been kept prisoner. Of course I sympathised, and congratulated the old man on his wonderful escape. The young men were greatly delighted at my interest and attention; they whispered together, there was a mysterious hurrying to and fro, and I gathered that some surprise was in store. As I rose to leave, the tallest of the lazzaroni, with shy politeness, begged me to accept a present, the best they had to offer, calculated to make the most callous of men weep. It was a gigantic--onion! which I received with modest dignity worthy of the occasion, and which I carried off in triumph, after a thousand vows of eternal friendship. That night I went to San Carlo, and, for the first time, heard music in Italy. It was at least meritorious, though the noise made by the conductor tapping his desk bothered me greatly. I was assured, however, that without this support, the musicians _could not possibly keep in time_! The musical attractions of Naples could not rival those of the surrounding country, so I passed most of my time in exploring until one day, breakfasting at Castellamare with Munier, the marine painter, whom we had christened Neptune, he said: What shall we do? I am sick of Naples. Dont let us go back. Shall we go to Sicily? By all means. Give me time to finish a study I have begun, and I can catch the five oclock boat. All right. Lets see how much money we have. Upon investigation there turned out to be enough to take us to Palermo, but for coming back we should have had to trust to Providence, as the monks say. So we separated, he to paint the sea, I to walk back to Rome over the mountains, in company with two Swedish officers whom I knew. Thus by way of Isola di Sora, Alatri, Subiaco, and Tivoli, and with but few adventures we got back to the Eternal City, and my life of stagnation began once more. I dreamed of Paris, finished my monodrama, and revised the _Symphonie Fantastique_, then, considering that the time had come to have them performed, I obtained M. Vernets permission to go back to France before my two years expired. I sat for my portrait, took a last trip to Tivoli, Albano, and Palestrina; sold my gun, broke my guitar, wrote in several albums, gave a punch-party to my fellow-students, spent a lot of time stroking M. Vernets two dogs--faithful companions of my shooting excursions--had an attack of profound sorrow at the thought that I might see this poetic land no more; climbed into a wretched old chaise, and then--good-bye to Rome! I went by Florence, Milan, and Turin, and at last, on the 12th May 1832, coming down the slopes of Mont Cenis, I beheld at my feet that smiling Grsivaudan valley, where my happiest hours and brightest dreams of childhood had passed. There was St Eynard, there the house where shone my Stella Montis; there, through the shimmering blue haze, my grandfathers place bade me welcome. Surely Italy had naught to show as lovely as this! Yet what is this strange oppression on my heart? Afar I hear the dull and ominous murmur of Paris commanding my presence. FLORENCE, _May 1832_.--I arrived yesterday, and found your letter. Why do you not say whether the sale of my medal realised enough to pay the two hundred francs I owe you? I left Rome without regret. The Academy life had grown intolerable, and I spent all my evenings with the Directors family, who have been most kind. Mademoiselle Vernet is prettier, and her father younger than ever. I am glad to be here, yet my sensations are so curiously confused that I cannot explain them even to myself. I know no one, have no adventures, am utterly alone. Perhaps that is what affects me so oddly. I seem to be not myself but some stranger--some Russian or Englishman--sauntering along the Lung Arno. Berlioz is merely a distant acquaintance. This cursed throat of mine is still troublesome; it would be the death of me if I would allow it. I shall not be in Paris till November or December, as I go straight home from here. Many thanks for your invitation to Frankfort; sooner or later I mean to accept it. _To_ MADAME HORACE VERNET. LA CTE ST ANDR, _July 1832_.--You have set me, Madame, a new and most agreeable task. An intellectual woman not only desires that I should write her my musings, but undertakes to read them without emphasizing too much their ridiculous side. It is hardly generous of me to take advantage of your kindness, but are we not all selfish? For my part, I must own that whenever such a temptation comes I shall fall into it with the utmost alacrity. I should have done so sooner had I not, on my descent from the Alps, been caught like a ball on the bound and tossed from villa to villa round Grenoble. My fear was that, on returning to France, I might have to parody Voltaire and say: The more I see of other lands, _the less_ I love my country. But all the glories of the glorious kingdom of Naples are powerless beside the ineffable charms of my beautiful vale of the Isre. Of society, however, I cannot say the same. The advantage is entirely with the absent, who are not always wrong in spite of the proverb. Despite my herculean efforts to turn the conversation, the good folks here _will_ insist on talking art, music and poetry to me, and you may imagine how provincials talk! They have most weird notions, theories and ideas that make an artists blood curdle in his veins, and, withal, the calmest assumption of infallibility. One would think to hear them talk of Byron, Goethe, Beethoven, that they were respectable bootmakers or tailors, with a little more talent than their compeers. Nothing is good enough, there is no reverence, no respect, no enthusiasm! Thus living in a crowd, I am utterly, cruelly alone and am parched for want of music. No longer can I look forward to my evenings pleasure with Mademoiselle Louise and her piano; no more can I try her sweet patience by demanding and re-demanding those sublime adagios. You smile, Madame? No doubt you murmur that I know neither what I want nor where I would be--that I am, in fact, half demented. My father devised a charming cure for my malady; he said I ought to marry and forthwith unearthed a rich damsel, informing me that, since he could leave me but little, it was my duty to marry money. At first I laughed, but finding that he was in sober earnest, I was obliged to say firmly that, since I could not love the lady in question, I would not sell myself at any price. That ended the discussion, but it upset me terribly, for I thought my father knew me better. Madame, do you not think I am right? As I promised Monsieur Horace, I will go to Paris at the end of the year to fire my musical broadside, after which I intend to start at once for Berlin. But indeed, Madame, I am taking unmerciful advantage of your kindness and will conclude by asking your pardon for my garrulity. LA CTE ST ANDR, _August 1832_.--What a dainty, elusive, piquant, teasing, witty creature is this Hiller! Were we both women, I should detest her; were she, alone, a woman I should simply hate her, for I loathe coquettes. As it is--Providence having ordered all for the best as the good say--we are luckily both masculine. No, my dear fellow, you, being you, naturally could not do otherwise than make me wait two months for your letter; naturally, also, I could not do otherwise than be angry with you therefor. However, as I was not wounded to the quick by your neglect, I wrote you a second letter which I burnt, remembering Napoleons wise saying, Certain things should never be said. If so, still less should they be written. Come now! Since you are learning Latin I will turn schoolmaster. There are mistakes in your letter. No. 1. No accent on _negre_. No. 2. DE _grands amusements_, not _des_. No. 3. _Il est possible que Mendelssohn_ LAIT, not _laura_. Take thou good heed unto my lesson. Ouf! I am in the bosom of my family, by whom (particularly by my younger sister) I allow myself to be adored in an edifying manner. But oh! I long for liberty and love and money! They will come some day and perhaps also one little luxury--one of those superfluities that are necessities to certain temperaments--_revenge_, public and private. One only lives and dies once. I spend my time in copying my _Mlologue_; I have been two months at it hard and have still sixty-two days work. Am I not persevering? I am ill for want of music, positively paralysed; then I still suffer from that choleraic trouble that sometimes keeps me in bed. However, I am up to-day, getting ready for the next attack. I am going to see Ferrand; we have not met for five years. You see extremes meet. He is more religious than ever and has married a woman who adores him and whom he adores. XXI MARRIAGE After spending the summer in Dauphiny, copying my monodrama, I went on to Paris, hoping to give two concerts before starting on my German wanderings. Apropos of the _Chorus of Shades_ in this same composition, a rather comical thing happened in Rome. In order to have it printed it was necessary for it to pass the Papal censor. Now for this language of the dead, incomprehensible to the living, I had written pure gibberish (I have since substituted French, saving my unknown tongue for the _Damnation de Faust_) of which the censor demanded a translation. They tried a German, who could make nothing of it; an Englishman, the same; Danes, Swedes, Russians, Spaniards--equally useless. Deadlock at the censorial office! At last, after much cogitation one of the officials evolved an argument that appealed forcibly and convincingly to his colleagues: Since none of these people understand the language, perhaps the Romans will not understand it either. In that case I think we might authorise the printing, without danger to religion or morals. So the _Shades_ got printed. Oh reckless censors! Suppose it had been Sanscrit! * * * * * One of my first visits in Paris was to Cherubini, whom I found much aged and enfeebled. He received me with such affection that I was quite disarmed and said: I fear me the poor man is nigh unto death! It was not long before I found my forebodings quite uncalled for; as far as I was concerned he was as lively as ever. As my old rooms in the Rue Richelieu were let, some influence compelled me to cross the road to the house in which Miss Smithson had lived, Rue Neuve St Marc, where I found a lodging. Next day, meeting the old servant, I said: Do you know what has become of Miss Smithson? Why, monsieur, she is in Paris; she only left the rooms you are in a few days ago to go to the Rue de Rivoli. She is manageress of an English theatre that is to open in a few days. Dumfoundered, I felt that this was indeed the hand of fate. For more than two years I had heard no word of fair Ophelia and here I arrive in Paris at the very moment she returns from her tour in Northern Europe. A mystic might well find arguments in defence of his cult in this strange coincidence. What I said was this: I have come to Paris to perform my monodrama. If I go to the theatre before the concert, I shall certainly have another attack of that _delirium tremens_; all volition will be taken from me; I shall be incapable of the thought and care essential to the success of my work. So first my concert, then I will see her if I die for it and will fight no more against this strange destiny. And, despite the Shakespearian names staring at me daily from all the walls in Paris, I kept sternly to my purpose. The programme was to consist of the _Symphonie Fantastique_ followed by _Lelio_, the monodrama which is the complement of the former and is the second part of my _Episode in an Artists Life_. Now trace the extraordinary sequence. Two days before the concert--which I felt would be my farewell to life and art--I was in Schlesingers music-shop, when an Englishman came in and went out almost at once. Who is that? I asked, in idle curiosity. Schutter, of _Galignanis Messenger_. Ah! cried Schlesinger, give me a box for your concert. He knows Miss Smithson, I will get him to persuade her to go. I trembled, but dared not refuse; so, running after M. Schutter, he explained matters and got his promise to do his best to induce Miss Smithson to go. Now while I had been busy over my preparations the unfortunate actress had been also busy--in ruining herself. She did not realise that Shakespeare was no longer new to the changeable, frivolous Parisian public and innocently counted on a reception such as she had had three years before. The Romantic School was now on the rising tide and its apostles were not anxious that it should be stemmed by the colossus of dramatic poetry nor that their wholesale filchings from his works should be brought to light. Hence, sparse audiences, mean receipts and considerable running expenses that swallowed up all the poor manageresss savings. Schutter, long afterwards, told me that he found Miss Smithson too dejected to accept his invitation; her sister, however, persuaded her that the change would be good and she at length allowed him to take her down to the carriage. On the way to the Conservatoire her eyes fell on the programme; even then, as she read my name (which they had taken care not to mention) she little knew that she was, herself, the heroine of my work. But, in her box, she could not help seeing that she was the subject of conversation in the hall and when Habeneck came on to conduct with me--gasping with excitement--behind him, she said to herself: It is indeed he--poor young man! But he will have forgotten me--at least--I hope so. The symphony made a tremendous sensation; that was the day of great enthusiasms and the hall of the Conservatoire (from which I am now shut out) echoed with the applause of that crowd of musicians. The success, the fiery _motifs_ of my work, its cries of love and passion and the mere vibration of such a gigantic orchestra at close quarters, all worked upon Miss Smithsons sensitive organisation, and in her heart of hearts she cried: Ah! If he but loved me now!---- During the interval Schutter and Schlesinger made thinly-veiled allusions to my sorrows and when, in the _Monodrama_, Lelio said: Shall I never meet this Juliet, this Ophelia, for whom my heart wearies? Juliet! Ophelia! she thought, he must be thinking still of me! He loves me yet! From that moment she heard no more; in a dream she sat till the end; in a dream she returned home. That was the 9th December 1832. But while the web of one part of my life was being woven on one side of the hall, on the other side another was in the weaving--compounded of the hatred and wounded vanity of Ftis. Before going to Italy I used to earn money by correcting musical proofs. Troupenas, having given me some Beethoven scores to do that had previously been revised by Ftis, I found them full of the most impertinent and unmeaning corrections. I was so furious that I went off to Troupenas and said: M. Ftis corrections are criminal. They are entirely opposed to Beethovens intention, and if this edition is published, I warn you that I shall denounce it to every musician I meet. Which I accordingly did and there was such an outcry that Troupenas was obliged to suppress the corrections and Ftis thought it politic to tell a lie and announce in the _Revue Musicale_ that there was no truth in the rumour that he had corrected Beethovens symphonies. In _Lelio_ I gibbeted him still farther by putting into my heros mouth quotations of his own that the audience recognised and applauded, with much laughter. Ftis, sitting in the front row of the gallery, got the blow full in the face, and needless to say, was thereafter more my inveterate enemy than ever. But I forgot all this next day when I went to call upon Miss Smithson and began that long course of torturing hopes and fears that lasted nearly a year. Her mother and sister and my parents were all opposed to our marriage, and while various distressing scenes were in progress, the English theatre closed in debt. To add to her misfortunes, getting out of her carriage, she missed her footing, and falling, broke her leg just above the ankle. The injury was most severe and it was feared that she would be lame for life. Her accident elicited the greatest sympathy in Paris. Mademoiselle Mars, particularly, came forward, placing her purse, influence, everything she had at poor Ophelias disposal. I managed to organise a benefit, in which Chopin and Liszt took part, which brought in enough to pay the most pressing debts. At last, in the summer of 1833, Henriette being still weak and quite ruined, I married her in the face of the opposition of our two families. All our resources on the wedding day were three hundred francs lent me by Gounet. But what did it matter, since she was mine? _To_ H. FERRAND. PARIS, _12th June 1833_.--It is really too bad of me to cause you anxiety on my account. But you know how my life fluctuates. One day calm, dreamy, rhythmical; the next bored, nerve-torn, snappy and snarly as a mangey dog, vicious as a thousand devils, sick of life and ready to end it, were it not for the frenzied happiness that draws ever nearer, for the odd destiny that I feel is mine; for my staunch friends; for music, and lastly, for _curiosity_. My life is a story that interests me greatly. You ask how I pass my days? If I am well I read or sleep on the sofa (for I am in comfortable lodgings) or scribble a few well-paid pages for the _Europe Littraire_. About six I go to see Henriette who, to my sorrow, is still ailing. I must tell you all about her some day. Your opinion of her is quite wrong; her life, also, is a strange book, of which her points of view, her thoughts, her feelings, are by no means the least interesting part. I am still meditating the opera I asked you to write in my letter from Rome eighteen months ago. As, in all this time, you have not sufficiently conquered your laziness to write it, dont be angry that I have given it to Deschamps and Saint-Flix. I really _have_ been patient! _August 1833._--You true friend, not to despair of my future! These cowards cannot realise that, all the time, I am learning, observing, gathering ideas and knowledge. Bending before the storm, I still grow; the wind does but blow off a few leaves; the green fruit upon my branches holds too firmly to be shaken off. Your trust helps and encourages me. Have I told you of my parting with Henriette--of our scenes, despair, reproaches, which ended in my taking poison? Her protestations of love and sorrow brought back my desire to live; I took an emetic, was ill three days and am still alive! In her self-abasement she offered to do anything I chose, but now she begins to hesitate again. I will wait no more and have written that, unless she goes with me to the Town Hall on Saturday to be married, I leave for Berlin at once. She shall see that I, who for so long have languished at her feet, can rise, can leave her, can live for those who love and understand me. To help me to bear this horrible parting a strange chance has thrown in my way a charming girl of eighteen, who has fled from a brute who bought her--a mere child--and has kept her shut up like a slave for four years. Rather than go back to him, she says she will drown herself and my idea is to take her to Berlin, and by Spontinis influence, place her in some chorus. I will try and make her love me, and if I succeed, I will fan into life the smouldering embers in my own heart and persuade myself that I love her. My passport is ready; I must make an end of things here. Henriette will be miserable but I have nothing to reproach myself with. I would give my life this minute for a month of _perfect love_ with her. She must abide the consequences of her unstable character; she will weep and despair at first, then will dry her tears and end by believing me in the wrong. * * * * * _11th October 1833._--I am married! All opposition has been in vain. Henriette has told me of the hundred and one lies they spread abroad. I was epileptic, I was mad--nothing was too bad. But we have listened to our own hearts and all is well. This winter we are going to Berlin, but before leaving I must give a horrid concert. How _awfully_ I love my poor Ophelia! When once we can get rid of her troublesome sister, life will be hard but quite happy. We are at Vincennes, where my wife can spend her days in the Park, but I go to Paris every day. Our marriage has made the devils own row there. My little fugitive is provided for. Jules Janin has arranged to send her away. Write soon. I love to answer, in order to tell you of the heaven I live in--it needs but you! Surely love and friendship like yours and mine is one of the supreme joys of this world! XXII NEWSPAPER BONDAGE At the time of our marriage our sole income was my scholarship, which still had a year and a half to run; but the Minister of the Interior absolved me from the regulation German tour. I had a fair number of friends and adherents in Paris and firm faith in the future. To pay my wifes debts, I had to start _benefit-mongering_. My friends rallied round me--amongst them Alexandre Dumas, who was all his life my most devoted helper--and after untold annoyances we arranged a theatrical performance, followed by a concert at the Thtre Italien. The programme was Dumas _Antony_, played by Firmin and Madame Dorval, followed by the fourth act of _Hamlet_, by my wife and some English amateurs; then a concert consisting of my _Symphonie Fantastique_, _Francs-Juges_, _Sardanapalus_, a chorus of Weber and his _Concert-Stck_, played by Liszt. If the concert had ever come off entirely it would have lasted till one in the morning. But it did not, and for the sake of young musicians I must tell what happened. Not being versed in the manners and customs of theatrical musicians, I arranged with the manager to take his theatre and orchestra, adding to the latter some players from the Opera, an impossibly dangerous combination, since the theatre _employs_ were bound by contract to take part gratuitously in concerts in their own house, and, therefore, naturally look upon them as a burden. By engaging paid artists, I simply added to their grievance, and they determined to be revenged. Then, my wife and I being equally ignorant of the petty intrigues of the theatrical world we took no precautions to insure her success. We never even sent a ticket to the _claque_, and Madame Dorval, believing Henriettes triumph secured, of course took measures to arrange for her own. Besides, she played splendidly, so it was no wonder she was applauded and recalled. The fourth act of _Hamlet_, separated from its context, was incomprehensible to French people and fell absolutely flat. They even noticed (although her talent and grace were as great as ever) how difficult my poor wife found it to raise herself from her kneeling position by her fathers bier, by resting one hand on the stage. Gone was her magnetic power to thrill her audience, and, at the fall of the curtain, those who had idolised her did not even recall her once! It was heart-breaking. My poor Ophelia, the twilight had indeed crept on! As to the concert, the _Francs-Juges_ was poorly played but well received; the _Concert-Stck_, played by Liszt with the passionate impetuosity he always put into it, created a furore, and I, carried away by enthusiasm, was idiotic enough to embrace him on the stage, a piece of stupidity fortunately condoned by the audience. From then things went badly, and by the time we arrived at the symphony not only were my pulses beating like sledge-hammers, but it was very late indeed. I knew nothing of the rule of the Thtre Italien, that its musicians need not play after midnight, and when, after Webers _Chorus_, I turned to review my orchestra before raising my baton, I found that it consisted of five violins, two violas, four cellos, and a trombone, all the others having slipped quietly away. In my consternation I could not think what to do. The audience did not seem inclined to leave and loudly called for the symphony, one voice in the gallery shouting, Give us the _Marche au Supplice_! How can I, cried I, perform such a thing with five violins? Is it my fault that the orchestra has disappeared? I was crimson with rage and shame. With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies announced that my music drove musicians out of the place. That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went into the gulf of my wifes debts without, alas! filling it up. That was only done after years of struggle and privation. I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriettes full approval, I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire. It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly determined to face the chance of positive penury. The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated. My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted form--genius-haunted, a colossus among giants--whom I had never seen before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion. Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and appreciation that fired my heart and head. It was Paganini. This was on the 22nd December 1833. Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and wicked reports. Some weeks later he said: I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you. To do that one ought to play the viola, I objected. You alone could do it satisfactorily. But he insisted: I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it properly. So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a sketch of his part. This wont do, he said, looking at the pauses, there is too much silence. I must be playing all the time. Did I not tell you so? I answered. What you want is a viola concerto, and you are the only one who can write it. He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later, suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left for Nice and did not come back for three years. Still ruminating over my idea, I wove round the viola solo a series of scenes, drawn from my memories of wanderings in the Abruzzi, which I called _Childe Harold_, as there seemed to me about the whole symphony a poetic melancholy worthy of Byrons hero. It was first performed at my concert, 23rd November 1834, but Girard, the conductor, made a terrible hash of the _Pilgrims March_. However, being doubtful of my own powers, I still allowed him to direct my concerts until, after the fourth performance of _Harold_, seeing that he would not take it at the proper _tempo_, I assumed command myself, and never but once after that broke my rule of conducting my own compositions. We shall see how much cause I had to regret that one exception. MONTMARTRE, _30th August 1834_.--You are not forgotten--not the least little bit, but you cannot know what a slave I am to hard necessity. Had it not been for those confounded newspaper articles I should have written to you a dozen times. I will not write the usual empty phrases on your loss yet, if anything could soften the blow, it would be that your fathers death was as peaceful as one could wish. You speak of my father. He wrote kindly and quickly in answer to my letter announcing the birth of my boy. Henriette thanks you for your messages; she, too, understands the depth of our friendship. I could write all night but, as I have to tug at my galley-oar all day, I must go to sleep. * * * * * _30th November 1834._--I quite expected a letter from you to-day, and although I am dropping with fatigue, I must snatch half an hour to answer it. The _Symphonie Fantastique_ is out, and, as our poor Liszt has dropped a terrible lot of money over it, we arranged with Schlesinger that not one copy was to be given away. They are twenty francs. Shall I buy one for you? Would to heaven I could send it you without all this preface, but you know we are still very straitened. My wife and I are as happy as it is possible to be, in spite of our worldly troubles, and little Louis is the dearest and sweetest of children. * * * * * _10th January 1835._--If I had had time I should already have begun another work I am thinking of, but I am obliged to scribble these wretched, ill-paid articles. Ah! if only art counted for something with the Government perhaps I should not be reduced to this. Never mind, I must find time somehow. * * * * * _April 1835._--I wrote, about a month ago, an introduction to you for a young violinist named Allard, who is on his way to Geneva. So you have been in Milan! Not a town I like, but it is the threshold of Italy. I cannot tell you how much, when the weather is fine, I long for my ancient Campagna and the wild hills that I loved. You ask for news of us. Louis can nearly walk alone and Henriette is more devoted to him than ever. I work like a nigger for the four papers whence I get my daily bread. They are the _Rnovateur_, which pays badly; the _Monde Dramatique_ and _Gazette Musicale_ which pay only fairly; the _Dbats_, which pays well. Added to this is the nightmare of my musical life; I cannot find time to compose. I have begun a gigantic piece of work for seven hundred musicians, to the memory of the great men of France. It would soon be done if I had but one quiet month, but I dare not give up a single day to it, lest we should want for absolute necessaries. Which concert do you refer to? I have given seven this season and shall begin again in November. At present we sit dumb under the triumph of Musard, who, puffed up by the success of his dancing-den concerts, looks upon himself as a superior Mozart. Mozart never composed anything like the Pistol-shot Quadrille, consequently Mozart died of want. Musard is earning twenty thousand francs a year, and Ballanche, the immortal author of _Orpheus_ and _Antigone_ was nearly thrown into prison, because he owed two hundred francs. Think of it, Ferrand; does not madness lie that way? If I were a bachelor, so that my rash doings would recoil on myself alone, I know what I would do. Never mind that now, though. Love me always and, to please me, read de Vignys _Chatterton_. _December 1835._--Do not think me a sinner for leaving you so long in silence. You can have no idea of my work--but I need not emphasise that, for you know how much pleasure I have in writing to you and that I should not lightly forego it. I have seen Coste, who is publishing serially _Great Men of Italy_, and he is going to approach you about contributing some articles. Among those now out is a life of Benvenuto Cellini. Read it, if you are not already familiar with the autobiography of that bandit of genius. _Harold_ is more successful even than last year, and I think it quite outdoes the _Fantastique_. They have accepted my _Cellini_ for the Opera; Alfred de Vigny and Auguste Barbier have written me a poem full of dainty vivacity and colour. I have not begun to work at the music yet, because I am in the same predicament as my hero, Cellini--short of money. Good reports from Germany, thanks to Liszts piano arrangement of my Symphony. * * * * * _April 1826._--I still work frightfully hard at journalism. You know I write concert critiques for the _Dbats_, which are signed H. They seem to be making a stir. Parisian artists call them epoch-making. In spite of M. Bertin (the editors) wish, I refused to review either _I Puritani_ or that wretched _Juive_. I should have had to find too much fault, and people would have put it down to jealousy. Then there is the _Rnovateur_, wherein I can hardly control my wrath over all these pretty little trifles; and _Picturesque Italy_ has dragged an article out of me. Next, the _Gazette Musicale_ plagues me for a _rsum_ of the weeks inanities every Sunday. Added to that I have tried every concert room in Paris, with the idea of giving a concert, and find none suitable except the Conservatoire, which is not available until after the last of the regular concerts on the 3rd May. We often talk of you to Barbier; he is a kindred soul whom you would love. No one understands better than he the grandeur and nobility of an artists calling. Germany still talks of me; Vienna asks for a copy of the score of the _Fantastique_, but I tell them I cannot possibly let them have it, as I propose to give it on tour myself. All the poets in Paris, from Scribe to Victor Hugo, offer me subjects, but those idiotic directors stand in the way. Some day I will set my foot upon their necks. Now I must be off to the office of the _Dbats_ with my article on Beethovens _C Minor_. Meyerbeer is coming soon to superintend his _Huguenots_, which I am most anxious to hear. He is the only recognised musician who has shown a keen interest in me. Onslow has been paying me his usual bombastic compliments on the _Pilgrims March_. I am glad to think there was not a word of truth in them, I prefer open hatred to honeyed venom. XXIII THE REQUIEM In 1836 M. de Gasparin, Minister of the Interior, feeling that religious music should be better supported, allocated, yearly, a sum of 3000 francs to be given to a French composer, chosen by the Minister, for either a mass or an oratorio; his idea being also to have it executed at the expense of the Government. I shall begin with Berlioz, he said, I am sure he could write a good Requiem. A friend of M. de Gasparins son told me this. My surprise was only equalled by my delight, but, to make sure, I asked an audience of M. de Gasparin. It is quite true, he said, I am going out of office, and this is my last bequest. You have, of course, received the official notification. No, monsieur; it was by a mere chance that I heard of your kind intentions towards me. What! you ought to have had it a week ago. It must be an official oversight; I will look into it. But nothing happened, and I finally spoke to the Ministers son, who told me that there was an intrigue on foot to put off my commission until his fathers retirement, after which the Director of Fine Arts--who had no love for me, but whom I need not name since he is dead--hoped that it would be shelved. This Monsieur X. was a Rossinist. One day I heard him giving his opinion of composers, ancient and modern, and rejecting them all, except Beethoven, whom he forgot. Suddenly he bethought him and said: Lets see. I believe there is another--a German--what is his name? They play his symphonies at the Conservatoire. You may know him, Monsieur Berlioz? Beethoven. Ah yes, Beethoven. I believe he has a certain amount of talent. I heard that myself. _Beethoven not devoid of talent!_ M. de Gasparin had no intention of being ignored; therefore, finding that nothing had been done, he sent for M. X. and ordered him sternly to make out my appointment at once. Naturally this snub did not increase M. X.s friendly feeling towards me but, armed with my decree, I set to work with the greatest ardour. I had so long ached to try my hand at a Requiem that I flung myself into it body and soul. My head seemed bursting with the ferment of ideas, and I actually had to invent a sort of musical short-hand to get on fast enough. All composers know the bitter despair of losing beautiful ideas through want of time to jot them down. In spite of the rapidity with which I wrote, I afterwards made but few corrections. Is it not strange that, during that volcanic time, I should twice over have dreamed that I was sitting in the Meylan garden, under a beautiful weeping acacia, alone. Estelle was not there, and I kept asking: Where is she? Where is she? Who can explain it? Only those who recognise the affinity of the mysteries of the human heart with those of the magnet. Here, briefly, is a list of the miseries I endured over that Requiem. It was arranged that it should be performed at the memorial service held every July for the victims of the Revolution of 1830. I, consequently, had the parts copied, and was beginning rehearsals, when I was told to stop, as the service was to be held without music. Of course the new Minister owed a certain amount to my copyists and chorus (without mentioning myself), yet will it be believed that for five months I had to besiege that department for those few hundred francs? At last, losing all patience, I had a pretty lively quarrel with M. X., and as I left his room the guns of the Invalides proclaimed the fall of Constantine. Two hours later he sent for me in hot haste. A funeral service was to be held for General Damrmont and the soldiers who had fallen in the siege. Now mark! This being a military affair, General Bernard had charge of it, and in this way M. X. hoped to get rid of me and also of the necessity of paying his just debts. Here the drama becomes complicated. Cherubini, hearing that my Requiem was to be performed, worked himself into a fever, for he considered that _his_ Requiem should have a monopoly of such ceremonies. His rights, his dignity, his genius, all set aside in favour of a hot-headed young heretic!! His friends, headed by Halvy, started a cabal to oust me. Being one morning in the _Dbats_ office, I saw Halvy come in. Now M. Bertin, the editor, has always been one of my best and kindest friends, and the frigid reception he and his son Armand gave the visitor somewhat disconcerted him--my presence still more so--and he found a change of tactics advisable. He followed M. Bertin into the next room, and I, through the open door, heard him say that Cherubini took it so to heart that he was ill in bed, and he (Halvy) had come to beg M. Bertin to use his influence in getting him the consolation of the Legion of Honour. M. Berlins cold voice broke in: Certainly, my dear Halvy, we will do our best to get Cherubini such a well-merited distinction. But as far as the Requiem is concerned, if Berlioz gives way one jot, _I will never speak to him again_. So much for that failure. Next came a blacker plot. General Bernard agreed that I should have a free hand, and rehearsals had already begun when M. X. sent for me again. This time it was: Habeneck has always conducted our great official performances, and I know he would be terribly hurt at being left out of this. Are you on good terms with him? Why, no. We have quarrelled, goodness only knows why--I dont! He has not spoken to me for three years. I never troubled to find out the reason, but he began by refusing to conduct one of my concerts. Still, if he wishes to conduct this one, he may, but I reserve the right of conducting one rehearsal. On the great day princes, ministers, peers, deputies, the press--home and foreign--and a mighty crowd gathered in the Invalides. It was most important that I should have a real success, failure would have crushed me irretrievably. My performers were rather curiously arranged. To get the right effect in the _Tuba mirum_, the four brass bands were placed one at each corner of the enormous body of instrumentalists and choristers. As they join in, the _tempo_ doubles, and it is, of course, of the utmost importance that the time should be absolutely clearly indicated. Otherwise, my Titanic cataclysm--prepared with so much thought and care by means of original and hitherto unknown combinations of instruments to represent the Last Judgment--becomes merely a hideous pandemonium. Suspicious as usual, I took care to be close to Habeneck--in fact, back to back with him--keeping an eye on the group of kettledrums (which he could not see) as the critical moment drew near. There are about a thousand bars in my Requiem; will it be believed that at this--the most important of all--Habeneck _calmly laid down his baton and, with the utmost deliberation, took a pinch of snuff_. But my eye was upon him; turning on my heel, in a flash I stretched out my arm and marked the four mighty beats. The executants followed me, all went right, and my long-dreamed-of effect was a magnificent triumph. Dear me, bleated Habeneck, I was quite in a perspiration; without you we should have been done for. Yes, we should, I answered, eyeing him steadily. Could it be that this man, in conjunction with M. X. and Cherubini, planned this dastardly stroke? I do not like to think so, yet I have not the slightest doubt. God forgive me if I wrong them. The Requiem had succeeded, but then began the usual sordid trouble about payment. General Bernard, a thoroughly honourable man, had promised me ten thousand francs for the performance as soon as I brought from the Minister of the Interior a promise to pay the sum ordered by the late Minister--M. de Gasparin--and also that due to the copyists and choristers. But do you think I could get this letter? It was written out ready for his signature, and from ten to four I waited in his ante-room. At last he emerged and, being button-holed by his secretary, scrawled his name to the precious document, and without a moments loss of time I hurried off to General Bernard, who promptly handed me the ten thousand francs, which I spent entirely in paying the performers. Of course I thought the Ministers three thousand would soon follow. _Sancta simplicitas!_ Will it be credited that only by making most unpleasant, almost scandalous, scenes could I, at the end of _eight months_, get that money? Later on, when my good friend, M. de Gasparin, again came into office, he tried to make up for my mortification by giving me the Legion of Honour. But by that time I was past caring for such a commonplace distinction. Duponchel, manager of the Opera and Bordogni, the singing-master, got it at the same time. When the Requiem was printed, I dedicated it to M. de Gasparin, all the more willingly that he was not then in power. What added greatly to the humour of the situation was that the opposition newspapers dubbed me a Government parasite, and said I had been paid thirty thousand francs. They only added a nought. Thus is history written. Ere long Cherubini played me another charming trick. A professorship of Harmony was vacant at the Conservatoire, for which I applied. Cherubini sent for me, and, in his most honeyed voice, said: Is it zat you present yourself for ze armonee? Yes, monsieur. Zen you vill get it. You ave a reputation, influence---- Since I asked for it because I want it, I am glad, monsieur. Yes, but zat is vhere I am bothair; I vill zat anozzer get it. Then, monsieur, I withdraw. No, no! I vill not ave zat, because you see zey will say I am ze cause zat you vizdraw. Then I wont withdraw. But--but--zen you vill get ze place--and I did not vish it for you. Then what am I to do? You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze armonee at Conservatoire, my tear fallow. Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw? Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But _I_ am not ze excuse zat you vizdraw---- Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only pianists could teach Harmony. Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much. A week after he gave the place to Bienaim, who played the piano as well as I do! Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the first to laugh at it. Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who lofed me much. It was at the first performance of his _Ali Baba_, about the emptiest, feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of hearing nothing striking, I called out: Twenty francs for an idea! In the middle of the second I raised my bid. Forty francs for an idea! The finale commenced. Eighty francs for an idea! The finale ended and I took myself off, remarking: By Jove! I give it up. Im not rich enough! Of course indignant friends of Cherubini told him of my insolence and, considering how he lofed me, he must have thought me an ungrateful wretch. I had better explain here how I got on to the staff of the _Dbats_. One day, being utterly wretched and not knowing where to turn for money, I wrote an extravagantly amusing tale called Rubini at Calais. These contrasts happen sometimes. A few days after it came out in the _Gazette Musicale_, the _Journal des Dbats_ reproduced it, with a few words of cordial appreciation from the editor. I went to thank M. Bertin, who offered me the proud post of musical editor. This enabled me to throw up my least well-paid work; yet, all the same, I abominate criticism, and feel quite ill from the moment I see the advertisement of a new performance until I have written my article on it. The ever-recurring task poisons my life. I hate circumlocution, diplomacy, trimming, and all half-measures and concessions. They are so much gall and wormwood to me. People call me passionate, rude, spiteful, prejudiced. O scrubby louts! If you but knew all I _want_ to write of you, you would find your present bed of nettles a couch of roses compared to the gridiron on which I long to toast you! At least I can truly say that never have I grudged the fullest, most heartfelt praise to all that aims at the good and true and beautiful--even when it emanates from my bitterest foes. One day Armand Bertin, who was grieved at my narrow circumstances, told me he had heard that I was to be appointed professor of composition at the Conservatoire, in spite of Cherubini. M. X., whom I met at the Opera, confirmed it, and I begged him to tender my thanks to the Minister for a position that would be to me assured comfort. That was the last I heard of it. Still I got something--the post of librarian, which I still hold and which brings me in 118 francs a month. While I was in England, several worthy patriots tried to eject me, and it was only the kind intervention of Victor Hugo--who had some authority in the Chamber--that saved it for me. Another good friend of mine was M. Charles Blanc, who became Director of Fine Arts, and frequently helped me with a ready warmth I shall never forget. XXIV FRIENDS IN NEED And now for my opera and its deadly failure. The strange career of Benvenuto Cellini had made such an impression on me that I stupidly concluded that it would be both dramatic and interesting to other people. I therefore asked Lon de Wailly and Auguste Barbier to write me a libretto on it. I must own that even our friends thought it had not the elements essential to success, but it pleased me, and even now I cannot see that it is inferior to many others that are played daily. In order to please the management of the _Dbats_, Duponchel, manager of the Opera--who looked upon me as a species of lunatic--read the libretto and agreed to take my opera. After which he went about saying that he was going to put it on, not on account of the music, which was ridiculous, but of the book, which was charming. Never shall I forget the misery of those three months rehearsals. The indifference of the actors, riding for a fall, Habenecks bad temper, the vague rumours I heard on all sides, all betrayed a general hostility against which I was powerless. It was worse when we came to the orchestra. The executants, seeing Habenecks surly manner, were cold and reserved with me. Still they did their duty, which he did not. He never could manage the quick _tempo_ of the saltarello; the dancers, unable to dance to his dragging measure, complained to me. I cried: Faster! Faster! Wake up! Habeneck, in a rage, hit his desk and broke his bow. After several exhibitions of temper of this sort I said, calmly: My good sir, breaking fifty bows will not prevent your time being twice as slow as it ought to be. This is a saltarello. He turned to the orchestra. Since it is impossible to please M. Berlioz, said he, we will stop for to-day. You may go. If only I could have conducted myself! But in France authors are not allowed to direct their own works in theatres. Years later I conducted my _Carnaval Romain_, where that very saltarello comes in, without the wind instruments having any rehearsal at all; and Habeneck, certain that I should come to grief, was present. I rushed the allegro at the proper time and everything went perfectly. The audience cried encore, and the second time was even better than the first. I met Habeneck as we went out, and threw four words at him over my shoulder. Thats how it goes. He did not reply. I never felt so happy conducting as I did that day; the thought of the torments Habeneck had made me suffer increased my pleasure. * * * * * But to return to _Benvenuto_. Gradually the larger part of the orchestra came over to my side, and several declared that this was the most original score they had ever played. Duponchel heard them and said: Was ever such a right-about face? Now they think Berlioz music charming, and the idiots are praising it up to the skies. Still some malcontents remained, and two were found one night playing _Jai du bon tabac_ instead of their parts. It was just the same on the stage. The dancers pinched their partners, who, by their shrieks, upset the chorus. When, in despair, I sent for Duponchel he was never to be found; attending rehearsal was beneath his dignity. The opera came on at last. The overture made a furore, the rest was unmercifully hissed. However it was played three times. It is fourteen years (I write in 1850) since I was thus pilloried at the opera, and I have just read over my poor score, carefully and impartially. I cannot help thinking that it shows an originality, a raciness and a brilliancy that I shall, probably, never have again and which deserve a better fate. _Benvenuto_ took me a long time to write and would never have been ready--tied as I was by my bread-earning journalistic work--had it not been for the help of a friend. It was heart-breaking, and I had almost given up the opera in despair when Ernest Legouv came to me, asking: Is your opera done? First act not even ready yet. I have no time to compose. But supposing you had time---- I would write from dawn till dark. How much would make you independent? Two thousand francs. And suppose someone--If someone--Come, do help me out! With what? What do you mean? Why, suppose a friend lent it to you? What friend could I ask for such a sum? You neednt ask when I offer it---- Think of my relief! In real truth, next day Legouv lent me two thousand francs, and I finished _Benvenuto_. His noble heart--writer and artist as he was--guessed my trouble and feared to wound me by his offer! I have been fortunate in having many staunch friends. Paganini was back in Paris when _Benvenuto_ was slaughtered; he felt for me deeply and said: If I were a manager I would commission that young man to write me three operas. He should be paid in advance, and I should make a splendid thing by it. Mortification and the suppressed rage in which I had lived during those everlasting rehearsals, brought on a bad attack of bronchitis that kept me in bed, unable to work. But we had to live, and I determined to give two concerts at the Conservatoire. The first barely paid its expenses so, as an attraction, I advertised the _Fantastique_ and _Harold_ together for the 16th December 1838. Now Paganini, although it was written at his desire, had never heard _Harold_, and, after the concert, as I waited--trembling, exhausted, bathed in perspiration--he, with his little son, Achille, appeared at the orchestra door, gesticulating violently. Consumption of the throat, of which he afterwards died, prevented his speaking audibly and Achille alone could interpret his wishes. He signed to the child, who climbed on a chair and put his ear close to his fathers mouth, then turning to me he said: Monsieur, my father orders me to tell you that never has he been so struck by music. He wishes to kneel and thank you. Confused and embarrassed, I could not speak, but Paganini seized my arm, hoarsely ejaculating, Yes! Yes! dragged me into the theatre where several of my players still lingered--and there knelt and kissed my hand. Coming away in a fever from this strange scene, I met Armand Bertin; stopping to speak to him in that intense cold sent me home to bed worse than ever. Next day, as I lay, ill and alone, little Achille came in. My father will be very sorry you are ill, he said, if he had not been ill himself he would have come to see you. He told me to give you this letter. As I began to open it, the child stopped me: He said you must read it alone. There is no answer. And he hurried out. I supposed it just a letter of congratulation; but here it is: DEAR FRIEND,--Only Berlioz can recall Beethoven, and I, who have heard that divine work--so worthy of your genius--beg you to accept the enclosed 20,000 francs, as a tribute of respect.--Believe me ever, your affectionate friend, NICCOLO PAGANINI. PARIS, _18th Dec. 1838_. I knew enough Italian to make out the letter, but it surprised me so greatly that my head swam, and, without thinking of what I was doing, I opened the little note which was enclosed and addressed to M. de Rothschild. It was in French and ran: MONSIEUR LE BARON,--Would you be so good as to hand over the 20,000 francs that I deposited yesterday to M. Berlioz. PAGANINI. Then I understood. My wife, coming in, thought that some new trouble had fallen upon us. What is it now? she cried. Be brave! we have borne so much already. No, no--not that---- What then? Paganini--has sent me--20,000 francs! Louis! Louis! cried Henriette, rushing for her boy, come here to your mother and thank God. And together they knelt by my bed--grateful mother and wondering child. Oh Paganini! why could you not be there to see? Naturally, my first thought was to thank him. My letter seemed so poor, so inadequate, that I am ashamed to give it here. There are feelings beyond words. His munificent kindness was soon noised abroad and my room besieged by friends anxious to know the facts. All rejoiced and some were jealous--not of me, but of Paganini, who was rich enough to do such deeds. Then began the comments, fury and lies of my opponents, followed by the congratulatory letter of Janin and his eloquent article in the _Dbats_. For a week I lay in bed, burning with impatience to see and thank my benefactor. Then I hurried to his house and found him in the billiard-room. We embraced in silence then, as I poured forth broken thanks, he spoke and--thanks to the silence of the room--I was able to make out his words. Not a word! It is so little and has given me the greatest pleasure of my life. You cannot tell how much your music moves me. Ah! he cried, with a blow of his fist on the table, now your enemies will be silenced for they know I understand and am not easily satisfied. But great as was his name it was not great enough to silence the dogs of Paris; in a few weeks they were again baying at my heels. My earnest wish, now that all debts were paid and a handsome sum remained in hand, was to write a masterpiece, grand, impassioned, original, worthy of dedication to the master to whom I owed so much. But Paganini, growing worse, had left for Nice, whence alas! he returned no more. I consulted him as to a suitable theme, but he replied: I cannot advise you. You best know what suits you best. After much wavering I fixed on a choral symphony on Shakespeares _Romeo and Juliet_, and wrote the prose words for the choral portion, which Emile Deschamps, with his usual kindness and extraordinary versatility, put into poetry for me. Ah! the joy of no more newspaper articles!--or at least hardly any. Paganini had given me money to make music, and I made it. For seven months, with only a few days intermission, did I work at my symphony. And, during those months, what a burning, exhilarating life I led! Ah! the joy of floating on the halcyon sea of poetry; wafted onward by the sweet soft breeze of imagination; warmed by the rays of that golden sun of love unveiled by Shakespeare! I felt within me the god-like strength to win my way to that blessed hidden isle, where the temple of pure art raises its soaring columns to the sky. To others must I leave it to say whether I ever truly looked upon its glories. Such as it was, my symphony was performed three times running, and each time appeared to be a great success. To my sorrow, Paganini never heard it nor read it. I hoped to see him again in Paris; then to send him the printed score; but he died at Nice leaving to me the poignant sorrow that he would never judge whether the work, undertaken to please him and to justify his faith in its author, was worthy of his great trust. He, too, seemed sorry not to have known it, and in his letter of the 7th January 1840, he wrote: Now it is well done; jealousy can but be silent. Dear, noble friend! He never saw the ribald nonsense written about my work; how one called my _Queen Mab_ music a badly-oiled squirt, how another--speaking of the _Love-Scene_, which musicians place in the forefront of my work--said I _did not understand Shakespeare_! Empty-headed toad, bursting with stupid self-importance! If you could prove that.... Never was I more deeply hurt by criticism, and yet none of these high priests of art deigned to point out the faults, which I thankfully corrected, when told of them. For instance, Ernsts secretary, M. Frankoski, wrote from Vienna saying that the end of _Queen Mab_ was too abrupt; I therefore wrote the present coda and destroyed the original one. The criticisms of M. dOrtigue I also appreciated. The rest of the alterations were my own. But the symphony is enormously difficult for the executants, both in form and style, and needs most careful, conscientious practice and perfect conducting--which means that none but first-rate artists in each department could possibly do it. For this reason it will never be given in London. They do not give enough time to rehearsals. The musicians there have no time for music. XXV BRUSSELS--PARIS OPERA CONCERT _To_ FRANZ LISZT. PARIS, _6th August 1839_.--I long, dear friend, to tell you all the musical news--at least all that I know. Not that you will find anything new in it. You must be quite _blas_ with studying Italian modes of thought; they are dreadfully like Parisian ones. I know you have not the heart to laugh at them, for you are not of those who find subject for mirth in the insults offered to our Muse--you would rather, at any cost, hide the blemishes upon her snowy robes and the woful rents in her shimmering veil of light. So I will content myself with calmly stating facts and retailing news, whereby I can preserve a dignified quiet, and can simply deal out remarks without theorising. The day before yesterday, as I was smoking a cigar in the Boulevard des Italiens, Batta caught me by the arm. What are they up to in London? I asked. Nothing whatever. They despise music and poetry and drama--everything. They go to the Italian Opera because the Queen goes, and thats all. I feel quite thankful not to be out of pocket and to have been clapped at two or three concerts. That is all the British hospitality I can boast of. Even Artot, in spite of his Philharmonic success, was horribly bored. And Doehler? Bored also. Thalberg? Is cultivating the provinces. Benedict---- Encouraged by the success of his first attempt, is writing an English opera. Well, Im off. Come to Halls to-night, we are going to drink and have some music. M. Hall is a young German pianist--tall, thin, and long-haired--who plays magnificently, and seems to get at music by instinct rather than by notes--that is to say, he is rather like you. Real talent, immense knowledge, perfect execution, are among the gifts we all recognise in him. Hall and Batta played Mendelssohns B flat sonata, then we had a chorus over our beer, then Beethovens A major sonata, of which the first movement excited us wildly, and the minuet and finale drove us to the verge of lunacy. Oh you untiring vagabond! when will you return, once more to preside over our nights of music? Between ourselves, you always had too many people at your gatherings--too much talk, too little listening. You, alone, wasted an amount of inspiration that was enough to turn one giddy, without all the rest of the folks in addition. Do you remember that evening at Legouvs when--the lights put out--you played the C sharp minor sonata, we five lying in the dark on the floor? My tears and Legouvs, Schoelchers wondering respect, Goubeauxs astonishment! Ah me! you were indeed sublime that night! But to get back to news. There is a glorious row toward between our Opera troupe and the Italian; they want to unite them in the Rue Le Pelletier. It will be rather a shock. Lablache against Levasseur, Rubini against Duprez, Tamburini against Drivis, Grisi against Mdlle. Naudin and the whole lot against the big drum. We mean to be there to pick up the dead and the dying. Lots of people find fault with the Opera orchestra, they say they do not keep in tune, that the right-hand side tends to get a quarter-tone higher than the left--which these gentlemen consider most unreasonable---- You seem to suffer in silence, one of them said to me the other day. I? I did not say I suffered at all, I replied. First, because I never said a word, and secondly, because.... Sometimes when they are at their wits end they play _Don Giovanni_. If Mozart could come back to this world, he would tell them (like Molires president) that he would not have it _played_. The other day, Ambroise Thomas, Morel, and I were saying we would give five hundred francs for a good performance of Spontinis _Vestale_; that set us off--we know it by heart--and we went on singing it till midnight. But we missed you for our accompaniments. I am just pouring out news as it comes into my head. Hiller has sent me part of his _Romilda_ from Milan. One of our enemies wished to throw himself off the Vendome Column the other day. He gave the keeper forty francs to let him go up--then changed his mind and walked down again. Chopin is still away; they said he was very ill, but there is no truth in it. Dumas has just written an exquisite thing--_Mademoiselle de Belle Isle_--but that is out of my province. There! no more news. My indifferentism does not extend to you and your long absence. Come back soon. It is high time you did, both for us and, I hope, for yourself too. Adieu. In 1840 the Government proposed celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Revolution by exceptional ceremonies, and the Minister of the Interior, M. de Remusat, who, like M. de Gasparin, had a soul for music, commissioned me to write a symphony, leaving form and all details entirely to me. I planned a great symphony, on broad, simple lines, and as it was to be played in the open air where delicate orchestral effects would be lost, I engaged a military band of two hundred men. Habeneck was anxious to conduct but, remembering the snuff trick, I preferred to do my own conducting. Most fortunately, I invited a large audience to the final rehearsal, feeling sure that my work could not be properly judged on the day of performance. And so it proved. On the great Place de la Bastille, ten yards away, you could make out nothing, and to make things worse, the legions of the National Guard marched off right in the middle, to the rattle of fifty kettledrums. That is the way music is always honoured in France at public _ftes_, apparently they think it is meant to please--the eye. Towards the end of this year I made my first musical venture out of France, as M. Snel, of Brussels, asked me to direct some of my works for the _Socit de la Grande Harmonie_ in the Belgian capital. Nothing but a regular _coup dtat_ at home made the execution of this plan possible. On one pretext or another, my wife had always set her face against my leaving Paris, her real reason being a most foolish and unfounded jealousy, for which there was absolutely no cause. But constant accusations forced me, in time, to justify them and to take advantage of the position with which she credited me. Smuggling my music out of the house by degrees, I finally departed secretly, leaving a letter of explanation and, accompanied by the lady who has since been my constant travelling companion, I went off to Brussels. To cut short these sad and sordid details--after many painful scenes, an amicable separation was arranged. I often saw my wife, my affection for her remained unchanged--indeed, the miserable state of her health but made her dearer to me. This is sufficient to explain my conduct to those who have only known me since that time; I shall not recur to the subject as I am distinctly not writing confessions. I gave two concerts in Brussels, where opinions were, as usual, divided about me as in Paris. Ftis chose to find fault with my (perfectly correct) harmony, and I was rather tempted to reply to him in one of the papers, but finally decided to stick to my invariable rule to reply to no criticism whatsoever. This being merely a trial trip, I arranged to spend five or six months on tour in Germany, and therefore returned straight to Paris to give a colossal farewell concert. I explained my wish to M. Pillet, director of the Opera, who was quite willing to allow me the use of the theatre. But it was necessary to keep it secret so that Habeneck might not have time to counterplot, as he would hardly look with a favourable eye on anyone who supplanted him at the conductors desk. I, therefore, prepared all my music and engaged my performers without telling them where the concert would be held, and when all was ready I asked M. Pillet to tell Habeneck that the concert was entirely in my hands. But he dared not face his terrible chief, and it fell to my lot to write and inform him of our arrangements. He received my letter during a rehearsal, read it several times, looked very black, then went down to the office and said that the plan suited him exactly, as he wished to go into the country the day of the concert. Still his disgust was quite evident, and it was shared by a part of his orchestra, who thought to pay court to him by shewing it. The concert was for the benefit of the Opera, but I was to have five hundred francs for my share and the Opera staff were to get no extra remuneration whatever. Mindful of my experience with the Thtre Italien, I determined to devote my five hundred francs to the payment of these men, all the more readily that I felt thunder in the air in the form of Habenecks savage looks, the numbers of the _Charivari_ (which cut me up tremendously) on the desks, and the constant little confabulations that went on in odd corners. I engaged six hundred performers from different theatres and from the Conservatoire, and in a week managed to drill them into something like order, how I cannot imagine. I was on foot, baton in hand, the whole day, going from the Opera to the Thtre Italien, whence I engaged the chorus; thence to the Opera Comique and to the Conservatoire to superintend different parts, for I dared not relegate a single department to anyone else. Then, in the foyer of the Opera, I took the stringed instruments from eight till twelve, and the wind from twelve to four. My throat was on fire, my voice gone, my right arm almost paralysed. One day I should have been ill with thirst and fatigue had not a kind chorus-singer had the humanity to bring me a large glass of hot wine. The players of the Opera made me as much trouble as possible; they learnt that the outside performers were to have twenty francs a piece, so they demanded a like sum. Not for the money, said they, but for the honour of the Opera. You shall have your twenty francs, I cried; but for heavens sake go on and let me have a little peace. On the day of the grand rehearsal all went fairly well, except the _Queen Mab_ scherzo, which is too dainty to be treated by so large a body of players. Unfortunately I did not think, at the time, of entrusting it to a small band of picked musicians, so was reluctantly obliged to cut it altogether out of the programme. On the day of the performance I had hoped to keep quiet until the evening, but my friend, Leon Gatayes, came in to tell me that a plot was being hatched by Habenecks partizans (who were indignant at his being passed over) to ruin the whole affair. The drum parchments were to be slit, the bows of the double-basses greased, and in the middle of the concert a section of the audience was to shout for the _Marseillaise_. After this, needless to say, I did not take much rest. Prowling restlessly round the Opera, I had the good luck to meet Habeneck; I caught him by the arm. I hear your musicians are going to play me some tricks. I have my eye on them. Oh, its all right, he answered. I have talked to them; you need not be afraid. I am not afraid: on the contrary, I am comforting _you_. You see, if anything happened, it would fall pretty heavily on you. But make your mind easy; they wont do anything. And they did not. My copyist had been all day in the theatre guarding the drum and double-basses, and I myself went round to all the desks to ensure each man having his own part. Indeed I was made quite ashamed of myself when I got to the Dauvern brothers; one of them looked up and said reproachfully: Berlioz, surely you dont doubt us? Arent we decent fellows and your friends? I grew quite hot and stopped my investigations, for which, it must be owned, there really was some excuse. Nothing went wrong and my _Requiem_ produced its due effect, but during the interval, according to rumour, Habenecks cabal howled for the _Marseillaise_. I went to the front of the stage and shouted at the top of my lungs: We will _not_ play the _Marseillaise_; that is not what we are here for, and peace reigned once more. Although the receipts were eight thousand five hundred francs, the sum put aside to pay the musicians was not sufficient to fulfil my promises to them, and I had to supplement it by three hundred and fifty out of my own pocket, as the red ink entry in the cashiers book at the Opera testifies to this day. Thus I organised the most tremendous concert Paris had ever known, and was three hundred and fifty francs put of pocket for my pains. I was likely to grow rich! M. Pillet is a gentleman and I never could understand how he allowed it; perhaps the cashier never told him. I left for Germany a few days later on my pilgrimage. It was hard work truly, but it was at least _musical_ hard work, and I had the untold happiness of being safe away from the intrigues and platitudes of Paris and among sympathetic musical people. XXVI HECHINGEN--WEIMAR My tour began with trouble; I had intended giving a concert in Brussels, as Madame Nathan-Treillet, the idol of the Bruxellois, had kindly promised to come from Paris purposely to sing for me. But she fell seriously ill, and we knew that not all the symphonies in the world would make up for her absence. When the catastrophe was announced the Grande Harmonie promptly fainted _en bloc_, pipes went out as if from want of air, and people dispersed groaning. In vain did I say, Be calm! There will be no concert; you will be spared the misery of listening to my music. Surely that compensation is not to be despised! It availed naught. _Their eyes wept tears of beer et nolebant consolari_ because she came not. So my concert went to the devil. Time passed; I was obliged to go on leaving the poor Belgians to their fate. My anxiety for them, however, soon melted as I embarked on my Rhine journey and went up to Mainz, hoping to be able to arrange a concert there. I first went to Schott, patriarch of music publishers, who seemed rather as if he belonged to the household of the Sleeping Beauty, his somnolent sentences being interspersed with long silences. I dont think--you hardly will be able--give a concert--there is--no orchestra--no public--no money. Not being overburdened with patience, I went straight to the station and off to Frankfort. To add fuel to my fire, the train was asleep too; it made haste slowly; it did not _go_; it dawdled and, particularly that day, made interminable organ pedal-points at each station. But every adagio has an end, and finally I got to Frankfort--a well-built, bright town, very much alive and up to date. Next day, crossing the square on my way to the theatre, I came up with some young men carrying wind-instruments and asked them--since they evidently belonged to the orchestra--to take my card to Guhr, the chief. Ah, said one, who spoke French, we are glad to see you. M. Guhr told us you were coming. We have done _King Lear_ twice, and though we cannot offer you your Conservatoire orchestra, perhaps you will not be very displeased with us. Guhr appeared, sharp, incisive, with snapping dark eyes and quick gestures; it was easy to see that he would not err on the side of indulgence with his orchestra. He spoke French but not fluently enough for his wishes, so he tumbled over his sentences, which were interlarded with oaths in a thick German accent, with most ludicrous results. The upshot of his flow of eloquence was that the two Milanollo girls were creating such a furore that no other music would have the slightest chance of success. He was voluble in excuses and ended: What can I do, my dear fellow? These infant prodigies make money; French Vaudevilles make money--I cant refuse money, can I? But do stay till to-morrow and you shall hear _Fidelio_ with Pischek and Mdlle. Capitaine and you can give me your opinion of them. So it was arranged that I should go on to Stuttgart and try my fortunes with Lindpaintner, leaving the Frankfurters to cool down after the fever caused by the charming little sisters, whom I had praised and applauded in Paris but who got sadly in my way in Frankfort. _Fidelio_ was beautifully sung by Mdlle. Capitaine; she is not a brilliant singer, but of all the women I heard in Germany I like her best in her own style. In a box I espied my old friend, Ferdinand Hiller, and a moment we were back on our student-comrade footing of years before. He is at work on an oratorio _The Fall of Jerusalem_; I am sorry that I have never been in Frankfort for one of his concerts to hear and judge of his compositions, which I am told are of a very high order. My first care was to get as much information as I could on the musical resources of Stuttgart, for I found the expenses of carrying so much concerted music about with me something enormous and only wished to take what I might fairly expect to be performed. I finally decided on two symphonies, an overture and some choral pieces, leaving all the rest with that unlucky Guhr, who seemed fated to be bothered with me and my music in some way or other. I had a letter of introduction to a Dr Schilling, whose title made me shudder. I pictured an aged pedant in spectacles and red wig, armed with a snuff-box and astride his hobbies, fugue and counterpoint, caring for nothing but Bach and Marpurg and hating modern music in general and mine in particular. So much for preconceived ideas. Dr Schilling was young, wore no spectacles, had a handsome crop of black hair, smoked, took no snuff, never mentioned fugues or canons and showed no dislike for modern music--not even mine. He spoke French about as badly as I did German and our intercourse was not precisely on the lines of Herder and Kant. I made out that I could either apply for the loan of the theatre, which would mean freedom from expense and ensure the presence of the King and Court or else could engage the _Salle de la Redoute_, where I should have everything to manage and which the King never entered. I sought an interview with Baron von Topenheim, superintendent of the theatre, who most kindly assured me that he would speak to the King that evening: But, he added, I think I ought to tell you that the acoustic of the theatre is vile and that of the _Salle de la Redoute_ is good. I was nonplussed and could only go and see if Lindpaintner would advise me what to do. I do not know how to express my feelings towards him, but at the end of ten minutes we might have been friends of ten years standing. First, said he, do not be deceived as to the musical importance of our town--we have neither money nor public. (I thought of Mainz and father Schott)! But since you are here we certainly cannot let you go without hearing some of your works, about which we are very curious. So you must take the _Redoute_ and as far as players are concerned, if you will only give about eighty francs to their pension fund, they will think it an honour to rehearse and to perform under your baton. Come to-night and hear _Freyschtz_ and I will introduce you and you will see that I am right. He was as good as his word and all my fears melted away. Here was a young, fiery, enthusiastic orchestra. I saw that from the way they played Weber. They were intrepid readers, too, nothing upset, nothing disconcerted them, they never missed a single sign of expression either. I had chosen the _Symphonie Fantastique_ and _Francs-Juges_ and trembled for my syncopations, my four notes against three, my unusual rhythms; but they plunged straight in without a single mistake. I was astounded, for with two rehearsals the whole thing was done. It would have been grand had not illness on the day of the concert taken away half my violins and left me with four firsts and four seconds to fight that mass of wind and percussion. It was the more harrowing, in that the King and Court were there in full force; still it was intelligent and sympathetic, and the audience applauded everything warmly except the _Pilgrims March_ from _Harold_, which fell flat. I found it do so again when I separated it from the rest of the symphony, which shows what a mistake it is to divide up some compositions. After the concert I was congratulated by the King, by Prince Jerome Bonaparte and by Count Niepperg, but I am afraid Lindpaintner, whose approval was more to me than all, hated everything but the overture. I am sure Dr Schilling found it hideous and was quite ashamed of having introduced such a musical free-lance to his quiet town. However, being Councillor of State to the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, he wrote and told His Highness of the savage he had in tow, thinking that the said savage would find a more appropriate setting in the wilds of the Black Forest than in civilised Stuttgart. The savage therefore--receiving a cordial invitation from the Princes Privy Councillor, Baron de Billing--and being avid of new sensations, took his way through the snow and the great pine woods to the little town of Hechingen, without in the least troubling about what he should do when he got there. I never recall this Black Forest journey without a medley of pleasant, sad, sweet and troubled remembrances that strangely stir my heart. The double mourning--white of the snow and black of the trees--spread over the mountains; the cold winds dreary moan among the shivering, restless pines; the ceaseless gnawing of sorrow at my heart, grown stronger in this solitude, the bitter cold, then the arrival at Hechingen, bright faces, gracious prince, _ftes_, concerts, laughter, promises to meet in Paris, then--good-bye--and once more the darkness and the cold! Ah! what do I suffer even yet! What demon started me thinking of it? But that is my way--without apparent cause, I am tormented, possessed, just as in certain electric states of the air the leaves rustle without wind. But back to Hechingen. The ruler of this minute principality was an intellectual young man who seemed to have but two objects in life--to make his people happy and to worship music. Can one imagine a more perfect existence? His subjects adored him and music loved him, for he understood her both as poet and musician, and had composed some touching songs. He had a tiny orchestra, conducted by Tglichsbeck, whom I had met five years earlier in Paris, and who received me with open-hearted kindness. It was most amusing to see me adapting my big orchestral works to this little band, but, by dint of patience and goodwill all round, we did wonders and gave _King Lear_, the _Pilgrims March_, the _Ball Scene_, and other excerpts in really good style. Still, of course, I could not help longing for wider scope, and when the Prince came to compliment me, I said: Ah! I would give two years of my life if Your Highness could hear that with my Conservatoire orchestra. Yes! yes! he said. I know that you have an imperial orchestra that calls you Sire, while I am but a Highness. I mean to go to Paris and hear it one day--one day. After the concert we supped at his villa, and his charming brightness infected us all. Wishing me to hear a trio he had composed for piano, tenor, and cello, Tglichsbeck took the piano, the Prince the air, and I, amid laughter and applause, tried to sing the cello part. My high A simply brought down the house. Two days later I returned to Stuttgart. The snow was melting on the mourning pines, stained was the fair white mantle of the mountains--all was dreary and woe-worn--again at my heart gnawed the worm that dieth not---- The rest is silence. _To_ FRANZ LISZT. You, my dear Liszt, know nothing of the uncertainties of the wandering musician. You never have a moments anxiety as to whether, when you get to a town, there will be a decent orchestra or a theatre ready for you. To parody Louis XIV. you can say: Orchestra, chorus, conductor are myself. A grand piano and a large hall are the extent of your needs. But a poor travelling composer like myself depends upon a combination most difficult to arrange and at any moment liable to be upset. How much thought, precaution, fatigue it all requires. Yet look at the reward! Think of the compensation of _playing on an orchestra_, of having under ones hand this vast living instrument! You _virtuosi_ are princes and kings by the grace of God, you are born on the steps of the throne; we composers must fight and conquer before we reign. Yet the difficulties and dangers surmounted add brilliance to our victories, and we should perhaps be happier than you--if we always had soldiers. But this is a digression. At Stuttgart I waited, hardly knowing what plans to make, until a favourable answer came to my letter of enquiry addressed to Weimar. Meanwhile I had another experience of the coldness of Germans towards Beethoven. Lindpaintner conducted a magnificent performance of the Leonore overture at the Redoute Societys concert, which elicited but the faintest applause, and I heard a gentleman say afterwards that he wished they would give Haydns symphonies instead of that noisy music without any tune in it!!! Really now, we do not own such Philistines as that in Paris! I went to Weimar _via_ Carlsruhe (where there was nothing to be done) and Mannheim--a cold, calm, respectable town, where love of music will never keep the inhabitants awake. The younger Lachner, a real artist, both modest and talented, is director there; he hurriedly arranged a concert for me, and was deeply grieved because the ineptitude of his trombones forbade our giving the _Orgie_ in _Harold_. Mannheim bored me horribly, and it was an intense relief to get away and breathe freely once more. Behold me then again afloat on the Rhine--I meet Guhr, still swearing--I leave him--meet our friend Hiller, who tells me his _Fall of Jerusalem_ is ready--I leave, in company with a magnificent sore throat--sleep on the way--dream frightful things that I will not repeat--reach Weimar, thoroughly ill--Lobe and Chlard try in vain to prop me up--preparations for concert--first rehearsal--I rejoice and am cured. There is something broad, cultivated, liberal about the very air of Weimar. Calm, luminous, peaceful, dreamy--how my heart beat as I paced the streets! Here is the summer-house of Goethe where the late Grand Duke used to come to take part in the discussions of Schiller, Herder, and Wieland. There, a Latin inscription traced by the author of _Faust_. Those two attic windows, are they indeed those of Schiller? Was it this humble roof that sheltered the mighty enthusiasm of the author of _Don Carlos_? Was it right of Goethe, the rich and powerful minister, thus to leave his friend in poverty? I fear me that it was true friendship on the side of Schiller only--Goethe loved himself too well, he lived too long and death was to him a terror. Schiller! Schiller! you deserved a less human friend! It is one in the morning, with bitter cold and a brilliant moon. I stand entranced before that small dark house; all is silent in this city of the dead. Within me surges up that passion of respect, regret, and love for the genius that stretches out a hand from beyond the cold dark grave, and lays a mighty finger on us poor obscure earth wanderers, and upon that humble threshold I kneel, murmuring brokenly, Schiller! Schiller! But I am no nearer the subject of my letter, dear friend; to soothe myself I must think of another dweller in Weimar, the talented but cold Hummel. That calms me; I feel better! Chlard, as Frenchman, artist, and friend, has done everything possible to help me, and the Baron von Spiegel, the superintendent, has most kindly offered me the theatre and orchestra. He did not add the chorus, which was just as well, for I heard them trying to do Marschners _Vampire_, and a more ghastly collection of squallers I never heard. Of the women soloists, too, the less said the better. But are there words to describe the bass--Gnast? Is he not a true artist, a born tragedian? I wish I could have stayed long enough to hear him in Shakespeares _King Lear_, which they were mounting. The orchestra is good, but, to do me special honour, Chlard and Lobe hunted up every available extra instrument in the place; there was no harp to be found, but a good pianist and perfect musician, named Montag, kindly arranged my harp parts and played them on the piano. Everyone was eagerly ready to help, and you may imagine the rare and extreme joy of being promptly understood and followed. I will spare you a description of the applause and recalls, the compliments of their Highnesses, and the many new friends who, waiting at the stage door, bore me off and kept me till three oclock next morning. Where, oh where is my modesty that I retail all this? Adieu! XXVII MENDELSSOHN--WAGNER _To_ STEPHEN HELLER. On leaving Weimar, my dear Heller, my easiest plan seemed to be to go to Leipzig, but I hesitated because Felix Mendelssohn was musical dictator there, and, in spite of our Roman days together, we had since followed such divergent lines that I could not be sure of a sympathetic reception. Chlard, however, made me ashamed of my misgivings. I wrote, and Mendelssohn replied so warmly and promptly, bidding me welcome to Leipzig, that I could not resist such an invitation, but set off at once, regretfully leaving Weimar and my new friends. My relations with Mendelssohn in Rome had been rather curious. At our first meeting I had expressed a great dislike to the first allegro in my _Sardanapalus_. Do you really dislike it? he said, eagerly. I am so glad. I was afraid you were pleased with it, and I think it simply horrid. Then we nearly quarrelled next day because I spoke enthusiastically of Gluck. He said disdainfully: Do you like Gluck? as much as to say, How can a music-maker like you appreciate the majesty of Gluck? I took my revenge a few days after by putting on Montforts piano a manuscript copy of an air from _Telemaco_ without the authors name to it. Mendelssohn came, picked it up thinking it was a bit of Italian opera, and began parodying it. I stopped him in assumed astonishment, saying: Hallo, dont you like Gluck?<span class="lftspc"></span> Gluck? Why yes, my dear fellow. That is Gluck, not Bellini as you seem to think. You see I know him better than you do, and am more of your own opinion than you are yourself. One day, speaking of the uses of the metronome, he broke in-- Whats the good of one? A musician who cant guess the time of a piece of music at sight is a duffer. I might have replied, but did not, that there were lots of duffers. Soon after he asked to see my _King Lear_. He read it through slowly, then, just as he was going to play it (his talent for score-reading was incomparable), said: Give me the time. What for? You said yesterday that only duffers needed to be told the time of a piece. He did not show it, but these home thrusts annoyed him intensely. He never mentioned Bach without adding ironically, _your little pupil_. In fact, over music he was a regular porcupine; you could never tell where to have him. In every other way he was perfectly charming and sweet-tempered. In Rome I learnt to appreciate the beauties of his marvellous _Fingals Cave_. Often, worn out by the scirocco and thoroughly out of sorts, I would hunt him out and tear him away from his composition. With perfect good humour--seeing my pitiable state--he would lay aside his pen, and, with his extraordinary facility in remembering intricate scores, would play whatever I chose to name--he properly and soberly seated at the piano, I curled up in a snappy bunch on his sofa. He liked me, with my wearied voice, to murmur out my setting of Moores melodies. He always had a certain amount of commendation for my--little songs! After a month of this intercourse--so full of interest for me--he disappeared without saying good-bye, and I saw him no more. His Leipzig letter, therefore, the more agreeably surprised me, for it showed an unexpected and genial kindness of heart that I found to be one of his most notable characteristics. The Concert Society has a magnificent hall--the Gewandhaus--of which the acoustic is perfect. I went straight to see it, and stumbled into the middle of the final rehearsal of Mendelssohns _Walpurgis Nacht_. I am inclined to think that this is the finest thing he has yet done, and I hardly know which to praise most--orchestra, chorus, or the whole combined effect. As Mendelssohn came down from his desk, radiant with success, I went to meet him. It was the right moment for our greetings, yet, after the first words, the same thought struck us both--Twelve years since we wandered day-dreaming in the Campagna! Are you still a jester? he asked. Ah no! my joking days are past. To show you how sober and in earnest I am, I hereby solemnly beg a priceless gift of you. That is---- The baton with which you conduct your new work. By all means, if I may have yours instead? It will be copper for gold, still you shall have it. Next day came Mendelssohns musical sceptre, for which I returned my heavy oak cudgel with the following note, which I hope would not have disgraced the Last of the Mohicans:-- Great Chief! To exchange our tomahawks is our word given. Common is mine, plain is yours. Squaws and Pale-faces alone love ornament. May we be brethren, so that, when the Great Spirit calls us to the happy hunting grounds, our warriors may hang our tomahawks side by side in the door-way of the Long House. _To_ JOSEPH DORTIGUE. _28th February 1843._--My trade of galley-slave is my excuse for not having written sooner. I have been, and am still, ill with fatigue, the work involved in conducting rehearsals in both Leipzig and Dresden is incredible. Mendelssohn is most kind, friendly, and attentive--a master of the highest rank. I can honestly say this in spite of his admiration for my _songs_--of my symphonies, overtures, and _Requiem_ he says never a word! His _Walpurgis Nacht_ is one of the finest orchestral poems imaginable. Can you believe that Schumann, the taciturn, was so electrified by my _Offertorium_ that he actually opened his mouth, and, shaking my hand, said: This _Offertorium_ surpasses all. _To_ HELLER. It really pains me to see a great master like Mendelssohn worried with the paltry task of chorus-master. I never cease marvelling at his patience and politeness. His every remark is calm and pleasant, and his attitude is the more appreciated by those who, like myself, know how rare such patience is. I have often been accused of rudeness to the ladies of the Opera chorus--a reputation which I own I richly deserve--but the very minute there is question of a choral rehearsal a sort of dull anger takes possession of me, my throat closes up, and I glare at the singers very much like that Gascon who kicked an inoffensive small boy, and, when reproached because the child had done nothing, replied: But just think if he _had_! A charming little incident concluded my Leipzig visit. I had again been ill, and, on leaving, asked my doctor for his account. Write me the theme of your _Offertorium_, he said, and sign it, and I shall be your debtor. I hesitated, but finally did as he wished, and then, will you believe that I missed the chance of a charming compliment? I wrote: To Dr Clarus. Oh, said he, you have added an _l_ to my name. I thought: Patientibus _Carus_, sed inter doctes _Clarus_, and had not the sense to say it! There are times when I am really quite idiotic. Now for your questions. You ask me to tell you-- Is there a rival to Madame Schumann as a pianist? I believe not. Is the musical tendency of Leipzig sound? I will not. Is it true that the confession of faith here is there is no God but Bach, and Mendelssohn is his prophet? I ought not. If the public is at fault in being contented with Lortzings little operas? I cannot. If I have heard any of those old five-part Masses they think so much of here? I know not. Good-bye. Write more of your lovely capriccios, and the Lord preserve you from Choral Fugues! _To_ ERNST. And now about Dresden. I was engaged to give two concerts there, and found chorus, orchestra, and a noble tenor all complete! Nowhere else in Germany have I happened on such wealth. Above all, I found a friend--devoted, energetic, and enthusiastic--Charles Lipinski, whom I knew in Paris. He so worked upon the musicians, by firing them with ambition to do better than Leipzig, that they were rabid for rehearsals. We had four, and they would gladly have had a fifth had there been time. The Dresden _Kapelle_ is directed by Reissiger, of whom we know little in Paris, and by young Richard Wagner, who spent a long time with us, without, however, making himself known except by a few articles in the _Gazette Musicale_. He has only just received his appointment, and, proud and pleased, is doing his very best to help me. He bore endless privations in France, with the added bitterness of obscurity, yet he returned to Saxony and boldly wrote and composed a five-act opera, _Rienzi_, of which the success was so great that he followed it up with the _Flying Dutchman_. A man who could, twice over, write words and music for an opera must be exceptionally gifted, and the King of Saxony did well to give him the appointment. I only heard the second part of _Rienzi_, which is too long to be played in one evening, and I cannot, in one hearing, pretend to know it thoroughly, but I particularly noted a fine prayer and a triumphal march. The score of the _Flying Dutchman_ struck me by its sombre colouring, and the clever effect of some tempestuous motifs. But there, as in _Rienzi_, I thought he abused the use of the _tremolo_--sign of a certain lazy attitude of mind against which he must guard. In spite of that, all honour to the royal remembrance that has saved from despair such a highly endowed young artist. My concerts were successful, the second even more so than the first. What the public liked best were the _Requiem_--although we could not give the most difficult numbers of it--and the _5th May Cantata_, no doubt because the memory of Napoleon is as dear to the Germans now as to us French. I made the acquaintance of that wonderful English harpist, Parish-Alvars. He is indeed the Liszt of the harp! He produces the most extraordinary effects, and has written a fantasia on _Moses_ that Thalberg has most happily arranged for the piano. Why on earth does he not come to Paris? When I left Dresden to go back to Leipzig, Lipinski heard that Mendelssohn had put the finale of _Romeo and Juliet_ in rehearsal, and told me that if he could get a holiday he should go over and hear it. I thought it was a mere compliment, but judge of my consternation when, on the day of the concert, he turned up. He had travelled thirty-five leagues to hear a piece that was not given after all, because the singer who was entrusted with Friar Lawrences part refused to learn his notes! _To_ H. HEINE. So great has been my happiness in your good town of Brunswick that I should like to tell it all to my dearest foes instead of to you, my friend, to whom it can hardly give pleasure! But a truce to irony; it is mere vanity that makes me begin like this, taking a leaf out of your book--inimitable satirist! How often in our talks have I regretted that nothing would make you serious, that nothing would stop the restless working of those feline claws, even when you were under the delusion that they were safely sheathed in your velvet paws--you tiger-cat! Yet look at the sensitive, delicate imagery of your writings--for you _can_ sing major when you choose; at your enthusiasm when you let yourself go; at your tender hidden love for your old grandmother, Germany! She, too, speaks of you with wistful tenderness; her elder sons are dead and gone; there remains but you, whom she calls, with a smile, her naughty boy. It would be easy for you to make splendid travesties of my Brunswick visit, yet such is my fearless confidence in you, that to you I mean to tell everything. That ideal family of musicians, the Mllers, received me and arranged my concert. I counted altogether seven of them, brothers, sons, and nephews, and never in all my travels did I see so devoted and impassioned a set of men. As soon as they grasped the chief difficulties of my symphonies (which they did at the first rehearsal), their progress between each meeting was simply incredible. On my expressing surprise, I found that they were deceiving me about the time, and that the whole orchestra actually arrived each morning an hour before I did to practise the intricate passages. At Zinkeisens request we actually dared to try _Queen Mab_, which I had never hitherto dared do in Germany. We will practise so hard, said he, that we _must_ do it. He did not misjudge his colleagues; my dainty little lady in her microscopic car, drawn by humming gnats at full gallop, disported herself with all her tricksey caprices--to the delight of the good Brunswickers. You--own brother to fairies and will-o-the-wisps and their chosen poet laureate--will realise my misgivings; but never did my tiny invisible queen glide more happily and gaily through her world of silent harmonies. Then, in contrast, with what magnificent fury did they not seize on the _Orgie_ in _Harold_. There was something absolutely terrifying and supernatural in their diabolic rhythm as they bounded, roared, and clashed. Ah, you poets! No joy is yours equal to the joy of conducting! I longed to fold the whole orchestra in one comprehensive embrace, but all I could do was cry in French-- Gentlemen, you are sublime! You are stupendous brigands! The concert was crowded and the audience quite carried away; hardly was the last chord struck when a frantic noise shook the hall; it was compounded of the shouts of the listeners, the discordant blare of the wind instruments, the tapping of bows on the violins, and the clang of percussion instruments. At first I felt perfectly savage at this ruin to my finale, but I calmed down when George Mller, laden with flowers, stepped forward and said in French: Monsieur, allow me to offer these in the name of the Ducal Kapelle. The shouts and noise redoubled, my baton fell from my hand, and my head whirled. Hardly had I left the theatre when I was invited to a supper given in my honour by artists and amateurs. There were a hundred and fifty guests. Toasts, speeches in French and German, to which I responded as well as I could, then a most musical and effective hurrah was chanted by all in chorus. The basses began on D, tenors on A, and the ladies following on F, made up the chord of D major, to which succeeded the sub-dominant, tonic, dominant, tonic. It was most beautiful, most worthy of a really musical nation. Will you laugh and call me a great simpleton for repeating all this, dear Heine? I must candidly own that I enjoyed it. From Brunswick I journeyed on to your native city of Hamburg, where I again had the pleasure of a crowded house and appreciative audience, and made many friends among the orchestra. Krebs alone was reserved in his praise. My dear fellow, said he, in a few years your music will be all over Germany, and will be popular, and that will be an awful misfortune! Think of the imitations, the eccentricities, the style it will let us in for! For Arts sake it were better you had never been born!! Let us hope my poor symphonies are not as contagious as he thinks. And so, O maker of poems, adieu! From Hamburg I went to Berlin and Hanover, finishing at Darmstadt where the Grand Duke insisted not only on my taking the full receipts from my concert (so far Weimar--city of artists--was the only one that had extended to me this courtesy) but, in addition, refused to let me pay any of the expenses. Everywhere I met with success and made friends. Thus ended the longest and perhaps the most arduous pilgrimage ever taken by a musician; its memory will, to me, be ever green. How can I thank thee, Germany, noble foster-mother to the sons of music? How express my gratitude, admiration, and regret? I know not. I can but bow before thee humbly and murmur brokenly-- Vale Germania, alma parens! XXVIII A COLOSSAL CONCERT When I got back to Paris, I found M. Pillet planning a revival of _Der Freyschtz_. Now, by the rules of the Opera every word must be sung and as there are spoken dialogues in Webers opera he engaged me to set them in the form of recitations. It is all wrong, I said, but as that is the only condition on which it will be played and as, if I dont do it, you will give it to someone who does not know Weber as I do, I accept but with one stipulation--that you change neither music nor libretto. Certainly, he replied, do you suppose I would revive _Robin des Bois_? Very well, then I will get to work at once. How are you arranging the parts? Madame Stolz, Agatha; Mdlle. Dobr, Annette; Duprez, Max. I bet he wont take it, I said. Why not? You will see soon enough. Bouch will do well for Gaspard. And the Hermit? Oh--well-- said he, awkwardly, you know the Hermit isnt much use, I was going--to cut him out. Hm! Really? Yet you are going to act _Freyschtz_ and not _Robin des Bois_. Evidently, since we shant agree, it is better for me to retire at once for I cant stand that sort of correction. Dear me! how wholesale you are in your notions. Very well, we will keep the Hermit, we will keep everything, lock, stock, and barrel. Then my troubles began. The actors would make their recitations as slow and stately as a tragedy; Duprez,--as I foretold--although ten years before he had been a light tenor and had managed Max perfectly--found it impossible to adapt his fine tenor voice to the music and demanded all sorts of unheard-of transpositions and alterations. I cut them short by refusing to disintegrate the rle and it was handed over to Mari. Then nothing would do but they must have a ballet, and as I could not stop it I tried to arrange a sort of scene from Webers _Invitation to the Waltz_; but that was not enough, so the dancers themselves took it into their heads that some bits out of my symphonies would come in nicely. Pillet agreed. I did not; and, to stop discussion, I said: Now look here! I entirely object to introducing into _Der Freyschtz_ music that is not Webers. To prove that I am not unreasonable, go and ask Dessauer, who is over there; I will abide by his decision. At Pillets first words Dessauer turned sharply to me: Oh, Berlioz! dont do that! That ended the matter for the time and the opera was a success. But when I went to Russia they cut and chopped and gnawed it until it was simply a deformity. And _how_ they play what is left now! What a conductor! What a chorus! What utterly sleepy, disgraceful ineptitude and misinterpretation of everything by everybody! When will a new Christ come to purge our temple and drive out the money changers with a scourge! * * * * * I returned to my treadmill--journalism--once more, and oh! the horror of it! The misery of writing to order an article on nothing in particular--or on things that, as far as I was concerned, simply did not exist since they excited in me no feeling of any description whatsoever. Long ago I remember spending three days over a critique without being able to write one word. I cannot remember the subject but I well remember my torments. I strode up and down, my brain on fire; I gazed at the setting sun, the neighbouring gardens, the heights of Montmartre--my thoughts a thousand miles away. Then, as I turned and saw that confounded white paper without a line on it, I flew into the wildest rage. My unoffending guitar leant against the wall. I kicked it to bits; my pistols stared at me from the wall with big round eyes. I gazed back, then, tearing my hair, burst into burning tears. That soothed me somewhat, I turned those staring pistols face to the wall and picked up my poor guitar which gave forth a plaintive wail. Then my six-year-old boy, with whom I had unjustly found fault, tapped at the door. As I did not answer he cried: Father, is you friends? Yes, yes, my boy, I is friends! and I flew to let him in. I took him on my knee and laid his fair head on my shoulder; we dropped asleep together and my article was forgotten. Next morning I managed to write something. That is fifteen years ago and my martyrdom still lasts! It is not that I mind work. I can grind at rehearsals for hours at a time; can spend my nights in correcting proofs; can and will do anything and everything that pertains to my work as a musician. But to eternally pamphleteer for a living! It is cruel! _3rd October 1844._--I read in the _Dbats_ of your splendid agricultural success and can imagine how much work and perseverance it involves. You are a kind of Robinson Crusoe in your island, and when the sun shines I long to be with you, to breathe the spicy air, to follow you from field to field, to listen with you to the sweet silence of your lonely groves--our affection is so sure, so whole-hearted, so perfect! Yet when dull days come and mists rise, the fever of Paris seizes me once more and I feel that here only is life possible. But can you believe that a strange sort of torpid resignation with regard to things musical has taken possession of me? It is as well, for this indifference saves my strength for the time when a passionate struggle may become necessary. You have doubtless heard of the marvellous success of my _Requiem_ in St Petersburg. Romberg most bravely tackled the enormous expense and, thanks to the generosity of the Russian aristocracy, made a profit of five thousand francs. Give me a despotic government as nursing mother of Art! If you could but be here this winter! I long to see you. I seem to be going down hill so rapidly, life is so short! The end is often before my eyes now and I clutch with frenzied eagerness at the flowers beside my path as I slip quickly past. There was a rumour that I was to succeed Habeneck at the Opera, it is a dictatorship that I should enjoy in the interests of Art. But, for that, Habeneck would have to be translated to the Conservatoire, where Cherubini still goes to sleep. Perhaps when I am old and incapable I shall go to the Conservatoire. At present I am too young to dream of it! I was railing more than usual at my hard fate when Strauss proposed that we should give a concert at the close of the 1844 Exhibition, in the empty building. It was a tremendous undertaking, for his original intention was to have also a ball and a banquet to the exhibitors. But, owing to the fixed idea of M. Delessert, chief of the police, that plots and risings were in the air, we were forced to reduce it to a classical concert for me and a popular promenade concert next day for Strauss. Rushing all over Paris I engaged nearly every musician of any consequence and gathered a body of 1022 performers--all paid except the singers from the lyric theatres, who helped me for love of music. The rehearsals and general arrangements were most arduous and my anxiety lest we should fail nearly killed me. The great day, the 1st August, came and at noon (the concert began at one oclock) I went to the Exhibition, noticing with pleasure the stream of carriages all converging on the Champs Elyses. Everything inside the building was in perfect order, everyone in his or her appointed place, and my good friend and indefatigable librarian, M. Rocquemont, assured me that all would go perfectly. Musical delirium seized me, I thought no more of public, receipts or deficit, but was just raising my baton to begin when a violent smashing of wood announced that the people had burst the barriers and filled the hall. This meant success and I joyfully tapped my desk, crying: Saved! To direct my mass of performers I had Tilmant to conduct the wind, Morel the percussion instruments, and five chorus-masters, one in the centre and four at the corners to guide those singers who were out of my range. Thus there were seven deputy-conductors, whose arms rose and fell with mine with incredible precision. The Blessing of the Daggers from the _Huguenots_ was given with an imposing effect that surpassed my expectations. I wished Meyerbeer could have heard it. It worked upon me so that my teeth chattered and I shook with nervous ague. The concert had to be stopped while they brought me some punch and a change of clothes, and by making a little screen of the harps in their linen covers, I was enabled to dress right before the audience without being seen. The concert finished triumphantly with the utmost satisfaction to artists and audience but, as I went out, I had the gruesome pleasure of seeing the hospital authorities counting our receipts and walking off with the _eighth gross_--that is, four thousand francs--which left me, when all was paid, with eight hundred francs for all my trouble and anxiety. This mad experiment was hardly over when M. Amussat, my anatomy master and friend, called. Why, Berlioz! he said, what on earth is the matter? You are as yellow as a guinea and look thoroughly overdone. He felt my pulse. You are on the verge of typhoid and must be bled. Very well, do it now. He did, and then said: You will please leave Paris at once and go to the Riviera or somewhere south by the sea and forget all these exciting topics. Be off at once. With my eight hundred francs I went to Nice. It moved me strangely to see those haunts of thirteen years earlier--the days of my youth. I bathed, explored the well-known cliffs, paid my respects to the old cannon, still asleep in the sun; the room in which I wrote _King Lear_ was let to an English family so I found shelter in an old tower adjoining the Ponchettes Rocks. After a months lotus-eating I turned my face once more to Paris and took up again my Sisyphus burden. After giving some concerts in the circus of the Champs Elyses, which fatigued me greatly I again took a rest on the Mediterranean shores then gave some more concerts in Marseilles, Lyons and Lille of which I have given a full account in my _Grotesques de la Musique_. Shortly afterwards I started on my tour through Austria, Bohemia and Hungary. XXIX THE RAKOCZY MARCH Of my journey from Paris to Vienna I only have two distinct impressions--one of a violent pain in my side that I thought would be the death of me and the other of a species of god I saw at Augsbourg. This worthy man had founded a sort of neo-christianity which was rather popular: he looked a decent sort of fellow. At Ratisbon the steamer had gone, so I was obliged to wait two days and then go on in a diligence, which made me feel as if I had gone back into the Dark Ages. At Linz, however, I set foot on a fine steam-boat, and found myself once more in A.D. 1845. But I had time for reflection and could not help wondering why on earth we cannot all spell the names of places alike. There was I, hunting through a German map. Linz was graciously pleased to be the same in both languages, but where was Ratisbon? Who could possibly find it masquerading as Regensburg? What should we say to the Germans if they persisted in calling Lyons, Mittenberg, and Paris, Triffenstein? On landing at Vienna I at once got an idea of the passion for music of the Austrians. The custom-house officer examining my trunks caught sight of the name on them and asked: Where is he? Where is he? I am he, monsieur. _Mein Gott_, M. Berlioz, where in the world have you been? We have been waiting for you a week and couldnt think what had become of you. I thanked my worthy friend as well as my limited vocabulary would allow, and could not help thinking that my non-appearance would never give rise to similar anxiety at the Paris Douane. The first concert I went to was one in the Riding School, given by nearly a thousand performers--most of them amateurs--for the benefit of the Conservatoire, which has no, or very little, Government support. The verve and precision with which that musical crowd rendered Mozarts delicate _Flauto Magico_ overture quite astonished me, I had not believed it possible. I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Nicola, conductor of the Krnthnerthor Theatre; he has the three gifts necessary--to my mind--for a perfect director. He is an experienced, enthusiastic composer, has perfect intuition for rhythms and clear-cut and precise mechanism. Finally, he is a clever organiser, sparing neither time nor trouble; hence the wonderful unity and perfection of the Krnthnerthor orchestra. He arranged sacred concerts in the _Salle des Redoutes_ similar to ours in Paris. There I heard a scena from _Oberon_, a fine symphony of Nicolas own and the incomparable B flat of Beethoven. It is in this fine hall that, thirty years since, Beethoven gave his masterpieces--now worshipped by Europe, but then despised by the Viennese, who crowded to hear Salieris operas! How my knees trembled as I stood at the desk where once _he_ had stood! Nothing is changed; the desk I used is the very one that he had used, by that staircase he had come up to receive the applause of his few admirers, looked upon by the rest of the audience as fanatics in search of eccentricity. For recognition Beethoven had to wait, but how he suffered! To my great delight Pischek, the splendid baritone I had met and admired in Frankfort, suggested that he should make his Viennese dbut at my concert. He had improved immensely; somehow his voice always gave rise in me to a sort of exaltation or intoxication which, now, was intensified by its splendid compass, passion and exquisite sweetness. No wonder that his success in a great ballad by Uhland (which bore no resemblance to the inanities we call ballads in Paris) was instantaneous and, as an encore, he gave a song that drove the audience almost frantic. If only he would learn French what a furore he would make in Paris! My reception by all in Vienna--even by my fellow-ploughmen, the critics--was most cordial; they treated me as a man and a brother, for which I am heartily grateful. After my third concert at a grand supper my friends presented me with a silver-gilt baton, and the Emperor sent me eleven hundred francs with the rather odd compliment, Tell Berlioz I was really amused. The rest of my doings, are they not written in the newspapers of the day? The first thing I did on leaving Vienna for Pesth was to get into trouble with the Danube, which, instead of remaining decently within its banks, chose to overflow and inundate that muddy Slough of Despond by courtesy called the Emperors highway. Only with an extra team of horses had we been able to make way even so far, but at midnight I was aroused from my resigned drowsiness by the stoppage of the carriage and the boiling of waters all round. The driver had gone straight into the river, and dared not stir a step. The water rose steadily. There was a Hungarian captain in the coup who had spoken to me once or twice through the little window between us; it was my turn to speak now: Captain! Sir? Dont you think we are going to be drowned? Yes, I do. Have a cigar. His calm insolent coolness made me long to smash his head in; in a fury I took his cigar and puffed violently. Still the water rose and the desperate driver turned, and at the risk of spilling us all in the river, climbed up the bank and took us straight-way--into a lake. This time I thought must be the end of all and I called out to the soldier: Captain, have you another cigar? Yes, sir. Let me have it quick, for its all up with us now! But it was not, for an honest country man passing by (where the devil could he have been going in such weather at such a time of night?) extricated us and gave our unhappy Phton directions whereby we made our way to Pesth. At least it was a big town of which I asked my captain the name. Buda, said he. What? In my map the town opposite Pesth is called Ofen. Look. Oh yes, thats Buda. Ofen is the German name for it. Hm, I see. German maps are as cleverly arranged as French ones; but I think they might give us both names anyway. On reaching Pesth I had a little pleasure party all to myself, in accordance with a promise made to myself while soaking in the Danube mud. I took a bath, drank two glasses of Tokay and slept twenty hours--not, however, without visions of boiling waters and lakes of mud. After which I set out on the war-path of concert-promoting, greatly helped by the kindness of Count Raday, superintendent of the National Theatre. Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window things are ticketed _hony_ (national) and, by the advice of an amateur in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to the first part of my _Faust_. No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written _hony_ music than Pesth began to ferment. How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody, which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper--who, unable to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyists. I have seen your Rakoczy score, he said, uneasily. Well? Well; I feel horribly nervous about it. Bah! why? Your motif is introduced _piano_, and we are used to hearing it started _fortissimo_. Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Dont be alarmed. You shall have such a forte as you never heard in your life. You cant have read the score carefully; remember the end is everything. All the same, when the day came my throat tightened, as it did in times of great excitement, when this devil of a thing came on. First the trumpets gave out the rhythm, then the flutes and clarinets, with a _pizzicato_ accompaniment of strings--softly outlining the air--the audience remaining calm and judicial. Then, as there came a long _crescendo_, broken by the dull beats of the big drum (as of distant cannon) a strange restless movement was perceptible among them--and, as the orchestra let itself go in a cataclysm of sweeping fury and thunder, they could contain themselves no longer. Their overcharged souls burst with a tremendous explosion of feeling that raised my hair with terror. I lost all hope of making the end audible, and in the encore it was no better; hardly could they contain themselves long enough to hear a portion of the coda. Horwath, in his box, was like one possessed, and I could not resist a smiling glance at him to ask-- Are you still afraid or are you content with your _forte_? It was lucky that this was the end of the programme, for certainly these excitable people would have listened to nothing more. As I mopped my face in the little room set apart for me, a poorly dressed man slipped quietly in. He threw himself upon me, his eyes full of tears, and stammered out: Ah, monsieur--the Hungarian--poor man--not speak French--Forgive, excited--understood your cannon--Yes, big battle--Dogs of Germans! Striking his chest vehemently--In heart of me you stay--ah, French--Republican--know to make music of Revolution! I cannot describe his frenzy; it was almost sublime. After that, of course, the Rakoczy ended every concert, and on leaving I had to present the town with my MS. Later on I sent them a revised version, as some young Hungarians did me the honour to present me with a silver crown of most exquisite workmanship. When I got back to Vienna, the amateur who had given me the idea of writing the march came to me in comical terror. For mercys sake, he begged, never tell that I gave you the idea. The excitement of it has reached Vienna, and I should get into dreadful trouble if it were known. Of course I promised silence, but, as this terrible affair is long since done with, I may now add that he was called---- No, I only wished to frighten him. I wont tell! * * * * * I had not intended to include Prague in my round, but someone sent me the Prague _Musical Gazette_ with three appreciative articles on my _King Lear_ by Dr Ambros. I wrote to thank him and mentioned my doubts of my reception by his fellow-citizens who, I had been told, would hear no one but Mozart. His kind reply swept away my misgivings and made me as eager to go as I had hitherto been the reverse. Of Prague my recollections are golden. I gave six concerts, and at the last, had the great joy of having Liszt to hear my _Romeo and Juliet_. At the close of the performance as I begged him to be my interpreter in thanking the artists for their devotion and patience in spending three weeks over my works, two or three of them came up to us and spoke to him. My office is changed, he said, turning to me; these gentlemen request me to convey to you their thanks for the pleasure you have given them and their joy in your pleasure. This was indeed a red-letter day for me! There are not many such in my life. As the music lovers of Vienna had given me a banquet and a silver-gilt baton, those of Prague gave me a supper and a silver cup. But this same cup poured out such floods of champagne that Liszt, who had made a charming and touching speech in my honour, was shipwrecked therein. At two oclock in the morning Belloni, his secretary, and I were hard at work in the streets of Prague trying to persuade him to wait till daylight to fight a Bohemian who had drunk more than he had. We were rather anxious about him, as he had to give a concert at noon next day, and at half-past eleven was still asleep. At length he was awakened, jumped into a carriage, walked on to the platform, and played as I verily believe he had never played before. There certainly is a Providence over--pianists. I cannot express my tender regrets for those good Bohemians. O Prague! when shall I see thee again? XXX PARIS--RUSSIA--LONDON While trailing round Germany in my old post-chaise I composed my _Damnation de Faust_. Each movement is punctuated by memories of the place where it was written. For instance, the Peasants Dance was written by the light of a shop gas-jet one night when I had lost myself in Pesth, and I got up in the middle of the night in Prague to write the song of the angelic choir. Thinking that my foreign tour might have enhanced my home reputation, on my return to Paris I ventured to put it in rehearsal, going to enormous expense for copying and for the hire of the Opera Comique. Fatal reasoning! The indifference of the Parisians to art had increased by leaps and bounds, the weather in November 1846 was vile, and they preferred their warm homes to the unfashionable Opera Comique. It was twice performed to half empty houses and elicited no more attention than if I had been the least of Conservatoire students. Nothing in all my career has wounded me as this did. The lesson was cruel but useful; I vowed that never again would I trust to the tender mercies of Paris. I did not keep my vow, for later on I could not resist letting it hear my _Childhood of Christ_, which proved a great success. : _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. _October 1846._--Your mother is a little better, but she is still in bed and unable to speak. As the least agitation would be fatal to her, do not write to her as you have done to me. You talk of being a sailor. Do you wish to leave me? for, once at sea, God knows when I shall see you again. Were I but free I would go with you, and we would seek our fortunes in India or some far-off land, but to travel one must have money, and only in France can I get my living--such as it is. I am speaking to you as if you were grown up. You must think over what I say and you will understand. But remember that, whatever happens, I am and always shall be your best and most devoted friend. It would indeed be sad if, when you came to be twenty years of age, you found yourself useless both to society and yourself. Good-bye, dear child. My heartfelt love. _Faust_ was my ruin. After two days of unutterable misery I decided to retrieve my fortunes by a tour in Russia, if I could but collect enough money first to pay my debts. Then did my kind friends rally round me and apply healing balm to my wounded spirit. M. Berlin advanced me a thousand francs from the _Dbats_ funds; one friend lent me five hundred, others six or seven; M. Friedland, a young German I had met in Prague, twelve hundred, and Hetzel a thousand. So, helped on all sides, I was able, with a clear conscience, to leave for Russia on the 14th February 1847, feeling that few men have been so blessed as I in the devoted generosity and kind-heartedness of my single-minded friends. The time for concert-giving in Russia is Lent--March--as then the theatres are all closed. The cold was intense, and during my whole fortnights journey I never lost sight of the snow, and made only one short stop in Berlin to beg a letter of introduction to the Empress of Russia from her brother, the King of Prussia, which, with his invariable kindness, he sent me at once. Before leaving Paris, Balzac said to me: Be sure at Tilsit to hunt up the post-master, M. Nernst. He is a clever, well-read man and may be useful to you. So at Tilsit I walked into his office and there found a big man perched on a high stool. M. Nernst? I said, taking off my hat. Yes, monsieur; to whom have I the honour of speaking? To Hector Berlioz. No! not really? He bounced off his stool and landed before me, cap in hand. How well I remember my poor fathers happy pride in this story! Not really? he would repeat, and his laughter would ring out again and again. We had a cordial meeting-ground in our mutual friendship with Balzac, and after some hours rest I set out, warmed and comforted, in a horrible iron sledge wherein I endured a martyrdom till, four days later, I reached St Petersburg. Hardly had I shaken off the traces of my journey when M. Lenz, an old acquaintance, came to take me to Count Michael Wielhorski, from whom I received a most flattering welcome. He and his brother, by their love of art, their great connections and immense fortune, have made their palace a sort of little Ministry of Fine Arts. By them I was introduced to Romberg, General Gudonoff, superintendent of the Imperial theatres, and General Lwoff, aide-de-camp to the Emperor, a composer of rare talent. Not to go into too many details, my visits both to St Petersburg and Moscow were the greatest success financially as well as artistically. My first concert (at which I was summoned, hot and dishevelled with my exertions, to the box of the Emperor, who was most gracious) made eighteen thousand francs; the expenses were six thousand, the balance was mine. I could not resist murmuring, as I turned to the south-west, Ah, dear Parisians! I must just recall one of my red-letter days--the performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ in St Petersburg. No wretched bargaining, no limitation of rehearsals here! I asked General Gudonoff: How many rehearsals can your Excellency allow me? How many? Why! as many as you want. They will rehearse until you are satisfied. And they did; consequently it was royally, imperially, organised and performed. The vast theatre was full; diamonds, uniforms, helmets shone and glittered everywhere. I, too, was in good form, and conducted without a single mistake--a thing that, in those days, did not happen often. I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me in floods of tears. Ah! nerves! said he, I know too well what it is. And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a quarter of an hour. Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from _Faust_. I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music. Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box: Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand introduction I could absolutely _see Romeo driving up in his gig_!!! I spoke of Ernst just now--great artist and noble friend. He has been compared to Chopin--a comparison both true and false. Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried his independence too far; he simply _could not_ play in time. Ernst, while employing _rubato_, kept it within artistic limits, retaining always a dignified sway over his own caprices. In Chopins compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless. Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite--his concerted music is not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest is thoroughly grateful and sustained. Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and Liszt. Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and, like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer. * * * * * The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret. Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down, and said: You dont _look_ a firebrand, but from your articles I should have expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write with a dagger, not a pen! The King of Prussia wishing to hear my _Faust_, I arranged to stay ten days in Berlin. The Opera House was placed at my disposal, and I was promised half the gross receipts. The orchestra and choruses were capital, but I cannot say as much for the soloists, who were feeble in the extreme. The King of Thule ballad was hissed, but whether this was due to me or to the singer I cannot say--probably both--for the stalls were filled with a malicious crowd who objected to a Frenchman having the audacity to set to music a German classic. However, by the time we got to the _Danse des Sylphes_ I was in a bad temper and refused the encore they gave it. The royalties were apparently satisfied; the Princess of Prussia said many nice things and the King sent me the Red Eagle by Meyerbeer and invited me to dinner at Sans Souci. I met with a cordial reception, gave him news of his sister in Russia and finally ventured to say after dinner was over: Ah, sire, you are the true king of artists. Without you could Spontini and Meyerbeer have gained a hearing? Was it not at your suggestion that Mendelssohn composed his _Antigone_ music? Did not you commission him to write the _Midsummer Nights Dream_? Does not your known love of art incite us all to do our best? Well, perhaps so, he answered, but theres no need to say so much about it. But it is true. Now there are two other sovereigns who share his interest--the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar and the blind young King of Hanover. * * * * * On returning to France I took my boy to see his relations at La Cte Saint-Andr. Poor Louis! how happy he was; petted by relations and old servants and wandering about the fields, his little hand thrust in mine. In a letter I had yesterday he says that that fortnight was the happiest of his life. And now he is at the blockade of the Baltic, on the eve of a naval battle--that hell upon the sea! The mere thought of it maddens me; yet he chose it himself--this noble profession. But we did not expect war then. Dear noble boy! at this minute they may be bombarding Bomarsund--it will not bear thinking of, I must turn to other things--I can write no more. * * * * * From Paris and its usual weary round of jealousy and intrigue, it was a comfort to turn to London, whence I received the offer of an engagement to conduct the grand English Opera for Jullien. In his usual rle of madman he got together orchestra, chorus, principals and theatre, merely forgetting a repertoire. To cover expenses he would have had to take ten thousand francs a night and this he expected to net out of an English version of _Lucia di Lammermoor_! _To_ TAJAN ROG of St Petersburg. LONDON, _November 1847_.--Dear Rog,--Your letter should have been answered sooner had it not been for the thousand and one worries that overwhelmed me the minute I set foot in Paris. You can have no idea of my existence in that infernal city that thinks itself the home of Art. Thank heaven I have escaped to England and am, financially, more independent than I dared to hope. Jullien, the manager here, is a most intrepid spirit and seems to understand English people; he has made his fortune and is going to make mine, he says. I let him have his own way since he does nothing unworthy of art and good taste--but I have my doubts. I have come _alone_ to London; you may guess my reasons. I badly needed a little freedom which, so far, I have never been able to get. Not one _coup dtat_ but a whole series was necessary before I succeeded in shaking off my bonds. Yet now, although I am so busy with rehearsals, my loneliness seems very odd. Since I am in a confidential mood, will you believe that I had a queer little love affair in St Petersburg with a girl--now dont laugh like a full orchestra in C major! It was poetic, heart-rending, and perfectly innocent. Oh, our walks! oh, the tears I shed when, like Fausts Marguerite, she said: What can you see in me--a poor girl so far beneath you? I thought I should die of despair when I left St Petersburg, and was really ill when I found no letter from her in Berlin. She _did_ promise to write, probably by now she is married. I can picture it all again--the Neva banks, the setting sun. In a maze of passion I pressed her hand to my heart, and sang her the Love Song from _Romeo_. Ah me! not two lines since I left her. Good-bye; you at least will write to me. _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL. 76 HARLEY STREET, LONDON, _31st November 1847_.--Jullien asks me confidentially to get your report on the success of Verdis new opera. We begin next week with the _Bride of Lammermoor_, which can hardly help going well with Madame Gras and Reeves. He has a beautiful voice, and sings as well as this awful English language will allow. I had a warm reception at one of Julliens concerts, but shall not begin my own until January. Your friend, M. Grimblot, has given me the _entre_ to his club, but heaven only knows what amusement is to be found in an English club. Macready gave a magnificent dinner in my honour last week; he is charming and most unassuming at home, though they say he is terrible at rehearsal. I have seen him in a new tragedy, _Philip van Artevelde_; he is grand, and has mounted the piece splendidly. No one here understands the management and grouping of a crowd as he does. It is masterly. * * * * * _8th December._--The opening of our season was a success. Madame Gras and Reeves were recalled frantically four or five times, and they both deserved it. Reeves is a priceless discovery for Jullien; his voice is exquisite in quality, he is a good musician, has an expressive face, and plays with judgment. * * * * * _14th January._--Jullien has landed us all in a dreadful bog, but dont mention it in Paris, as we must not spoil his credit. It is not the Drury Lane venture that has ruined him; that was done before; now he has gone off to the provinces and is making a lot of money with his promenade concerts, while we take a fair amount each night at the theatre, none of which goes into our pockets, for _we are not paid at all_. Only the orchestra, chorus, and work-people are paid every week in order to keep the thing going somehow. If Jullien does not pay me on his return, I shall arrange with Lumley to give some concerts in Her Majestys Theatre, for there is a good opening here since poor Mendelssohns death. * * * * * _12th February 1848._--My music has taken with the English as fire to gunpowder. The _Rakoczy_ and _Danse des Sylphes_ were encored. Everyone of importance, musically, was at Drury Lane for my concert, and most of the artists came to congratulate me. They had expected something diabolic, involved, incomprehensible. Now we shall see how they agree with our Paris critics. Davison himself wrote the _Times_ critique; they cut half of it out from want of space; still the remainder has had its effect. Old Hogarth of the _Daily News_ was truly comical: My blood is on fire, said he; never have I been excited like this by music.<span class="lftspc"></span> Jullien, coming finally to the end of his resources, was obliged to call a council of war. It consisted of Sir Henry Bishop, Sir George Smart, Planch, Gye, Marezeck, and myself. He talked wildly of the different operas he proposed to mount, and finally came to _Iphigenia in Tauris_, which, like many others, is promised yearly by the London managers. Impatient at my silence he turned upon me: Confound it all! surely you know that? Certainly I know it. What do you want me to tell you? How many acts there are, how many characters, what voices and, above all, the style of setting and costume. Take a pen and paper and I will tell you. Four acts, three men: Orestes, baritone; Pylades, tenor; Thoas, high bass; a grand womans part, Iphigenia, soprano; a small one, Diana, mezzo-soprano. The costumes you will not like, unfortunately; the Scythians are ragged savages on the shores of the Black Sea; Orestes and Pylades are shipwrecked Greeks. Pylades alone has two dresses--in the fourth act he comes in in a helmet---- A helmet! cried Jullien, excitedly; we are saved! Ill write to Paris for a golden helmet with a pearl coronet, and an ostrich plume as long as my arm. Well have forty performances. Prodigious! as good Dominie Sampson says. Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces. XXXI MY FATHERS DEATH--MEYLAN Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the terrible sorrow of losing my father. My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly loved and sympathetic friend. We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and, since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of a profession, we had been so entirely at one. Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my _Requiem_, but it was not to be. I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch--still living, though he was dead! A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan--the early home of my Mountain Star--and live over again my early love and sorrow. Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my childish days crowd in upon me. Here did I sit with my father, playing _Nina_ to him on my flute; there did Estelle stand. I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden, the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers. Once more I am young; life and love--a glorious poem--lie before me; on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: Estelle! Estelle! Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer! I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye! good-bye! Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love--Time sweeps me on; Stella! Stella! The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft sunlight, solitude, and silence. * * * * * Next day I asked my cousin Victor: Do you know Madame F----? The lovely Estelle D----, do you mean? Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve--I love her yet. You idiot, said Victor, laughing, she is fifty-one, and has a son of twenty-two. He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair, an April gleam through the rain. Nevertheless I want to see her. Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of yourself and upset her. I want to see her, I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth. Fifty-one! he cried again, you had much better keep your bright, fresh, youthful memory of her. Well, then, I will write. He gave me a pen, and subsided into an armchair in fits of laughter, while my incoherent, despairing letter was composed. I sent it, but no reply came. When next I go to Grenoble I mean to see her. * * * * * In May 1851 I was commissioned by Government to judge instruments at the London Exhibition, and wrote to Joseph dOrtigue in June 1851-- I want to tell you of the extraordinary impression made on me by the singing of six thousand Charity School children in St Pauls Cathedral. It is an annual affair, and is, beyond compare, the most imposing, the most _Babylonian_ ceremony I ever witnessed. It was a realisation of part of my dreams, and proof positive of the unknown power of vast musical masses. This fact is no more understood on the Continent than is Chinese music. By-the-bye, France is easily first in the manufacture of musical instruments. Erard, Sax and Vuillaume lead; all the others are of the reed-pipe and tin-kettle tribe. _To_ LWOFF. _January 1852._--It is impossible to do anything in Paris, so next month I shall go back to England, where, at least, the _wish to love music_ is real and persistent. If I can be of the least use to you in my newspaper articles, commend me, dear master. It will be a pleasure to tell our few earnest French readers of the great and good things that are done in Russia. It is a debt I shall gladly pay, since I never shall forget the warmth of my reception and the kindness of your Empress and your great Emperors family. What a pity he himself does not like music! _To_ J. DORTIGUE. LONDON, _March 1852_.--Just a line to tell you of my colossal success. Recalled I know not how often, and applauded both as composer and conductor. This morning, in the _Times_, the _Morning Post_, the _Advertiser_, and others, such effusions as never were written before about me! Beale is wild with joy, for it really is an event in the musical world. The orchestra at times surpassed all that I have heard in _verve_, delicacy and power. All the papers except the _Daily News_ puff me, and now I am preparing Beethovens _Choral Symphony_, which, so far, has been sadly mutilated here. But can you believe that all the critics are against the _Vestal_, of which we performed the first part yesterday? I am utterly cast down at this _lapsus judicii_--am I not weak?--and am ashamed of having succeeded at such a cost. Why can I not remember that the good, the beautiful, the true, the false, the ugly, are not the same to everyone? * * * * * _May 1852._--You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year. In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told the public that the _Choral Symphony_ rehearsals had swallowed more than a third of the subscription. However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry it through. * * * * * _June 1852._--I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful womens voices! If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the _Choral Symphony_. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most imposing. Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my daily task of critic--the only one left me in my precious native land! A naf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. For I hear, said he, that Berlioz really is better than Costa!! !<span class="lftspc"></span> _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. 1852.--You say you are going mad! You must actually _be_ mad to write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my present life. In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk. You chose your own profession--a hard one, I grant you, but the hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn your own living. I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six months. I can do no more. What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every five months. You must be laughing at me. Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no career but _that which you yourself chose_. It is too late to alter now. _To_ J. DORTIGUE. _January 1854._--Yes, dear dOrtigue, you are right. It is my ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble, all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings. You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have another love quite as ardent--the love of love. And when for some idea, some misunderstanding, I feel that my love may be lessened, something within me bursts asunder, and I cry like a child with a broken toy. I know it is puerile, but it is true, although I do my best to cure myself. Like a true Christian, you have punished me by returning good for evil. Your notes are capital, and I think I shall be able to use them, though never did I feel less in the mood for writing. I cannot make a beginning. And I am sad--so sad! Life is slipping away. I long to _work_, and am obliged to _drudge_ in order to live. Adieu, adieu. XXXII POOR OPHELIA I would I were done with these wearisome reminiscences! When I have written a few pages more I shall have said enough to give a fair sketch of the mill-round of thought, work and sorrow wherein I am fated to turn, until I cease to turn for ever. However long may still be the days of my pilgrimage, they can but resemble those that are past. The same stony roads, the same Slough of Despond, with here and there a blessed oasis of rest or a mighty rock that I may painfully climb, thereon to forget, in the evening sunshine, the cold rains of the plain beneath. So slow are changes in men and things that one would need to live two hundred years to mark any difference. Nanci, my sister, died of cancer, after six months frightful suffering. Adle, worn out with the fatigue and anxiety of nursing, nearly followed her. Why had no doctor the humanity to put an end to that awful martyrdom with a little chloroform? They administer it to avoid the pain of an operation that lasts, perhaps, an hour, and they refuse it when they know cure to be impossible, to spare months of torture, when death would be the supreme good. Even savages are more humane. But no doubt my sister would have refused the boon had it been offered. She would have said, Gods will be done! Would not Gods will have been as well interpreted by a calm, swift death as by these months of useless agony? * * * * * My wife, too, died--mercifully without much suffering. After four years death-in-life, unable to speak or move, she passed quietly away at Montmartre on the 3rd March 1854. Her last hours were sweetened by Louis presence. He was home on leave from Cherbourg four days before she died. I had been out for two hours when one of her nurses came to tell me all was over, and I returned but to draw aside the shroud and kiss her pale forehead. Her portrait, painted in the days of her radiant beauty, and which I had given her the year before, hung above her bed, looking calmly down on the poor shell that had once enshrined her brilliant genius. My sufferings were indescribable. They were intensified by one feeling that has always been the hardest for me to bear--that of pity. Again and again I went over Henriettes troubles and their crushing weight bore me to the earth. Her losses before our marriage, her accident, the fiasco of her second appearance, her lost beauty and renown, our home quarrels, her jealousy--not, in the end, without cause--our separation, her sons absence, her helplessness and dreary years of retrospection, of contemplating approaching death and oblivion. Oh, the pity of it! It turns my brain. Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Thou alone couldst have understood us both, thou alone couldst have pitied us--poor children of Art--loving, yet wounding each other through our love! Thou art our God, if that other God sits aloof in sublime indifference to our torments. Thou art our father. Help us! Save us! De profundis ad te clamo! Alone I went about my sorrowful task. The Protestant pastor lived at the other side of Paris and I went to him that evening. As my cab passed the Odon I thought of how, in that theatre twenty-six years before, my poor dead wife had burst like a meteor upon Paris and had come forward, trembling and awed at her own success, to receive the plaudits of all that was best and brightest in France. Ophelia! Ophelia! Through that door I saw her pass to a rehearsal of _Othello_. I was nothing to her then. She would have thought the prophet mad who pointed out a worn, distraught, unknown youth and said: Behold your husband! Yet he it is, my poor Ophelia, he who loved and suffered with you, who tends you on this last long journey. ... Forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. Shakespeare! Shakespeare! The waters have gone over me. Father! Father! where art thou? * * * * * Next day, out of love for me, came dOrtigue, Brizeux, Lon de Wailly, some artists brought by good Baron Taylor and other kind friends to accompany Henriette to her last rest. Twenty-five years earlier all intellectual Paris would have been there--now, he, who loved her and had not the courage to go with her to the little Montmartre Gods-acre, sits and weeps alone in her deserted garden, and her young son wanders afar on the dreary ocean. They turned her face towards the north, to that England she never saw again, and her humble grave bears only-- Henriette Constance Berlioz-Smithson, born at Ennis, Ireland, died at Montmartre, 3rd March 1854. The papers barely noticed her death, but Jules Janin remembered and wrote in the _Dbats_: These stage divinities how soon they pass! How short a time it seems since we sat with Juliet on that balcony above the Verona road. Juliet, so fair, so ethereal, listening dreamily as Romeo speaks, her golden voice vibrating with the undying poetry of Shakespeare, the whole world bound by her magic spells! She was barely twenty, this Miss Smithson, and, without knowing it, she was a poem, a passion, a revolution--By her absolute truth she conquered. She it was who gave the lead to Dorval, Malibran, Victor Hugo and Berlioz. To her Delacroix owed his conception of sweet Ophelia. Now she is dead and her dream of glory--that glory which passes so rapidly--is over and done. In my young days they used to sing a funeral dirge to Juliet, wherein recurred, like an old Greek chorus, the heart-breaking refrain, Throw flowers! Throw flowers! Juliet is dead. Throw flowers! Death lies upon her, softly as frost on April grass. Throw flowers! Her love song is a funeral knell. Throw flowers! Her marriage feast the feast of Death. Throw flowers! Her marriage blossoms deck her tomb. Throw flowers! Liszt wrote from Weimar as only he can write: She inspired you, you loved and sang of her. Her work is done! _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. _6th March 1854._--My poor dear Louis,--You know all. I am alone and writing to you in the large sitting-room next to her deserted bedroom. I have just been to the cemetery where I laid two wreaths upon her grave--one for you and one for myself. The servants are still here and are arranging things for the sale; I want to realise as much as possible for you. I have kept her hair. You will never know how much we made each other suffer; our very suffering bound us one to the other. I could neither live with her nor without her. Alexis and I talked much of you yesterday. How I wish you were more rational! It would make me so happy to feel that you were sure of yourself. I shall be able to do more for you now than has hitherto been possible, but I shall take every precaution to prevent your squandering money. Alexis agrees that I am right. At present I am penniless and shall be for at least six months; I must pay the doctor and the sale will bring in but little. The King of Saxonys director wishes me to be in Dresden next month and I shall have to borrow money for my journey. * * * * * _23rd March._--Your letter is an unexpected pleasure, dear boy. With seventy francs a month you can easily save, if you give up your habit of squandering money. Tell me whether you can get back the watch you pawned at Havre. My father gave it to you. If you cannot, I will buy you another. I have had a watch chain made for you of your mothers hair; keep it carefully. I also had a bracelet made for my sister, the rest of the hair I shall keep. Did you see Jules Janins touching words on your poor mother and his exquisite reference to my _Romeo_ Throw flowers? I hope for another letter from you before Saturday. God grant that my German trip may bring in something! The Montmartre house is not let and I may have to pay rent there a year longer. * * * * * What more can I say of the two great passions that influenced my life? One was a childhoods memory--yet not to be despised since, with my love for Estelle, awoke my love of nature. The other--coming in my manhood with my worship of Shakespeare--took possession of me and overwhelmed me completely. Love of Art and the artist intermingled, each acting upon and intensifying the other. Those who cannot understand this will still less understand my vague poetic longings at the scent of a lovely rose, the sight of a beautiful harp. Estelle was the rose that bloomed alone, Henriette the harp that shared my music, my joys, my sorrows and of which alas! I snapped so many, many strings! _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. _October 1854._--I am sad this morning, dear Louis. I dreamt that we were walking--you and I--in the garden at La Cte, and not knowing exactly where you are, my dream troubles me. I have some news that will not, I think, surprise you. Two months ago I married again. I could not live alone, neither could I desert the woman who, for fourteen years, has been my companion. My uncle and all my friends agree with me. I need not tell you that your interests are safe. If I die first my wife will have but a quarter of my small fortune and even that I know she intends to leave to you. If you still have any painful thoughts of Mademoiselle Recio I know you will hide them for my sake. We were married very quietly without fuss or mystery. If you mention this in your letters, write nothing that I cannot show to my wife; I must have no cloud in my home. But your own heart will tell you what to do. Admiral Ccile tells me he has received your letter. You cannot enter the Marines until the end of your three years cruise. I am overwhelmed with rehearsals and arrangements for producing my new work, the _Childhood of Christ_. It bristles with difficulties. Good-bye, dear Louis. XXXIII DEAD SEA FRUIT The end of my career is in sight, or if not the end, yet are my feet set on the steep slope leading to the goal; worn and tired, I am consumed by a burning fire that sometimes rages with such violence as to frighten me. I begin to know French, to write fairly a page of verse, prose or score; I love an orchestra, and can direct it; I worship Art in every form. But I belong to a nation that cares for none of these things. Parisians are barbarians; not one rich man in ten has a library, no one buys books--they hire feeble novels at a penny a volume from circulating libraries--this is sufficient mental food for all classes. For a few francs a month they hire from the music shops the flat and dreary compositions with which they overflow. What have I to do with Paris? That Paris--the apotheosis of industrialism in Art--that casts a scornful eye upon me, holding me only too honoured in fulfilling my calling of pamphleteer, for which alone, it holds, I came into the world. I _know_ what I could do with dramatic music, but to try it would be both useless and dangerous. There is no suitable theatre; I must be absolute dictator of a grand orchestra; I must have the eager good-will of all, from prima-donna to scene-shifter; my theatre must be a gigantic musical instrument. I could play it. But this will never be; it would give too much scope to the cabals of my foes, and not only should I have to face the hatred of my critics but also the vindictive fury caused by my original style. People would naturally ask, If he becomes popular, where will our compositions be? I proved this at Covent Garden, where a crew of Italians nearly wrecked _Benvenuto Cellini_ by hissing from beginning to end. Costa was credited with this cabal, since I had fallen foul of him in newspaper articles for the liberties he took with the scores of the great masters. However, guilty or not, he knew how to quiet my doubts by doing his best to help me during my rehearsals. Indignant at my treatment, the artists of London tried, unsuccessfully, to arrange a testimonial concert for me, and through my good friend Beale offered me a present of two hundred guineas, the subscription list being headed by Messrs Broadwood. Although greatly moved at the kindly generosity of the present, I was unable to accept it. French ideas would not permit. For three years I have been worried by the vision of a grand opera to which I want to write both words and music, as I have done in the _Childhood of Christ_. So far I have resisted temptation. May I hold out until the end! To me the subject is magnificent, soul-stirring, which means that the Parisians would find it flat and wearisome. Even if I could believe they might like it, where should I find a woman with beauty, voice, dramatic talent and fiery soul to fill the chief part? The very thought of hurling myself once more against the obstacles raised by the crass stupidity of my opponents makes my blood boil. The shock of our collision would be too dangerous, for I feel I could kill them all like dogs. Even from concert-giving in Paris I am excluded, for, thanks to the machinations of my enemies in the Conservatoire, the Minister of the Interior at the prize-giving took occasion to state that in future the hall of the Conservatoire (the only possible one for my purpose) would be lent to _no one_. The no one could only be me, for, with two or three exceptions in twenty years, I was the only one who so used it. Although most of the executants in this celebrated society are my friends, they are overborne by a hostile chief and a small clique; my compositions, therefore, are never given. Once, six or seven years ago, they did ask me for some excerpts from _Faust_, then tried to damn them by sandwiching them between Beethovens _C minor Symphony_ and Spontinis finale to the _Vestal_. Fortunately they were disappointed, the Sylph scene was enthusiastically encored; but Girard, who had conducted the whole thing clumsily and colourlessly, pretended he could not find the place, so it was not repeated. After that they avoided my works like the plague. Of all the millionaires in Paris none thinks of doing anything for music. Paganinis example was not followed, and the great artists gift to me stands alone. No; a composer of classical music must be absolutely independent or must resign himself to all the miseries from which I suffered--to incomplete rehearsals, to inconvenient concert halls, to checks of every foreseen and unforeseen kind, and to the rapacity of the hospital tax-gatherers, who seize one-eighth of the _gross_ receipts. Usually I am willing and anxious to make every possible sacrifice, but sometimes occasions arise when such sacrifices cease to be generous and become criminal. Two years ago, when there was still some hope of my wifes recovery, and therefore expenses were greatly increased, I dreamt one night of a symphony. On waking I could still recall nearly all the first movement, an allegro in A minor. As I moved towards my writing-table to put it down, I suddenly thought: If I do this I shall be drawn on to compose the rest, and, since my ideas always expand, it will end by being enormously long; it will take me three or four months; I shall write no articles, and my income will fail. When the symphony is written I shall, weakly, have it copied and so incur a debt of a thousand or twelve hundred francs. Then I shall be impelled to give a concert that it may be heard; the receipts will hardly equal half the expenditure, and I shall lose money. I have not got it. My poor invalid will be without necessary comforts, and my sons expenses on board ship will not be met. With a shudder of horror I threw aside my pen, saying: To-morrow I shall have forgotten the symphony. But no! Next night that obstinate motif returned more clearly than before--I could even see it written out. I started up in feverish agitation, humming it over and--again my decision held me back, and I put the temptation aside. I fell asleep and next morning my symphony was gone for ever. Coward! cries the young enthusiast, brave all and write! Ruin yourself! Dare everything! What right have you to push back into oblivion a work of art that stretches out to you its piteous hands crying for the light of day? Ah, youth, youth! never hast thou suffered as I suffer, else wouldst thou understand and be silent. Never was I backward, when I stood alone, to bear the brunt of my own actions, never did I fail when my wife stood beside me, alert and hopeful, to help me on, to face with me privation and suffering in the cause of Art. But when she lay half dead, a doctor and three nurses in attendance, when I knew that my musical venture _must_ end in disaster, was I cowardly to hold back? Did I not do more honour to my divine goddess, Music, in crediting her with sweet reasonableness than in treating her as an all-devouring Moloch, greedy for human victims? If I have lately been carried away in writing my trilogy _The Childhood of Christ_, it is that I no longer have these heavy calls upon me, and also that, owing to my warm and generous reception in Germany, I can count upon the performance of my works. Since writing this, M. Benazet of Baden has invited me several times to conduct the annual festival there, and, with unequalled generosity, has given me _carte blanche_ in the engagement and payment of my performers. Each year Germany receives me more cordially; I have been there four times during the last eighteen months. So interested were the blind King of Hanover and his Antigone, the Queen, in my rehearsals that they would appear at eight oclock in the morning and sometimes stay till noon, as the King said: In order the better to get at the heart of my meaning and to grasp more thoroughly my new ideas. How warmly, too, he spoke of my _King Lear_--of the storm, the prison scene, the fateful sorrows of sweet Cordelia. I did not believe there was anything so beautiful in music, he said, but you have enlightened me. And how you conduct? I cannot see you but I feel it. I owe much to Providence, he added, simply; this love of music is a compensation for all I have lost. I never saw Henriette in that part, which was her best, but from her recital of some scenes I can imagine what it must have been. On my last visit to Hanover the Queen asked me to include two pieces from _Romeo_ in my programme, and the King desired me to return next winter to superintend a theatrical performance of the same work, allowing me to requisition artists from Brunswick, Hamburg, and even Dresden. It was the same with the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who said, as I took my leave: M. Berlioz, shake hands with me and remember my theatre is always open to you. M. de Lttichau, superintendent to the King of Saxony, has offered me the post of director when it shall be vacant. Liszt strongly advises me to accept, but I cannot say. Time enough to decide when the place is at my disposal. At present in Dresden they talk of reviving _Benvenuto Cellini_, which Liszt has already given in Weimar, and of course I should have to go and superintend the first performances. Blessed Germany, nursing mother of Art; generous England; Russia, my saviour; good friends in France, and you--noble hearts of all nations whom I have known--I thank and bless you all; your memory will be my comfort to my latest hour. As for you, idiots and blind! You, my Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, Iago and Osric! You, crawling worms of all kinds! Farewell, my friends--I scorn you; may you be forgotten ere I die! _Note._--This was originally the ending of Berlioz _Mmoires_, but his correspondence was voluminous after this date and he also added some chapters to his Life. _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL. _June 1855._--You ask me to describe my _Te Deum_, which is rather embarrassing. I can only say that its effect both on the performers and myself was stupendous. Its immeasurable grandeur and breadth struck everyone, and you can understand that the _Tibi omnes_ and _Judex_ would have even more effect in a less sonorous hall than the church of St Eustache. I start for England on Friday. Wagner, who is directing the old London Philharmonic (a post I was obliged to refuse, being engaged by the other society) is buried beneath the vituperations of the whole British press. He remains calm, for he says that _in fifty years he will be master of the musical world_. _July._--My trip to London, where, each time, I become more comfortably established, was a brilliant success. I mean to go back next winter after a prospective short tour through Austria and Bohemia--at least if we are not at war with Austria. I do nothing but correct proofs from morning to night, and see, hear, know nothing. Meyerbeer ought to be pleased with the reception of the _Etoile du Nord_ at Covent Garden. They threw him bouquets, as though he were a prima-donna. _To_ RICHARD WAGNER. _September 1855._--Your letter has given me real pleasure. You do well to deplore my ignorance of German, and I have often told myself that, as you say, this ignorance makes it impossible for me to appreciate your writings. Expression melts away in translation, no matter how daintily it is handled. In _true music_ there are accents that belong to special words, separated they are spoilt. But what can I do? I find it so devilishly hard to learn languages; a few words of English and Italian are all I can manage. So you are busy melting glaciers with your Nibelungen! It must be glorious to write in the presence of great Mother Nature--a joy withheld from me, for, instead of stimulating, the sea, the mountain peaks, the glories of this beautiful earth absorb me so completely that I have no room, no outlet for expression. I only feel. I can but describe the moon from her reflection at the bottom of a well. I am sorry I have no scores to send you, but you shall have the _Te Deum_, _Childhood of Christ_ and _Llio_ as soon as they come out. I already have your _Lohengrin_ and should be delighted if you would let me have _Tannhuser_. To meet as you suggest would be indeed a pleasure, but I dare not think of it. Since Paris offers me but Dead Sea fruit I must of necessity earn my bread by travelling for bread--not pleasure. No matter. If we could but live another hundred years or so we might perhaps understand the true inwardness of men and things. Old Demiurge must laugh in his beard at the continual triumph of his well-worn, oft-repeated farce. But I will not speak ill of him, since he is a friend of yours and you have become his champion. I am an impious wretch, full of respect for the _Pies_. Forgive the atrocious pun! _P.S._--Winged flights of many tinted thoughts crowd in upon me and I long to send them, were there but time. Write me down an ass until further orders. XXXIV 1863--GATHERING TWILIGHT Nearly ten years since I finished my memoir and during that time my life has been as full of incident as ever. But since, for nothing on earth would I go through the labour of writing again, I must just indicate the chief points. My work is over; Othellos occupations gone. I no longer compose, conduct, write either prose or verse. I have resigned my post of musical critic and wish to do nothing more. I only read, think, fight my deadly weariness of soul and suffer from the incurable neuralgia that tortures me night and day. To my great surprise I have been elected a member of the Academy and my relations with my colleagues are, throughout, pleasant and friendly. In 1855 Prince Napoleon desired me to arrange a great concert in the Exhibition building for the day upon which the Emperor was to distribute the prizes. I accepted on condition that I had no pecuniary responsibility, and M. Ber, a generous and brave impresario, came forward and treated me most liberally. These concerts (for there were several besides the official one) brought me in eight thousand francs. In a raised gallery behind the throne I had placed twelve hundred musicians, who were barely heard. Not that that mattered much on the day of the ceremony, for I was stopped at the most interesting point of the very first piece (the _Imperial Cantata_ which I had written for the occasion) because the Prince had to make his speech and the music was lasting too long!! However the next day the paying public was admitted and we took seventy-five thousand francs. This time I brought the orchestra down into the body of the hall, with fine effect. I sent to Brussels for an electrician I knew, who made me a five-wired metronome so that by the single movement of my left hand, I could mark time for the five deputy conductors placed at different points of the enormous space. The _ensemble_ was marvellous. Since then most of the theatres have adopted electric metronomes for the guidance of chorus-masters behind the scenes. The Opera alone refused; but, when I undertook the supervision of _Alcestis_, I introduced it. In these Palais de lIndustrie concerts the finest effects were obtained from broad, grand, simple and somewhat slow movements, such as the chorus from _Armida_, the _Tibi omnes_ of my _Te Deum_ and the _Apotheosis_ of my _Funeral Symphony_. _Letters to_ FERRAND and LOUIS BERLIOZ from 1858 to 1863. _November 1858._--I have nothing to tell you, I simply want to write. I am ill, miserable (how many _Is_ to each line!) Always _I_ and _me_! Ones friends are for _oneself_, it ought to be oneself for ones friends. My dejection melts away as I write; for pitys sake let us write oftener! These years of silence are insupportable. Think how horribly quickly we are dying and how much good your letters do me! Last night I dreamt of music, this morning I recalled it all and fell into one of those supernal ecstasies.... All the tears of my soul poured forth as I listened to those divinely sonorous smiles that radiate from the angels alone. Believe me, dear friend, the being who could write such miracles of transcendent melody would be more than mortal. So sings great Michael as, erect upon the threshold of the empyrean, he dreamily gazes down upon the worlds beneath. Why, oh, why! have I not such an orchestra that I, too, could sing this archangelic song! Back to this lower earth! I am interrupted. Vulgar, commonplace, stupid life! Oh! that I had a hundred cannon to fire all at once! Good-bye. I feel better. Forgive me! * * * * * _6th July 1861._--_The Trojans_ has been accepted for the Opera, but I cannot tell when they will produce it as Gounod and Gervaert have to come first. But I am determined to worry myself no more; I will not court Fortune, I will lie in bed and await her. All the same, I could not resist a little uncourtly frankness when the Empress asked me when she should hear _The Trojans_. I do not know, madame, I begin to think one must live a hundred and fifty years in order to get a hearing at the Opera. The annoying part is that, thanks to these delays, my work is getting a sort of advance reputation that may injure it in the end. I am getting on with a one-act opera for Baden, written round Shakespeares _Much Ado About Nothing_. It is called _Beatrice and Benedict_; I promise there shall not be much _Ado_ in the shape of noise in it. Benazet, the king of Baden, wants it next year. An American director has offered me an engagement in the _Dis_united States; but his proposals are unavailing in view of my unconquerable antipathy to his great nation, and my love of money is not sufficiently great to prick me on. I do not know whether your love for American _utilitarian_ manners and customs is any more intense than my own. In any case, it would be a great mistake to go far from Paris now; at any moment they might want _The Trojans_. * * * * * _30th June 1862._--In my bereavement I can write but little. My wife is dead--struck down in a moment by heart disease. The frightful loneliness, after the wrench of this sudden parting, is indescribable. Forgive me for not saying more. _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. _January 1858._--Perhaps you have heard that a band of ruffians surrounded the Emperors carriage as he went to the opera. They threw a bomb that killed and wounded both men and horses, but, by great good luck, did not touch the Emperor; and the charming Empress did not lose her head for a moment. The courage and presence of mind of both were perfect. I have just had a long letter from M. von Bulow, Liszts son-in-law, who married Mlle. Cosima. He tells me that he performed my _Cellini_ overture with the greatest success at a Berlin concert. He is one of the most fervent disciples of that crazy school of the Music of the Future, as they call it in Germany. They stick to it, and want me to be their leader and standard-bearer, but I write nothing, say nothing, but just let them go their way. Good sense will teach reasonable people the truth. * * * * * _May 1858._--The foreign mail leaves to-morrow, and I must have a chat with you, dear Louis. I long for news. Are you well? happy? Here we are rather miserable. I am somewhat better, but my wife is nearly always in bed and in pain. * * * * * _November 1860._--Dear Boy,--Here is a hundred-franc note. Be sure to acknowledge it. I am thankful you are better. I, too, think my disease is wearing itself out. I am certainly better since I gave up remedies. Ideas for my little opera throng in so fast that I cannot find time to write; sometimes I begin a new one before I finish the old. You ask how I manage to crowd Shakespeares five acts into one. I have taken only one subject from the play--the part in which Beatrice and Benedict, who detest each other, are mutually persuaded of each others love, whereby they are inspired with true passion. The idea is really comic. * * * * * _14th February 1861._--It worries me to hear of your state of mind. I cannot imagine what dreams have made your present life so impossible. All I can say is that I was, at your age, far from being as well off as you are. Nay, more; I never dared to hope that, so soon after getting your captains certificate, you would find a berth. It is natural that you should wish to get on, but sometimes the chances of one year bring more change into a mans life than ten years of strenuous endeavour. How can I teach you patience? Your mania for marriage would make me laugh were I not saddened by seeing you striving after the heaviest of all fetters and after the sordid vexations of domestic life--the most hopeless and exasperating of all lives. You are twenty-six, and have eighteen hundred francs, with a prospect of rapid promotion. When I married your mother I was thirty, and had but three hundred francs in the world--lent me by my friend Gounet--and the balance of my Prix de Rome scholarship. Then there were your mothers debts--nearly fourteen thousand francs--which I paid off gradually, and the necessity of sending money to her mother in England, besides which I had quarrelled with my family, who cast me off, and was trying hard to make my first small mark in the musical world. Compare my hardships with your present discontent! Even now, do you think it is very lively for me to be bound to this infernal galley-oar of journalism? I am so ill I can hardly hold my pen, yet I am forced to write for my miserable hundred francs, the while my brain teems with work and plans and designs that fall dead--thanks to my slavery. You are well and strong, while I writhe in ceaseless, incurable pain. Marie thanks you for your kind messages. She, too, is ill. Dear boy! you have at least a father, friend, devoted brother, who loves you more than you seem to think, but who wishes that your character were firmer, your mind more decided. * * * * * _21st February 1861._--Wagner is turning our singers into goats. It seems impossible to disentangle this _Tannhuser_. I hear that the last general rehearsal was awful, and only finished at one in the morning. I suppose they will get through somehow. Liszt is coming to prop up the charivari. I have refused to write the critique, and have asked dOrtigue to do it. It is best for every reason, and besides, it will disappoint them! Never did I have so many windmills to run a-tilt of as I have this year. I am deluged with fools of every species, and am choking with anger. * * * * * _5th March 1861._--The _Tannhuser_ scandal grows apace. Everyone is raging. Even the Minister left the rehearsal in a towering passion. The Emperor is far from pleased; yet there are still a few honest enthusiasts left--even among French people. Wagner is decidedly mad. He will die of apoplexy, just as Jullien did last year. Liszt never came after all. I think he expected a fiasco. They have spent a hundred and sixty thousand francs over mounting the opera. Well, we shall see what Friday brings forth. * * * * * _21st March 1861._--The second performance of _Tannhuser_ was worse than the first. No more laughter, the audience was too furious, and, regardless of the presence of the Emperor and Empress, hissed unmercifully. Coming out, Wagner was vituperated as a scoundrel, an idiot, an impertinent wretch. If this goes on, one day the performance will stop abruptly in the middle, and there will be an end of the whole thing. The press is unanimous in damning it. * * * * * _18th April 1861._--Write, dear Louis, if you can, without the cruel knife-thrusts you gave me in your last letter. I am worse than usual to-day, and have not strength to begin my article. I had an ovation at the Conservatoire after the performance of _Faust_. I dined with the Emperor a week ago, and exchanged a few words with him. I was magnificently bored. * * * * * _2nd June 1861._--You are worried, and I can do nothing for you. Alexis is trying to find you a position in Paris, but is unsuccessful. I am as inefficient as he is. You alone can command your fate. They wish me to bring out _Alcestis_ at the Opera as I did _Orpheus_ at the Thtre Lyrique, and offer me full authors rights, but I have refused for various reasons. They believe that, for money, artists will stultify their consciences; I mean to prove that their belief is false. My obstinacy has offended many. Instead of amusing themselves by spoiling Glucks _chef duvre_, I wish they would spend their money over mounting _The Trojans_. But of course they wont, since it is the obvious thing to do! Liszt has conquered the Emperor; he played at Court last week, and has been given the Legion of Honour. Ah, if one only plays the piano! * * * * * _28th October 1861._--Dear Louis,--Did I not know what a terrible effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad son after all. You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor dear boy, it is not right. Dont worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I will pay him. You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never was a more awkward man than I at asking favours. Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy--unlucky by your own fault, not by mine. * * * * * _17th June 1862._--You have received my letter and telegram, but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the 6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be together. Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing? I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that sad ceremony--the transference from St Germain--will be great. I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single florin I will trust you. My mother-in-law came back yesterday just after I had left home to find only her daughters body. She is nearly frantic and is constantly watched by a friend who came to our help. Think of the anguish! Write soon, my dear, dear boy. * * * * * BADEN, _10th August 1862_.--_Beatrice_ was applauded from end to end, and I was recalled more times than I could count. My friends were delighted, but I was quite unmoved, for it was one of my days of excruciating pain and nothing seemed to matter. To-day I am better and can enjoy their congratulations. You will be pleased too, but why have you left me so long without a letter? Why do they keep transferring you from boat to boat? Do not write here again as I soon go back to Paris. Now I am called and must go and thank my radiant singers. _To_ H. FERRAND. PARIS, _21st August 1862_.--I am just home from Baden, where _Beatrice_ obtained a real triumph. I always fly to you, be my news good or evil, I am so sure of your loving interest. Would you had been there! it would have recalled the night of the _Childhood of Christ_. Foes and conspirators stayed in Paris, artists and authors journeyed to Baden to be present; Madame Charton-Demeur was perfect, both as singer and actress. But can you believe that my neuralgia was too bad that day for me to take interest in anything? I took my place at the conductors desk, before that cosmopolitan audience, to direct an opera of which I had written both words and music, absolutely, deadly impassible. Whereby I conducted better than usual. I was much more nervous at the second performance. Benazet, who always does things royally, spent outrageously in every department. He has splendidly inaugurated the new theatre and has created a furore. They want to give _Beatrice_ at the Opera Comique, but there is no one to do the heroine since Madame Charton-Demeur is going to America. You would laugh at the critiques. People are finding out that I have melody; that I can be gay--in fact, really comic; that I am not _noisy_, which is rather obvious, since the heavy instruments are conspicuous by their absence. How much patience I should need were I not so completely indifferent. Dear friend, I suffer a perfect martyrdom daily from four in the morning till four in the afternoon. What is to become of me? I do not tell you this to make you patient under your own afflictions--my woes are no compensation to you. I simply cry unto you as one does to those who love and are loved. Adieu! Adieu! * * * * * _26th August 1862._--How I should love to come to you, as Madame Ferrand wishes! But I have much to do here owing to my wifes death, and Louis has resigned his commission and is stranded. Besides, I am busy enlarging my _Beatrice_. I am trying to cut or untie all the bonds that hold me to Art, that I may be able to say to Death, When thou wilt. I dare not complain when I think of what you bear. Are sufferings like ours the inevitable result of our organisation? Must we be punished for having worshipped the Beautiful throughout our lives? Probably. We have drunk too deeply of the enchanted cup; we have pursued our ideals too far. Still, dear friend, you have a devoted wife to help you to bear your cross. You know nothing of the dread duet beating, night and day, into your brain--the joint voices of world-weariness and isolation! God grant you never may! It is saddening music. Good-bye! My gathering tears would make me write words that would grieve you yet more. Again, good-bye! * * * * * _3rd March 1863._--Your suppositions with regard to my depression are fortunately wrong; Louis has certainly worried me terribly, but I have forgiven him; he has found a ship and is now in Mexico. No; my trouble was Love. A love unsought that met me smiling, that I did not seek, that I even fought against for awhile. But my loneliness, my unceasing yearning for affection, conquered me; first I let myself be loved, then I more than loved in return, and at last a separation became inevitable--a separation absolute as death. That is all. I am slowly recovering, but health such as this is sad. I will say no more.... I am glad my _Beatrice_ pleases you. I am going to Weimar, where it is now in rehearsal, to conduct a few performances in April, then I shall come back to this wilderness--Paris. Pray, dear friend, that my apathy may become complete, for otherwise I shall have a hard time while _The Trojans_ is in rehearsal. Good-bye; when I see your dear writing on my desk it calms me for the day. Never forget that. XXXV THE TROJANS By this time (1863) I had finished the dramatic work on which I had been engaged. Four years earlier, being in Weimar with Liszts devoted friend, the Princess of Sayn-Wittgenstein--a woman whose noble heart and mind had often been my comfort in my darkest hours--I was drawn on to speak of my love of Virgil and of my wish to compose a grand opera in Shakespearian style on the second and fourth books of the _neid_. I added that I knew too well the misery and worry that would be my fate to dare to embark on such a project. Said the Princess: Your passion for Shakespeare and love for the classics would indeed produce a work both grand and original. You must do it. As I demurred, she continued: Listen! If you draw back from fear of petty troubles, if you are so weak as not to suffer in the cause of Cassandra and Dido, come here no more. I will never see you again! Once back in Paris I began the poem of _The Trojans_. Then I started on the score, and at the end of three years and a half it was finished. As I polished and repolished it I read it to many of my friends, profiting by their criticism; then I wrote to the Emperor begging him to read it and, should he judge it suitable, to use his influence to secure it a hearing at the Opera. However, M. de Morny dissuaded me from sending my letter, and when finally _The Trojans_ saw the footlights the Emperor was not even present. After many cruel disappointments with regard to the opera, I at last succumbed to the persuasion of M. Carvalho and allowed him to set _The Trojans at Carthage_ (the second section of the opera) at the Thtre Lyrique. Although he received a Government subsidy of a hundred thousand francs a year, neither his theatre, singers, chorus, nor orchestra was equal to the task. Both he and I made great sacrifices, and I, out of my small income, paid some extra musicians and cut up my orchestration to bring it within his limits. Madame Charton-Demeur, the only possible woman for Dido, most generously accepted fees far below those offered her in Madrid, but despite everything the production was incomplete; indeed, the sceneshifters made such a muddle of the storm scene that we were obliged to suppress it entirely. As I said before, if I am to superintend a really fine representation I must have an absolutely free hand, and the good-will of every one around, otherwise I get worn out with storming at opposition, and end by resigning and letting everything go to the devil as it will. I cannot describe what Carvalho made me suffer in demanding cuts that he deemed necessary. When he dared ask no more he worked upon me through friends, whose niggling, peddling criticism drove me nearly mad. Said one: How about your rhapsodist with the four-stringed lyre? I daresay you are right as to archology, but---- Well? It is rather dangerous; people are certain to laugh. Hm! laughable is it that an antique lyre should have only four notes? Another: There is a risky word in your prologue that I fairly tremble over. Whats that? _Triomphaux._ Well, why not? Is not it the plural of _triomphal_ just as _chevaux_ is of _cheval_? Yes, but it is not much used. If, in an epic poem, I were to use words suited to vaudevilles and variety shows, I should not have much choice of language. Well, people will certainly laugh. Ha! ha! triomphaux! It is really almost as funny as Molires _tarte la crme_. Ha! ha! A third: I say! You really must _not_ let neas come on in a helmet. And why not? Why, Mangin, the gutter pencil-seller, wears one. Certainly his is a medival one, but that doesnt matter. The gallery cads will certainly howl Hallo! theres Mangin! I see--a Trojan hero may not wear a helmet, lest he should be like Mangin! Number four: Old fellow, do something to please me! What is it now? Suppress Mercury. Those wings on his head and his heels are really too comical. No one ever saw anybody with wings anywhere but on their shoulders. Ah, you have seen people with wings on their shoulders? I have not, but I can quite understand that wings in unexpected places are awkward. One does not often meet Mercury strolling about the streets of Paris. Can any one conceive what these crass idiots made me endure? In addition, I had to fight the musical ideas of Carvalho, who could not believe that, after studying opera for forty years, I knew just a little about it. The actors alone loyally abstained from worrying me, for which forbearance I give them all most hearty thanks. The first performance took place on the 4th November 1863. There was no hostile demonstration except the hissing of one man, and he kept on regularly up to the tenth night. Five papers said everything insulting that they could think of, but, on the other hand, fifty articles of admiring criticism--among them those of my friends, Gasperini, dOrtigue, L. Kreutzer, and Damcke--filled me with a joyous pride to which I had too long been a stranger. I also received many appreciative letters, and was frequently stopped in the street by strangers who begged to shake hands with the author of _The Trojans_. Were these not compensations for the diatribes of my foes? In spite of the cutting and polishing (I called it mutilation) that my _Trojans_ suffered at the hands of Carvalho, it only ran twenty-one nights. The receipts did not reach his expectations; he cancelled the engagement of Madame Charton-Demeur, who left for Madrid, and to my great comfort my work disappeared from the play-bills. Nevertheless, being both author and composer, my royalties for those twenty-one performances and the sale of the piano score in Paris and London amounted--to my unspeakable joy--to about the annual income I derived from the _Journal des Dbats_, and I was, therefore, able to resign my post as critic. Freedom, after thirty years of slavery! No more articles to concoct, no more platitudes to excuse, no more commonplaces to extol, no more righteous wrath to bottle up, no more lies, no more farces, no more cowardly compromises! Free! I need never more set foot in theatre! Gloria in excelsis! Thanks to _The Trojans_ the wretched quill-driver is free!! * * * * * My _Beatrice_, having been a success at Baden in August 1862, was translated into German, and, at the request of the Grand Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, was given at Weimar in April 1863. Their Serene Highnesses desired me to direct the two first performances, and, as usual, overwhelmed me with kindness. So did the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen, who sent his Kapellmeister to invite me to conduct a concert at Lwenberg, his present residence. He told me that his orchestra knew all my symphonies, and wished for a programme drawn exclusively from my own works. Your Highness, I said, since your orchestra knows all, be pleased to choose for yourself. I will conduct whatever you wish. He therefore chose _King Lear_, the festival and love-scene from _Romeo_, the _Carnaval Romain_ overture, and _Harold in Italy_. As he had no harpist, Madame Pohl of Weimar, with her husband, was invited. The Prince had greatly changed since my visit in 1842; he was a martyr to gout, and was, after all, unable to be present at the concert he had planned. He was keenly disappointed, for, said he, You are not a mere conductor; you are the orchestra itself; it is hard that I cannot reap the benefit of your stay here. He has built a splendid music-room in the castle, with a musical library; the orchestra is composed of about fifty _musical_ musicians, and their conductor, M. Seifriz, is both patient and talented. They are not worried with lesson-giving, church or theatre work, but belong exclusively to the Prince. My rooms were close to the concert hall, and the first afternoon, at four, a servant came to say: Monsieur, the orchestra awaits you. There I found the forty-five silent artists, instruments in hand and all in tune!! They rose courteously to receive me, _King Lear_ was on the desk, I raised my baton and everything went with spirit, smoothness, and precision, so that--not having heard the piece for ten or twelve years--I said to myself in amazement: It is tremendous! Can I really have written it? The rest was just as good, and I said to the players: Gentlemen, to rehearse with you is simply a farce; I have not a single objection to make. The Kapellmeister played the viola solo of _Harold_ perfectly (in the other pieces he returned to his violin), and I can truly say that never have I heard it more perfectly done. And ah! how they sang the _adagio_ of _Romeo_! We were transported to Verona, Lwenberg was gone. At the end Seifriz rose and, after waiting a moment to conquer his emotion, cried in French: There is nothing finer in music! Then the orchestra burst into storms of applause, and I bit my lip.... Messengers passed constantly back and forth to the poor Prince in his bed to report progress, but nothing consoled him for his absence. Every few minutes during dinner he would either send for me or a big, powdered lacquey would bring me a pencilled note on a silver salver. Sometimes I would spend half an hour at his bedside and listen to his praises. He knows all that I have written, both prose and music. On the day of the concert a brilliant audience filled the hall; by their enthusiasm one could see that my music was an old friend. After the _Pilgrims March_ an officer came on to the platform and pinned on my coat the cross of Hohenzollern. The secret had been so well guarded that I had not the slightest idea of such an honour. But it pleased me so greatly that, just for my own satisfaction, and without thought of the public, I played the orgie from _Harold_ in my very own style--furiously--so that it made me grind my teeth. I might say much more of this charming interlude of my life, but I must only mention the exquisite cordiality of the Princes circle and particularly of the family of Colonel Broderotti, whose perfect French was a real relief to me, since I dislike to hear my own language badly spoken yet know no German. As I took leave of the Prince he embraced me, saying: You are going to Paris, my dear Berlioz, where many love you. Tell them I love them for it. But I must go back to _Beatrice_. To my mind it is one of the liveliest and most original things I have ever done, although it is difficult--especially in the mens parts. Unlike _The Trojans_ it is inexpensive to mount; but they will take precious care not to have it in Paris; they are right, it is not Parisian music at all. With his usual generosity, M. Benazet paid me four thousand francs for the music and the same for the words--eight thousand in all, and gave me another thousand to conduct it the following year. The Maidens duet became very popular in Germany and I remember making the Grand Duke laugh heartily about it one night at supper. He had been catechising me on my life in Paris and my revelations anent our musical world sadly disillusioned him. How, when and where did you write that lovely duet? he asked, surely by moonlight in some romantic spot---- Sir, I replied, it was one of those scenes that artists mark and store up for future use and which come forth when needed, no matter amid what surroundings. I sketched it in at the Institute during an oration of one of my colleagues. Ha! ha! laughed he, that speaks well for the orator. His eloquence must have been great. Later on it was performed at one of our Conservatoire concerts and made an unheard-of sensation. Even my faithful hissers dared not uplift their voices. Mesdames Viardot and Vanderheufel-Duprez sang it deliciously, and the marvellous orchestra was dainty and graceful. It was one of those performances one sometimes hears--in dreams. The Conservatoire Society, directed by my friend, Georges Hainl, was no longer inimical to me and proposed to give excerpts from my scores occasionally. I have now presented it with my whole musical library, with the exception of the operas; it ought some day to be fairly valuable and it could not be in better hands. I must not forget to mention the Strasburg festival, where I conducted my _Childhood of Christ_ in a vast building seating six thousand people. I had five hundred performers, and to my surprise, this work--written almost throughout in a quiet, tender vein--made a tremendous impression, the mystic, unaccompanied chorus, O my soul! even causing tears. Ah! how happy am I when my audience weeps! I have heard since that many of my works have been given in America, Russia and Germany. So much the better! Could I but live a hundred and forty years my musical life would become distinctly interesting. * * * * * I had married again--_it was my duty_, and after eight years my wife died suddenly of heart disease. Some time after her burial in the great cemetery at Montmartre, my dear friend, Edouard Alexandre (the organ builder, whose goodness to me has been unbounded), thinking her grave too humble, made me a present of a plot of ground _in perpetuity_. There a vault was built and I was obliged to be present at the re-interment. It was a heart-rending scene and quite broke me down; I seemed to have touched the lowest depths of misery, but this was nothing to what followed soon after. I was officially notified that the small cemetery at Montmartre, where Henriette lay, was to be closed and that I must remove her dear body. I gave the necessary orders and one gloomy morning set out alone for the deserted burial-ground. A municipal officer awaited me and as I came up a sexton jumped down into the open grave. The ten years buried coffin was still intact with the exception of the cover, decayed by damp, and the man, instead of lifting it to the surface, pulled at the rotten boards, which tearing asunder with a hideous noise, left the remains exposed. Stooping, he took in his hands that fleshless head, discrowned and gaunt, the head of poor Ophelia and placed it in the new coffin lying on the brink of the grave--alas! alas! Again he stooped and raised the headless trunk, a black repulsive mass in its discoloured shroud--it fell with a dull, hopeless sound into its place. The officer a few paces off, stood watching. Seeing me leaning against a cypress tree he cried: Come nearer, M. Berlioz, come nearer. And, to add a grotesque weirdness to this horrible spectacle he added, misusing a word: Ah, poor _inhumanity_! In a few moments we followed the hearse down the hill to the great cemetery, where the new vault yawned before us. Henriette was laid within and there those dear dead women await me. * * * * * I am nearly sixty-one; past hope, past visions, past high thoughts; my son is far away; I am alone; my scorn for the dishonesty and imbecility of men, my hatred of their insane malignity are at their height; and every day I say again to Death: When thou wilt! Why does he tarry? XXXVI ESTELLE ONCE MORE _To_ M. and Mme MASSART. PARIS, _August 1864_.--Yes, really and truly! Marshal Vaillant has written a charming letter to tell me that the Emperor has appointed us officers of the Legion of Honour--yes, madame, both you and me. So arrange about changing your ribbon, etc. You would not go and dine with the Minister. Sixty of us were there, including His Excellencys dog, who drank coffee out of his masters cup. A great author, M. Mrime, said to me: You ought to have been made an officer long ago, which shows that I am not in the Ministry. You see I am a little better to-day and therefore more idiotic than usual; I hope this will find you the same. Paris is _en fte_ and you are not here! The Villerville beach must be very dismal, how can you stay on there? Massart goes shooting--he kills sea-gulls or perhaps an occasional sperm-whale--God only knows how you kill time! You have deserted your piano and I would not mind betting that when you come home you will hardly be able to play that easiest of scales--B natural major! Shall I come and see you? You may safely say yes for I shall not come. Forgive me! I am getting serious again, the pain is beginning and I most go to bed. Heartiest greetings to you both. _To_ A. MOREL. _August 1864._--Thank you for your cordial letter. The officers cross and Vaillants letter pleased me--both for my friends sake and my enemies. How _can_ you keep any illusions about music in France? Everything is dead except stupidity. I am almost alone. Louis has gone back to St Nazaire and all my friends are scattered except Heller, whom I see sometimes. We dine together at Asnires and are about as lively as owls; I read and re-read; in the evenings I stroll past the theatres in order to enjoy the pleasure of not going in. Yesterday I found a comfortable seat on a tomb in Montmartre cemetery and slept for two hours. Sometimes I go and see Madame Erard at Passy, where I am welcomed with open arms; I relish having no articles to write and being thoroughly lazy. Paris gets daily more beautiful; it is a pleasure to watch her blossoming out. I hear there is to be a mighty festival at Carlsruhe; Liszt has gone there from Rome and they are going to discourse ear-splitting music. It is the pow-wow of young Germany presided over by Hans von Bulow. Rarely have I suffered from _ennui_ so terribly as I did during the beginning of September 1864. My friends were away except Stephen Heller, the delicate wit and learned musician, who has written so much lovely music for the piano and whose gentle melancholy and devotion to the true deities of Art made him to me such a grateful companion. My son was home from Mexico, he, too, was not lively and we often pooled our gloom and dined together. One day, after dinner at Asnires, we walked beside the river and discussed Shakespeare and Beethoven, my son taking part in the Shakespeare portion, since, unfortunately, he was then unacquainted with Beethoven. We finally agreed that it was worth while living in order to worship the Beautiful, and if we could not annihilate all that is inimical to it we must be content to despise the commonplace and recognise it as little as possible. The sun was setting; we sat on the river-bank opposite the isle of Neuilly, and, as we watched the wayward wheeling of the swallows over the water, I suddenly remembered where I was. I looked at my son--I thought of his mother. Once more, in spirit, I lay half asleep in the snow as I had done in that very spot thirty-six years before, during those frenzied wanderings around Paris. Once again I recalled Hamlets cold remark over the Ophelia he loved no longer, What! the fair Ophelia? Long ago, I said to my companion, one winters day, I was nearly drowned here trying to cross the Seine on the ice. I had walked aimlessly since early morning---- Louis sighed. The following week he left me, and a great yearning for Vienne, Grenoble, above all, Meylan, came over me. I wished to see my nieces and--one other woman, if I could get her address. I left Paris. My brother-in-law, Suat, and his two daughters met me with joy. But my joy was chastened, for on entering their drawing-room the portrait of my dear Adle--now four years dead--faced me. It was a terrible blow, and my nieces looked on in sorrowful amazement at my grief. Daily familiarity with the room, its furniture, the portrait, had already softened their loss to them; to me all was fresh. Dear tender-hearted Adle! my willing slave, my indulgent guardian. How well I remember one day, after I came from Italy, that it rained in torrents, and I said: Adle, come for a walk. Certainly, dear boy, she said, promptly; wait till I get my galoshes. Really, said my elder sister, you must be quite crazy to want to paddle about the fields in such weather. But, despite mockery and jokes, we took a big umbrella and arm-in-arm walked about six miles without speaking a word. We loved each other. After spending a peaceful fortnight with my brother-in-law, during which he got me Madame F.s address in Lyons, I could no longer resist a pilgrimage to St Eynard, such as I had made sixteen years before. There soared the ancient rock, there stood the small white house ... to-day, her old home; to-morrow, perhaps, Estelle herself! Sixteen years had passed as one night, all was unchanged. The little shady path, the old tower, the leafy vines, the glorious view over the valley. Till then I had kept calm, only murmuring, Estelle! Estelle! Estelle! but now, overcome with emotion, I fell prone on my face, hearing with each heart-beat the fatal words: Past! Past! Gone for ever! I arose, and chipping from the tower a morsel of stone that she perchance may have touched, went on my way. There is the rock whereon I laid my posy of pink peas--but where are the flowers? Gone, or perhaps only past their flowering stage. Here is the cherry tree. How grown! I break off a fragment of bark and, passing my arms around the trunk, press it passionately to my breast. Dear tree, you remember her! You understand! At the avenue gate I resolved to go up to the house; perhaps the new owners would not be too suspicious of me. In the garden I met an old lady who seemed startled at the sight of a stranger. Pardon me, madame, I stammered, might I go through your garden--in memory of--old friends? Certainly, monsieur, go where you will. Further on a girl was on a ladder gathering pears. I bowed and passed on, pushing my way through the bushes, now so neglected, and cutting a branch of syringa to hide next my heart. As I came to the open door, I paused on the threshold to look in. The maiden of the pear tree, no doubt warned by her mother, came forward and courteously asked me in. That little room, looking over the wide valley, that _she_ had so proudly shown me when I was twelve years old--the same furniture, the same----I tore my handkerchief with my teeth. The girl watched me uneasily. Do not mind me, mademoiselle. All is so strange--I have not--been here for forty-nine years! And, bursting into tears, I fled. What could those ladies have thought of that strange scene, to which they never got a key? Reader, do I repeat myself? In sooth it is always so; remembrance, regret, a weary soul clutching at the past, fighting despairingly to retain the flying present. Always this useless struggle against time, always this wild desire to realise the impossible, always this frantic thirst for perfect love! How can I help repeating myself? The sea repeats itself; are not all its waves akin? * * * * * That night I reached Lyons and spent a sleepless night thinking of my meeting with Madame F. I decided to go at noon, and to send the following letter to prepare her for her visitor: MADAME,--I have just come from Meylan, from my second pilgrimage to the hallowed haunts of my childhoods dreams. It has been even more painful than that of sixteen years ago, after which I wrote to you at Vif. This time I ask for more; I dare to beg you to see me. I can control myself; you need fear no transports from a heart out-worn and crushed by the pressure of cruel Fate. Give me but a few moments! Let me see you, I implore. _23rd September 1864._ HECTOR BERLIOZ. I could not wait till noon. At half-past eleven I rang; gave her maid my card and the letter. She was at home. I ought only to have sent up the letter, but I was past knowing what I was doing. Without hesitation she came to meet me. I at once recognised her graceful yet stately air--the step of a goddess. But, ah! how changed her face! Her complexion darkened, her hair silvered. Yet my heart went out to my idol as though she had been in all the freshness of her youthful beauty. Holding my note, she led the way to her drawing-room. My emotions choked me, I was dumb; with gentle dignity she began: We are old acquaintances, M. Berlioz---- Silence. We were but children then---- Still silence. Feeble as the cry of a drowning man came my halting voice: My letter--madame--explains this visit; would you but read it---- She opened and read it, then laid it on the chimney-piece. Then you have been in Meylan; by chance, no doubt? Oh, madame, can you believe it needed chance to take me there? For how long had I not yearned to see it once more? Again silence. Your life has been a stirring one, M. Berlioz. How do you know, madame? I have read your biography--by Mry, I think. I bought it some years ago. Pray, do not think that my friend Mry, an artist and a clever man, is guilty of such a tissue of fables and nonsense as that! I believe I can guess the real author. But I shall soon have a true biography ready, one I have written myself. And you write so well! Nay, madame, I do not mean to praise the style, but simply to say that at least it will be true. In it, without naming you, I have been able to tell all my feeling for you without restraint. Silence. I have also heard of you, went on Madame F., from a friend of yours who married my husbands niece. Yes, it is he whom I asked to tell me the fate of a letter I wrote you sixteen years ago. I longed to know whether you received it. I never saw him again, and now he is dead. Silence. My life has been very quiet, very sad. I lost some of my children, and my husband died while the others were very young. I did my best alone to bring them up well. Silence. I am indeed grateful, M. Berlioz, for the kind thoughts you have kept of me. At her gentle words my heart beat yet more violently. With hungry eyes I gazed and gazed, clothing her once more in the beauty of long past days. At length I said: Madame, give me your hand. Pressing it to my lips, my heart turned to water within me, the world sank away, a long and blessed silence brooded over us. Dare I hope, I murmured, that I may write to you? That, at long distant intervals, I may even see you? Oh, certainly; but I am leaving Lyons soon to live with my son who, after his marriage, is to settle in Geneva. I rose, not daring to stay longer. She came with me to the door, saying, Good-bye, M. Berlioz, good-bye. I am more grateful than I can tell you for your long and sweet memory of me. Once more I bent over her hand, pressing it to my burning forehead, then tore myself away but only to wander, aimlessly and feverishly, near her dwelling. As I watched the swirling Rhone rush under the Pont Morand, M. Strakosch, brother-in-law of Adelina Patti, came up to me. You! he cried, Good-luck! Adelina will be so glad to see you. She is singing to-morrow in the _Barbiere_; will you have a box? Many thanks, I may be leaving this evening. Well, anyway come to dinner with us to-day. You know how much pleasure it gives us. I dare not promise--It depends--I am not very well--Where are you staying? Grand Hotel. So am I. Well, if I am not too unsociable this evening I will come. But dont wait. I suddenly thought of an excuse to see Madame F. once more. If she would go to the theatre I would stay also, if she would allow me the honour of escorting her. If she would not I would leave at once. I hurried round to her house. She was out but I left a message with her maid and then went off to pass a day of torturing uncertainty. Hour after hour went by and no answer came, time after time I returned to find the house shut up and to get no answer to my ring. Could it be that she had told her people not to admit me? What would become of me! Where should I go! What do! There seemed no refuge for me but the Rhone! Finally in one last despairing attempt I heard ladies voices above me on the stairs and saw her coming down, a note in her hand. Oh, M. Berlioz, I am so sorry I have only just got your message and here is my answer. Unfortunately I shall be away from home to-morrow; a thousand pardons for the inconvenience I have caused you. She was putting the letter in her pocket when I cried: Oh, please let me have it! It is hardly worth while---- I beg of you, since it was meant for me. She gave it me and for the first time I saw her writing. Then I shall see you no more? Not if you leave to-night. May your journey be pleasant. Pressing my hand, she and her two friends passed on, leaving me--can it be believed?--almost happy. I had seen, had spoken to her again, I had a letter from her in which she sent me her _kindest regards_. With my unhoped-for treasure I went back to the hotel to dine with Mademoiselle Patti. As I entered her _salon_ the charming diva clapped her hands joyously and danced up to me, holding up her lovely forehead for my accustomed kiss. During dinner she spoilt me with her dainty coaxing attentions. There is something wrong with you, she said, what are you thinking of? I cant have you miserable. They came with me to the station, she, with a friend and Strakosch, and they were allowed to go on to the platform. Adelina, dear child, clung to me until the signal was given, then the winsome creature flung both arms round my neck and kissed me, crying gaily: Good-bye, good-bye just for a week. We shall be in Paris on Tuesday and you must come and see us on Thursday. Why could I not claim such affection from Madame F. and mere politeness from Mademoiselle Patti? Adelina was like a brilliant, diamond-eyed humming-bird fluttering round me; I was enchanted but not touched. Though I liked her greatly, I did not _love_ her. My soul was given to that old, sad, unsought after woman, hers it has always been and will be to my dying day. Balzac and even Shakespeare--master painters of passions--knew nothing of love like this. Tom Moore alone has imagined and voiced it in-- Believe me if all those endearing young charms. How often, through that long night journey, did I repeat: Idiot! why did you leave? You might have seen her again to-morrow. True, but the fear of being troublesome restrained me and what could I have done in Lyons during the hours we were apart? it would have been but torture. After a few miserable days of indecision in Paris I wrote the following letter, which shows my deplorable state and her beautiful calm. How much worse off am I now that I cannot even write to her! To enjoy that romantic friendship to the end would have been too great a blessing. Wounded, torn, alone, unsatisfied must I totter to my grave! PARIS, _27th September 1864_.--Madame! A thousand blessings on you for your gentle reception of me! Few women could have done as much; yet since our meeting, I suffer most cruelly. It is useless to repeat to myself that you could not have done more than you have; my wounded heart bleeds on unstaunched. I ask, why? why? and my only answer is: because I saw you so little; because I said but a tithe of all I wished; because we parted as if for ever. Yet I held your hand, I pressed it to my lips--to my forehead and kept back my tears as I had promised. And now the inexorable thirst for another word from you has conquered me; in pity grant it! Think! for forty-five years I have loved you; you are my childhoods dream that has weathered all the storms of my most stormy life. It _must_ be true--this love of a life-time--could it, else, master me as it still does? Do not take me for an eccentric, a plaything of my own imagination; I am but a man of intense sensibility, of eternal constancy and of overwhelmingly strong affections. I loved you, I love you still, I shall always love you, although I am sixty-one and for me the world has no more illusions. Grant me, I pray you, not as a nurse, from a sense of duty to her sick patient, but as a noble woman stooping to heal wounds she has unwittingly given--grant me those three things that, alone, can give me peace: permission to write sometimes, your undertaking to reply and a promise that once a year, at least, you will allow me to visit you. If I called without your permission I might arrive at the wrong time, therefore I shall not venture near you unless you say: Come. Surely there is nothing strange or wrong in this? Could there be a purer or more beautiful bond? Who shall say us nay? Still, I must own that it would be painful to meet you only amongst others, therefore if you bid me come it will be that we may talk as we did last Friday when, so deeply was I moved, that I could not savour the sweet sad charm by reason of my terror lest emotion should get beyond control. Oh, madame! madame! I have but one end in life--to gain your affection! Give me but leave to try! I will be so humble, so restrained; my letters shall be as infrequent as you wish lest they become a burden to you; five lines only from you will suffice me. My visits will be but rare; yet, if our thoughts may meet, I shall feel that--after these long and dreary years during which I have been nothing to you--I may in time become your friend. Friends with such devotion as mine are not too often found. I will encircle you with love so sweet, so tender, with affection so compounded of all that is simplest in a child and all that is best and grandest in a man that, surely, in time you will feel its charm and turn to me one day, saying: I am in very deed your friend. Adieu, madame, once more I read your note of the 23rd with its assurance of your _sentiments affectueux_. Surely this is no mere formality? Tell me truly--truly!--Yours to eternity, HECTOR BERLIOZ. _P.S._--I send you three books; perhaps you will glance at them in your leisure moments. Do you see the authors device to make you take a little interest in him? MADAME F.S _Answer_. LYONS, _29th September 1864_. MONSIEUR,--I should wrong both you and myself did I not reply at once to your dream of our future friendship; believe me, I speak from my heart. I am an old woman (remember I am six years your senior), worn and withered by bodily pain and mental anguish, with all my earthly illusions swept away. Since the fatal day, twenty years ago, that I lost my best friend, I have said good-bye to worldly pleasures, and have found my sole consolation in a few old friends and in my children. In this absolute calm, alone, can I find rest, and to upset it would be burdensome indeed. In your letter of the 27th you say you have but one wish--that I may become your friend. Do you believe, monsieur, that this could possibly be? I hardly know you, I have seen you but once in forty-nine years; how can I understand your tastes, your character, your capacities--all those hundred and one points upon which, alone, friendship can be based? With two people of like affinities, sympathy may be born and grow into friendship, but, far apart as we are, no correspondence could bring about what you desire. Besides, I must confess that I am most lazy about letters; my mind is as torpid as my fingers. I could not, therefore, promise to write regularly, for the promise would certainly not be kept. Still, if you feel a certain pleasure in writing, I will read your letters, although you must not expect speedy replies. Neither can I promise to receive you alone. At Geneva, in the house of my son and his wife, it would be impossible for me to arrange matters as you wish. I tell you all this with perfect frankness, for I feel so strongly that, as grey hairs come, dreams must be thrust aside--such friendships belong to the happy days of youth, not to the disenchantments of old age. My future is so short; why indulge in a dream that must fade so quickly? Why create these vain regrets? In what I say, monsieur, do not think that I wish to wound you, to belittle your remembrance of the past. I respect it, and am greatly touched. You are still young at heart, and I am old and good for nothing but to keep a warm place for you in my memory. In your triumphs I shall always take a cordial interest. Again, monsieur, I send you my affectionate regards. ESTELLE F----. I have received the books you so kindly sent. A thousand thanks. _Second Letter._ PARIS, _2nd October 1864_. MADAME,--I have not answered sooner, hoping that I might overcome the terrible depression caused by your letter--a masterpiece of sad truth. You are right to avoid all that might disturb your calm; but be assured that I should never have done so, and that this friendship, for which I so humbly begged, should never have become _burdensome_. (Is not this rather a cruel word?) But you will take an interest in my career, and for that I kiss your hand with deepest gratitude. Yet, with tears, with importunity, I pray for news of you sometimes. You talk so bravely of old age that I must een be brave too. I pray I may die first that I may send you my last farewell! But if I must hear that you have left this sad earth ... will your son tell it me?--pardon! Give me, at least, what you would give to the merest stranger--your address at Geneva. I will not go there for a year, I fear to trouble you; but your address! your address! If your silence shows that you refuse even this meagre concession, you will have put a crown on the unhappiness you might have softened. Then, madame, may God and your conscience forgive you! Lost in the cold dark night wherein you have thrust me, I shall wander--grieving, suffering, alone, but still,--Yours devotedly until death, HECTOR BERLIOZ. MADAME F.S _Second Letter_. LYONS, _14th October 1864_. MONSIEUR,--I write in haste, that you may believe I have no wish to be unkind. My son is to be married on the 19th, and I shall have much to do. Immediately afterwards I must prepare to go to Geneva--no light task for my weak health. Early in November I leave, and, as soon as I am settled in my new home, you shall have my address, which I do not yet know. I would have waited to get it from my son, but I feared to pain you by my long silence. _Third Letter._ _15th October 1864._ MADAME,--Oh, thank you! thank you! I will wait. My best wishes for the young couple and for you! Dear lady, may this solemn time bring you ineffable joy. Ah, how good you are! Do not fear that my adoration will become unreasonable.--Your devoted HECTOR BERLIOZ. After an impatient fortnight, I received the announcement of M. Charles F.s marriage, addressed in his mothers writing; which filled me with a joy that few can understand. I was in the seventh heaven, and wrote at once:-- _28th October 1864._--Life is beautiful under certain aspects. I have received the notice addressed by you! A thought for the poor exile. May your good angel render fourfold the good you have done! Yes, life is beautiful, but how much more beautiful death. To be at your feet, my head upon your knee, your two hands clasped in mine, and so to end---- HECTOR BERLIOZ. Days passed into weeks; Madame F. had gone to Geneva. Could she intend to withhold her address? To break her word? During that anxious time I believed I should write to her no more, and my heart despaired. But one morning, as I sat drearily musing beside the fire, a card was brought to me:-- M. ET MME CHARLES F----. The son and his wife, and _she_ had sent them! Yet how greatly it upset me to find the young man the living image of his mother at eighteen. The bride seemed quite bewildered at my emotion, although her husband was not; evidently he knew all; Madame F. had shown my letters. How beautiful she must have been! cried the young wife. Oh!---- Yes, said M. F., I remember even now how dazzled I was, at five years old, on seeing my mother dressed for a ball. Gradually I subdued my feelings, and was able to talk sensibly to my visitors. Madame C. F. was a Dutch creole of Java, and knew Rajah Brooke of Sarawak. How much I should have had to ask her had I been in my usual state of mind. I saw them pleasantly often during their stay in Paris, and we talked of _her_. As we grew more friendly, the bride scolded me for writing as I had done. You frighten her, she said. Remember she hardly knows you. You must learn to be calm, then your visits to Geneva will be delightful, and we shall be so happy to see you. You will come, will you not? Can you doubt it, if Madame F. gives me permission? Schooling myself rigidly, I gave them no letter for their mother when they left; but, as my _Trojans_ was to be given, I sent her a copy of the poem, begging her to read the page I had marked with some dead leaves at half-past two on the 18th December, the time at which that passage would be played in Paris. Madame C. F. was to be back in Paris then, and hoped to be present at this concert, which was making some stir in the musical world. A fortnight went by and she did not come, neither did I have a letter. I was almost at the end of my patience, although I would not write, when, on the 17th, Madame C. F. returned bringing me the following letter: GENEVA, _16th December 1864_. MONSIEUR,--I ought to have thanked you sooner for your charming welcome of my son and his wife had I not been unwell, and consequently, very idle. But I cannot let my daughter-in-law go without my grateful thanks for all the pleasure you have given them. Suzanne will tell you all about our life here; I should be as happy as in Lyons, were it not for my separation from my other two sons and from my dear old friends. Once more, thank you for the libretto of _The Trojans_, and also for the sweet souvenir of the Meylan leaves--they bring back the bright, happy days of my youth. My son and I will read the part of your work that you have marked, and shall think of Suzanne listening to your music on Sunday. To which I replied: PARIS, _19th December 1864_.--Last September, when at Grenoble, I visited one of my cousins, who lives near St Georges, a wretched hamlet niched into the most barren mountains on the left bank of the Drac, inhabited only by a few miserable peasants. My cousins sister-in-law is the sweet providence of this forsaken corner, and on the day of my arrival she heard that one far-away family had had no bread for three weeks. She started off at once to see the mother. Why, Jeanne! she cried, how could you be in trouble and not tell me? You know how anxious we are to help. Oh, mademoiselle, we are not really in want yet; we still have some potatoes and a few cabbages, only the children dont like them. They shout and cry for bread. You know children are so unreasonable. Well, dear lady, you too have done a kind thing in writing. I would not write for fear of boring you, so waited for your daughters return. She came not! My anxiety choked me. You see, madame, creatures such as I are _unreasonable_. Yet surely I--if anyone--hardly need to learn lessons that have been taught me already by so many knife-thrusts in my heart. It seems to me that you are sad, and that makes me the more.... From to-day I mean to restrain my language, to talk of outward things only. You know what is in my heart--all that I do not say. Perhaps you already know that, thanks to the thousand and one annoyances brought upon me by the Conservatoire committee, my _Trojans_ was not performed yesterday. Still, I thank you for the time you have spent in thought with us in the concert-room. My son, who has done well in Mexico, has just landed at St Nazaire. He is first lieutenant of his ship, and, as he cannot come to Paris, I am going to Brittany to see him. He is a good boy, but is, unfortunately, too much like his father, and cannot reconcile himself to the commonplaces and troubles of this world. We love each other dearly. My aged mother-in-law, whom I have promised never to leave, takes the greatest care of me, and accepts unquestioningly my gloomy tempers. I read again and again Shakespeare, Virgil, Homer, _Paul and Virginia_, and travels of all kinds. I am horribly bored and suffer agonies from neuralgia that doctors have tried in vain, for nine years, to cure. When the pains of mind, body and estate grow too much for me, I take three drops of laudanum to snatch some sleep. If I feel better I go and see my friends, M. and Mme Damcke. He is a German composer of rare gifts; his wife is an angel of goodness to me. There I do as I like. If I am in the humour we talk or play; if not, they draw up a big sofa to the fire, and there I lie the whole evening without a word--chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies. This, madame, is all. You know that I neither write nor compose, for the present state of art in Paris makes me both sick and sorry--which proves that I am not dead yet! I hope to have the honour of escorting Madame C. F. and a Russian friend of hers to the Thtre Italien to hear Donizettis _Poliuto_. Madame Charton will give me a box. Good-bye, madame. May your thoughts be blest, your heart at rest, and your life serene in the assured love of your children and friends. But send a thought sometimes to the _poor child who is unreasonable_.--Your devoted H. B. _P.S._--It was good of you to send the bride and bridegroom to see me. I was so struck with the likeness of M. Charles to Mademoiselle Estelle that, although such compliments are out of place to a man, I so far forgot myself as to tell him so. Some time later she wrote: Believe me, I am not without sympathy for _unreasonable children_. I have always found the best way to quiet them is to give them pictures to look at. I therefore take the liberty of sending you one that I hope, by bringing home the reality of the present, will wipe out the illusion of the past. She sent me her portrait! My dear lady! And here I stop. Now I can live calmly. I shall write, she will reply. I shall see her, shall know where she is, and shall never again be without news of her. Perhaps, in spite of her dread of new ties, her affection for me may grow slowly and quietly. Already life seems more possible, since the past is not irretrievably over and done with. No longer is my heaven overcast. My sweet bright star smiles upon me from afar. She does not love me, truly, but why should she? She knows, however, that I love her. I must find consolation in the thought that she knew me too late, just as I comfort myself for not having known Virgil, Gluck, Beethoven or Shakespeare--who might, perhaps, have loved me too. (All the same, I am not comforted in the very least!) * * * * * Which power raises man the higher? Love or Music? It is a great question. It seems to me that one might say this: Love cannot give an idea of music, but music can give an idea of love--why separate them? They are the twin wings of the soul. * * * * * Seeing the conception some people have of Love, and what they look for in Art, makes me liken them to swine rooting in a bed of lovely flowers and among mighty oaks, hoping to turn up with their snouts the truffles for which they are greedy. I will think no more of Art.... Stella! Stella! I can die now without bitterness or anger. * * * * * _1st January 1865._ * * * * * XXXVII THE AFTERGLOW _To_ HUMBERT FERRAND. PARIS, _28th October 1864_.--Dear Humbert,--On returning from my visit to Dauphiny I found your sad letter. You must have had difficulty in writing, yet your young friend, M. Bernard, tells me you are able to go out sometimes, leaning on a friendly arm. When first I went into the country my neuralgia was better, but very soon it came back worse than ever, from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon. Then, oh! my weariness and troubles of all sorts! Nevertheless, there are compensations. Louis is doing well, though our long partings are hard to bear, for we love each other dearly. As for the musical world, the corruption in Paris is beyond belief, and I retire more and more into my shell. _Beatrice_ is to be performed in Stuttgart, and I may go to conduct it. I am also asked to go to St Petersburg in March, but shall not do so unless they offer me a sum tempting enough to make me brave that horrible climate. Then I shall do it for Louis sake, for of what use are a few thousand francs more to me? I cannot imagine why some people have taken to flattering me so grossly. Their compliments are enough to scrape the paint off the walls, and I long to say to them: Monsieur, you forget that I am no longer a critic. I write no more for the papers. The monotony of my life has been broken lately. Madame Erard, Madame Spontini and their niece begged me to read _Othello_ to them. The door was rigorously closed to all comers, and I read the masterpiece through from beginning to end to my audience of six, who wept gloriously. Great heaven! What a revelation of the deepest depths of the human heart! That angel Desdemona, that noble fate-haunted Othello, that devil incarnate Iago! And to think that it was all written by a being like unto ourselves! It needs long, close study to put oneself in the point of view of the author, to follow the magnificent sweep of his mighty wings. And translators are such donkeys. Laroche is the best--most exact, least ignorant--yet I have to correct ever so many mistakes in my copy. Liszt has been here for a week, and we dined together twice. As we kept carefully off things musical we had a pleasant time. He has gone back to Rome to play the _Music of the Future_ to the Pope, who asks himself what on earth it all means. * * * * * _10th November 1864._--Can you believe, dear Humbert, that I have a grudge against the past? Why did I not know Virgil. I see him dreaming in his Sicilian villa--so hospitable, so gracious. And Shakespeare, that mighty Sphinx, impassible as a mirror, reflecting not creating. Yet what ineffable compassion must he not have had for poor, small, human things? And Beethoven, rough and scornful, yet blessed with such exquisite tenderness and delicacy that I think I could have forgiven him all his contempt, his rudeness, everything! And Gluck, the stately!... Last week M. Blanche, the doctor of the Passy lunatic asylum, invited a party of artists and _savants_ to celebrate the anniversary of the performance of _The Trojans_. I was invited and kept entirely in the dark. Gounod was there. In his sweet, weak voice, but with the most perfect expression, he sang _O nuit divresse_ with Madame Bauderali; then, alone, the song of Hylos. A young lady played the dances, and they made me recite without music Didos scena, _Va, ma sur_. It had a fine effect. They all knew my score by heart. I longed to have you there. * * * * * PARIS, _23rd December 1864_.--I have just sent you a copy of _La Nation_, with two columns by Gasperini about _The Trojans_ business at the Conservatoire. I did not know of that letter of Gluck. Where the devil did you get it? That is always the way. Beethoven was even more insulted than Gluck. Weber and Spontini share the honour. Only people like M. de Flotow, author of _Martha_, have panegyrists. His dull opera is sung in all languages, all theatres. I went to hear that delicious little Patti sing _Martha_ the other day; when I came out I felt creepy all over, just as if I had come out of a fowlhouse--with consequences! I told the little prodigy of a girl that I would _forgive_ her for making me listen to platitudes--that was the utmost I could do! But that exquisite Irish air, The Last Rose of Summer, is introduced, and she sings it with such poetic simplicity that its perfume is almost enough to disinfect the rest of the score. I will send Louis your congratulations; he will be very pleased. He has read your letters and thinks me fortunate in having such a friend as you. Good-bye. _To_ MADAME ERNST. PARIS, _14th December 1864_.--You are really too good to have written to me, dear Madame Ernst, and I ought to reply in a sleek, smooth style, mouth nicely buttoned up, cravat well tied, myself all smiles and amiability. Well, I cant! I am ill, miserable, disgusted, bored, idiotic, wearisome, cross, and altogether impossible. It is one of those days when I am in the sort of temper that I wish the earth were a charged bomb, that I might light the fuse for fun. The account of your Nice pleasures does not amuse me in the least. I should love to see you and your dear invalid, but I could not accept your offer of a room. I would rather live in the cave under the Ponchettes. There I could growl comfortably alongside Caliban (I know he lives there, I saw him one day), and the sea does not often come into it; whereas with friends, there are all sorts of unbearable attentions. They ask how you pass the night, but not how your _ennui_ is getting on; they laugh when you say silly things; are always mutely trying to find out whether you are sad or gay; they talk to you when you are only soliloquising, and then the husband says to the wife, Do let him alone, dont bother him, etc., etc. Then you feel a brute and go out, banging the door and feeling you have laid the train of a domestic quarrel. Now in Calibans grotto there is none of this. Well, never mind! You stroll on the terrace and along the shady walks? And then? You admire the sunsets? And then? You watch the tunny fishers? And then? You envy young English heiresses? And then? You envy still more the idiots without ideas or feelings who understand nothing and love nothing? And then?... Why, bless you, I can give you all that! We have terraces and trees in Paris. There are sunsets, English heiresses, idiots (they are even more plentiful than at Nice for the population is larger), and gudgeon to be caught with a line. One can be quite as extensively bored as at Nice. It is the same thing everywhere. Yesterday I had a delightful letter from some unknown man about _The Trojans_. He tells me that the Parisians are used to more _indulgent_ music than mine. Is not that an admirable epithet? The Viennese telegraph that they celebrated my birthday by giving _Faust_, and that the double chorus was an immense success. I did not even know I had a birthday! _To_ H. FERRAND. PARIS, _8th February 1864_. DEAR HUMBERT,--It is six in the evening, and I have only just got up, for I took laudanum yesterday and am quite stupefied. What a life! I would bet a good deal that you too are worse. Nevertheless I mean to go out to-night to hear Beethovens Septuor; I want it to warm my blood, and my favourite artists are playing it. The day after to-morrow I ought to read _Hamlet_ at Massarts. Shall I have strength to go through it? It lasts five hours. Of my audience of five only Madame Massart knows anything of the play. I feel almost afraid of bringing these artist natures too abruptly face to face with this supreme manifestation of genius. It seems to me like giving sight suddenly to one born blind. I believe they will understand it, for I know them well; but to be forty-five or fifty and not know _Hamlet_! One might as well have lived down a coal mine. Shakespeare says: Glory is like a circle in the water Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till, by wide spreading, it disperse to naught. * * * * * _26th April 1865._--How can I tell you what is cooking in the musical cauldron of Paris? I have got out of it and hardly ever get in again. I went to a general rehearsal of Meyerbeers _Africaine_, which lasted from half-past seven to half-past one. I dont think I am likely to go again. Joachim, the celebrated German violinist, has been here ten days; he plays nearly every evening at different houses. Thus I heard Beethovens piano trio in B, the sonata in A, and the quartett in E minor--the music of the starry spheres. You will quite understand that after this I am in no mood for listening to commonplace productions praised by the Mayor and Town Council. If I possibly can, I will see you this summer. I am going to Geneva and Grenoble. _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. PARIS, _28th June 1865_.--I hardly know why I am writing, for I have nothing to say. Your letter troubles me greatly. Now you say you _dread_ being captain; you have no confidence in yourself, yet you wish to be appointed. You want a home instead of your quiet room; you want to marry--but not an ordinary woman. It is all easy to understand, but you must not shrink from the duties that alone will ensure your gaining your end. You are thirty-two, and if you do not realise the responsibility of life now, you never will. You need money; I can give you none; I find it difficult to make ends meet as it is. I will leave you what my father left me, perhaps a little more--but I cannot tell you when I shall die. In any case it must be ere long. So do not speak to me of desires I cannot satisfy. I, too, wish I had a fortune. First, that I might share it with you; and next, that I might travel and have my works performed. Remember, if you were married you would be a hundred times worse off than you are now. Take warning from me. Only a series of miracles--Paganinis gift, my tour in Russia, etc., saved me from the most ghastly privations. Miracles are rare, else were they not miracles. Your letter has no ending. I feel as if you had suddenly realised the meaning of the world, society, pleasure, and pain. * * * * * _14th July 1865._--Yes, dear Louis, let us chat whenever we can. Your letter was most welcome, for yesterday life was hideous. I went out and wandered up and down the Boulevards des Italiens and des Capucines, until at half-past eight I felt hungry. I went into the Caf Cardinal, and there found Balfe, the Irish composer, who asked me to dinner. Afterwards we went to the Grand Hotel, where he is staying, and I smoked an excellent cigar--which, all the same, made me ill this morning. We talked and talked of Shakespeare, whom he says he has only really understood during the last ten or twelve years. I never read the papers, so tell me where you saw those nice things you quote about me. Do you know that Liszt has become an abb? You shall have a stitched copy of my _Mmoires_ as soon as I get one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your own hands, and to return it when you have read it. _To_ M. AND MME DAMCKE. HTEL DE LA MTROPOLE, GENEVA, _22nd August 1865_.--Dear Friends,--I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten. You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose remembrance of such friends as you. I am strangely and indescribably agitated here. Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness--even pain. I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and chide me when I keep away. I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the oppression of my heart will kill me. What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable. They have all read the _Mmoires_. _She_ reproached me mildly for publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite right, and I believe she was not really vexed. Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country, and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful.... Adieu, dear friends. _To_ MADAME MASSART. PARIS, _15th September 1865_.--Good afternoon, madame. How are you, and how is Massart? I am quite at sea, not finding you here. I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went. At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again worse than ever. How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moments respite, I use it in writing to you. You will either laugh, saying--or say, laughing, Why write to me? Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you have the remedy in your own hands--not to answer. All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is--to extract one from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with which one bores oneself in Paris! I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music--nothing but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt--and scolded a little, too. When you come back we will gather together our choice spirits, our good men and true, and read _Coriolanus_. I only really _live_ in watching the enthusiasm of fresh sympathetic souls--undeadened by the world. I quite enjoyed at Vienne making my nieces cry over it. They are dear girls, impressionable as a photographic plate--which is rather odd, seeing that they have always lived in that most provincial of provinces, among utterly anti-literary people. My thick autobiography awaits you, but remember, it is yours only for the time it takes you and Massart to read it. It is very sad, but very true. I am quite ashamed that I had not the sense to speak of the many calm, sweet hours I owe to you, and of my deep affection for you both. I have only just noticed that you are not even mentioned. Ah, the pain! Madame, forgive me. I can write no more! _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. _13th November 1865._--Dear Boy,--Your letter has just come, and I want to reply before I go back to bed. How I suffer! If I could I would fly off to Palermo or to Nice. It is horrible weather. I have to light a lamp at half-past three. To-night is our Monday dinner, and as I shall have to get up and go to it, I want to snatch a little sleep first. I have had no letter from Geneva, but I did not expect one. When one comes my heart lightens and my spirits rise. My poor, dear boy. What should I do without you? Can you believe that I always loved you, even when you were tiny? I, who find it so difficult to like little children! There was always some attraction that drew me to you. It weakened when you got to the stupid stage and were a hobbledehoy. Since then it has come back, has increased, and now, as you know, I love you, and my love grows daily. _To_ H. FERRAND. _17th January 1866._--I am alone in the chimney corner writing to you. I was greatly excited this morning by the manager of the Thtre Lyrique, who has asked me to supervise his intended revival of _Armida_. It will hardly suit his pettifogging world. Madame Charton-Demeurs, who undertakes the overpowering rle of Armida, comes every day to rehearse with M. Saint-Sans, a great pianist, a great musician, who knows his Gluck almost as well as I do. It is curious to see the poor lady floundering blindly in the sublime, and to watch the gradually dawning light. This morning, in the Hatred scene, Saint-Sans and I could only grasp hands in silence--we were breathless! Never did human being find such expression! And to think that this masterpiece is vilified, blasphemed, insulted, attacked on all sides, even by those who profess to admire it. It belongs to another world. Why are you not here to enjoy it too! Will you believe that since I have taken to music again my pains have departed? I get up every day just like other people. But I have quite enough to endure with the actors, and, above all, with the conductor. It is coming out in April. Madame Fournier writes that a friend she met in Geneva spoke warmly of _The Trojans_. That is good, but I should have done better if I had written one of Offenbachs atrocities. What will those toads of Parisians say to _Armida_? * * * * * _8th March 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I am answering you this morning simply to tell you what happened yesterday at a great charity concert--with trebled prices--in the Cirque Napolon, under Pasdeloup. They played the great Septuor from _The Trojans_, Madame Charton sang; there was a chorus of a hundred and fifty, and the usual fine orchestra. The whole programme was miserably received except the _Lohengrin_ March, and the overture to the _Prophet_ was so hissed that the police had to turn out the malcontents. Then came the Septuor. Endless applause, and an encore. The second time it went even better. The audience spied me on my three-franc bench (they had not honoured me with a ticket). There were more calls, shouts, waving of hats and handkerchiefs. _Vive Berlioz!_ they cried. Get up; we want to see you. I, the while, trying to hide myself! Coming out, a crowd surrounded me on the boulevard. This morning many callers, and a charming letter from Legouvs daughter. Liszt was there. I saw him from my perch. He has just come from Rome. Why were you not there too? There were at least three thousand people. Once I should have been pleased.... The effect was grand, particularly the sound of the sea (impossible to give on the piano) at the passage: And the sleeping sea Whispers in dreams her sweet deep chords. It touched me profoundly. My gallery neighbours, hearing that I was the author of it, pressed my hands and thanked me. Why were you not there? * * * * * _9th March._--Just a word added to what I wrote yesterday. A few amateurs have written me a round-robin of congratulation. The letter is a slightly altered copy of that which I wrote to Spontini twenty-two years ago about his _Fernando Cortez_. Is it not a pretty idea to apply to me what I said to him so long ago? _3rd September 1866._--Such a misfortune, dear madame! This morning--yes, really only this morning--I composed the most clever and complimentary letter to you--a master-piece of delicate, dainty flattery. Then I went to sleep and--when I awoke it was all gone, and I am reduced to mere commonplaces. I will not speak of the boredom you must be suffering in your little card-board bandbox by the sea, lest I should drive you to commit suicide--by no means a suitable way out of the difficulty for a pretty woman! Yet, what on earth _are_ you to do? You have gone the round of Beethoven over and over again; you have read Homer; you know some of Shakespeares best works; you see the sea every day; you have friends and a husband who worships you. Great heavens, what _is_ to become of you? I do my best to make your sea-side life bearable by not coming near you. Can I do more? I ought to be at Geneva, but a cousin of mine is going to be married next week and wants me to be one of his witnesses. Could I refuse? One ought to help relations out of difficulties! Perrin also wishes me to superintend the rehearsals of _Alcestis_, but he dawdles so, waiting for Society to come back to Paris (as if there were Society for _Alcestis_! ), that I am going to leave him stranded and start for Geneva. Ah! dear lady, how glorious it is! how grand! The other day at rehearsal we all wept like stags at bay. What a man Gluck was! cried Perrin. No, said I, _we_ are the men. Dont get confused. Taylor said yesterday that Gluck had more heart than Homer; truly, he is more thoroughly human. And we are going to offer this food for the gods to pure idiots! Is Massart shooting, fishing, painting, building, dreaming? He has covered himself with glory. His pupils have carried off all the prizes this year; he can wallow in laurels, though he certainly might find a more comfortable bed! Here ends my scribble; I press your learned hand. _10th November 1866._--Dear Humbert,--I ought to be in Vienna, but the concert is put off. I suppose that _Faust_ was not learnt to their satisfaction, and they only wish me to hear it when it is nearly ready. It will be a real joy to listen to it again; I have not heard the whole of it since it was performed twelve years ago in Dresden. The _Alcestis_ rehearsals have done me good; never did it appear so grand, and surely never before was it so finely rendered. A whole new generation has arisen to worship. The other day a lady near me sobbed so violently that every one around noticed her, and I got crowds of letters thanking me for my devoted care for Gluck. Ingres is not the only one of our Institute colleagues who comes constantly; most of the painters and sculptors love the beautiful Antique, of which the very sorrow is not disfiguring. I am sending you the pocket-score; you will easily read it and I am sure will enjoy it. _To_ M. ERNEST REYER. VIENNA, _17th December 1866_.--Dear Reyer,--I only got up at four to-day, as yesterday over-did me. It would be foolish of me to describe the recalls, encores, tears, and flowers I received after the performance of _Faust_ in the _Salle de la Redoute_; I had a chorus of three hundred, an orchestra of a hundred and fifty, and splendid soloists. This evening there is to be a grand fte; three hundred artists and amateurs--among them the hundred and fifty lady-amateurs who, with their sweet fresh voices, sang my choruses. How well, too, they had been trained by Herbeck, who first thought of giving my work in its entirety, and who would let himself be chopped in pieces for me. To-morrow I am invited by the Conservatoire to hear Helmesberger conduct my _Harold_. This has been the most perfect musical joy of my life, so forgive me if I say too much! Well! this is one score saved at any rate. They can play it now in Vienna under Herbeck, who knows it by heart. The Paris Conservatoire may leave me in outer darkness and stick to its antiquated repertoire if it likes. You have drawn down this tirade on your own head by asking me to write! Good-bye; I have been invited to Breslau to conduct _Romeo and Juliet_, but I must get back to Paris before the end of the month. PARIS, _11th January 1867_.--It is midnight, dear friend. I write in bed, as usual; you will read my letter in bed--also as usual. Your last letter hurt me; I read the suffering between the lines. I wanted to reply at once, but my tortures, medical stupidity, doses of laudanum (all useless and productive only of evil dreams), prevented me. I see now how difficult it will be for us to meet. You cannot stir, and for three quarters of the year I cannot either. What are we to do? My journey to Vienna nearly made an end of me--even the warmth of their enthusiasm could not protect me from the rigours of their winter. This awful climate will be the death of me. Dear Louis writes of his morning rides in the forests of Martinique, and describes the lovely tropical vegetation--the real hot sun. That is what you and I both need. Dear friend, the dull rumbling of passing carriages breaks the silence of the night. Paris is damp, cold, and muddy--Parisian Paris! Now all is still; it sleeps the sleep of the unrighteous. Have you the full score of my _Mass for the Dead_? If I were threatened with the destruction of all that I have ever written, it would be for that Mass that I should beg life. Good-bye; I shall lie awake and think of you. PARIS, _8th February 1867_.--Dear Hiller,--You are the best of good friends! I will do as you bid me; take my courage in both hands, and on the 23rd start for Cologne. I shall be at the Hotel Royal by evening, but do not engage _rooms_ for me, one tiny one is enough. If I cannot possibly travel, I will send on the orchestral score of the duet from _Beatrice_. It is very effective and not difficult--almost any singers could manage it, provided they were not geese. To be sure, we both have an intimate acquaintance with these winged fowl! You talk like the doctors. It is neuralgia. That is just like Madame Sand and her gardener. She told him the garden wall had tumbled down. Oh, it is nothing, madame, the frost did it. Yes, but it must be rebuilt. Its only the frost, thats all. I do not say it is not the frost, but there it is on the ground. Dont worry about it, madame, the frost did it. I must go to bed. _To_ H. FERRAND. _11th June 1867._--Thanks for your letter, dear friend, it did me good. Yes, I am in Paris, but so ill I can hardly write. Besides, I am worried about Louis, who is in Mexico, and I do not know what those Mexican ruffians may not be up to. The Exhibition is turning Paris into an Inferno. I have not been there yet, for I can hardly walk. Yesterday there was a great function at Court, but I was too weak to dress and go to it.... I wrote so far at the Conservatoire, where I was one of the jury in awarding the Exhibition musical prize. We heard a hundred and four cantatas, and I had the very great pleasure of seeing the prize unanimously awarded to my young friend, Camille Saint-Sans, one of the greatest musicians of our time. I have been urgently pressed to go to New York where, say the Americans, I am popular. They played _Harold_ five times last year with success truly _Viennese_. I am quite elated with our jury meeting. How happy Saint-Sans will be! I hurried off to tell him, but he was out with his mother. He is an astounding pianist. Well! at last our musical world has done something sensible; it makes me feel quite strong, I could not have written you such a long letter were it not for my joy. XXXVIII DARKNESS AND LIGHT _To_ H. FERRAND. _30th June 1867._--A terrible grief has fallen upon me. My poor boy, at thirty-three captain of a fine vessel, has just died at Havana. * * * * * _15th July 1867._--Just a few words, since you ask for them; but it is wrong of me to sadden you too. I am so much worse that I am really hardly alive and have barely sense enough to grasp poor Louis business affairs; fortunately one of his friends is helping me. Thanks for your letter; forgive my stupidity. I am fit for nothing but sleep. Adieu, adieu! _To_ MADAME DAMCKE at Montreux. PARIS, _24th September 1867_.--Dear Madame Damcke,--I should have written sooner had I known your address, therefore double thanks for your letter. My answer is short; I am as ill as usual. After my fifth bath at Nris the doctor, hearing me speak, felt my pulse and cried: Be off out of this as fast as you can; the waters are the worst possible for you, you are on the verge of laryngitis. Confound it all, it is really serious. So off I went the same evening and was nearly choked by a fit of coughing in the train. My nieces at Vienne nursed me devotedly but, when my throat got better, back came my neuralgia more fiendishly than ever. I stayed long enough to see my elder niece married. Thirty-three relations came from all parts to the wedding--but _one_, alas! was missing. The one I most rejoiced to see was my old uncle, the colonel. He is eighty-four. We both wept on meeting; he seemed almost ashamed of still being alive--how much more, then, should I! I spend most of my time in bed, but the Grand Duchess Helen is coaxing me to get up and go to St Petersburg. She wishes to see me and I have agreed to go on the 15th November and conduct six concerts. Best wishes to you both. _To_ M. AND MME MASSART. PARIS, _4th October 1867_.--Yes, it is quite true. I am going to Russia. The Grand Duchess Helen was here the other day and made me such generous proposals that, after some hesitation, I accepted. I am to conduct six Conservatoire concerts; five of the grandest works of the great masters and the sixth entirely of my own compositions. I am to have rooms in her palace and the use of one of her carriages; she pays all my travelling expenses and gives me fifteen thousand francs. I shall be tired to death--ill as I am already. Will you not come too? You should play your jovial Bach concerto in D minor and we would enjoy ourselves. Three days ago an American, hearing that I had accepted the Russian engagement, came and offered me a hundred thousand francs to go to New York next year. Meanwhile, he has had a bronze bust of me cast, to place in a splendid hall that he has built over there. If I were younger it would please me greatly. My mother-in-law thanks you for your kind messages. Are you not ashamed of slaughtering pheasants? It is a noble thing, forsooth, to go out into the poultry yard and kill off the chickens!!! Despite all, my friendship holds good, faithful and warm. Each day I appreciate more thoroughly your loving hearts. _To the Same._ PARIS, _2nd November 1867_.--How are you, my lord and my lady? How is your house? Have you forgotten your French? Have you forgotten your music? Have you forgotten how to write? Have you forgotten that you hear of nothing? Have you forgotten that we have forgotten you? Can you believe that we get on perfectly well without you? Can you believe that you are.... Out of fashion? Good-night. * * * * * _2nd November._--Day of the dead, and, when one is dead, one is dead for a long, long time. _To_ H. FERRAND. _22nd October 1867._--Dear Humbert,--Here is the letter you asked me to return. Only a line to-day as I took laudanum last night and have not had time yet to sleep it off. I had to get up this morning to do some necessary business. So now back to bed. A thousand greetings. _To_ M. EDOUARD ALEXANDRE. ST PETERSBURG, _15th December 1867_.--Dear friends,--How kind of you to send me your news; it seems neglectful of me not to have done the same ere this. I am loaded with favour by everyone--from the Grand Duchess down to the least member of the orchestra. They found out that the 11th was my birthday and sent me delightful presents. In the evening I was asked to a banquet of a hundred and fifty guests where, as you may imagine, I was well toasted. Both public and press are most eulogistic. At the second concert I was recalled six times after the _Symphonie Fantastique_, which was executed with tremendous spirit and the last part of which was encored. What an orchestra! what _ensemble_! what precision! I wonder if Beethoven ever heard anything like it. In spite of my pain, as soon as I reach the conductors desk and am surrounded by these sympathetic souls, I revive and I believe am conducting now as I never did before. Yesterday we did the second act of _Orfeo_, the _C. minor Symphony_ and my _Carnaval Romain_. All was grandly done. The girl who sang Orfeo in Russian had an unequalled voice and sang well too. These poor Russians only knew Gluck from mutilated fragments, so you may imagine my pleasure in drawing aside the curtain that hid his mighty genius. In a fortnight we are to do the first act of _Alcestis_. The Grand Duchess has ordered that I am to be implicitly obeyed; I do not abuse her order, but I use it. She has asked me to go some day and read her _Hamlet_, and the other day I happened to speak to her ladies-in-waiting, in her presence, of Saint-Victors book and now they are all rushing off to buy and admire _Hommes et Dieux_. Here they love the beautiful; they live for literature and music; they have within them a constant flame that makes them lose consciousness of the frost and the snow. Why am I so old, so worn-out? Good-bye all. I love you and press your hands. ST PETERSBURG, _22/10 December 1867_.--Dear Madame Massart,--I am ill with eighteen horse power; I cough like six donkeys with the glanders; yet, before I retire to bed, I want to write to you. All goes well here. At the fifth concert I want to give Beethovens _Choral Symphony_, at least the first three parts, I am afraid to risk the vocal part as I am not sufficiently sure of my chorus. I have been invited to Moscow and the Grand Duchess permits me to go. The gentlemen of the semi-Asiatic capital propound the most irresistible arguments _tace_ Wieniawski, who does not wish me to jump at their offer. But I never could haggle and should be ashamed to do so now. I have just been interrupted by a message from the Grand Duchess. She has a musical soire to-night and wishes to hear the duet from _Beatrice_. Her pianist and two singers know it perfectly in French, so I have sent the score, with a message to them not to be nervous as they will get through all right. I shall go back to bed. I would tell you a lot more but I am tired out and am not used to being up at such unreasonable hours. It is half-past nine. I shall take some laudanum to be sure of sleep. You know that you are charming. But why the devil _are_ you so charming? Farewell, I am your H. B. _To the Same._ _18th January 1868._ DEAR MADAME MASSART,--I found quite a pile of letters on my return from Moscow, among them one that gave me even greater pleasure than yours; you can guess from whom it came. Yours, nevertheless, rejoices me too. The Michael Square is noiseless under its snowy mantle; crows, pigeons and sparrows stir not; sledges have ceased to run; there is a great funeral--that of Prince Dolgorouki--at which the Emperor and all the Court were present. My programme for Saturday is settled. Oh! the joy when I lay down my baton at the end of _Harold_ and say: In three days I start for Paris. I cannot stand this climate, although I felt better in Moscow. Such enthusiasm there! The first concert was in the Riding School and there were ten thousand six hundred people present. And when they applauded the Offertory from my _Requiem_, with its two-note chorus, I must own that the uncommon religious feeling shown by that mighty crowd, went to my heart. Do not speak of a concert in Paris. If I _gave_ one to my friends and spent three thousand francs over it I should only be the more reviled by the press. After seeing you I shall go right on to St Symphorien and thence to Monaco to roll in the violets and sleep in the sun. I suffer so continually, dear lady; my paroxysms of pain are so frequent that I cannot think what is to become of me. I do not want to die now, for I have something to live for. _To_ WLADIMIR STASSOFF. PARIS, _1st March 1868_.--I did not write sooner, I was too ill. And now I want to tell you that I am leaving for Monaco at seven this evening. I cannot imagine why I do not die. But since I am living, I am going to see my dear Nice, the rocks of Villefranche and the sun of Monaco. I hear that the sculptor is having three copies of my New York bust cast; was it you who suggested getting one for the St Petersburg Conservatoire? More can easily be made. Address your letters to me to 4 Rue de Calais, Paris, and they will be forwarded. Oh! to think that I shall soon be lying on the marble seats of Monaco, in the sun, by the sea!! Do not be too severely just to me. Write me long letters in return for my short ones; bethink you that I am ill, that your letters do me good; dont talk nonsense and dont speak of my composing.... My kindest regards to your charming sister-in-law and daughter and to your brother. I can see them all so vividly before me. Write soon. Your letter and the SUN will give me new life. Unfortunate wight that you are! You live in the snow! _To the Same._ PARIS, _April 1868_. MY DEAR STASSOFF,--You call me _Monsieur_ Berlioz, both you and Cui. I forgive you both! I was nearly killed the other day. I went to Monaco sun-hunting and, three days after in scrambling down the rocks, I fell head first on to my face and bled so profusely that, for a long time, I was unable to get up and go back to the hotel. However, as I had taken my place in the omnibus to Nice, I was bound to get up and go back there next day. Hardly arrived there, I wished to see once more the terrace by the sea, of which my recollection was so vivid. I went down and sat there but, in changing my seat, again I fell on my face. Two passers-by lifted me with great difficulty and took me to the Hotel des Etrangers, where I was staying, which was close by. I was put to bed and there I stayed, without a doctor, seeing no one but the servants for a week. Feeling a little better after my weeks seclusion and damaged as I was, I took the train back to Paris. My mother-in-law and servant exclaimed with horror on seeing me; but now I have had a doctor and he has treated me so cleverly that, after more than a month of it, I can barely walk, holding on to the furniture. My nose is nearly all right outside. Would you kindly find out why my score of the _Trojans_ has not been returned. I suppose the copying is finished and that it is no longer needed. I can write no more ... if I wait till I am better it may be a long while.... Do write to me. It will be a real charity. _To_ AUGUSTE MOREL. PARIS, _26th May 1868_.--I have been greatly tried and find it still hard to write. My two falls, one at Monaco, the other at Nice, have taken all my strength. The traces are almost gone now, but my old trouble has come back and I suffer more than ever. I wish I could have seen you and Lecourt when I was near Marseilles; I should have gone round that way had I not been in such a sad state. Yet to meet you would have upset me more than to see anyone else. Few of my friends loved Louis as you did. I cannot forget it, so you must forgive me. PARIS, _21st August 1868_. DEAR STASSOFF,--You see I leave out the _Monsieur_. I have just come from Grenoble, where they had almost forced me to go and preside at a sort of musical festival and to be present at the unveiling of a statue of Napoleon I. They ate and drank and did a hundred and fifty other things and I felt so ill.... They fetched me in a carriage and toasted me, but I could not reply. The Mayor of Grenoble was full of compliments, he presented me with a gilt crown, but I had to sit a whole hour at that banquet. Next day I left and arrived home at eleven at night, more dead than alive. I feel good for nothing and I get such letters--asking me to do impossibilities. They want me to say nice things of a German artist, which is right enough since I agree thoroughly, but at the expense of a Russian artist of whom I think well also and whom they want to oust in favour of the German. I cannot lend myself to it. What a devil of a world this is! I feel that I am dying; I believe in nothing; but I long to see you, you might perhaps cheer me up--you and Cui. I am beyond measure bored and weary. All my friends are away in the country or shooting. They ask me to go and visit them, but I have not the spirit. Write, I beg; as shortly as you will, but write! I still feel the effects of my Monaco and Nice accidents. If you are in St Petersburg write me even _six lines_, I shall be so grateful. You are so kind; show it now. I press your hands. Berlioz lived seven months longer. On returning from Russia he consulted a physician who asked: Are you a philosopher? Yes, he replied. Then gather all the courage you can from philosophy, for you are incurable. He was evidently too worn and weak to take the Riviera journey alone. Although warmly welcomed and cared for at his hotel, his two falls could not but use up his little remaining strength, and that little was cruelly drained by the last journey to Grenoble--a strangely weird and dramatic episode, a worthy conclusion to his stormy, overcast life. The scene is well described by M. Bernard:-- In a brilliantly lighted hall, hung with magnificent draperies, at a richly spread table a gay crowd awaits the chief guest of the evening. The curtains are torn aside, and a phantom appears. The ghost of Banquo? No, the skeleton form of Berlioz, his face pale and thin, his eyes vacant and wandering, his head trembling, his lips drawn in a bitter smile. They crowd around him and press his hands--those palsied hands that have so often led the armies of music to victory. A crown is placed upon his silver locks. Vacantly he gazes round upon these fellow-citizens, gathered to do him homage--sincere, but how belated!--mechanically he rises to reply to words of which he has hardly grasped the meaning. Suddenly a furious Alpine gale dashes down into the hall, tearing at the curtains, extinguishing the lights; outside the squall whistles shrilly, the lightning cuts the blackness of the clouds, casting sinister gleams on the faces of the dumb and startled assembly. Alone, amid the howls of the tempest, Berlioz stands, wrapped in flashes of vivid green--the spirit of symphony--colossal musician, whose apotheosis is heralded by Nature with her wildest, grandest music. That was the end. On Monday morning, the 8th March 1869, Hector Berlioz died. His funeral took place on the following Thursday at the Church of the Trinity. The Institute sent a deputation, the band of the National Guard played selections from his _Funeral Symphony_; on the coffin lay wreaths from the St Cecilia Society, from the youths of Hungary, from the Russian nobles, and from the town of Grenoble. He was dead--the atonement began. INDEX _Africaine, L_, 277. _Alcestis_, 26, 231, 237, 285, 293. Alexandre, 249, 292. Aleyrac, d, 18. Alizard, 52. Allard, 140. Ambros, Dr, 199. Amussat, 17, 192. Andrieux, 17, 19, 20. _Antony_, 136. _Arab Horse_, 18. _Armida_, 112, 282. Artot, 160. _Athalie_, 21. Aubr, d, 85. Balfe, 278. Ballanche, 141. Balzac, 202. Barbier, 142-3, 152. Batta, 160-1. Bauderali, Madame, 274. Beale, 214, 224. _Beatrice and Benedict_, 233-4, 238-40, 245, 248, 272. Beethoven, 39, 41, 60-2, 70, 78, 81, 143-4, 174, 194. Belloni, 200. Benazet, 227, 233, 240, 248. Benedict, 160. Ber, 231. Berlioz, Adle, 217, 254. Dr, 2, 81, 140, 211. Louis, 140-1, 156, 189, 201, 206, 215, 217, 220-3, 234, 237-8, 252, 269, 272, 275, 277, 281, 287-9. Madame, 30. Marie Recio, 222, 233, 236, 238, 249. Nanci, 10, 30, 217. Victor, 212. Bernard, Daniel, 272. General, 146, 148. Bertin, Armand, 146, 151, 155. 142, 146, 150, 202. Berton, 40. Bienaim, 150. Bishop, Sir H., 210. Blanc, 151. Blanche, 274. Bloc, 57, 75, 76. Boeldieu, 40, 79-81. Boissieux, 45. Bordogni, 149. Bouch, 187. Branchu, Madame, 17, 28. Broadwood, 224. Broderotti, 248. Brugnires, 59. Bulow, von, 234, 252. Byron, 97, 119, 139. Capitaine, Mdlle., 169. _Carnaval Romain_, 153, 246. Carn, de, 62. Carvalho, 242, 244-5. Carus, Dr, 181. Castilblaze, 47-8. Catel, 40, 61. Cazals, 62. Ccile, Admiral, 222. _Cellini, Benvenuto_, 142, 152-4, 223, 228. Charbonnel, 36-7. Charton-Demeur, Madame, 239-40, 243, 245, 270, 282-3. Chteaubriand, 23, 74. Chlard, 175-7. Chni, 45. Cherubini, 26, 32, 38, 40, 54-5, 57, 60, 66, 69, 70-1, 74, 93, 129, 146, 148-50, 190. _Childhood of Christ_, 201, 222, 226, 249. Chopin, 51, 133, 162, 205. Choral Symphony, 214, 293. _Cinq Mai_, 183. _Cleopatra_, 78-9. _Correspondant, Le_, 74, 78. Costa, Sir M., 49, 215, 223. Coste, 142. Crispino, 115, 116. Cui, 296, 298. Dabadie, Madame, 80. _Damnation de Faust_, 75, 128, 200-2, 276, 285, 286. Damcke, 245, 270, 279, 290. Damrmont, General, 146 Dauvern, 166. _Death of Abel_, 33. _Death of Orpheus_, 40, 54-6. Delessert, 191. Drivis, 17, 28, 59, 161. Deschamps, 133. Dessauer, 188. _Devin du Village_, 42. Dobr, Melle., 187. Dochler, 160. _Don Giovanni_, 49. Dorant, 10. Dorval, Madame, 136. Dumas, 135, 162. Duponchel, 149, 152-3. Dupont, 56-7, 59, 70. Duprez, 57, 161, 187. Eckstein, d, 74. Estelle, 6, 8, 120, 124, 211-12, 221, 256-271, 279, 282. _Estelle et Nmorin_, 12, 21, 25. Emperor of Austria, 195. the French, 64, 234, 236-7, 242. Empress of Russia, 202. the French, 233-4, 237. Erard, Madame, 252, 273. _Faust_, 73, 75, 77. Ferrand, 23, 28, 33, 58, 62, 128, 189, 272-3, 285, 292. Ftis, 49, 95, 132, 164. _Figaro_, 49. _Fingals Cave_, 178. Fleury, 100-1. Flotow, de, 274. _Francs-Juges_, 33, 54, 56, 58, 77, 83, 94, 136, 171. Frankoski, 159. Freyschtz, 46-7, 78, 171, 187. Friedland, 202. _Gamester_, 21. Gardel, 38. Garrick, 49. Gasparin, de, 143-4, 148-9. Gasperini, 245, 274. Gatayes, 166. Gay-Lussac, 17. _Gazette Musicale_, 141-2. Gnast, 176. Gervaert, 233. Gluck, 18, 20-1, 29, 41-2, 50, 62-3. Goethe, 73, 175. _God of the Christians_, 68. Gossec, 21. Goubeaux, 160. Gounet, 83, 133, 235. Gounod, 233, 274. Gras, Madame, 209. Grasset, 90. Grtry, 62. Grisi, 161. Gros, 28. Gudonoff, 203-4. Gurin, 28. Guhr, 168-70, 175. Gye, 210. Habeneck, 49, 59, 60, 93-4, 103, 147, 152, 163-7, 190. Halvy, 146. Hall, 160-1. _Hamlet_, 50, 52, 73, 136. Handel, 62. _Harold_, 139, 142, 155, 171, 175, 185, 246. Haydn, 61. Heine, 183. Helen, Grand Duchess, 290, 292-4. Heller, Stephen, 18, 177, 252. Helmesberger, 286. Herbeck, 286. Hiller, Ferdinand, 81, 85, 93, 112, 127, 162, 169, 175, 288. Hogarth, 210. Hohenzollern-Hechingen, Prince von, 172, 246. Hortense, Queen, 110. Horwath, 197-8. Hotin, 27. Hummel, 176. Huguenots, 143. Hugo, Victor, 143, 151. Imbert, 8. _Imperial Cantata_, 231. _Iphigenia in Tauris_, 18, 43, 210. Irish Melodies, 51, 94, 179. Janin, Jules, 135, 157, 219. _Jean de Paris_, 80. _Journal des Dbats_, 24, 63, 141. Jullien, 207-11. _King Lear_, 106, 108, 112, 173, 178, 192, 246. King of Hanover, 206, 227. Prussia, 202, 206. Saxony, 128, 228. Klopstock, 119. Krebs, 186. Kreutzer, L., 245. R., 33, 40, 43, 49, 60. Lablachk, 160. _La Captive_, 117. Lachner, 175. Lachnith, 48. Lafayette, 87. Larochefoucauld, 33, 54. Le Chuzeau, 31. Lecourt, 297. Lefevbre, 117. Lgouv, 154, 161. Lenz, 203. _Llio_, 79, 117, 128, 130. Lesueur, 18, 19, 25, 28, 33, 39, 40, 47, 60, 62, 81. Le Tessier, 46. Lethire, 69. Levaillant, 67. Levasseur, 160. Lipinski, 182-3. Lindpaintner, 169-172, 174. Liszt, 51, 93, 133, 136-7, 140, 154, 159, 173, 199, 200, 205, 220, 228, 234, 236-7, 242, 252, 273, 279, 283. Lobe, 175-6. Louis Philippe, 87. Lubbert, 76. Lumley, 209. Lttichau, von, 228. Lwoff, 203, 213. Macready, 209. _Magic Flute_, 48, 50. Malibran, 90. Mangin, 244. Mari, 188. Marezeck, 210. Marmion, 5. Mars, Mdlle., 132. _Marseillaise_, 87, 166. Marschner, 176. _Martha_, 274. Marx, 75. Massart, Madame, 251, 277, 280, 284, 293. Masson, 22. _Medea_, 26. Mhul, 18. Mendelssohn, 101-2, 112, 114, 177, 183, 209. Mrime, 251. Meyerbeer, 143, 206, 229, 277. Michaud, 63. Michel, 35. _Midsummer Nights Dream_, 179. Milanollo, 169. Millevoye, 18. Moke, Marie Pleyel-, 85, 91-2, 95, 108. Moke, Madame, 91-2, 112. _Monde Dramatique_, 141. Montag, 176. _Montecchi_, 109. Montfort, 100, 112. Morel, 162, 191, 228, 252, 297. Mori, Mllde., 59. Morny, de, 242. Mller, 184-5. Munier, 123. Musard, 141. Napoleon, Prince, 231. Nathan-Treillet, Madame, 167. Naudin, Mdlle., 161. Nernst, 202. Nicola, 194. _Nina_, 2, 18. _Noces des Fes_, 118. Noailles, de, 91. dipus, 35, 45. Ortigue, d, 159, 180, 213, 215, 219, 236, 245. _Orpheus_, 237. Paccini, 110. Par, 40, 60, 108. Paganini, 108, 138, 155-8, 125. Achille, 155. Panseron, 59. Parish-Alvars, 183. Pasdeloup, 283. Perne, 26. Perrin, 285. Persuis, 18. Pfifferari, 117. Piccini, 21. Pillet, 164, 167, 187. Pingard, 67-8, 71. Pischek, 169, 195. Planch, 210. Pleyel, 102. Marie (_see_ Moke). Pons, de, 24-5, 31-2, 44. Pohl, Madame, 246. Pouilly, Madame, 47. _Queen Mab_, 114, 165, 184. _Quotidienne_, 63. Raday, Count, 197. Recio, Marie, 163. Reeves, Sims, 209, 210. Rgnault, 71. Reicha, 33, 38, 39. Remusat, de, 162. _Renovateur_, 141-2. Reissiger, 182. _Requiem_, 166, 180, 183, 190, 287, 294. _Resurrexit_, 25, 57-8, 118. _Revue Europenne_, 62-3, 119. _Musicale_, 95, 132. Reyer, 286. Robert, 14, 16. Rocquemont, 191. _Rob Roy_, 117. Romberg, 190, 203. _Romeo and Juliet_, 49, 52, 71, 158-9, 183, 203, 227, 246, 286. Rothschild, 156. Rossini, 41, 62-3. Rouget de Lisle, 87. Rousseau, 42. Rubini, 161. Sacchini, 35. Saint-Flix, 133. Lger, 35. Sans, 282, 289. Salieri, 17, 29. Sand, Madame, 288. _Sappho_, 40. _Sardanapalus_, 89, 93-4, 136. Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duke, 177, 186, 206, 227, 248. Saxe-Weimar, Grand Duchess, 246 Sayn-Wittgenstein, Princess von, 242. Schiller, 175-6. Schilling, Dr, 170-2. Schlesinger, 130, 140. Schlick, 102-3. Schoelcher, 161. Schott, 168. Schumann, 180. Madame, 181. Schutter, 130. Scribe, 142. Seifriz, 246-7. Shakespeare, 50, 60, 219. Smart, Sir G., 210. Smithson, Henriette, 50, 52, 58, 72-3, 82, 84, 92, 129-136, 140, 156, 163, 217-20, 227, 250. Snel, 163. Spiegel, Baron von, 176. Spohr, 78. Spontini, 33, 41, 50, 110, 134, 284. Spontini, Madame, 273. Stassoff, 295-7. Steinway, 291. Stolz, Madame, 187. _Stratonice_, 18. Strakosch, 258. Strauss, 191. Suat, 253. _Symphonie Fantastique_, 75, 94, 117, 124, 136, 140, 143, 155, 292. Tglichsbeck, 173. Tajan-Rog, 207. Tamburini, 161. Talma, 21. Tannhuser, 236. Tasso, 68. _Tempest_, 76-7, 95. _Te Deum_, 228. Thalberg, 160, 183. Thnard, 17. Thomas, 162. Tilmant, 191. Topenheim, Baron von, 170. _Trojans, The_, 224, 232-3, 237, 241-5, 267, 269, 274, 276. Troupenas, 132. Vaillant, Marshal, 251-2. Valentino, 22-3, 43-4. Vanderheufel-Duprez, Madame, 249. Vernet, Horace, 98, 101-2, 106, 113, 118, 124, 127. Vernet, Mdlle., 117, 125-6. Viardot, Madame, 237, 249. Vieuxtemps, 205. Vigny, de, 141-2. Vogt, 18. Volney, de, 67. Wagner, 182, 228-9, 236-7. Wailly, de, 142, 152, 219. Walewski, Count, 237. _Walpurgis Nacht_, 179, 180. _Waverley_, 37, 54. Weber, 41, 46-8, 60, 62, 136. Wielhorski, Count, 203. Wieniawski, 294. _Worlds Last Day_, 118. X., de, 144-8, 151. Zinkeisen, 184. FOOTNOTES: From original drawings by J. Y. DAWBARN. Berlioz burnt does not necessarily mean that they were put in the fire, but simply that they were relegated to a portfolio limbo, whence they sometimes emerged to be used again with fine results. Gluck and Piccini were of entirely opposite schools. Chopin and Liszt once spent a whole night hunting for him in the fields. Of him more later on. Between these two letters Berlioz had a meeting with Miss Smithson, who told him frankly that his pretensions were impossible. _Le Correspondant._ Moores Irish Melodies. In his letters he says that Mademoiselle Moke was present with her mother.--ED. A play upon his red hair. Mendelssohns letter of 29th March 1831 gives a very severe description of Berlioz, under the initial Y, showing how utterly out of sympathy the two young men were, and how incapable at that time Mendelssohn was of reciprocating Berliozs whole-hearted appreciation. Later on, when they met in Leipzig, the situation improved. It was Diano Marina, near Oneglia. Gave popular concerts of dance-music and introduced the galop. It was really written by Lon de Wailly: Alfred de Vigny merely revised it. In 1848. Liszt afterwards mounted it successfully at Weimar. Since writing this, I conducted the first four parts of it in London and never did I have a more brilliant reception, nor was I better received by the press. (In a letter to Ferrand he says: I am quite pleased with my success. _Romeo and Juliet_ made people cry. I cannot go into the details of my three concerts, but I may say that the new score made some notable conversions. An Englishman bought my baton from Schlesingers servant for 150 francs. The press has treated me splendidly.) Mademoiselle Recio. I had not then heard the _Midsummer Nights Dream_. Composed in 1834. Ferrand was in Sardinia. My intimate friend, now director of the Marseilles Conservatoire. _Jerusalem_, given in Paris in November. Alas, I succumbed! My five-act opera _The Trojans_ is the result. Madame Berlioz. In a letter to Ferrand, Berlioz gives his reason, which was that Madame Viardots failing voice made too many cuts and alterations necessary, thereby changing the whole form of the opera. However, to please Count Walewski he consented to be present at some of the rehearsals and help with his advice. Announcing Madame Berlioz death at St Germain-en-Laye. Berlioz had been Companion since 1839. An untranslateable pun. _On vous demande comment vous avez pass la nuit jamais comment vous passez lennui._ Written on his visit to Madame Fournier. Steinway. The last letter. Or on. Berlioz phrase admits of either interpretation. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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Distributed Proofreading Team ( from page images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries ( JOURNAL OF A RESIDENCE IN AMERICA. by FRANCES ANNE BUTLER (MISS FANNY KEMBLE). In One Volume. Paris, Published by A. and W. Galignani and Co, Rue Vivienne, No 18. 1835. PREFACE. A preface appears to me necessary to this book, in order that the expectation with which the English reader might open it should not be disappointed. Some curiosity has of late been excited in England with regard to America: its political existence is a momentous experiment, upon which many eyes are fixed, in anxious watching of the result; and such accounts as have been published of the customs and manners of its societies, and the natural wonders and beauties of its scenery, have been received and read with considerable interest in Europe. This being the case, I should be loth to present these volumes to the English public without disclaiming both the intention and the capability of adding the slightest detail of any interest to those which other travellers have already furnished upon these subjects. This book is, what it professes to be, my personal journal, and not a history or a description of men and manners in the United States. Engaged in an arduous profession, and travelling from city to city in its exercise, my leisure and my opportunities would have been alike inadequate to such a task. The portion of America which I have visited has been a very small one, and, I imagine, by no means that from which the most interesting details are to be drawn. I have been neither to the south nor to the west; consequently have had no opportunity of seeing two large portions of the population of this country,--the enterprising explorers of the late wildernesses on the shores of the Mississippi,--and the black race of the slave slates,--both classes of men presenting peculiarities of infinite interest to the traveller: the one, a source of energy and growing strength, the other, of disease and decay, in this vast political body. My sphere of observation has been confined to the Atlantic cities, whose astonishing mercantile prosperity, and motley mongrel societies, though curious under many aspects, are interesting but under few. What I registered were my immediate impressions of what I saw and heard; of course, liable to all the errors attendant upon first perceptions, and want of time and occasion for maturer investigation. The notes I have added while preparing the text for the press; and such opinions and details as they contain are the result of a longer residence in this country, and a somewhat better acquaintance with the people of it. Written, as my journal was, day by day, and often after the fatigues of a laborious evening's duty at the theatre, it has infinite sins of carelessness to answer for; and but that it would have taken less time and trouble to re-write the whole book, or rather write a better, I would have endeavoured to correct them,--though, indeed, I was something of Alfieri's mind about it:--"Quanto poi allo stile, io penso di lasciar fare alla penna, e di pochissimo lasciarlo scostarsi da quella triviale e spontanea naturalezza, con cui ho scritto quest' opera, dettata dal cuore e non dall' ingegno; e che sola puo convenire a cos umile tema." However, my purpose is not to write an apology for my book, or its defects, but simply to warn the English reader, before he is betrayed into its perusal, that it is a purely egotistical record, and by no means a history of America. JOURNAL. _Wednesday, August 1st, 1832._ Another break in my journal, and here I am on board the Pacific, bound for America, having left home and all the world behind.--Well! * * * * * We reached the quay just as the ship was being pulled, and pushed, and levered to the entrance of the dock;--the quays were lined with people; among them were several known faces,--Mr. ----, Mr. ----. M---- came on board to take my letters, and bid me good-by. * * * * * I had a bunch of carnations in my hand, which I had snatched from our drawing-room chimney;--English flowers! dear English flowers! they will be withered long before I again see land; but I will keep them until I once more stand upon the soil on which they grew. * * * * * The sky had become clouded, and the wind blew cold. * * * * * Came down and put our narrow room to rights. * * * * * Worked at my Bible-cover till dinner-time. We dined at half-past three.--The table was excellent--cold dinner, because it was the first day--but every thing was good; and champagne, and dessert, and every luxury imaginable, rendered it as little like a ship-dinner as might be. The man who sat by me was an American; very good-natured, and talkative. Our passengers are all men, with the exception of three; a nice pretty-looking girl, who is going out with her brother; a fat old woman, and a fat young one. I cried almost the whole of dinner-time. * * * * * After dinner the ladies adjourned to their own cabin, and the gentlemen began to debate about regulating the meal hours. They adopted the debating society tone, called my poor dear father to the chair, and presently I heard, oh horror! (what I had not thought to hear again for six weeks) the clapping of hands. They sent him in to consult us about the dinner-hour: and we having decided four o'clock, the debate continued with considerable merriment. Presently my father, Colonel ----, and Mr. ----, came into our cabin:--the former read us Washington Irving's speech at the New-York dinner. Some of it is very beautiful; all of it is in good feeling--it made me cry. Oh my home, my land, England, glorious little England! from which this bragging big baby was born, how my heart yearns towards your earth! I sat working till the gentlemen left us, and then wrote journal. * * * * * I am weary and sad, and will try to go and sleep.--It rains: I cannot see the moon. _Thursday, 2d._ It rained all night, and in the morning the wind had died away, and we lay rocking, becalmed on the waveless waters. At eight o'clock they brought me some breakfast, after which I got up; while dressing, I could not help being amused at hearing the cocks crowing, and the cow lowing, and geese and ducks gabbling, as though we were in the midst of a farm-yard. At half-past ten, having finished my toilet, I emerged; and Miss ---- and I walked upon deck. The sea lay still, and grey, without ridge or sparkle, a sheet of lead; the sky was of the same dull colour. The deck was wet and comfortless. We were but just off Holyhead: two or three ships stood against the horizon, still as ourselves. The whole was melancholy:--and, sadder than all, sat a poor woman, dressed in mourning, in a corner of the deck; she was a steerage passenger, and I never saw so much sorrow in any face. Poor thing! poor thing! was her heart aching for home, and kindred left behind her? It made mine ach to look at her. We walked up and down for an hour. I like my companion well; she is a nice young quiet thing, just come from a country home. Came down, and began getting out books for my German lesson, but, turning rather awful, left my learning on the floor, and betook myself to my berth. Slept nearly till dinner-time. At dinner I took my place at table, but presently the misery returned; and getting up, while I had sufficient steadiness left to walk becomingly down the room, I came to my cabin; my dinner followed me thither, and, lying on my back, I very comfortably discussed it. Got up, devoured some raspberry-tart and grapes, and, being altogether delightful again, sat working and singing till tea-time: after which, wrote journal, and now to bed. How strange it seems to hear these Americans speaking in English of _the English_!--"Oh, hame, hame, hame wad I be,"--but it is not time to sing that yet. _Friday, 3d._ Breakfasted at eight; got up, and dressed, and came upon deck. The day was lovely, the sea one deep dark sapphire, the sky bright and cloudless, the wind mild and soft, too mild to fill our sails, which hung lazily against the masts,--but enough to refresh the warm summer's sky, and temper the bright sun of August that shone above us. Walked upon deck with Miss ---- and Captain Whaite: the latter is a very intelligent good-natured person; rough and bluff, and only seven-and-twenty; which makes his having the command of a ship rather an awful consideration. At half-past eleven got my German, and worked at it till half-past one, then got my work; and presently we were summoned on deck by sound of bell, and oyes! oyes! oyes!--and a society was established for the good demeanour and sociability of the passengers. My father was in the chair. Mr. ---- was voted secretary, Dr. ---- attorney-general; a badge was established, rules and regulations laid down, a code framed, and much laughing and merriment thence ensued. Worked till dinner-time. After dinner, went on deck, took a brisk walk for half an hour with Captain Whaite. Established myself to work, and presently we were all summoned to attend a mock trial of Colonel ----, which made us all laugh most exceedingly. We adopted titles--I chose my family appellation of Puddledock: many of the names were very absurd, and as a penalty ensued upon not giving every body their proper designation, much amusement arose from it. When the trial was over, we played at dumb crambo, and earth, air, and water, with infinite zeal, till tea-time. After tea, we were summoned on deck to see the ship make a tack. The wind was against us, the sea inky black, the pale clear moon stood high against the sail--presently, with a whooping and yaw-awling that mocks description, the fair ship was turned away from the wind, the sails veered round, and she set in another course. We remained on deck, the gentlemen gathered round us, and singing began:--it went round and round by turns; some of our voices were very sweet, and, upon the whole, 'twas time pleasantly spent. Came to bed at ten. _Wednesday, 15th._ Here's a lapse! thanks to head winds, a rolling sea, and their result, sickness, sadness, sorrow. I've been better for the last two days, thank God! and take to my book again. Rose at eight, dawdled about, and then came up stairs. Breakfasted, sat working at my Bible-cover till lunch-time. Somebody asked me if I had any of Mrs. Siddons's hair; I sent for my dressing-box, and forthwith it was overhauled, to use the appropriate phrase, by half the company, whom a rainy day had reduced to a state of worse than usual want of occupation. The rain continued all day; we ladies dined in the round-house, the room down stairs being too close. The Captain and Colonel ---- joined us afterwards, and began drinking champagne, and induced us to do the same. As evening came on, the whole of the passengers collected in the round-house. Mr. ----, Mr. D----, and I wrote a rhapsody; afterwards they fell to singing; while they did so, the sky darkened tremendously, the rain came pelting down, the black sea swelled, and rose, and broke upon the ship's sides into boiling furrows of foam, that fled like ghosts along the inky face of the ocean. The ship scudded before the blast, and we managed to keep ourselves warm by singing. After tea, for the first time since I have been on board, got hold of a pack of cards, (oh me, that it ever should come to this!) and initiated Miss ---- in the mysteries of the intellectual game. Mercy! how my home rose before me as I did so. Played till I was tired; dozed, and finally came to bed. Bed! quotha! 'tis a frightful misapplication of terms. Oh for a bed! a real bed; any manner of bed but a bed on shipboard! And yet I have seen some fair things: I have seen a universe of air and water; I have seen the glorious sun come and look down upon this rolling sapphire; I have seen the moon throw her silver columns along the watery waste; I have seen one lonely ship in her silent walk across this wilderness, meet another, greet her, and pass her, like a dream, on the wide deep; I have seen the dark world of waters at midnight open its mysterious mantle beneath our ship's prow, and show below another dazzling world of light. I have seen, what I would not but have seen, though I have left my very soul behind me. England, dear, dear England! oh, for a handful of your earth! _Thursday, 16th._ Another day, another day! the old fellow posts as well over water as over land! Rose at about half-past eight, went up to the round-house; breakfasted, and worked at my Bible-cover. As soon as our tent was spread, went out on deck: took a longish walk with Mr. ----. I like him very much; his face would enchant Lavater, and his skull ecstacise the Combes. Lay down under our rough pavilion, and heard the gentlemen descant very learnedly upon freemasonry. A book called "Adventures of an Irish Gentleman," suggested the conversation; in which are detailed some of the initiatory ceremonies, which appear to me so incredibly foolish, that I can scarce believe them, even making mankind a handsome allowance for absurdity. I soon perceived that the discussion was likely to prove a serious one, for in America, it seems, 'tis made a political question; and our Boston friend, and the Jacksonite, fell to rather sharply about it. The temperance of the former, however, by retreating from the field, spared us further argumentation. One thing I marvel at:--are the institutions of men stronger to bind men, than those of God; and does masonry effect good, which Christianity does not?--a silly query, by the way; for doubtless men act the good, but forbear to act the evil, before each other's eyes; which they think nothing of doing, or leaving undone, under those of God. Gossiped till lunch-time; afterwards took up Childe Harold,--commend me to that! I thought of dear H----. She admires Byron more than I do; and yet how wildly I did, how deeply I do still, worship his might, majesty, and loveliness. We dined up stairs, and after dinner, I and Mr. ---- look a long walk on deck; talking flimsy morality, and philosophy, the text of which were generalities, but all the points individualities: I was amused in my heart at him and myself. He'd a good miss of me at ----: Heaven knows, I was odious enough! and therein his informer was right. The day was bright, and bitter cold,--the sea blue, and transparent as that loveliest line in Dante, "Dolce color di oriental zaffiro," with a lining of pearly foam, and glittering spray, that enchanted me. Came and sat down again:--wrote doggerel for the captain's album, about the captain's ship, which, when once I am out of her, I'll swear I love infinitely. Read aloud to them some of Byron's short poems, and that glorious hymn to the sea, in Childe Harold:--mercy, how fine it is! Lay under our canvass shed till nine o'clock:--the stars were brilliant in the intense blue sky, the wind had dropped, the ship lay still--we sang a song or two, supped, and came in; where, after inditing two rhapsodies, we came to bed. _Friday, 17th._ On my back all day: mercy, how it ached too! the ship reeled about like a drunken thing. I lay down, and began reading Byron's life. As far as I have gone (which is to his leaving England) there is nothing in it but what I expected to find,--the fairly-sown seeds of the after-harvest he bore. Had he been less of an egotist, would he have been so great a poet?--I question it. His fury and wrath at the severe injustice of his critics reminds me, by the by, of those few lines in the Athenum, which I read the other day, about poetical shoemakers, dairy-maids, ploughmen, and myself. After all, what matters it?--"If this thing be of God," the devil can't overthrow it; if it be not, why the printer's devil may. What can it signify what is said? If truth be truth to the end of reckoning, why, that share of her, if any, which I possess, must endure when recorded as long as truth endures. I almost wonder Byron was moved by criticism: I should have thought him at once too highly armed, and too self-wrapped, to care for it;--however, if a wasp's sting have such virtue in it, 'tis as well it should have been felt as keenly as it was.--Ate nothing but figs and raisins; in the evening some of our gentlemen came into our cabin, and sat with us; I, in very desperation and sea-sickness, began embroidering one of my old nightcaps, wherein I persevered till sleep overtook me. _Saturday, 18th._ Rose at about half-past eight, dawdled about as usual, breakfasted in the round-house--by the by, before I got out of bed, read a few more pages of Byron's life. I don't exactly understand the species of sentimental _galimatias_ Moore talks about Byron's writing with the same penfull of ink, "Adieu, adieu, my native land!" and "Hurra! Hodgson, we are going." It proves nothing except what I firmly believe, that we must not look for the real feelings of writers in their works--or rather, that what they give us, and what we take for heart feeling, is head weaving--a species of emotion engendered somewhere betwixt the bosom and the brain, and bearing the same proportion of resemblance to reality that a picture does; that is--like feeling, but not feeling--like sadness, but not sadness--like what it appears, but not indeed that very thing: and the greater a man's power of thus producing _sham realities_, the greater his main qualification for being a poet. After breakfast, sat, like Lady Alice in the old song, embroidering my midnight coif. Got Colonel ---- to read Quentin Durward to us as we sat working under our canvass pavilion. * * * * * Our company consists chiefly of traders in cloth and hardware, clerks, and counting-house men--a species with but few peculiarities of interest to me, who cannot talk pounds, shillings, and pence, as glibly as less substantial trash. Most of them have crossed this trifling ditch half a dozen times in their various avocations. But though they belong to the same sort generally, they differ enough individually for the amusement of observation. That poor widower, whose remarks on the starry inside of the sea attracted my attention the other evening, put into my hands to-day a couple of pretty little books enough; a sort of hotch-potch, or, to speak more sweetly, pot-pourri praise of women--passages selected from various authors who have done us the honour to remember us in their good commendations. There were one or two most eloquent and exquisite passages from Jeremy Taylor--one on love that enchanted me. I should like to copy it. What a contrast to that exquisite thing of Shelley's, "What is Love?" and yet they are both beautiful, powerful, and true. I could have helped them to sundry more passages on this subject, particularly from my oracle. Mr. ---- read to us after lunch, and we sat very happily under our _yawning_ till the rain drove us in. No wind, the sea one rippleless sheet of lead, and the sky just such another. Our main-top gallant-mast had been split in one of our late blows, and I went out in the rain to see them restore the spar. Towards evening the wind faired and freshened, in consequence of which our gentlemen's spirits rose; and presently, in spite of the rain, they were dancing, singing, and romping like mad things on the quarter-deck. It was Saturday--holiday on board ship--the men were all dismissed to their grog. Mr. ---- and I sang through a whole volume of Moore's melodies; and at ten o'clock (for the first time since our second day on board) we of the petticoats adjourned to the gentlemen's cabin to drink "sweethearts and wives," according to the approved sailors' practice. It made me sad to hear them, as they lifted their glasses to their lips, pass round the toast, "Sweethearts and wives!" I drank in my heart--"Home and dear H----." One thing amused me a good deal:--the Captain proposed as a toast, "The Ladies--God bless them," which accordingly was being duly drunk, when I heard, close to my elbow, a devout, half audible--"and the Lord deliver us!" This, from a man with a face like one of Retsch's most grotesque etchings, and an expression half humorous, half terrified, sent me into fits of laughter. They sang a song or two, and at twelve we left them to their meditations, which presently reached our ears in the sound, not shape, of "Health to Bacchus," in full chorus, to which tune I said my prayers. _Sunday, 19th._ Did not rise till late--dressed and came on deck. The morning was brilliant; the sea, bold, bright, dashing its snowy crests against our ship's sides, and flinging up a cloud of glittering spray round the prow. I breakfasted--and then amused myself with finding the lessons, collects, and psalms for the whole ship's company. After lunch, they spread our tent; a chair was placed for my father, and, the little bell being rung, we collected in our rude church. It affected me much, this praying on the lonely sea, in the words that at the same hour were being uttered by millions of kindred tongues in our dear home. There was something, too, impressive and touching in this momentary union of strangers, met but for a passing day, to part, perhaps, never to behold each other's faces again, in the holiest of all unions, that of Christian worship. Here I felt how close, how strong that wondrous tie of common faith that thus gathered our company, unknown and unconnected by any one worldly interest or bond, to utter the same words of praise and supplication, to think perhaps the same thoughts of humble and trustful dependence on God's great goodness in this our pilgrimage to foreign lands, to yearn perhaps with the same affection and earnest imploring of blessings towards our native soil and its beloved ones left behind.--Oh, how I felt all this, as we spoke aloud that touching invocation, which is always one of my most earnest prayers, "Almighty God, who hast promised when two or three are gathered together in thy name," etc. * * * The bright cloudless sky and glorious sea seemed to respond, in their silent magnificence, to our _Te Deum_.--I felt more of the excitement of prayer than I have known for many a day, and 'twas good--oh! very, very good! * * * * * 'Tis good to behold this new universe, this mighty sea which he hath made, this glorious cloudless sky, where hang, like dew drops, his scattered worlds of light--to see all this, and say,-- "These are thy glorious works, parent of good!" After prayers, wrote journal. Some sea-weed floated by the ship to-day, borne from the gulf stream; I longed to have it, for it told of land: gulls too came wheeling about, and the little petterels like sea-swallows skimmed round and round, now resting on the still bosom of the sunny sea, now flickering away in rapid circles like black butterflies. They got a gun, to my horror, and wasted a deal of time in trying to shoot these feathered mariners; but they did not even succeed in scaring them. We went and sat on the forecastle to see the sun set: he did not go down cloudless, but dusky ridges of vapour stretched into ruddy streaks along the horizon, as his disk dipped into the burnished sea. The foam round the prow, as the ship made way with all sail set before a fair wind, was the most lovely thing I ever saw. Purity, strength, glee, and wondrous beauty were in those showers of snowy spray that sprang up above the black' ship's sides, and fell like a cataract of rubies under the red sunlight. We sat there till evening came down: the sea, from brilliant azure, grew black as unknown things, the wind freshened, and we left our cold stand to walk, or rather run, up and down the deck to warm ourselves. This we continued till, one by one, the stars had lit their lamps in heaven: their wondrous brilliancy, together with the Aurora Borealis, which rushed like sheeted ghosts along the sky, and the stream of fire that shone round the ship's way, made heaven and sea appear like one vast world of flame, as though the thin blue veil of air and the dark curtain of the waters were but drawn across a universe of light. Mercy, how strange it was! We stood at the stern, watching the milky wake the ship left as she stole through the eddying waters. Came back to our gipsy encampment, where, by the light of a lantern, we supped and sang sundry scraps of old songs. At ten came to bed. * * * * * Took an observation of the sun's altitude at noon, and saw them hoist a main-top-royal sail, which looked very pretty as it was unreefed against the clear sky. _Monday, 20th._ Calm--utter calm--a roasting August sun, a waveless sea, the sails flapping idly against the mast, and our black cradle rocking to and fro without progressing a step. They lowered the boat, and went out rowing--I wanted to go, but they would not let me! A brig was standing some four miles off us, which, by the by, I was the first to see, except our mate, in my morning watch, which began at five o'clock, when I saw the moon set and the sun rise, and feel more than ever convinced that absolute reality is away from the purpose of works of art. The sky this morning was as like the sea shore as ever sand and shingle were, the clouds lying along the horizon in pale dusky yellow layers, and higher up, floating in light brown ribbed masses, like the sands which grow wrinkled under the eternal smiling of the sea. Against the dim horizon, which blended with the violet-coloured sky, the mate then showed me, through the glass, the brig standing on the sea's edge, for all the world like one of the tiny birds who were wheeling and chirping round our ship's stern. I have done more in the shape of work to-day than any since the two first I spent on board; translated a German fable without much trouble, read a canto in Dante, ending with a valuation of fame. "O spirito gentil!" how lived fair wisdom in your soul--how shines she in your lays!--Wrote journal, walked about, worked at my cap, in the evening danced merrily enough, quadrilles, country dances, La Boulangre, and the monaco; fairly danced myself tired. Came to bed. But oh! not to sleep--mercy, what a night! The wind blowing like mad, the sea rolling, the ship pitching, bouncing, shuddering, and reeling, like a thing possessed. I lay awake, listening to her creaking and groaning, till two o'clock, when, sick of my sleepless berth, I got up and was going up stairs, to see, at least, how near drowning we were, when D----, who was lying awake too, implored me to lie down again. I did so for the hundred and eleventh time, complaining bitterly that I should be stuffed down in a loathsome berth, cabined, cribbed, confined, while the sea was boiling below, and the wind bellowing above us. Lay till daylight, the gale increasing furiously; boxes, chairs, beds, and their contents, wooden valuables, and human invaluables, rolling about and clinging to one another in glorious confusion. At about eight o'clock, a tremendous sea took the ship in the waist, and, rushing over the deck, banged against our sky-light, and bounced into our cabin. Three women were immediately apparent from their respective cribs, and poor H---- appeared in all her lengthy full-length, and came and took refuge with me. As I held her in my arms, and put my cloak round her, she shook from head to foot, poor child!--I was not the least frightened, but rather excited by this invasion of Dan Neptune's; but I wish to goodness I had been on deck.--Oh, how I wish I had seen that spoonful of salt water flung from the sea's boiling bowl! I heard afterwards, that it had nearly washed away poor Mr. ----, besides handsomely ducking and frightening our military man. Lay all day on my back, most wretched, the ship heaving like any earthquake; in fact, there is something irresistibly funny in the way in which people seem dispossessed of their power of volition by this motion, rushing hither and thither in all directions but the one they purpose going, and making as many angles, fetches, and sidelong deviations from the point they aim at, as if the devil had tied a string to their legs and jerked it every now and then in spite--by the by, not a bad illustration of our mental and moral struggles towards their legitimate aims. Another horrible night! oh horror! _Wednesday, 22d._ A fair wind--a fine day--though very very cold and damp. It seems, in our squall last night, we had also a small piece of mutiny. During the mate's watch, and while the storm was at the worst, the man who was steering left the helm, and refused to obey orders; whereupon Mr. Curtis took up a hatchet, and assured him he would knock his brains out,--which the captain said, had it been his watch, he should have done on the spot, and without further warning. We are upon the Newfoundland banks, though not yet on soundings. Stitched my gown--worked at my nightcap--walked about:--Mr. ---- read Quentin Durward to us while we worked. The extreme cold made us take refuge in our cabin, where I sat working and singing till dinner-time. Dined at table again; afterwards came back to our cabin--began writing journal, and was interrupted by hearing a bustle in the dinner-room. The gentlemen were all standing up, and presently I heard Walter Scott's name passed round:--it made me lay down my pen. Oh! how pleasant it sounded--that unanimous blessing of strangers upon a great and good man, thus far from him--from all but our own small community. The genuine and spontaneous tribute to moral worth and mental power! Poor, poor Sir Walter! And yet no prayer that can be breathed to bless, no grateful and soul felt invocation, can snatch him from the common doom of earth-born flesh, or buy away one hour's anguish and prostration of body and spirit, before the triumphant infirmities of our miserable nature. I thought of Dante's lines, that I read but a day ago; and yet--and yet--fame is something. His fame is good--is great--is glorious. To be enshrined in the hearts of all virtuous and wise men, as the friend of virtue and the teacher of wisdom; to have freely given pleasure, happiness, forgetfulness, to millions of his fellow-creatures; to have made excellence lovely, and enjoyment pure and salutary; to have taught none but lessons of honour and integrity; to have surrounded his memory, and filled the minds of all men with images fair, and bright, and wonderful, yet left around his name no halo, and in the hearts of others no slightest cloud to blot these enchanting creations; to have done nothing but good with God's good gifts--is not this fame worth something? 'Tis worth man's love, and God's approval--'tis worth toiling for, living for, and dying for. He has earned it fairly--he is a great and good man--peace be with him in his hour of mortal sorrow, and eternal peace hereafter in the heaven to which he surely goes. They then drank Washington Irving,--a gentle spirit, too. After working for some time more, came on deck, where we danced with infinite glee, disturbed only by the surpassing uproar of Colonel ----. * * * * * * * * * * The only of our crew whom I cotton to fairly, are the ----, and that good-natured lad, Mr. ----: though the former rather distress me by their abundant admiration, and the latter by his inveterate Yorkshire, and never opening his mouth when he sings, which, as he has a very sweet voice, is a cruel piece of selfishness, keeping half his tones, and all his words, for his own private satisfaction. _Thursday, 23d._ On soundings, and nearly off them again--a fine day;--worked at my nightcap--another, by the by, having finished one--exemplary!--Walked about, ate, drank, wrote journal--read some of it to the ----, who seemed much gratified by my doing so. I go on with Byron's life. He is loo much of an egotist. I do not like him a bit the better for knowing his prose mind;--far from thinking it redeems any of the errors of his poetical man, I think I never read any thing professing to be a person's undisguised feelings and opinions, with so much heartlessness--so little goodness in it. His views of society are like his views of human nature; or rather, by the by, reverse the sentence, to prove the fallacy in judgment; and though his satire is keen and true, yet he is nothing but satirical--never, never serious and earnest, even with himself. Oh! I have a horror of that sneering devil of Goethe's; and he seems to me to have possessed Byron utterly. A curious thought, or rather a fantastical shadow of a thought, occurred to me to-day in reading a chapter in the Corinthians about the resurrection. I mean to be buried with H----'s ring on my finger; will it be there when I rise again?--What a question for the discussers of the needle's point controversy! My father read to us, this afternoon, part of one of Webster's speeches. It was very eloquent, but yet it did not fulfil my idea of perfect oratory--inasmuch as I thought it too pictorial:--there was too much scenery and decoration about it, to use the cant of my own trade;--there was too much effect, theatrical effect in it, from which Heaven defend me, for I do loathe it _in_ its place, and fifty times worse out of it. Perhaps Webster's speaking is a good sample, in its own line, of the leaven wherewith these times are leavened. I mean only in its defects--for its merits are sterling, and therefore of all time. But this oil and canvass style of thinking, writing, and speaking, is bad. I wish our age were more sculptural in its genius--though I have not the power in any thing to conform thereto, I have the grace to perceive its higher excellence: yet Milton was a sculptor, Shakspeare a painter. How do we get through that?--My reason for objecting to Webster's style--though the tears were in my eyes several times while my father read--is precisely the same as my reason for not altogether liking my father's reading--'tis slightly theatrical--something too much of passion, something too much of effect--but perhaps I am mistaken; for I do so abhor the slightest approach to the lamps and orange peel, that I had almost rather hear a "brazen candlestick turned on a wheel," than all the music of due emphasis and inflection, if allied to a theatrical manner.--Dined at table again. They abound in toasts, and, among others, gave "The friends we have left, and those we are going to!" My heart sank. I am going to no friend; and the "stranger," with which the Americans salute wayfarers through their land, is the only title I can claim amongst them. After dinner, walked about--danced--saw the sun sink in a bed of gorgeous stormy clouds;--worked and walked till bed-time.--I was considerably amused, and my English blood a little roused at a very good-natured and well-meant caution of Mr. ----, to avoid making an enemy of Colonel ----. He is, they say, a party man, having influence which he may exert to our detriment. _Friday, 24th._ Rose late after a fair night's sleep--came up to the round-house. After breakfast, worked and walked for an immense time. Read a canto in Dante: just as I had finished it, "A sail! a sail!" was cried from all quarters. Remembering my promise to dear H----, I got together my writing-materials, and scrawled her a few incoherent lines full of my very heart. The vessel bore rapidly down upon us, but as there was no prospect of either her or our lying-to, Mr. ---- tied my missive, together with one Mr. ---- had just scribbled, to a lump of lead, and presently we all rushed on deck to see the ship pass us. She was an English packet, from Valparaiso, bound to London; her foremast had been carried away, but she was going gallantly before the wind. As she passed us, Mr. ---- got up into the boat, to have a better chance of throwing. I saw him fling powerfully,--the little packet whizzed through the air, but the distance was impossible, and the dark waters received it within twenty feet of the ship, which sailed rapidly on, and had soon left us far behind. I believe I screamed, as the black sea closed over my poor letter. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Came down to my cabin and cried like a wretch--came up again, and found them all at lunch. Went and lay on the bowsprit, watching the fair ship courtesying through the bright sea with all her sail set, a gallant and graceful sight. Came in--wrote journal--translated a German fable. Worked at my cap, while my father went on with Webster's speech. I am still of the same mind about it, though some of the passages he read to-day were finer than any I had heard before. He gets over a shallow descent with admirable plausibility--and yet I think I would rather be descended from a half heathen Saxon giant, than from William Penn himself. We dined at table again; D---- could not: she was ill. After dinner, sat working for some time;--I had a horrid sick headach,--walked on deck. The wind and sea were both rising; we stood by the side of the ship, and watched the inky waters swelling themselves, and rolling sullenly towards us, till they broke in silver clouds against the ship, and sprang above her sides, covering us with spray. The sky had grown mirk as midnight, and the wind that came rushing over the sea was hot from the south. We staid out till it grew dark. At ten, the crazy old ship, in one of her headlong bounces, flung my whole supper in my lap; the wind and water were riotous; the ship plunged and shuddered. After screwing my courage to a game of speculation, I was obliged to leave it, and my companions. Came down and went to bed.--Oh horror! loathsome life!-- _Saturday and Sunday._ Towards evening got up and came on deck:--tremendous head wind, going off our course; pray Heaven we don't make an impromptu landing on Sable Island! Sat on the ship's side, watching the huge ocean gathering itself up into pitchy mountains, and rolling its vast ridges, one after another, against the good ship, who dipped, and dipped, and dived down into the black chasm, and then sprang up again, and rode over the swelling surges like an empress. The sky was a mass of stormy black, here and there edged with a copper-looking cloud, and breaking in one or two directions into pale silvery strata, that had an unhealthy lightning look: a heavy black squall lay ahead of us, like a dusky curtain, whence we saw the rain, fringe-like, pouring down against the horizon. The wind blew furiously. I got cradled among the ropes, so as not to be pitched off when the ship lurched, and enjoyed it all amazingly. It was sad and solemn, and, but for the excitement of the savage-looking waves, that every now and then lifted their overwhelming sides against us, it would have made me melancholy: but it stirred my spirits to ride over these huge sea-horses, that came bounding and bellowing round us. Remained till I was chilled with the bitter wind, and wet through with spray;--walked up and down the deck for some time,--had scarce set foot within the round-house, when a sea took her in midships, and soused the loiterers. Sat up, or rather slept up, till ten o'clock, and then went down to bed. I took up Pelham to-day for a second--'t is amazingly clever, and like the thing it means to be, to boot. Heard something funny that I wish to remember--at a Methodist meeting, the singer who led the Psalm tune, finding that his concluding word, which was Jacob, had not syllables enough to fill up the music adequately, ended thus--Ja-a-a-a--Ja-a-a-a--fol-de-riddle--cob!-- _Monday, 26th._ Read Byron's life;--defend me from my friends! Rose tolerably late; after breakfast, took a walk on deck--lay and slept under our sea-tent; read on until lunch-time--dined on deck. After dinner walked about with H---- and the captain; we had seated ourselves on the ship's side, but he being called away, we rushed off to the forecastle to enjoy the starlight by ourselves. We sat for a little time, but were soon found out; Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- joined us, and we sat till near twelve o'clock, singing and rocking under the stars. Venus--"The star of love, all stars above,"--threw a silver column down the sea, like the younger sister of the moon's reflection. By the by, I saw to-day, and with delight, an American sunset. The glorious god strode down heaven's hill, without a cloud to dim his downward path;--as his golden disk touched the panting sea, I turned my head away, and in less than a minute he had fallen beneath the horizon--leapt down into the warm waves, and left one glow of amber round half the sky; upon whose verge, where the violet curtain of twilight came spreading down to meet its golden fringe, "The maiden, With white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon," stood, with her silver lamp in her hand, and her pale misty robes casting their wan lustre faintly around her. Oh me, how glorious it was! how sad, how very very sad I was! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dear, yet forbidden thoughts, that from my soul, While shines the weary sun, with stern control I drive away; why, when my spirits lie Shrouded in the cold sleep of misery, Do ye return, to mock me with false dreaming, Where love, and all life's happiness is beaming? Oh visions fair! that one by one have gone Down, 'neath the dark horizon of my days, Let not your pale reflection linger on In the bleak sky, where live no more your rays. Night! silent nurse, that with thy solemn eyes Hang'st o'er the rocking cradle of the world, Oh! be thou darker to my dreaming eyes, Nor, in my slumbers, be the past unfurl'd. Haunt me no more with whisperings from the dead. The dead in heart, the changed, the withered: Bring me no more sweet blossoms from my spring, Which round my soul their early fragrance fling, And, when the morning, with chill icy start, Wakes me, hang blighted round my aching heart: Oh night, and slumber, be ye visionless, Dark as the grave, deep as forgetfulness! * * * * * * * * * * Night, thou shalt nurse me, but be sure, good nurse, While sitting by my bed, that thou art silent; I will not let thee sing me to my slumbers With the sweet lullabies of former times, Nor tell me tales, as other gossips wont, Of the strange fairy days, that are all gone. _Wednesday, 28th._ Skipped writing on Tuesday--so much the better--a miserable day spent between heart-ach and side-ach. * * * * * Rose late, breakfasted with H----, afterwards went and sat on the forecastle, where I worked the whole morning, woman's work, stitching. It was intensely hot till about two o'clock, when a full east wind came on, which the sailors all blessed, but which shook from its cold wings a heavy, clammy, chilly dew, that presently pierced all our clothes, and lay on the deck like rain. At dinner we were very near having a scene: the Bostonian and the Jacksonite falling out again about the President; and a sharp, quick, snapping conversation, which degenerated into a snarl on one side, and a growl on the other, for a short time rather damped the spirits of the table. Here, at least, General Jackson seems very unpopular, and half the company echoed in earnest what I said in jest to end the dispute, "Oh hang General Jackson!" After dinner, returned to the forecastle with H---- to see the sun set; her brother followed us thither. * * * * * Finished my work, and then, tying on sundry veils and handkerchiefs, danced on deck for some time;--I then walked about with ----, by the light of the prettiest young moon imaginable. * * * * * Afterwards sat working and stifling in the round-house till near ten, and then, being no longer able to endure the heat, came down, undressed, and sat luxuriously on the ground in my dressing-gown drinking lemonade. At twelve went to bed; the men kept up a horrible row on deck half the night; singing, dancing, whooping, and running over our heads. * * * * * * * * * * The captain brought me to-day a land-swallow, which, having flown out so far, came hovering exhausted over the ship, and suffered itself to be caught. Poor little creature! how very much more I do love all things than men and women! I felt sad to death for its weary little wings and frightened heart, which beat against my hand, without its having strength to struggle. I made a cage in a basket for it, and gave it some seed, which it will not eat--little carnivorous wretch! I must catch some flies for it. _Thursday, 29th._ My poor little bird is dead. I am sorry! I could mourn almost as much over the death of a soulless animal, as I would rejoice at that of a brute with a soul. Life is to these winged things a pure enjoyment; and to see the rapid pinions folded, and the bright eye filmed, conveys sadness to the heart, for 'tis almost like looking on--what indeed is not--utter cessation of existence. I wished it had not died--I would but have borne it tenderly and carefully to shore, and given it back to the air again! * * * * * I sat down stairs in my cabin all day; the very spirit of doggerel possessed me, and I poured forth rhymes as rapidly as possible, and they were as bad as possible.--Wrote journal; in looking over my papers, fell in with the Star of Seville--some of it is very good. I'll write an English tragedy next. Dined at table--our heroes have drunk wine, and are amicable. After dinner, went on deck, and took a short walk; saw the sun set, which he did like a god, as he is, leaving the sky like a geranium curtain, which overshadowed the sea with rosy light--beautiful! Came down and sat on the floor like a Turkish woman, stitching, singing, and talking, till midnight; supped--and to bed. My appetite seems like the Danades' tub, of credible memory. * * * * * * * * * * _Friday, 30th._ On soundings. A fog and a calm. Sky yellow, sea grey, dripping, damp, dingy, dark, and very disagreeable. Sat working, reading, and talking in our own cabin all day. Read part of a book called Adventures of a Younger Son. The gentlemen amused themselves with fishing, and brought up sundry hake and dog-fish. I examined the heart of one of the fish, and was surprised at the long continuance of pulsation after the cessation of existence. In the evening, sang, talked, and played French blind man's buff;--sat working till near one o'clock, and reading Moore's Fudge Family,--which is good fun. It's too hard to be becalmed within thirty hours of our destination. * * * * * * * * * * Why art thou weeping Over the happy, happy dead, Who are gone away From this life of clay, From this fount of tears, From this burthen of years, From sin, from sorrow, From sad "to-morrow," From struggling and creeping: Why art thou weeping, Oh fool, for the dead? Why art thou weeping Over the steadfast faithful dead, Who can never change, Nor grow cold and strange, Nor turn away, In a single day, From the love they bore, And the faith they swore; Who are true for ever, Will slight thee never, But love thee still, Through good and ill, With the constancy Of eternity: Why art thou weeping, Oh fool, for the dead? They are your only friends; For where this foul life ends, Alone beginneth truth, and love, and faith; All which sweet blossoms are preserved by death. _Saturday, 31st._ Becalmed again till about two o'clock, when a fair wind sprang up, and we set to rolling before it like mad. How curious it is to see the ship, like a drunken man, reel through the waters, pursued by that shrill scold the wind! Worked at my handkerchief, and read aloud to them Mrs. Jameson's book. * * * * * * * * * * Set my foot half into a discussion about Portia, but withdrew it in time. Lord bless us! what foul nonsense people do talk, and what much fouler nonsense it is to answer them. Got very sick, and lay on the ground till dinner-time; went to table, but withdrew again while it was yet in my power to do so gracefully. Lay on the floor all the evening, singing for very sea-sickness; suddenly it occurred to me, that it was our last Saturday night on board; whereupon I indited a song to the tune of "To Ladies' eyes a round, boys,"--and having duly instructed Mr. ---- how to "speak the speech," we went to supper. _Last_--_last_--dear, what is there in that word! I don't know one of this ship's company, don't care for some of them--I have led a loathsome life in it for a month past, and yet the _last_ Saturday night seemed half sad to me. Mr. ---- sang my song and kept my secret: the song was encored, and my father innocently demanded the author; I gave him a tremendous pinch, and looked very silly. Merit, like murder, will out; so I fancy that when they drank the health of the author, the whole table was aware of the genius that sat among them. They afterwards sang a clever parody of "To all ye ladies now on land," by Mr. ----, the "canny Scot," who has kept himself so quiet all the way. Came to bed at about half-past twelve: while undressing, I heard the captain come down stairs, and announce that we were clear of Nantucket shoal, and within one hundred and fifty miles of New York, which intelligence was received with three cheers. They continued to sing and shout till very late. SATURDAY NIGHT SONG. Come, fill the can again, boys, One parting glass, one parting glass; Ere we shall meet again, boys, Long years may pass, long years may pass. We'll drink the gallant bark, boys, That's borne us through, that's borne us through, Bright waves and billows dark, boys, Our ship and crew, our ship and crew. We'll drink those eyes that bright, boys, With smiling ray, with smiling ray, Have shone like stars to light, boys, Our watery way, our watery way. We'll drink our English home, boys, Our father land, our father land, And the shores to which we're come, boys, A sister strand, a sister strand. _Sunday, September 2d._ Rose at half-past six: the sun was shining brilliantly; woke H---- and went on deck with her. The morning was glorious, the sun had risen two hours in the sky, the sea was cut by a strong breeze, and curled into ridges that came like emerald banks crowned with golden spray round our ship; she was going through the water at nine knots an hour. I sat and watched the line of light that lay like a fairy road to the east--towards my country, my dear dear home. * * * * * Breakfasted at table for the first time since I've been on board the ship--I did hope, the last. After breakfast, put my things to rights, tidied our cabin for prayers, and began looking out the lessons; while doing so, the joyful sound, "Land, land!" was heard aloft. I rushed on deck, and between the blue waveless sea, and the bright unclouded sky, lay the wished-for line of darker element. 'Twas Long Island: through a glass I descried the undulations of the coast, and even the trees that stood relieved against the sky. Hail, strange land! my heart greets you coldly and sadly! Oh, how I thought of Columbus, as with eyes strained and on tiptoe our water-weary passengers stood, after a summer's sail of thirty days, welcoming their mother earth! The day was heavenly, though intensely hot, the sky utterly cloudless, and, by that same token, I do not love a cloudless sky. They tell me that this is their American weather almost till Christmas; that's nice, for those who like frying. Commend me to dear England's soft, rich, sad, harmonious skies and foliage--commend me to the misty curtain of silver vapour that hangs over her September woods at morning, and shrouds them at night;--in short, I am home-sick before touching land. After lunch, my father read prayers to us, and that excellent sermon of dear Mr. Thurstone's on taking the sacrament. After prayers, came on deck; there were two or three sails in sight--hailed a schooner which passed us--bad news of the cholera--pleasant this--walked about, collected goods and chattels, wrote journal, spent some time in seeing a couple of geese take a sea-swim with strings tied to their legs. After dinner, sat in my cabin some time--walked on deck; when the gentlemen joined us, we danced the sun down, and the moon up. The sky was like the jewel-shop of angels; I never saw such brilliant stars, nor so deep an azure to hang them in. The moon was grown powerful, and flooded the deck, where we sat playing at blind man's buff, magic music, and singing, and talking of shore till midnight, when we came to bed. I must not forget how happy an omen greeted us this morning. As we stood watching the "_dolce color di oriental zaffiro_," one of the wild wood pigeons of America flew round our mizen-mast, and alighted on the top-sail yard;--this was the first living creature which welcomed us to the New World, and it pleased my superstitious fancy. I would have given any thing to have caught the bird, but, after resting itself awhile, it took flight again and left us. We were talking to-day to one of our steerage passengers, a Huddersfield manufacturer, going out in quest of a living, with five children of his own to take care of, and two nephews. The father of the latter, said our Yorkshireman, having married a second time, and these poor children being as it were "_thristen_ (thrust) out into the world loike--whoy oi jist took care of them." Verily, verily, he will have his reward--these tender mercies of the poor to one another are beautiful, and most touching. _Monday, September 3d._ I had desired the mate to call me by sunrise, and accordingly, in the midst of a very sound and satisfactory sleep, Mr. Curtis shook me roughly by the arm, informing me that the sun was just about to rise. The glorious god was quicker at his toilet than I at mine; for though I did but put on a dressing-gown and cloak, I found him come out of his eastern chamber, arrayed like a bridegroom, without a single beam missing. I called H----, and we remained on deck watching the clouds like visions of brightness and beauty, enchanted creations of some strange spell-land--at every moment assuming more fantastic shapes and gorgeous tints. Dark rocks seemed to rise, with dazzling summits of light pale lakes of purest blue spread here and there between--the sun now shining through a white wreath of floating silver, now firing, with a splendour that the eye shrank from, the edges of some black cloudy mass. Oh, it was surpassing!--We were becalmed, however, which rather damped all our spirits, and half made the captain swear. Towards mid-day we had to thank Heaven for an incident. A brig had been standing aft against the horizon for some hours past, and we presently descried a boat rowing from her towards us. The distance was some five miles, the sun broiling; we telescoped and stood on tiptoe; they rowed stoutly, and in due time boarded us. She was an English brig from Bristol, had been out eleven weeks, distressed by contrary winds, and was in want of provisions. The boat's crew was presently surrounded, grog was given the men, porter to the captain and his companion. Our dear captain supplied them with every thing they wanted, and our poor steerage passengers sent their mite to the distressed crew in the shape of a sack of potatoes; they remained half an hour on board, we clustering round them, questioning and answering might and main. As H---- said, they were new faces at least, and, though two of the most ill-favoured physiognomies I ever set eyes on, there was something refreshing even in their ugly novelty. After this the whole day was one of continual excitement, nearing the various points of land, greeting vessels passing us, and watching those bound on the same course. At about four o'clock a schooner came alongside with a news-collector; he was half devoured with queries; news of the cholera, reports of the tariff and bank questions, were loudly demanded: poor people, how anxiously they looked for replies to the first! Mr. ----, upon whose arm I leant, turned pale as death while asking how it had visited Boston. Poor fellow! poor people all! my heart ached with their anxiety. As the evening darkened, the horizon became studded with sails; at about eight o'clock we discovered the Highlands of Neversink, the entrance to New York harbour, and presently the twin lights of Sandy Hook glimmered against the sky. We were all in high spirits; a fresh breeze had sprung up, we were making rapidly to land; the lovely ship, with all sail set, courtesying along the smooth waters. The captain alone seemed anxious, and was eagerly looking out for the pilot. Some had gathered to the ship's side, to watch the progress of Colonel ----, who had left us and gone into the news-boat, which was dancing like a fairy by the side of our dark vessel. Cheering resounded on all sides, rockets were fired from the ship's stern, we were all dancing, when suddenly a cry was echoed round of "A pilot, a pilot!" and close under the ship's side a light graceful little schooner shot like an arrow through the dim twilight, followed by a universal huzza; she tacked, and lay to, but proved only a news-boat: while, however, all were gathered round the collector, the pilot-boat came alongside, and the pilot on board; the captain gave up the cares and glories of command, and we danced an interminable country dance. All was excitement and joyous confusion; poor Mr. ---- alone seemed smitten with sudden anxiety; the cholera reports had filled him with alarm, lest his agent should have died, and his affairs on his arrival be in confusion and ruin--poor fellow! I was very sorry for him. We went down to supper at ten, and were very merry, in spite of the ship's bumping twice or thrice upon the sands. Came up and dawdled upon deck--saw them cast anchor; away went the chain, down dropped the heavy stay, the fair ship swung round, and there lay New York before us, with its clustered lights shining like a distant constellation against the dark outline of land. Remained on deck till very late--were going to bed, when the gentlemen entreated us to join their party once more; we did so, sang all the old songs, laughed at all the old jokes, drank our own and each other's health, wealth, and prosperity, and came to bed at two o'clock. Our cradle rocks no longer, but lies still on the still waters; we have reached our destination; I thank God! I did so with all my soul. _Tuesday, September 4th, New York, America._ It is true, by my faith! it is true; there it is written, here I sit, I am myself and no other, this is New York and nowhere else--Oh! "singular, strange!" Our passengers were all stirring and about at peep of day, and I got up myself at half past six. Trunks lay scattered in every direction around, and all were busily preparing to leave the good ship Pacific. Mercy on us! it made me sad to leave her and my shipmates. I feel like a wretch swept down a river to the open sea, and catch at the last boughs that hang over the banks to stay me from that wide loneliness. The morning was real Manchester. I believe some of the passengers had brought the fog and rain in their English clothes, which they were all putting on, together with best hats, dandy cravats, etc.--to make a _sensation_. A fog hung over the shores of Staten Island and Long Island, in spite of which, and a dreary, heavy, thick rain, I thought the hilly outline of the former very beautiful; the trees and grass were rather sunburnt, but in a fair spring day I should think it must be lovely. We breakfasted, and packed ourselves into our shawls and bonnets, and at half-past nine the steam-boat came alongside to take us to shore: it was different from any English steam-boat I ever saw, having three decks, and being consequently a vessel of very considerable size. We got on board her all in the rain and misery, and, as we drifted on, our passengers collected to the side of the boat, and gave "The dear old Lady" three cheers. Poor ship! there she lay--all sails reefed, rocking in melancholy inaction, deserted by her merry inmates, lonely and idle--poor Pacific! I should like to return in that ship; I would willingly skip a passage in order to do so. All were looking at the shores; some wondering and admiring, others recognising through the rain and mist, as best they might; I could not endure to lift my eyes to the strange land, and, even had I done so, was crying too bitterly to see any thing. Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- went to secure apartments for us at the American Hotel; and, after bidding good-by to the sea, we packed ourselves into a hackney coach, and progressed. The houses are almost all painted glaring white or red; the other favourite colours appear to be pale straw colour and grey. They have all green Venetian shutters, which give an idea of coolness, and almost every house has a tree or trees in its vicinity, which looks pretty and garden-like. We reached our inn,--the gentlemen were waiting for us, and led us to our drawing-room. I had been choking for the last three hours, and could endure no more, but sobbed like a wretch aloud. * * * * * * * * * * There was a piano in the room, to which I flew with the appetite of one who has lived on the music of the speaking-trumpet for a month; that, and some iced lemonade and cake, presently restored my spirits. I went on playing and singing till I was exhausted, and then sat down and wrote journal. Mr. ---- went out and got me Sir Humphry Davy's Salmonia, which I had been desiring, and he had been speaking of on board ship. At five o'clock we all met once more together to dinner. Our drawing-room being large and pleasant, the table was laid in it. 'Tis curious how an acquaintanceship of thirty days has contrived to bind together in one common feeling of kindness and good-fellowship persons who never met before, who may never meet again. To-morrow we all separate, to betake ourselves each to our several path; and, as if loath to part company, they all agreed to meet once more on the eve of doing so, probably for ever. How strongly this clinging principle is inherent in our nature! These men have no fine sympathies of artificial creation, and this exhibition of _adhesiveness_ is in them a real and heart-sprung feeling. It touched me--indeed it may well do so; for friends of thirty days are better than utter strangers, and when these my shipmates shall be scattered abroad, there will be no human being left near us whose face we know, or whose voice is familiar to us. Our dinner was a favourable specimen of eating as practised in this new world; every thing good, only in too great a profusion; the wine drinkable, and the fruit beautiful to look at: in point of flavour it was infinitely inferior to English hothouse fruit, or even fine espalier fruit raised in a good aspect. Every thing was wrapped in ice, which is a most luxurious necessary in this hot climate; but the things were put on the table in a slovenly outlandish fashion; fish, soup, and meat, at once, and puddings, and tarts, and cheese, at another once; no finger-glasses, and a patched table-cloth,--in short, a want of that style and neatness which is found in every hotel in England. The waiters, too, reminded us of the half-savage Highland lads that used to torment us under that denomination in Glasgow--only that they were wild Irish instead of wild Scotch. The day had cleared, and become intensely hot, towards evening softening and cooling under the serene influences of the loveliest moon imaginable. The streets were brilliantly lighted, the shops through the trees, and the people parading between them, reminded me very much of the Boulevards. We left the gentlemen, and went down stairs, where I played and sang for three hours. On opening the door, I found a junta of men sitting on the hall floor, round it, and smoking. Came up for coffee; most of the gentlemen were rather elated,--we sang, and danced, and talked, and seemed exceeding loath to say good-by. I sat listening to the dear Doctor's theory of the nature of the soul, which savoured infinitely more of the spirituality of the bottle than of immaterial existences. I heard him descant very tipsily upon the vital principle, until my fatigue getting fairly the better of my affection for him, I bade our remaining guests good night, and came to bed. _Wednesday, 5th._ I have been in a sulky fit half the day, because people will keep walking in and out of our room, without leave or license, which is coming a great deal too soon to Hope's idea of Heaven. I am delighted to see my friends, but I like to tell them so, and not that they should take it for granted. When I made my appearance in my dressing-gown (my clothes not being come, and the day too hot for a silk pelisse), great was my amazement to find our whole ship's company assembled at the table. After breakfast they dispersed, and I sat writing journal, and playing, and singing. Colonel ---- and Mr. ---- called. Our Boston friends leave us to-day for their homes. I am sorry to lose them, though I think H---- will be the better for rest. Mrs. ---- called to see D---- to-day. I remember her name, as one of the first things I do remember. A visit from a Mr. ----, one of the directors of the Custom-House, and W---- P----, brother to the proprietor of the Park theatre, who is a lawyer of considerable reputation here. The face of the first was good, the other's clever. I said nothing, as usual, and let them depart in peace. We dined at half-past two, with the H----s and Mr. ----. At half-past three we walked down to the quay to convoy them to their steam-boat, which looked indeed like a "castle on the main." We saw them on board, went down and looked at the state cabin, which was a magnificent room, and would have done charmingly for a gallopade. We bade our new friends, whom I like better than some old ones, good-by, and walked briskly on to the Battery, to see them as they passed it. The sun was intensely hot; and as I struggled forward, hooked up to this young Sheffield giant, I thought we were the living illustration of Hood's "Long and Short" of it. We gained the battery, and saw the steam-boat round; our travellers kept the deck with "hat and glove and handkerchief," as long as we could see them. This Battery is a beautiful marine parade, commanding the harbour and entrance of the bay, with Governor's Island, and its dusky red fort, and the woody shores of New Jersey and Long Island. A sort of public promenade, formed of grass plots, planted with a variety of trees, affords a very agreeable position from whence to enjoy the lovely view. My companion informed me that this was a fashionable resort some time ago; but owing to its being frequented by the lowest and dirtiest of the rabble, who in this land of liberty roll themselves on the grass, and otherwise annoy the more respectable portion of the promenaders, it has been much deserted lately, and is now only traversed by the higher classes as a thoroughfare. The trees and grass were vividly and luxuriantly green; but the latter grew rank and long, unshorn and untidy. "Oh," thought I, "for a pair of English shears, to make these green carpets as smooth and soft and thick as the close-piled Genoa velvet." It looked neglected and slovenly. Came home up Broadway, which is a long street of tolerable width, full of shops, in short the American Oxford Road, where all people go to exhibit themselves and examine others. The women that I have seen hitherto have all been very gaily dressed, with a pretension to French style, and a more than English exaggeration of it. They all appear to me to walk with a French shuffle, which, as their pavements are flat, I can only account for by their wearing shoes made in the French fashion, which are enough in themselves to make a waddler of the best walker that ever set foot to earth. Two or three were pretty girls; but the town being quite empty, these are probably bad specimens of the graces and charms that adorn Broadway in its season of shining. Came home and had tea; after which my father, I, and Mr. ---- crossed the Park (a small bit of grass enclosed in white palings, in plain English, a green) to the theatre. Wallack was to act in the Rent Day. Mercy, how strange I felt as I once more set foot in a theatre; the sound of the applause set my teeth on edge. The house is pretty, though rather gloomy, well formed, about the size of the Haymarket, with plenty of gold carving, and red silk about it, looking rich and warm. The audience was considerable, but all men; scarce, I should think, twenty women in the dress circle, where, by the by, as well as in the private boxes, I saw men sitting with their hats on. The Rent Day is a thorough melodrama, only the German monster has put on a red waistcoat and top boots. Nathless this is a good thing of a bad sort: the incidents, though not all probable, or even as skilfully tacked together as they might be, are striking and dramatically effective, and the whole piece turns on those home feelings, those bitterest realities of every-day life, that wring one's heart, beyond the pain that one allows works of fiction to excite. As for the imitation of Wilkie's pictures, the first was very pretty, but the second I did not see, my face being buried in my handkerchief, besides having a quarter less seven fathom of tears over it, at the time. I cried most bitterly during the whole piece; for as in his very first scene Wallack asks his wife if she will go with him to America, and she replies, "What! leave the farm?" I set off from thence and ceased no more. The manager's wife and another woman were in the box, which was his, and I thought we should have carried away the front of it with our tears. Wallack played admirably: I had never seen him before, and was greatly delighted with his acting. I thought him handsome of a rustic kind, the very thing for the part he played, a fine English yeoman: he reminded me of ----. At the end of the play, came home with a tremendous headach: sat gossiping and drinking lemonade. Presently a tap at the door came, and through the door came Mr. ----. I shook hands with him, and began expatiating on the impertinence of people's not enquiring down stairs whether we were at home or not before they came up--I don't believe he took my idea. Mr. ---- came in to bid us good-by: he starts to-morrow for Baltimore. He is a nice good-tempered young Irishman, with more tongue than brains, but still clever enough: I am sorry he is going. Came to bed-room at eleven, remained up till one, unpacking goods and chattels. Mercy on me, what a cargo it is! They have treated us like ambassadors, and not one of our one-and-twenty huge boxes have been touched. _Thursday, 6th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, began writing to my brother; while doing so they brought up Captain ----'s and Mr. ----'s cards. I was delighted to see our dear Captain again, who, in spite of his glorious slip-slop, is a glorious fellow. They sat some time. Colonel ---- called--he walks my father off his legs. When they were all gone, finished letter and wrote journal. Unpacked and sorted things. Opened with a trembling heart my bonnet-box, and found my precious _Dvy_ squeezed to a crush--I pulled it out, rebowed, and reblonded, and reflowered it, and now it looks good enough "pour les _tha_uvages, mam_the_lle Fannie." Worked at my muslin gown; in short, did a deal. A cheating German woman came here this morning with some bewitching canezous and pelerines: I chose two that I wanted, and one very pretty one that I didn't; but as she asked a heathen price for 'em, I took only the former;--dear good little me! We dined at five. After dinner, sang and played to my father, "all by the light of the moon." The evening was, as the day had been, lovely; and as I stood by his side near the open window, and saw him inhaling the pure fresh air, which he said invigorated and revived him, and heard him exclaim upon the beauty of our surroundings, half of my regret for this exile melted away. * * * * * * * * * * He said to me, "Is there not reason to be grateful to God, when we look at these fair things?" --and indeed, indeed, there is: yet these things are not to me what they were. He told me that he had begun a song on board ship for the last Saturday night, but that, not feeling well, he had given it up, but the very same ideas I had made use of had occurred to him. * * * * * * * * * * This is not surprising; the ideas were so obvious that there was no escaping them. My father is ten years younger since he came here, already. * * * * * * * * * * Colonel ---- came in after tea, and took my father off to the Bowery theatre. I remained with D----, singing and stitching, and gossiping till twelve o'clock. My father has been introduced to half the town, and tells me that far from the democratic _Mister_, which he expected to be every man's title here, he had made the acquaintance of a score of municipal dignitaries, and some sixty colonels and major generals--of militia. Their omnibuses are vehicles of rank, and the _Ladies_ Washington, Clinton, and Van Rensalear, rattle their crazy bones along the pavement for all the world like any other old women of quality. These democrats are as title-sick as a banker's wife in England. My father told me to-day, that Mr. ----, talking about the state of the country, spoke of the lower orders finding their level: now this enchants me, because a republic is a natural anomaly; there is nothing republican in the construction of the material universe; there be highlands and lowlands, lordly mountains as barren as any aristocracy, and lowly valleys as productive as any labouring classes. The feeling of rank, of inequality, is inherent in us, a part of the veneration of our natures; and like most of our properties seldom finds its right channels--in place of which it has created artificial ones suited to the frame of society into which the civilised world has formed itself. I believe in my heart that a republic is the noblest, highest, and purest form of government; but I believe that, according to the present disposition of human creatures, 'tis a mere beau ideal, totally incapable of realisation. What the world may be fit for six hundred years hence, I cannot exactly perceive; but in the mean time, 'tis my conviction that America will be a monarchy before I am a skeleton. One of the curses of living at an inn in this unceremonious land:--Dr. ---- walked in this evening accompanied by a gentleman, whom he forthwith introduced to us. I behaved very _ill_, as I always do on these occasions; but 'tis an impertinence, and I shall take good care to certify such to be my opinion of these free-and-easy proceedings. The man had a silly manner, but he may be a genius for all that. He abused General Jackson, and said the cholera was owing to his presidency; for that Clay had predicted that when he came into power, battle, pestilence, and famine, would come upon the land: which prophecy finds its accomplishment thus: they have had a war with the Indians, the cholera has raged, and the people, flying from the infected cities to the country, have eaten half the farmers out of house and home. This hotel reminds me most extremely of our "iligant" and untidy apartments in dear nasty Dublin, at the Shelbourne. The paper in our bed-room is half peeling from the walls, our beds are without curtains: then to be sure there are pier looking-glasses, and one or two pieces of showy French furniture in it. 'Tis customary, too, here, I find, for men to sleep three or four in a room: conceive an Englishman shown into a dormitory for half-a-dozen! I can't think how they endure it; but, however, I have a fever at all those things. My father asked me, this evening, to write a sonnet about the wild pigeons welcoming us to America; I had thought of it with scribbling intent before, but he wants me to get it up here, and that sickened me. _Friday, 7th._ Rose at eight: after breakfast tidied my dressing-box, mended and tucked my white muslin gown--wrote journal: while doing so, Colonel ---- came to take leave of us for a few days: he is going to join his wife in the country. Mr. ---- called and remained some time; while he was here, the waiter brought me word that a Mr. ---- wanted to see me. I sent word down that my father was out, knowing no such person, and supposing the waiter had mistaken whom he asked for; but the gentleman persisted in seeing me, and presently in walked a good-looking elderly man, who introduced himself as Mr. ----, to whom my father had letters of introduction. He sat himself down, and pottered a little, and then went away. When he was gone, Mr. ---- informed me that this was one of _the_ men of New York, in point of wealth, influence, and consideration. He had been a great auctioneer, but had retired from business, having, among his other honours, filled the office of Mayor of New York. My father and Mr. ---- went to put our letters in the post: I practised and needle-worked till dinner-time; after dinner, as I stood at the window looking at the lovely sky and the brilliant earth, a curious effect of light struck me. Within a hundred yards of each other, the Town-Hall lay, with its white walls glowing in the sunset, while the tall grey church-steeple was turning pale in the clear moonlight. That Town Hall is a white-washed anomaly, and yet its effect is not altogether bad. I took a bath at the house behind it, which is very conveniently arranged for that purpose, with a French sort of gallery, all papered with the story of Psyche in lead-coloured paper, that reminded me of the doughy immortals I used to admire so much, at the inns at Abbeville and Montreuil. The house was kept by a foreigner--I knew it. My father proposed to us a walk, and we accordingly sallied forth. We walked to the end of Broadway, a distance of two miles, I should think, and then back again. The evening was most lovely. The moon was lighting the whole upper sky, but every now and then, as we crossed the streets that led to the river, we caught glimpses of the water, and woody banks, and the sky that hung over them; which all were of that deep orange tint, that I never saw but in Claude's pictures. After walking nearly a mile up Broadway, we came to Canal Street: it is broader and finer than any I have yet seen in New York; and at one end of it, a Christian church, copied from some Pagan temple or other, looked exceedingly well, in the full flood of silver light that streamed from heaven. There were many temptations to look around, but the flags were so horribly broken and out of order, that to do so was to run the risk of breaking one's neck:--this is very bad. The street was very much thronged, and I thought the crowd a more civil and orderly one than an English crowd. The men did not jostle or push one another, or tread upon one's feet, or kick down one's shoe heels, or crush one's bonnet into one's face, or turn it round upon one's head, all which I have seen done in London streets. There is this to be said: this crowd was abroad merely for pleasure, sauntering along, which is a thing never seen in London; the proportion of idle loungers who frequent the streets there being very inconsiderable, when compared with the number of people going on business through the town. I observed that the young men to-night invariably made room for women to pass, and many of them, as they drew near us, took the cigar from their mouth, which I thought especially courteous. They were all smoking, to a man, except those who were spitting, which helped to remind me of Paris, to which the whole place bore a slight resemblance. The shops appear to me to make no show whatever, and will not bear a comparison with the brilliant display of the Parisian streets, or the rich magnificence of our own, in that respect. The women dress very much, and very much like French women gone mad; they all of them seem to me to walk horribly ill, as if they wore tight shoes. Came in rather tired, took tea, sang an immensity, wrote journal, looked at the peerless moon, and now will go to bed. _Saturday 8th._ Stitching the whole blessed day; and as I have now no maid to look after them, my clothes run some chance of being decently taken care of, and kept in order. Mr. ---- and his daughter called; I like him; he appears very intelligent; and the expression of his countenance is clever and agreeable. His daughter was dressed up in French clothes, and looked very stiff; but, however, a first visit is an awkward thing, and nothing that isn't thorough-bred ever does it quite well. When they were gone, Mr. ---- called. By the by, of Mr. ----, while he was speaking, he came to the word _calculate_, and stopping half way, substituted another for it, which made me laugh internally. Mercy on me! how sore all these people are about Mrs. Trollope's book, and how glad I am I did not read it. She must have spoken the truth though, for lies do not rankle so. "Qui ne nous touche point ne nous fait pas rougir." ---- dined with us: what a handsome man he is; but oh, what a within-and-without actor! I wonder whether I carry such a brand in every limb and look of me; if I thought so, I'd strangle myself. An actor shall be self-convicted, in five hundred. There is a ceaseless striving at effect, a straining after points in talking, and a lamp and orange-peel twist in every action. How odious it is to me! Absolute and unmitigated vulgarity I can put up with, and welcome; but good Heaven defend me from the genteel version of vulgarity! to see which in perfection, a country actor, particularly if he is also manager, and sees occasionally people who bespeak plays, is your best occasion. My dear father, who was a little elated, made me sing to him, which I greatly gulped at. When he was gone, went on playing and singing. Wrote journal, and now to bed. I'm dead of the side-ach. _Sunday, 9th._ Rose at eight. While I was dressing, D---- went out of the room, and presently I heard sundry exclamations: "Good God, is it you! How are you? How have you been?" I opened the door, and saw my uncle. * * * * * After breakfast, went to church with my father: on our way thither-ward met the Doctor, and the Doctor's friend, and Mr. ----, to whom I have taken an especial fancy. The church we went to is situated half way between the Battery and our hotel. It is like a chapel in the exterior, being quite plain, and standing close in among the houses; the interior was large and perfectly simple. The town is filling, and the church was well attended. 'Tis long since I have heard the church service so well read; with so few vices of pronunciation, or vulgarisms of emphasis. Our own clergy are shamefully negligent in this point; and if Chesterfield's maxim be a good one in all cases, which it is, surely in the matter of the service of God's house 'tis doubly so; they lose an immense advantage, too, by their slovenly and careless way of delivering the prayers, which are in themselves so beautiful, so eloquent, so full of the very spirit of devotion; that whereas, now, a congregation seems but to follow their leader, in gabbling them over as they do, were they solemnly, devoutly, and impressively read, many would feel and understand, what they now repeat mechanically, without attaching one idea to the words they utter. There was no clerk to assist in the service, and the congregation were as neglectful of the directions in the prayer-book, and as indolent and remiss in uttering the responses, as they are in our own churches; indeed, the absence of the clerk made the inaudibility of the congregation's portion of the service more palpable than it is with us. The organ and chanting were very good; infinitely superior to the performances of those blessed little parish cherubim, who monopolise the praises of God in our churches, so much to the suffering of all good Christians not favoured with deafness. The service is a little altered--all prayers for our King, Queen, House of Lords, Parliament, etc., of course omitted: in lieu of which, they pray for the President and all existing authorities. Sundry repetitions of the Lord's Prayer, and other passages, were left out; they correct our English, too, substituting the more modern phraseology of _those_, for the dear old-fashioned _them_, which our prayer-book uses: as, "spare thou _those_, O God," instead of "spare thou _them_, O God, which confess their faults." Wherever the word wealth occurs, too, these zealous purists, connecting that word with no idea but dollars and cents, have replaced it by a term more acceptable to their comprehension,--prosperity,--therefore they say, "In all time of our prosperity (_i. e._ wealth), in all time of our tribulation," etc. I wonder how these gentlemen interpret the word commonwealth, or whether, in the course of their reading, they ever met with the word deprived of the final _th_; and if so, what they imagined it meant. Our prayers were desired for some one putting out to sea; and a very touching supplication to that effect was read, in which I joined with all my heart. The sermon would have been good, if it had been squeezed into half the compass it occupied; it was upon the subject of the late terrible visitations with which God has tried the world, and was sensibly and well delivered, only it had "damnable iteration." The day was like an oven; after church, came home. Mr. ---- called, also Mr. ----, the Boston manager, who is longer than any human being I ever saw. Presently after, a visit from "his honour the Recorder," a twaddling old lawyer by the name of ----, and a silent young gentleman, his son. They were very droll. The lawyer talked the most; at every half sentence, however, quoting, complimenting, or appealing to "his honour the Recorder," a little, good-tempered, turnippy-looking man, who called me a female; and who, the other assured me, was the _Chesterfieldian_ of New York (I don't know precisely what that means): what fun! Again I had an opportunity of perceiving how thorough a chimera the equality is, that we talk of as American. "There's no such thing," with a vengeance! Here they were, talking of their aristocracy and democracy; and I'm sure, if nothing else bore testimony to the inherent love of _higher things_ which I believe exists in every human creature, the way in which the lawyer dwelt upon the Duke of Montrose, lo whom, in Scotch kindred, he is allied at the distance of some miles, and Lady Loughborough, whom Heaven knows how he got hold of, would have satisfied me, that a my Lord, or my Lady, are just as precious in the eyes of these levellers, as in those of Lord and Lady-loving John Bull himself. They staid pottering a long time. One thing his "honour the Recorder" told me, which I wish lo remember: that the only way of preserving universal suffrage from becoming the worst of abuses, was of course to educate the people, for which purpose a provision is made by government. Thus: a grant of land is given, the revenue of which being estimated, the population of the State are taxed to precisely the same amount; thus furnishing, between the government and the people, an equal sum for the education of all classes. I do nothing but look out of window all the blessed day long: I did not think in my old age to acquire so Jezebel a trick; but the park (as they entitle the green opposite our windows) is so very pretty, and the streets so gay, with their throngs of smartly-dressed women, and so amusing with their abundant proportion of black and white caricatures, that I find my window the most entertaining station in the world. Read Salmonia: the natural-history part of it is curious and interesting; but the local descriptions are beyond measure tantalising; and the "bites," five thousand times more so. Our ship-mate, Mr. ----, called: I was glad to see him. Poor man! how we did _reel_ him off his legs to be sure,--what fun it was! My father dined out: D---- and I dined _tte--tte_. Poor D---- has not been well to-day: she is dreadfully bitten by the musquitoes, which, I thank their discrimination, have a thorough contempt for me, and have not come near me: the only things that bother me are little black ants, which I find in my wash-hand basin, and running about in all directions. I think the quantity of fruit brings them into the houses. After dinner, sat looking at the blacks parading up and down; most of them in the height of the fashion, with every colour in the rainbow about them. Several of the black women I saw pass had very fine figures (the women here appear to me to be remarkably small, my own being, I should think, the average height); but the contrast of a bright blue or pink crape bonnet, with the black face, white teeth, and glaring blue whites of the eyes, is beyond description grotesque. The carriages here are all, to my taste, very ugly; hung very high from the ground, and of all manner of ungainly old-fashioned shapes. Now this is where, I think, the Americans are to be quarrelled with: they are beginning at a time when all other nations are arrived at the highest point of perfection, in all matters conducive to the comfort and elegance of life: they go into these countries; into France, into our own dear little snuggery, from whence they might bring models of whatever was most excellent, and give them to their own manufacturers, to imitate or improve upon. When I see these awkward uncomfortable vehicles swinging through the streets, and think of the beauty, the comfort, the strength, and lightness of our English-built carriages and cabs, I am much surprised at the want of emulation and enterprise, which can be satisfied with inferiority, when equality, if not superiority, would be so easy. At seven o'clock, D---- and I walked out together. The evening was very beautiful, and we walked as far as Canal Street and back. During our promenade, two fire-engines passed us, attended by the usual retinue of shouting children; this is about the sixth fire since yesterday evening. They are so frequent here, that the cry "Fire, fire!" seems to excite neither alarm nor curiosity, and except the above-mentioned pains-taking juveniles, none of the inhabitants seem in the least disturbed by it. We prosecuted our walk down to the Battery, but just as we reached it we had to return, as 'twas tea-time. I was sorry: the whole scene was most lovely. The moon shone full upon the trees and intersecting walks of the promenade, and threw a bright belt of silver along the water's edge. The fresh night wind came over the broad estuary, rippling it, and stirring the boughs with its delicious breath. A building, which was once a fort from whence the Americans fired upon our ships, is now turned into a sort of _caf_, and was brilliantly lighted with coloured lamps, shining among the trees, and reflected in the water. The whole effect was pretty, and very Parisian. We came home, and had tea, after which Mr. ---- came in. He told us, that we must not walk alone at night, for that we might get spoken to; and that a friend of his, seeing us go out without a man, had followed us the whole way, in order to see that nothing happened to us: this was very civil. Played and sang, and strove to make that stupid lad sing, but he was shy, and would not open his mouth even the accustomed hair's-breadth. At about eleven he went away; and we came to bed at twelve. _Monday, 10th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast wrote journal, and practised for an hour. ---- called. I remember taking a great fancy to him about eight years ago, when I was a little girl in Paris; but, mercy, how he is aged! I wonder whether I am beginning to look old yet, for it seems to me that all the world's in wrinkles. My father went out with him. Read a canto in Dante; also read through a volume of Bryant's poetry, which Mr. ---- had lent us, to introduce us to the American Parnassus. I liked a great deal of it very well; and I liked the pervading spirit of it much more, which appears to me hopeful and bright, and what the spirit of a poet should be; for in spite of all De Stal's sayings, and Byron's doings, I hold that melancholy is _not_ essentially the nature of a poet. Though instances may be adduced of great poets whose Helicon has been but a bitter well of tears, yet, in itself, the spirit of poetry appears to me to be too strong, too bright, too full of the elements of beauty and of excellence, too full of God's own nature, to be dark or desponding; and though from the very fineness of his mental constitution a poet shall suffer more intensely from the baseness and the bitterness which are the leaven of life, yet he, of all men, the most possesses the power to discover truth, and beauty, and goodness, where they do exist; and where they exist not, to create them. If the clouds of existence are darker, its sunshine is also brighter to him; and while others, less gifted, lose themselves in the labyrinth of life, his spirit should throw light upon the darkness, and he should walk in peace and faith over the stormy waters, and through the uncertain night; standing as 'twere above the earth, he views with clearer eyes its mysteries; he finds in apparent discord glorious harmony, and to him the sum of all is good; for, in God's works, good still abounds to the subjection of evil. 'Tis this trustful spirit that seems to inspire Bryant, and to me, therefore, his poetry appears essentially good. There is not much originality in it. I scarce think there can be, in poems so entirely descriptive: his descriptions are very beautiful, but there is some sameness in them, and he does not escape self-repetition; but I am a bad critic, for which I thank God! I know the tears rolled down my cheeks more than once as I read; I know that agreeable sensations and good thoughts were suggested by what I read; I thought some of it beautiful, and all of it wholesome (in contradistinction to the literature of this age), and I was well pleased with it altogether. Afterwards read a sort of satirical burlesque, called "Fanny," by Hallek: the wit being chiefly confined to local allusions and descriptions of New York manners, I could not derive much amusement from it. * * * * * * * * * * When my father came home, went with him to call on Mrs. ----. What I saw of the house appeared to me very pretty, and well adapted to the heat of the season. A large and lofty room, paved with India matting, and furnished with white divans, and chairs, no other furniture encumbering or cramming it up; it looked very airy and cool. Our hostess did not put herself much out of the way to entertain us, but after the first "how do you do," continued conversing with another visiter, leaving us to the mercy of a very pretty young lady, who carried on the conversation at an average of a word every three minutes. Neither Mr. ---- nor his eldest daughter were at home; the latter, however, presently came in, and relieved her sister and me greatly. We sat the proper time, and then came away. * * * * * This is a species of intercourse I love not any where. I never practised it in my own blessed land, neither will I here. We dined at six: after dinner played and sang till eight, and then walked out with D---- and my father, by the most brilliant moonlight in the world. We went down to the Battery; the aquatic Vauxhall was lighted up very gaily, and they were sending up rockets every few minutes, which, shooting athwart the sky, threw a bright stream of light over the water, and, falling back in showers of red stars, seemed to sink away before the steadfast shining of the moon, who held high supremacy in heaven. The bay lay like molten silver under her light, and every now and then a tiny skiff, emerging from the shade, crossed the bright waters, its dark hull and white sails relieved between the shining sea and radiant sky. Came home at nine, tea'd and sat embroidering till twelve o'clock, industrious little me. _Tuesday, 11th._ This day week we landed in New York; and this day was its prototype, rainy, dull, and dreary; with occasional fits of sunshine, and light delicious air, as capricious as a fine lady. After breakfast, Colonel ---- called. Wrote journal, and practised till one o'clock. My father then set off with Colonel ---- for Hoboken, a place across the water, famous once for duelling, but now the favourite resort of a turtle-eating club, who go there every Tuesday to cook and swallow turtle. The day was as bad as a party of pleasure could expect, (and when were their expectations of bad weather disappointed?) nathless, my father, at the Colonel's instigation, _persevered_, and went forth, leaving me his card of invitation, which made me scream for half an hour; the wording as follows:--"Sir, the Hoboken Turtle Club will meet at the grove, for _spoon exercise_, on Tuesday, the 11th inst., by order of the President." Mr. ---- and the Doctor paid us a visit of some length. * * * * * When they were gone, read a canto in Dante, and sketched till four o'clock. I wish I could make myself draw. I want to do every thing in the world that can be done, and, by the by, that reminds me of my German, which I must _persecute_. At four o'clock sent for a hair-dresser, that I might in good time see that I am not made an object on my first night. He was a Frenchman, and after listening profoundly to my description of the head-dress I wanted, replied, as none but a Frenchman could, "_Madame, la difficult n'est pas d'excuter votre coiffure, mais de la bien concevoir_." However, he conceived and executed sundry very smooth-looking bows, and, upon the whole, dressed my hair very nicely, but charged a dollar for so doing; O nefarious! D---- and I dined _tte--tte_; the evening was sulky--I was in miserable spirits. * * * * * Sat working till my father came home, which he did at about half past six. His account of his dinner was any thing but delightful; to be sure he has no taste for rainy ruralities, and his feeling description of the damp ground, damp trees, damp clothes, and damp atmosphere, gave me the _rheumatiz_, letting alone that they had nothing to eat but turtle, and that out of iron spoons.--"Ah, you vill go a pleasuring." * * * * * * * * * * He had a cold before, and I fear this will make him very ill. He went like wisdom to take a vapour bath directly. ---- came, and sat with us till he returned. Had tea at eight, and embroidered till midnight. The wind is rioting over the earth. I should like to see the Hudson now. The black clouds, like masses of dark hair, are driven over the moon's pale face; the red lights and fire engines are dancing up and down; the streets, the church bells are all tolling--'tis sad and strange. 'Tis all in vain, it may not last, The sickly sunlight dies away, And the thick clouds that veil the past Roll darkly o'er my present day. Have I not flung them off, and striven To seek some dawning hope in vain? Have I not been for ever driven Back to the bitter past again? What though a brighter sky bends o'er Scenes where no former image greets me? Though lost in paths untrod before, Here, even here, pale Memory meets me. Oh life--oh blighted bloomless tree! Why cling thy fibres to the earth? Summer can bring no flower to thee, Autumn no bearing, spring no birth. Bid me not strive, I'll strive no more, To win from pain my joyless breast; Sorrow has plough'd too deeply o'er Life's Eden--let it take the rest! _Wednesday, 12th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, heard my father say Hamlet. How beautiful his whole conception of that part is! and yet it is but an actor's conception too. * * * * * * * * * * I am surprised at any body's ever questioning the real madness of Hamlet: I know but one passage in the play which tells against it, and there are a thousand that go to prove it. But leaving all isolated parts out of the question, the entire colour of the character is the proper ground from which to draw the right deduction. Gloomy, desponding, ambitious, and disappointed in his ambition, full of sorrow for a dead father, of shame for a living mother, of indignation for his ill-filled inheritance, of impatience at his own dependent position; of a thoughtful, doubtful, questioning spirit, looking with timid boldness from the riddles of earth and life, to those of death and the mysterious land beyond it; weary of existence upon its very threshold, and withheld alone from self-destruction by religious awe, and that pervading uncertainty of mind which stands on the brink, brooding over the unseen may-be of another world; in love, moreover, and sad and dreamy in his affection, as in every other sentiment; for there is not enough of absolute passion in his love to make it a powerful and engrossing interest; had it been such, the entireness and truth of Hamlet's character would have been destroyed. 'Tis love indeed, but a pulseless powerless love; gentle, refined, and tender, but without ardour or energy; such are the various elements of Hamlet's character, at the very beginning of the play: then see what follows. A frightful and unnatural visitation from the dead; a horrible and sudden revelation of the murder of the father for whom his soul is in mourning; thence burning hatred and thirst of vengeance against his uncle; double loathing of his mother's frailty; above all, that heaviest burden that a human creature can have put upon him, an imperative duty calling for fulfilment, and a want of resolution and activity to meet the demand; thence an unceasing struggle between the sluggish nature and the upbraiding soul; an eternal self-spurring and self-accusing: from which mental conflict, alone sufficient to unseat a stronger mind, he finds relief in fits of desponding musing, the exhaustion of overwrought powers. Then comes the vigilant and circumspect guard he is forced to keep upon every word, look, and action, lest they reveal his terrible secret; the suspicion and mistrust of all that surround him, authorised by his knowledge of his uncle's nature: his constant watchfulness over the spies that are set to watch him; then come, in the course of events, Polonius's death, the unintentional work of his own sword, the second apparition of his father's ghost, his banishment to England, still haunted by his treacherous friends, the miserable death of poor Ophelia, together with the unexpected manner of his first hearing of it--if all these--the man's own nature, sad and desponding--his educated nature (at a German university), reasoning and metaphysical--and the nature he acquires from the tutelage of events, bitter, dark, amazed, and uncertain; if these do not make up as complete a madman as ever walked between heaven and earth, I know not what does. Wrote journal, and began to practise; while doing so, ---- called; he said that he was accompanied by some friends who wished to see me, and were at the door. I've heard of men's shutting the door in the face of a dun, and going out the back way to escape a bailiff--but how to get rid of such an attack as this I knew not, and was therefore fain to beg the gentlemen would walk in, and accordingly in they walked, four as fine-grown men as you would wish to see on a summer's day. I was introduced to this regiment man by man, and thought, as my Sheffield friend would say, "If _them_ be American manners, defend me from them." They are traders, to be sure; but I never heard of such wholesale introduction in my life. They sat a little while, behaved very like Christians, and then departed. Captain ---- and ---- called,--the former to ask us to come down and see the Pacific, poor old lady! When they were gone, practised, read a canto in Dante, and translated verbatim a German fable, which kept me till dinner-time. After dinner, walked out towards the Battery. ---- joined us. It was between sunset and moonrise, and a lovelier light never lay upon sea, earth, and sky. The horizon was bright orange colour, fading as it rose to pale amber, which died away again into the modest violet colour of twilight; this possessed the main sky wholly, except where two or three masses of soft dark purple clouds floated, from behind which the stars presently winked at us with their bright eyes. The river lay as still as death, though there was a delicious fresh air: tiny boats were stealing like shadows over the water; and every now and then against the orange edge of the sky moved the masts of some schooner, whose hull was hidden in the deep shadow thrown over it by the Jersey coast. A band was playing in the Castle garden, and not a creature but ourselves seemed abroad to see all this loveliness. Fashion makes the same fools all the world over; and Broadway, with its crowded dusty pavement, and in the full glare of day, is preferable, in the eyes of the New York promenaders, to this cool and beautiful walk. Came home at about nine. On the stairs met that odious Dr. ----, who came into the drawing-room without asking or being asked, sat himself down, and called me "Miss Fanny." I should like to have thrown my tea at him! ---- sent up his name and presently followed it. I like to see any of our fellow-passengers, however little such society would have pleased me under any other circumstances; but necessity "makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows;" and these my ship-mates will, to the end of time, be my very good friends and boon companions. My father went to the Park theatre, to see a man of the name of Hacket give an American entertainment after Matthews's at-home fashion. I would not go, but staid at home looking at the moon, which was glorious. * * * * * * * * * * To-night, as I stood watching that surpassing sunset, I would have given it all--gold, and purple, and all--for a wreath of English fog stealing over the water. _Thursday, 13th._ Rose late: there was music in the night, which is always a strange enchantment to me. After breakfast, wrote journal. At eleven, Captain ---- and ---- called for us; and my uncle having joined us, we proceeded to the slip, as they call the places where the ships lie, and which answer to our docks. Poor dear Pacific! I ran up her side with great glee, and was introduced to Captain ----, her old commander; rushed down into my berth, and was actually growing pathetic over the scene of my sea-sorrows, when Mr. ---- clapped his hands close to me, and startled me out of my reverie. Certainly my _adhesiveness_ must either be very large, or uncommonly active just now, for my heart yearned towards the old timbers with exceeding affection. The old ship was all drest out in her best, and after sitting for some time in our cabin, we adjourned to the larger one and lunched. Mr. ---- joined our party; and we had one or two of our old ship songs, with their ridiculous burdens, with due solemnity. Saw Mr. ----, but not dear M. ----. Visited the forecastle, whence I have watched such glorious sunsets, such fair uprisings of the starry sisterhood; now it looked upon the dusty quay and dirty dock water, and the graceful sails were all stripped away, and the bare masts and rigging shone in the intense sunlight. Poor good ship! I wish to Heaven my feet were on her deck, and her prow turned to the east. I would not care if the devil himself drove a hurricane at our backs. Visited the fish and fruit markets: it was too late in the day to see either to advantage, but the latter reminded me of Aladdin's treasure: the heaps of peaches, filling with their rich downy balls high baskets ranged in endless rows, and painted of a bright vermilion colour, which threw a ruddy ripeness over the fruit. The enormous baskets (such as are used in England to carry linen) piled with melons, the wild grapes, the pears, and apples, all so plenteous, so fragrant, so beautiful in form and colour, leading the mind to the wondrous bounteousness which has dowered this land with every natural treasure--the whole enchanted me. ----, to my horror, bought a couple of beautiful live wild-pigeons, which he carried home, head downwards, one in each coat pocket. We parted from him at the Park gate, and proceeded to Murray Street, to look at the furnished house my father wishes to take. Upon enquiry, however, we found that it was already let. The day was bright and beautiful, and my father proposed crossing the river to Hoboken, the scene of the turtle-eating expedition. We did so accordingly: himself, D----, Mr. ----, and I. Steamers go across every five minutes, conveying passengers on foot and horseback, gigs, carriages, carts, any thing and every thing. The day was lovely--the broad bright river was gemmed with a thousand sails. Away to the right it stretched between richly-wooded banks, placid and blue as a lake; to the left, in the rocky doorway of the narrows, two or three ships stood revealed against the cloudless sky. We reached the opposite coast, and walked. It was nearly three miles from where we landed to the scene of the "_spoon-exercise_." The whole of our route lay through a beautiful wild plantation, or rather strip of wood, I should say, for 'tis nature's own gardening which crowns the high bank of the river; through which trellis-work of varied foliage we caught exquisite glimpses of the glorious waters, the glittering city, and the opposite banks, decked out in all the loveliest contrast of sunshine and shade. As we stood in our leafy colonnade looking out upon this fair scene, the rippling water made sweet music far down below us, striking with its tiny silver waves the smooth sand and dark-coloured rocks from which they were ebbing. Many of the trees were quite new to me, and delighted me with their graceful forms and vivid foliage. The broad-leaved catalpa, and the hickory with its bright coral-coloured berries. Many lovely lowly things, too, grew by our pathside, which we gathered as we passed, to bring away, but which withered in our hands ere we returned. Gorgeous butterflies were zigzagging through the air, and for the first time I longed to imprison them. In pursuing one, I ran into the midst of a slip of clover land, but presently jumped out again, on hearing the swarms of grasshoppers round me. Mr. ---- caught one; it was larger and thicker than the English grasshopper, and of a dim mottled brown colour, like the plumage of our common moth; but presently, on his opening his hand to let it escape, it spread out a pair of dark purple wings, tipped with pale primrose colour, and flew away a beautiful butterfly, such as the one I had been seduced by. The slips of grass ground on the left of our path were the only things that annoyed me: they were ragged, and rank, and high,--they wanted mowing; and if they had been mowed soft, and thick, and smooth, like an English lawn, how gloriously the lights and shadows of this lovely sky would fall through the green roof of this wood upon them! There is nothing in nature that, to my fancy, receives light and shade with as rich an effect as sloping lawn land. Oh! England, England! how I have seen your fresh emerald mantle deepen and brighten in a summer's day. About a hundred yards from the place where they dined on Tuesday, with no floor but the damp earth, no roof but the dripping trees, stands a sort of _caf_; a long, low, pretty Italianish-looking building. The wood is cleared away in front of it, and it commands a lovely view of the Hudson and its opposite shores: and here they might have been sheltered and comfortable, but I suppose it was not yet the appointed day of the month with them for eating their dinner within walls; and, rather than infringe on an established rule, they preferred catching a cold apiece. The place where they met in the open air is extremely beautiful, except, of course, on a rainy day. The shore is lower just here; and though there are trees enough to make shade all round, and a thick screen of wood and young undergrowth behind, the front is open to the river, which makes a bend just below, forming a lake-like bay, round which again the coast rises into rocky walls covered with rich foliage. Upon one of these promontories, in the midst of a high open knoll, surrounded and overhung by higher grounds covered with wood, stood the dwelling of the owner of the land, high above the river, overlooking its downward course to the sea, perched like an eagle's arie, half-way between heaven and the level earth, but beautifully encircled with waving forests, a shade in summer and a shelter in winter. My father, D----, and my bonnet sat down in the shade. Mr. ---- and I clambered upon some pieces of rock at the water's edge, whence we looked out over river and land--a fair sight. "Oh!" I exclaimed, pointing to the highlands on our left, through whose rich foliage the rifted granite looked cold and grey, "what a place for a scramble! there must be lovely walks there." "Ay," returned my companion, "and a few rattle-snakes too." We found D----, my father, and my bonnet buffeting with a swarm of musquitoes; this is a great nuisance. We turned our steps homeward. I picked up a nut enclosed like a walnut in a green case. I opened it; it was not ripe; but in construction exactly like a walnut, with the same bitter filmy skin over the fruit, which is sweet and oily, and like a walnut in flavour also. Mr. ---- told me it was called a marrow-nut. The tree on which it grew had foliage of the acacia kind. We had to rush to meet the steam-boat, which was just going across. The whole walk reminded me of that part of Oatlands which, from its wild and tangled woodland, they call America. * * * * * * * * * * There must have been something surpassingly beautiful in our surroundings, for even Mr. ----, into whose composition I suspect much of the poetical element does not enter, began expatiating on the happiness of the original possessors of these fair lands and waters, the Indians--the Red Children of the soil, who followed the chase through these lovely wildernesses, and drove their light canoes over these broad streams--"great nature's happy commoners,"--till the predestined curse came on them, till the white sails of the invaders threw their shadow over these seas, and the work of extermination began in these wild fastnesses of freedom. The destruction of the original inhabitants of a country by its discoverers, always attended, as it is, with injustice and cruelty, appears to me one of the most mysterious dispensations of Providence. The chasing, enslaving, and destroying creatures, whose existence, however inferior, is as justly theirs as that of the most refined European is his; who for the most part, too, receive their enemies with open-handed hospitality, until taught treachery by being betrayed, and cruelty by fear; the driving the child of the soil off it, or, what is fifty times worse, chaining him to till it; all the various forms of desolation which have ever followed the landing of civilised men upon uncivilised shores; in short, the theory and practice of discovery and conquest, as recorded in all history, is a very singular and painful subject of contemplation. 'Tis true that cultivation and civilisation, the arts and sciences that render life useful, the knowledge that ennobles, the adornments that refine existence, above all, the religion that is the most sacred trust and dear reward, all these, like pure sunshine and healthful airs following a hurricane, succeed the devastation of the invader; but the sufferings of those who are swept away are not the less; and though I believe that good alone is God's result, it seems a fearful proof of the evil wherewith this earth is cursed, that good cannot progress but over such a path. No one beholding the prosperous and promising state of this fine country, could wish it again untenanted of its enterprising and industrious possessors; yet even while looking with admiration at all that they have achieved, with expectation amounting to certainty to all that they will yet accomplish, 'tis difficult to refrain from bestowing some thoughts of pity and of sadness upon those whose homes have been overturned, whose language has passed away, and whose feet are daily driven further from those territories of which they were once sole and sovereign lords. How strange it is to think, that less than one hundred years ago, these shores, resounding with the voice of populous cities,--these waters, laden with the commerce of the wide world,--were silent wildernesses, where sprang and fell the forest leaves, where ebbed and flowed the ocean tides from day to day, and from year to year, in uninterrupted stillness; where the great sun, who looked on the vast empires of the East, its mouldering kingdoms, its lordly palaces, its ancient temples, its swarming cities, came and looked down upon the still dwelling of utter loneliness, where nature sat enthroned in everlasting beauty, undisturbed by the far off din of worlds "beyond the flood." Came home rather tired: my father asked Mr. ---- to dine with us, but he could not. After dinner, sat working till ten o'clock, when ---- came to take leave of us. He is going off to-morrow morning to Philadelphia, but will be back for our Tuesday's dinner. The people here are all up and about very early in the morning. I went out at half-past eight, and found all Broadway abroad. _Friday, 14th._ Forget all about it, except that I went about the town with Colonel ----. * * * * * went to see his Quaker wife, whom I liked very much. * * * * * Drove all about New-York, which more than ever reminded me of the towns in France: passed the Bowery theatre, which is a handsome finely-proportioned building, with a large brazen eagle plastered on the pediment, for all the world like an insurance mark, or the sign of the spread eagle: this is nefarious! We passed a pretty house, which Colonel ---- called an old mansion; mercy on me, him, and it! Old! I thought of Warwick Castle, of Hatfield, of Chequers, of Hopwood--old! and there it stood, with its white pillars and Italian-looking portico, for all the world like one of our own cit's yesterday-grown boxes. Old, quotha! the woods and waters and hills and skies alone are old here; the works of men are in the very greenness and unmellowed imperfection of youth: true, 'tis a youth full of vigorous sap and glorious promise; spring, laden with blossoms, foretelling abundant and rich produce, and so let them be proud of it. But the worst of it is, the Americans are not satisfied with glorying in what they are,--which, considering the time and opportunities they have had, is matter of glory quite sufficient,--they are never happy without comparing this their sapling to the giant oaks of the old world,--and what can one say to that? _Is_ New-York like London? No, by my two troths it is not; but the oak was an acorn once, and New York will surely, if the world holds together long enough, become a lordly city, such as we know of beyond the sea. Went in the evening to see Wallack act the Brigand; it was his benefit, and the house was very good. He is perfection in this sort of thing, yet there were one or two blunders even in his melo-dramatic acting of this piece; however, he looks very like the thing, and it is very nice to see--once. _Saturday, 15th._ Sat stitching all the blessed day. So we are to go to _Philadelphia_ before _Boston_. I'm sorry. The H----s will be disappointed, and I shall get no riding, _che seccatura!_ At five dressed, and went to the ----, where we were to dine. This is one of the first houses here, so I conclude that I am to consider what I see as a tolerable sample of the ways and manners of being, doing, and suffering of the _best society_ in New York. There were about twenty people; the women were in a sort of French demi-toilette, with bare necks, and long sleeves, heads frizzed out after the very last _Petit Courier_, and thread net handkerchiefs and capes; the whole of which, to my English eye, appeared a strange marrying of incongruities. The younger daughter of our host is beautiful; a young and brilliant likeness of Ellen Tree, with more refinement, and a smile that was, not to say a ray, but a whole focus of sun rays, a perfect blaze of light; she was much taken up with a youth, to whom, my neighbour at dinner informed me, she was engaged. * * * * * The women here, like those of most warm climates, ripen very early, and decay proportionably soon. They are, generally speaking, pretty, with good complexions, and an air of freshness and brilliancy, but this, I am told, is very evanescent; and whereas, in England, a woman is in the full bloom of health and beauty from twenty to five-and-thirty, here they scarcely reach the first period without being faded and looking old. They marry very young, and this is another reason why age comes prematurely upon them. There was a fair young thing at dinner to-day who did not look above seventeen, and she was a wife. As for their figures, like those of French women, they are too well dressed for one to judge exactly what they are really like: they are, for the most part, short and slight, with remarkably pretty feet and ankles; but there's too much pelerine and petticoat, and "de quoi" of every sort, to guess any thing more. * * * * * * * * * * There was a Mr. ----, the Magnus Apollo of New York, who is a musical genius: sings as well as any gentleman need sing, pronounces Italian well, and accompanies himself without false chords; all which renders him _the_ man round whom (as round H----, G----, Lord C----, and that pretty Lord O----, in our own country) the women listen and languish. He sang the Phantom Bark: the last time I heard it was from the lips of Moore, with two of the loveliest faces in all the world hanging over him, Mrs. N----, and Mrs. B----. By the by, the man who sat next me at dinner was asking me all manner of questions about Mrs. N----: among others, whether she was "as pale as a poetess ought to be?" Oh! how I wish Corinne had but heard that herself! what a deal of funny scorn would have looked beautiful on her rich brown cheek and brilliant lips. The dinner was plenteous, and tolerably well dressed, but ill served: there were not half servants enough, and we had neither water-glasses nor finger-glasses. Now, though I don't eat with my fingers (except peaches, whereat I think the aborigines, who were paring theirs like so many potatoes, seemed rather amazed), yet do I hold a finger-glass at the conclusion of my dinner a requisite to comfort. After dinner we had coffee, but no tea, whereat my English taste was in high dudgeon. The gentlemen did not sit long, and when they joined us, Mr. ----, as I said before, uttered sweet sounds. By the by, I was not a little amused at Mrs. ---- asking me whether I had heard of his singing, or their musical soires, and seeming all but surprised that I had no revelations of either across the Atlantic. Mercy on me! what fools people are all over the world! The worst is, they are all fools of the same sort, and there is no profit whatever in travelling. Mr. B----, who is an Englishman, happened to ask me if I knew Captain ----, whereupon we immediately struck up a conversation, and talked over English folks and doings together, to my entire satisfaction. The ---- were there: he is brother to that wondrous ruler of the spirits whom I did so dislike in London, and his lady is a daughter of Lord ----. * * * * * * * * * * I was very glad to come home. I sang to them two or three things, but the piano was pitched too high for my voice; by the by, in that large, lofty, fine room, they had a tiny, old-fashioned, becurtained cabinet piano stuck right against the wall, unto which the singer's face was turned, and into which his voice was absorbed. We had hardly regained our inn and uncloaked, when there came a tap at the door, and in walked Mr. ---- to ask me if we would not join them (himself and the ----) at supper. He said that, besides five being a great deal too early to dine, he had not half dinner enough; and then began the regular English quizzing of every thing and every body we had left behind. Oh dear, oh dear! how thoroughly English it was, and how it reminded me of H----; of course, we did not accept their invitation, but it furnished me matter of amusement. How we English folks do cling to our own habits, our own views, our own things, our own people; how, in spite of all our wanderings and scatterings over the whole face of the earth, like so many Jews, we never lose our distinct and national individuality; nor fail to lay hold of one another's skirts, to laugh at and depreciate all that differs from that country, which we delight in forsaking for any and all others. _Sunday, 16th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, walked to church with the C----s and Mr. B----. They went to Grace Church for the music; we stopped short to go to the ---- pew in the Episcopal church. The pew was crammed, I am sorry to say, owing to our being there, which they had pressed so earnestly, that we thought ourselves bound to accept the invitation. The sermon was tolerably good; better than the average sermons one hears in London, and sufficiently well delivered. After church, I---- called, also two men of the name of M----, large men, very! also Mr. B---- and Mr. C----: when they were all gone, wrote journal, and began a letter to J----. Dined at five; after dinner, went on with my letter to J----, and wrote an immense one to dear H----, which kept me pen in hand till past twelve. A tremendous thunderstorm came on, which lasted from nine o'clock till past two in the morning: I never saw but one such in my life; and that was our memorable Weybridge storm, which only exceeded this in the circumstance of my having seen a thunderbolt fall during that paroxysm of the elements. But this was very glorious, awful, beautiful, and tremendous. The lightning played without the intermission of a second, in wide sheets of purple glaring flame, that trembled over the earth for nearly two or three seconds at a time; making the whole world, river, sky, trees, and buildings, look like a ghostly universe cut out in chalk. The light over the water, which absolutely illumined the shore on the other side with the broad glare of full day, was of a magnificent purple colour. The night was pitchy dark, too; so that between each of these ghastly smiles of the devil, the various pale steeples and buildings, which seemed at every moment to leap from nothing into existence, after standing out in fearful relief against a back-ground of fire, were hidden like so many dreams in deep and total darkness. God's music rolled along the heavens; the forked lightnings now dived from the clouds into the very bosom of the city, now ran like tangled threads of fire all round the blazing sky. "The big bright rain came dancing to the earth," the wind clapped its huge wings, and swept through the dazzling glare; and as I stood, with eyes half veiled (for the light was too intense even upon the ground to be looked at with unshaded eyes), gazing at this fierce holiday of the elements--at the mad lightning--at the brilliant shower, through which the flashes shone like daylight--listening to the huge thunder, as its voice resounded, and its heavy feet rebounded along the clouds--and the swift spirit-like wind rushing triumphantly along, uttering its wild pan over the amazed earth;--I felt more intensely than I ever did before the wondrous might of these God's powerful and beautiful creatures; the wondrous might, majesty, and awfulness of him their Lord, beneath whose footstool they lie chained, by his great goodness made the ministers of good to this our lowly dwelling-place. I did not go to bed till two; the storm continued to rage long after that. _Monday, 17th._ Rose at eight. At twelve, went to rehearsal. The weather is intolerable; I am in a state of perpetual fusion. The theatre is the coolest place I have yet been in, I mean at rehearsal; when the front is empty, and the doors open, and the stage is so dark that we are obliged to rehearse by candlelight. That washed-out man, who failed in London when he acted Romeo with me, is to be my Fazio; let us hope he will know some of his words to-morrow night, for he is at present most innocent of any such knowledge. After rehearsal, walked into a shop to buy some gauze: the shopmen called me by my name, entered into conversation with us; and one of them, after showing me a variety of things which I did not want, said, that they were most anxious to show me every attention, and render my stay in this country agreeable. A Christian, I suppose, would have met these benevolent advances with an infinitude of thankfulness, and an outpouring of grateful pleasure; but for my own part, though I had the grace to smile and say, "Thank you," I longed to add, "but be so good as to measure your ribands, and hold your tongue." I have no idea of holding parley with clerks behind a counter, still less of their doing so with me. So much for my first impression of the courtesy of this land of liberty. I should have been much better pleased if they had called me "Ma'am," which they did not. We dined at three. V---- and Colonel ---- called after dinner. At seven, went to the theatre. It was my dear father's first appearance in this new world, and my heart ached with anxiety. The weather was intensely hot, yet the theatre was crowded: when he came on, they gave him what every body here calls an immense reception; but they should see our London audience get up, and wave hats and handkerchiefs, and shout welcome as they do to us. The tears were in my eyes, and all I could say was, "They might as well get up, I think." My father looked well, and acted beyond all praise; but oh, what a fine and delicate piece of work this is! There is not one sentence, line, or word of this part which my father has not sifted grain by grain; there is not one scene or passage to which he does not give its fullest and most entire substance, together with a variety that relieves the intense study of the whole with wonderful effect. * * * * * * * * * * I think that it is impossible to conceive Hamlet more truly, or execute it more exquisitely, than he does. The refinement, the tenderness, the grace, dignity, and princely courtesy with which he invests it from beginning to end, are most lovely; and some of the slighter passages, which, like fine tints to the incapable eyes of blindness, must always pass unnoticed, and, of course, utterly uncomprehended, by the discriminating public, enchanted me. * * * * * * * * * * His voice was weak, from nervousness and the intolerable heat of the weather, and he was not well dressed, which was a pity. * * * * * * * * * * The play was well got up, and went off very well. The ---- were there, a regiment of them; also Colonel ---- and Captain ----. After the play, came home to supper. _Tuesday, 18th._ Rose at eight. At eleven, went to rehearsal. Mr. Keppel is just as nervous and as imperfect as ever: what on earth will he, or shall I, do to-night! Came home, got things out for the theatre, and sat like any stroller stitching for dear life at my head-dress. Mr. H---- and his nephew called: the latter asked me if I was at all apprehensive? No, by my troth, I am not; and that not because I feel sure of success, for I think it very probable the Yankees may like to show their critical judgment and independence by damning me; but because, thank God, I do not care whether they do or not: the whole thing is too loathsome to me, for either failure or success to affect me in the least, and therefore I feel neither nervous nor anxious about it. We dined at three: after dinner, J---- came; he sat some time. When he was gone, I came into the drawing-room, and found a man sitting with my father, who presented him to me by some inaudible name. I sat down, and the gentleman pursued his conversation as follows:--"When Clara Fisher came over, Barry wrote to me about her, and I wrote him back word: 'My dear fellow, if your bella donna is such as you describe, why, we'll see what we can do; we will take her by the hand.'" This was enough for me. I jumped up, and ran out of the room; because a newspaper writer is my aversion. At half-past six, went to the theatre. They acted the farce of Popping the Question first, in order, I suppose, to get the people to their places before the play began. Poor Mr. Keppel was gasping for breath; he moved my compassion infinitely; I consoled and comforted him all I could, gave him some of my lemonade to swallow, for he was choking with fright; sat myself down with my back to the audience, and up went the curtain. Owing to the position in which I was sitting, and my plain dress, most unheroine-like in its make and colour, the people did not know me, and would not have known me for some time, if that stupid man had done as I kept bidding him, gone on; but instead of doing so, he stood stock still, looked at me, and then at the audience, whereupon the latter caught an inkling of the truth, and gave me such a reception as I get in Covent Garden theatre every time I act a new part. The house was very full; all the ---- were there, and Colonel ----. Mr. Keppel was frightened to death, and in the very second speech was quite out: it was in vain that I prompted him; he was too nervous to take the word, and made a complete mess of it. This happened more than once in the first scene; and at the end of the first act, as I left the stage, I said to D----, "It's all up with me, I can't do any thing now;" for, having to prompt my Fazio, frightened by his fright, annoyed by his forgetting his crossings and positions, utterly unable to work myself into any thing like excitement, I thought the whole thing must necessarily go to pieces. However, once rid of my encumbrance, which I am at the end of the second act, I began to move a little more freely, gathered up my strength, and set to work comfortably by myself; whereupon, the people applauded, I warmed (warmed, quotha! the air was steam), and got through very satisfactorily, at least so it seems. My dresses were very beautiful; but oh, but oh, the musquitoes had made dreadful havoc with my arms, which were covered with hills as large and red as Vesuvius in an eruption. After the play, my father introduced me to Mr. B----, Lord S----'s brother, who was behind the scenes; his brother's place, by the by. Came home, supped. * * * * * * * * * * Came to bed at half past twelve; weary, and half melted away. The ants swarm on the floors, on the tables, in the beds, about one's clothes; the plagues of Egypt were a joke to them: horrible! it makes one's life absolutely burdensome, to have creatures creeping about one, and all over one, night and day, this fashion; to say nothing of those cantankerous stinging things, the musquitoes. _Wednesday, 19th._ D---- did not call me till ten o'clock, whereat I was in furious dudgeon. Got up, breakfasted, and off to rehearsal; Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Keppel has been dismissed, poor man! I'm sorry for him: my father is to play Romeo with me, I'm sorrier still for that. After rehearsal, came home, dawdled about my room: Mr. ---- called: he is particularly fond of music. My father asked him to try the piano, which he accordingly did, and was playing most delightfully, when in walked Mr. ----, and by and by Colonel ----, with his honour the Recorder, and General ---- of the militia. I amused myself with looking over some exquisite brown silk stockings, wherewith I mean to match my gown. When they were all gone, dawdled about till time to dress. So poor dear H---- can't come from Philadelphia for our dinner--dear, I'm quite sorry! At five our party assembled; we were but thin in numbers, and the half empty table, together with the old ship faces, made it look, as some one observed, as if it was blowing hard. Our dinner was neither good nor well served, the wine not half iced. At the end of it, my father gave Captain ---- his claret-jug, wherewith that worthy seemed much satisfied. * * * * * We left the table soon; came and wrote journal. When the gentlemen joined us, they were all more or less "how com'd you so indeed?" Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- particularly. They put me down to the piano, and once or twice I thought I must have screamed. On one side _vibrated_ dear Mr. ----, threatening my new gown with a cup of coffee, which he held at an awful angle from the horizontal line; singing with every body who opened their lips, and uttering such dreadfully discordant little squeals and squeaks, that I thought I should have died of suppressed laughter. On the other side, rather _concerned_, but not quite so much so, stood the Irishman; who, though warbling a little out of tune, and flourishing somewhat luxuriantly, still retained enough of his right senses to discriminate between Mr. ----'s yelps and singing, properly so called; and accordingly pished!--and pshawed!--and oh Lorded!--and good heavened! away,-- staring at the perpetrator with indignant horror through his spectacles, while his terrified wig stood on end in every direction, each particular hair appearing vehemently possessed with the centrifugal force. They all went away in good time, and we came to bed. ----To bed--to sleep-- To sleep!--perchance to be bitten! ay--there's the scratch: And in that sleep of ours what bugs may come, Must give us pause. _Thursday, 20th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, went to rehearse Romeo and Juliet. Poor Mr. Keppel is fairly laid on the shelf; I'm sorry for him! What a funny passion he had, by the by, for going down upon his knees. In Fazio, at the end of the judgment scene, when I was upon mine, down he went upon his, making the most absurd devout-looking _vis--vis_ I ever beheld: in the last scene, too, when he ought to have been going off to execution, down he went again upon his knees, and no power on earth could get him up again, for Lord knows how long. Poor fellow, he bothered me a good deal, yet I'm sincerely sorry for him. At the end of our rehearsal, came home. The weather is sunny, sultry, scorching, suffocating. Ah! Mr. ---- called. This is an indifferent imitation of bad fine manners amongst us; "he speaks small, too, like a gentleman." He sat for a long time, talking over the opera, and all the prima donnas in the world. When he was gone, Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- called. * * * * * * * * * * The latter asked us to dinner to-morrow, to meet Dr. ----, who, poor man, dares neither go to the play nor call upon us, so strict are the good people here about the behaviour of their pastors and masters. By the by, Essex called this morning to fetch away the Captain's claret-jug: he asked my father for an order; adding, with some hesitation, "It must be for the gallery, if you please, sir, for people of colour are not allowed to go to the pit, or any other part of the house." I believe I turned black myself, I was so indignant. Here's aristocracy with a vengeance! ---- called with Forrest, the American actor. Mr. Forrest has rather a fine face, I think. We dined at three: after dinner, wrote journal, played on the piano, and frittered away my time till half-past six. Went to the theatre: the house was very full, and dreadfully hot. My father acted Romeo beautifully: I looked very nice, and the people applauded my _gown_ abundantly. At the end of the play I was half dead with heat and fatigue: came home and supped, lay down on the floor in absolute meltiness away, and then came to bed. _Friday, 21st._ Rose at eight. After breakfast went to rehearsal. The School for Scandal; Sir Peter, I see, keeps his effects to himself; what a bore this is, to be sure! Got out things for the theatre. While eating my lunch, Mr. ---- and his cousin, a Mr. ---- (one of the cleverest lawyers here), called. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * They were talking of Mr. Keppel. By the by, of that gentleman; Mr. Simpson sent me this morning, for my decision, a letter from Mr. Keppel, soliciting another trial, and urging the hardness of his case, in being condemned upon a part which he had had no time to study. My own opinion of poor Mr. Keppel is, that no power on earth or in heaven can make him act decently; however, of course, I did not object to his trying again; he did not swamp me the first night, so I don't suppose he will the fifth. We dined at five. Just before dinner, received a most delicious bouquet, which gladdened my very heart with its sweet smell and lovely colours: some of the flowers were strangers to me. After dinner, Colonel ---- called, and began pulling out heaps of newspapers, and telling us a long story about Mr. Keppel, who, it seems, has been writing to the papers, to convince them and the public that he is a good actor; at the same time throwing out sundry hints, which seem aimed our way, of injustice, oppression, hard usage, and the rest on't. * * * * * * * * * * Mr. ---- called to offer to ride with me; when, however, the question of a horse was canvassed, he knew of none, and Colonel ----'s whole regiment of "beautiful ladies' horses" had also neither a local habitation nor a name. * * * * * * * * * * When they were gone, went to the theatre; the house was very good, the play the School for Scandal. I played pretty fairly, and looked very nice. The people were stupid to a degree, to be sure; poor things! it was very hot. Indeed, I scarce understand how they should be amused with the School for Scandal; for though the dramatic situations are so exquisite, yet the wit is far above the generality of even our own audiences, and the tone and manners altogether are so thoroughly English, that I should think it must be for the most part incomprehensible to the good people here. After the play, came home. Colonel S---- supped with us, and renewed the subject of Mr. Keppel and the theatre. My father happened to say, referring to a passage in that worthy's letter to the public, "I shall certainly inquire of Mr. Keppel why he has so used my name;" to which Colonel S---- replied, as usual, "No, now let me advise, let me beg you, Mr. Kemble, just to remain quiet, and leave all this to me." This was too much for mortal woman to bear. I immediately said, "Not at all: it is my father's affair, if any body's; and he alone has the right to demand any explanation, or make any observation on the subject; and were I he, I certainly should do so, and that forthwith." I could hold no longer. * * * * * * * * * * Came to bed in tremendous dudgeon. The few _critiques_ that I have seen upon our acting have been, upon the whole, laudatory. One was sent to me from a paper called The Mirror, which pleased me very much; not because the praise in it was excessive, and far beyond my deserts, but that it was written with great taste and feeling, and was evidently not the produce of a common press-hack. There appeared to me in all the others the true provincial dread of praising too much, and being _led_ into approbation by previous opinions; a sort of jealousy of critical freedom, which, together with the established _nil admirari_ of the press, seems to keep them in a constant dread of being thought enthusiastic. They need not be afraid: enthusiasm may belong to such analyses as Schlegel's or Channing's, but has nothing in common with the paragraphs of a newspaper; the inditers of which, in my poor judgment, seldom go beyond the very threshold of criticism, _i. e._ the discovery of faults. I am infinitely amused at the extreme curiosity which appears to me to be the besetting sin of the people here. A gentleman whom you know (as for instance, in my case,) very slightly, will sit down by your table during a morning visit, turn over every article upon it, look at the cards of the various people who have called upon you, ask half-a-dozen questions about each of them, as many about your own private concerns; and all this, as though it were a matter of course that you should answer him, which I feel greatly inclined occasionally not to do. _Saturday, 22d._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, dawdled about till near one o'clock: got into a hackney coach with D----, and returned all manner of cards. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Went into a shop to order a pair of shoes. The shopkeepers in this place, with whom I have hitherto had to deal, are either condescendingly familiar, or insolently indifferent in their manner. Your washer woman sits down before you, while you are _standing_ speaking to her; and a shop-boy bringing things for your inspection not only sits down, but keeps his hat on in your drawing-room. The worthy man to whom I went for my shoes was so amazingly ungracious, that at first I thought I would go out of the shop; but recollecting that I should probably only go farther and fare worse, I gulped, sat down, and was measured. All this is bad: it has its origin in a vulgar misapprehension, which confounds ill-breeding with independence, and leads people to fancy that they elevate themselves above their condition by discharging its duties and obligations discourteously. * * * * * Came home: wrote journal, practised, dressed for dinner. At five, went into our neighbour's: Dr. ----, the rector of Grace Church, was the only stranger. I liked him extremely: he sat by me at dinner, and I thought his conversation sufficiently clever, with an abundance of goodness, and liberal benevolent feeling shining through it. We retired to our room, where Mrs. ---- made me laugh extremely with sundry passages of her American experiences. I was particularly amused with her account of their stopping, after a long day's journey, at an inn somewhere, when the hostess, who remained in the room the whole time, addressed her as follows: "D'ye play?" pointing to an open piano-forte. Mrs. ---- replied that she did so sometimes; whereupon the free-and-easy landlady ordered candles, and added, "Come, sit down and give us a tune, then;" to which courteous and becoming invitation Mrs. ---- replied by taking up her candle, and walking out of the room. The pendant to this is Mr. ----'s story. He sent a die of his crest to a manufacturer, to have it put upon his gig harness. The man sent home the harness, when it was finished, but without the die; after sending for which sundry times, Mr. ---- called to enquire after it himself, when the reply was:-- "Lord! why I didn't know you wanted it." "I tell you, I wish to have it back." "Oh, pooh! you can't want it much, now--do you?" "I tell you, sir, I desire to have the die back immediately." "Ah well, come now, what'll you take for it?" "D'ye think I mean to sell my crest? why you might as well ask me to sell my name." "Why, you see, a good many folks have seen it, and want to have it on their harness, as it's a pretty looking concern enough." So much for their ideas of a crest. This though, by the by, happened some years ago. After the gentlemen joined us, my father made me sing to them, which I did with rather a bad grace, as I don't think any body wished to hear me but himself. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dr. ---- is perfectly enchanting. They left us at about eleven. Came to bed. _Sunday, 23d._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, went to church with D----. There is no such thing, I perceive, as a pew-opener; so, after standing sufficiently long in the middle of the church, we established ourselves very comfortably in a pew, where we remained unmolested. The day was most lovely, and my eyes were constantly attracted to the church windows, through which the magnificent willows of the burial-ground looked like golden green fountains rising into the sky. * * * * * * * * * * The singing in church was excellent, and Dr. ----'s sermon very good, too: he wants sternness; but that is my particular fancy about a clergyman, and by most people would be accounted no want. It was not sacrament Sunday; D---- was disappointed; and I mistaken. Mr. ---- walked home with us. After church, wrote journal. ---- called, and sat with us during dinner, telling us stories of the flogging of slaves, as he himself had witnessed it in the south, that forced the colour into my face, the tears into my eyes, and strained every muscle in my body with positive rage and indignation: he made me perfectly sick with it. When he was gone, my father went to Colonel ----'s. I played all through Mr. ----'s edition of Cinderella, and then wrote three long letters, which kept me up till nearly one o'clock. Oh, bugs, fleas, flies, ants, and musquitoes, great is the misery you inflict upon me! I sit slapping my own face all day, and lie thumping my pillow all night: 'tis a perfect nuisance to be devoured of creatures _before_ one's in the ground; it isn't fair. Wrote to Mr. ----, to ask if he would ride with me on Tuesday. I am dying to be on horseback again. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * _Monday, 24th._ Rose at eight: went and took a bath. After breakfast, went to rehearsal: Venice Preserved, with Mr. Keppel, who did not appear to me to know the words even, and seemed perfectly bewildered at being asked to do the common business of the piece. "Mercy on me! what will he do to-night?" thought I. Came home and got things ready for the theatre. Received a visit from poor Mr. ----, who has got the lumbago, as Sir Peter would say, "on purpose," I believe, to prevent my riding out to-morrow. Dined at three: after dinner, played and sang through Cinderella; wrote journal: at six, went to the theatre. My gown was horribly ill-plaited, and I looked like a blue bag. The house was very full, and they received Mr. K---- with acclamations and shouts of applause. When I went on, I was all but tumbling down at the sight of my Jaffier, who looked like the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, with the addition of some devilish red slashes along his thighs and arms. The first scene passed well and so: but, oh, the next, and the next, and the next to that! Whenever he was not glued to my side (and that was seldom), he stood three yards behind me; he did nothing but seize my hand, and grapple to it so hard, that unless I had knocked him down (which I felt much inclined to try), I could not disengage myself. In the senate scene, when I was entreating for mercy, and _struggling_, as Otway has it, for my life, he was prancing round the stage in every direction, flourishing his dagger in the air: I wish to Heaven I had got up and run away: it would but have been natural, and have served him extremely right. In the parting scene,--oh what a scene it was!--instead of going away from me when he said "farewell for ever," he stuck to my skirts, though in the same breath that I adjured him, in the words of my part, not to leave me, I added, aside, "Get away from me, oh _do_!" When I exclaimed, "Not one kiss at parting," he kept embracing and kissing me like mad: and when I ought to have been pursuing him, and calling after him, "Leave thy dagger with me," he hung himself up against the wing, and remained dangling there for five minutes. I was half crazy! and the good people sat and swallowed it all: they deserved it, by my troth, they did. I prompted him constantly; and once, after struggling in vain to free myself from him, was obliged, in the middle of my part, to exclaim, "You hurt me dreadfully, Mr. Keppel!" He clung to me, cramped me, crumpled me,--dreadful! I never experienced any thing like this before, and made up my mind that I never would again. I played of course like a wretch, finished my part as well as I could, and, as soon as the play was over, went to my father and Mr. Simpson, and declared to them both my determination not to go upon the stage again, with that gentleman for a hero. Three trials are as many as, in reason, any body can demand, and, come what come may, _I_ will not be subjected to this sort of experiment again. At the end of the play, the clever New Yorkians actually called for Mr. Keppel! and this most worthless clapping of hands, most worthlessly bestowed upon such a worthless object, is what, by the nature of my craft, I am bound to care for; I spit at it from the bottom of my soul! Talking of applause, the man who acted Bedamar to-night thought fit to be two hours dragging me off the stage; in consequence of which I had to scream, "Jaffier, Jaffier," till I thought I should have broken a blood-vessel. On my remonstrating with him upon this, he said, "Well, you are rewarded, listen:" the people were clapping and shouting vehemently: this is the whole history of acting and actors. We came home tired, and thoroughly disgusted, and found no supper. The cooks, who do not live in the house, but come and do their work, and depart home whenever it suits their convenience, had not thought proper to stay to prepare any supper for us: so we had to wait for the readiest things that could be procured out of doors for us--this was pleasant--very! At last appeared a cold boiled fowl, and some monstrous oysters, that looked for all the world like an antediluvian race of oysters, "for in those days there were giants." Six mouthfuls each: they were well-flavoured; but their size displeased my eye, and I swallowed but one, and came to bed. _Friday, 28th._ A letter from England, the first from dear ----. D---- brought it me while I was dressing, and oh, how welcome, how welcome it was! * * * * * After breakfast went to rehearsal: Much Ado about Nothing. Came home, wrote journal, put out things for the theatre, dined at three. After dinner, ---- called. * * * * * * * * * * Mr. ---- called, and sat with us till six o'clock. * * * * * * * * * * I constantly sit thunderstruck at the amazing number of unceremonious questions which people here think fit to ask one, and, moreover, expect one to answer. Went to the theatre; the house was not good. The Italians were expected to sing for the first time; they did not, however, but in the mean time thinned our house. I would give the world to see Mr. ---- directing the public taste, by an oeillade, and leading the public approbation, by a gracious tapping of his supreme hand upon his ineffable snuff-box; he reminds me of high life below stairs. The play went off very well; I played well, and my dresses looked beautiful; my father acted to perfection. I never saw any thing so gallant, gay, so like a gentlemen, so full of brilliant, buoyant, refined spirit; he looked admirably, too. Mr. ---- was behind the scenes; speaking to me of my father's appearance in Pierre, he said he reminded him of Lord ----. I could not forbear asking him how long he had been away from England? he replied, four years. Truly, four years will furnish him matter of astonishment when he returns. Swallow Street is grown into a line of palaces; the Strand is a broad magnificent avenue, where all the wealth of the world seems gathered together; and Lord ----, the "observed of all observers," is become a red-faced fat old man. "Och, Time! can't ye be aisy now!" _Sunday, 30th._ Rose late, did not go to church; sat writing letters all the morning. Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- called. What a character that Mr. ---- is! Colonel ---- called, and wanted to take my father out; but we were all inditing espistles to go to-morrow by the dear old Pacific. At three o'clock, went to church with Mrs. ---- and Mr. ----. I like Dr. ---- most extremely. His mild, benevolent, Christian view of the duties and blessings of life is very delightful; and the sound practical doctrine he preaches "good for edification." * * * * * It poured with rain, but they sent a coach for us from the inn; came home, dressed for dinner. D---- and I dined _tte--tte_. After dinner, sat writing letters for Mr. ----'s bag till ten o'clock: came to my own room, undressed, and began a volume to dear ----. * * * * * * * * * * I did not get to bed till three o'clock: in spite of all which I am as fat as an overstuffed pincushion. * * * * * * * * * * Select specimens of American pronunciation:-- vaggaries, vagaries. ad infinnitum, ad infinitum. vitupperate, vituperate. _Monday, October 1st._ While I was out, Captain ---- called for our letters. Saw Mr. ----, and bade him good-by: they are going away to-day to Havre, to Europe; I wish I was a nail in one of their trunks. After breakfast, went to rehearse King John: what a lovely mess they will make of it, to be sure! When my sorrows were ended, my father brought me home: found a most lovely nosegay from Mr. ---- awaiting me. Bless it! how sweet it smelt, and how pretty it looked. Spent an hour delightfully in putting it into water. Got things ready for to-night, practised till dinner, and wrote journal. My father received a letter to-day, informing him that a cabal was forming by the friends of Miss Vincent and Miss Clifton (native talent!) to hiss us off the New York stage, if possible; if not, to send people in every night to create a disturbance during our best scenes: the letter is anonymous, and therefore little deserving of attention. After dinner, practised till time to go to the theatre. The house was very full; but what a cast! what a play! what botchers! what butchers! In his very first scene, the most christian king stuck fast; and there he stood, shifting his truncheon from hand to hand, rolling his eyes, gasping for breath, and struggling for words, like a man in the night-mare. I thought of Hamlet--"Leave thy damnable faces"--and was obliged to turn away. In the scene before Angiers, when the French and English heralds summon the citizens to the walls, the Frenchman applied his instrument to his mouth, uplifted his chest, distended his cheeks, and appeared to blow furiously; not a sound! he dropped his arm, and looked off the stage in discomfiture and indignation, when the perverse trumpet set up a blast fit to waken the dead,--the audience roared: it reminded me of the harp in the old ballad, that "began to play alone." Chatillon, on his return from England, begged to assure us that with King John was come the mother queen, an _Anty_ stirring him to blood and war. When Cardinal Pandulph came on, the people set up a shout, as usual: he was dreadfully terrified, poor thing; and all the time he spoke kept giving little nervous twitches to his sacred petticoat, in a fashion that was enough to make one die of laughter. He was as obstinate, too, in his bewilderment as a stuttering man in his incoherency; for once, when he stuck fast, having twitched his skirts, and thumped his breast in vain for some time, I thought it best, having to speak next, to go on; when, lo and behold! in the middle of my speech, the "scarlet sin" recovers his memory, and shouts forth the end of his own, to the utter confusion of my august self and the audience. I thought they never would have got through my last scene: king gazed at cardinal, and cardinal gazed at king; king nodded and winked at the prompter, spread out his hands, and remained with his mouth open: cardinal nodded and winked at the prompter, crossed his hands on his breast, and remained with his mouth open; neither of them uttering a syllable! What a scene! O, what a glorious scene! Came home as soon as my part was over. Supped, and sat up for my father. Heard his account of the end, and came to bed. _Wednesday, 3d._ Rose late. After breakfast, went to rehearsal: what a mess I do make of Bizarre! Ellen Tree and Mrs. Chatterly were angels to what I shall be, yet I remember thinking them both bad enough. After all, if people generally did but know the difficulty of doing well, they would be less damnatory upon those who do ill. It is not easy to act well. After rehearsal, went to Stewart's with D----. As we were proceeding up Broadway to Bonfanti's, I saw a man in the strangest attitude imaginable, absolutely setting at us: presently he pounced, and who should it be but ----. He came into Bonfanti's with us, and afterwards insisted on escorting us to our various destinations; not, however, without manifold and deep lamentations on his slovenly appearance and dirty gloves. The latter, however, he managed to exchange, _chemin faisant_, for a pair of new ones, which he extracted from his pocket and drew on, without letting go our arms, which he squeezed most unmercifully during the operation. We went through a part of the town which I had never seen before. The shops have all a strange fair-like appearance, and exhibit a spectacle of heterogeneous disorder, which greatly amazes the eye of a Londoner. The comparative infancy in which most of the adornments of life are yet in this country, renders it impossible for the number of distinct trades to exist that do among us, where the population is so much denser, and where the luxurious indulgences of the few find ample occupation for the penurious industry of the many. But here, one man drives several trades; and in every shop you meet with a strange incongruous mixture of articles for sale, which would be found nowhere in England, but in the veriest village huckster's. Comparatively few of the objects for sale can be exposed in the windows, which are, unlike our shop windows, narrow and ill adapted for the display of goods: but piles of them lie outside the doors, choking up the pathway, and coloured cloths, flannels, shawls, etc., are suspended about in long draperies, whose vivid colours flying over the face of the houses give them an untidy, but at the same time a gay, flaunting appearance. We went into a shop to buy some stockings, and missing our _preux chevalier_, I turned round to look for him; when I perceived him beautifying most busily before a glass in a further corner of the shop. He had seized on a sort of house brush, and began brooming his hat: the next operation was to produce a small pocket-comb and arrange his disordered locks; lastly, he transferred the services of the brush of all work from his head to his feet, and having dusted his boots, drawn himself up in his surtout, buttoned its two lower buttons, and given a reforming grasp to his neckcloth, he approached us, evidently much advanced in his own good graces. We went to the furrier's, and brought away my dark boa. Came home, put out things for packing up, and remained so engaged till time to dress for dinner. Mr. and Mrs. ---- and Mr. ---- dined with us. * * * * * * * * * * Mr. ---- is an Englishman of the high breed, and sufficiently pleasant. After dinner we had to withdraw into our bed-room, for the house is so full that they can't cram any thing more into an inch of it. Joined the gentlemen at tea. Mr. ---- had gone to the theatre: Mr. ---- and I had some music. He plays delightfully, and knows every note of music that ever was written; but he had the barbarity to make me sing a song of his own composing to him, which is a cruel thing in a man to do. He went away at about eleven, and we then came to bed. My father went to see Miss Clifton, at the Bowery theatre. _Thursday, 4th._ Rose late. After breakfast, went to rehearsal: my Bizarre is getting a little more into shape. After rehearsal, came home. Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- called, and sat some time with me. The former is tolerably pleasant, but a little too fond of telling good stories that he has told before. Put out things for the theatre: dined at three. Colonel ---- called. Wrote journal: while doing so, was called out to look at my gown, which the worthy milliner had sent home. I am, I am an angel! Witness it, heaven! Witness it earth, and every being witness it! The gown was spoil'd! Yet by immortal patience I did not even fly into a passion. She took it back to alter it. Presently arrived my wreath, and that had also to be taken back; for 't was nothing like what I had ordered. Now all this does not provoke me; but the thing that does, is the dreadful want of manners of the tradespeople here. They bolt into your room without knocking, nod to you, sit down, and without the preface of either Sir, Ma'am, or Miss, start off into "Well now, I'm come to speak about so and so." At six, went to the theatre; play, the Hunchback: the house was crammed from floor to ceiling. I had an intense headach, but played tolerably well. I wore my red satin, and looked like a bonfire. Came home and found Smith's Virginia, and two volumes of Graham's America, which I want to read. They charge twelve dollars for these: every thing is horribly dear here. Came to bed with my head splitting. _Friday, 5th._ Played Bizarre for the first time. Acted so-so, looked very pretty, the house was very fine, and my father incomparable: they called for him after the play. Colonel ---- and Mr. ---- called in while we were at supper. _Saturday, 6th._ Rose late: when I came in to breakfast, found Colonel ---- sitting in the parlour. He remained for a long time, and we had sundry discussions on topics manifold. It seems that the blessed people here were shocked at my having to hear the coarseness of Farquhar's Inconstant--humbug! * * * * * * * * * * At twelve, went out shopping, and paying bills; called upon Mrs. ----, and sat some time with her and Mrs. ----; left a card at Mrs. ----'s, and came home, prepared things for our journey, and dressed for dinner. On our way to Mr. ----'s, my father told me he had been seeing Miss Clifton, the girl they want him to teach to act; (to _teach_ to act, quotha!!!) He says, she is very pretty indeed, with fine eyes, a fair delicate skin, and a handsome mouth; moreover, a tall woman, and yet from the front of the house her effect is nought. What a pity, and a provoking! A pleasant dinner, very. Mr. ---- the poet, one Dr. ----, Colonel ----, and Mr. ----: the only woman was a Miss ----. * * * * * * * * * * ----'s face reminded me of young ----: the countenance was not quite so good, but there was the same radiant look about the eyes and forehead. His expression was strongly sarcastic; I liked him very much notwithstanding. When we left the men, we had the pleasure of the children's society, and that of an unhappy kitten, whom a little pitiless urchin of three years old was carrying crumpled under her arm like a pincushion. The people here make me mad by abusing Lawrence's drawing of me. If ever there was a refined and intellectual work, where the might of genius triumphing over every material impediment has enshrined and embodied spirit itself, it is that. Talking of Lawrence, (poor Lawrence!) Mrs. ---- said, "Ah, yes! your picture by--a--Sir--something--Lawrence!" Oh, fame! oh, fame! Oh, vanity and vexation of spirit! does your eternity and your infinitude amount to this? There are lands where Shakspeare's name was never heard, where Raphael and Handel are unknown; to be sure, for the matter of that, there are regions (and those wide ones too) where Jesus Christ is unknown. At nine o'clock, went to the Richmond Hill theatre, to see the opening of the Italian company. The house itself is a pretty little box enough, but as bad as a box to sing in. We went to Mr. ----'s box, where he was kind enough to give us seats. The first act was over, but we had all the benefit of the second. I had much ado not to laugh: and when Mr. ----, that everlasting giggler, came and sat down beside me, I gave myself up for lost. However, I did behave, in spite of two blue-bottles of women, who by way of the sisters buzzed about the stage, singing enough to set one's teeth on edge. Then came a very tall Dandini; by the by, that man had a good bass voice, but Mr. ---- said it was the finest he had heard since _Zucchelli_. O tempora! O mores! Zucchelli, that prince of delicious baritones! However, as I said, the man has a good bass voice; there was also a sufficiently good Pompolino. Montresor banged himself about, broke his time, and made some execrable flourishes in the Prince, whereat the enlightened New Yorkians applauded mightily. But the Prima Donna! but the Cenerentola! Cospetto di Venere, what a figure, and what a face! Indeed she was the very thing for a lower housemaid, and I think the Prince was highly to blame for removing her from the station nature had evidently intended her for. She was old and ugly, and worse than ugly, unpardonably common-looking, with a cast in her eye, and a foot that, as Mr. ---- observed, it would require a _pretty considerable_ large glass slipper to fit. Then she sang--discords and dismay, how she did sing! I could not forbear stealing a glance at ----: he applauded the sestett vehemently; but when it came to that most touching "_nacqui al' affanno_," he wisely interposed his handkerchief between the stage and his gracious countenance. I thought of poor dear ----, and her sweet voice, and her refined taste, and shuddered to hear this favourite of hers bedevilled by such a Squalini. Now is it possible that people can be such fools as to fancy this good in spite of their senses, or such earless asses (that's a bull I suppose), as to suffer themselves to be persuaded that it is? Though why do I ask it? Oh yes, "very easily possible." Do not half the people in London spend money and time without end, enduring nightly penances--listening to what they can't understand, and couldn't appreciate if they did? I suppose if I shall allow a hundred out of the whole King's Theatre audience to know any thing whatever about music, I am wide in my grant of comprehension. There was that virtuous youth, Mr. ----, who evidently ranks as one of the cognoscenti here, who exclaimed triumphantly at the end of one of the perpetrations, "Well, after all, there's nothing like Rossini." Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Weber, are _not_, that is certain. I wish I could have seen Mr. ---- during that finale. Coming out, were joined by Mr. ----: brought him home in the carriage with us. Gave him "Ye mariners of Spain," and some cold tongue, to take the taste of the Cenerentola out of his mouth. He stayed some time. I like him enough: he is evidently a clever man, though he does murder the King's English. (By the by, does _English_, the tongue, belong, in America, to the King or the President--I wonder? I should rather think, from my limited observations, that it was the individual property of every freeborn citizen of the United States.) Now, what on earth can I say to the worthy citizens, if they ask me what I thought of the Italian opera? That it was very amusing--yes, that will do nicely; that will be true, and not too direct a condemnation of their good taste. _Sunday, 7th._ Rose late. Young ---- breakfasted with us. How unfortunately plain he is! His voice is marvellously like his father's, and it pleased me to hear him speak therefore. He was talking to my father about the various southern and western theatres, and bidding us expect to meet strange coadjutors in those lost lands beyond the world. On one occasion, he said, when he was acting Richard the Third, some of the underlings kept their hats on while he was on the stage, whereat ---- remonstrated, requesting them in a whisper to uncover, as they were in the presence of a king; to which admonition he received the following characteristic reply: "Fiddlestick! I guess we know nothing about kings in this country." Colonel ---- called too; but D---- and I went off to church, and left my father to entertain them. Met Mr. ---- and Mr. ----, who were coming to fetch us: went to Mr. ----'s pew. The music was very delightful; but decidedly I do not like music in church. The less my senses are appealed to in the house of prayer, the better for me and my devotions. Although I have experienced excitement of a stern and martial, and sometimes of a solemn, nature, from music, yet these melt away, and its abiding influence with me is of a much softer kind: therefore, in church, I had rather dispense with it, particularly when they sing psalms, as they did to-day, to the tune of "Come dwell with me, and be my love." I did not like the sermon much; there was effect in it, painting, which I dislike. Staid the sacrament, the first I have taken in this strange land. Mr. ---- walked home with us: when he was gone, Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- called. When they had all taken their departure, settled accounts, wrote journal, wrote to my mother, came and put away sundry things, and dressed for dinner. My father dined with Mr. ----: D---- and I dined _tte--tte_. Colonel ---- came twice through the pouring rain to look after our baggage for to-morrow; such charity is unexampled. _Monday, 8th._ Rose (oh, horror!) at a quarter to five. Night was still brooding over the earth. Long before I was dressed, the first voice I heard was that of Colonel ----, come to look after our luggage, and see us off. To lend my friend a thousand pounds (if I had it) I could--to lend him my horse, perhaps I might; but to get up in the middle of the night, and come dawdling in the grey cold hour of the morning upon damp quays, and among dusty packages, except for my own flesh and blood, I could not. Yet this worthy man did it for us; whence I pronounce that he must be half a Quaker himself, for no common episcopal benevolence could stretch this pitch. Dressed, and gathered together my things, and at six o'clock, just as the night was folding its soft black wings, and rising slowly from the earth, we took our departure from that mansion of little ease, the American, and our fellow-lodgers the ants, and proceeded to the Philadelphia steam-boat, which started from the bottom of Barclay Street. We were recommended to this American Hotel as the best and most comfortable in New York; and truly the charges were as high as one could have paid at the Clarendon, in the land of comfort and taxation. The wine was exorbitantly dear; champagne and claret about eleven shillings sterling a bottle; sherry, port, and madeira, from nine to thirteen. The rooms were a mixture of French finery and Irish disorder and dirt; the living was by no means good; the whole house being conducted on a close scraping system of inferior accommodations and extravagant charges. On a sudden influx of visiters, sitting-rooms were converted into bed-rooms, containing four and five beds. The number of servants was totally inadequate to the work; and the articles of common use, such as knives and spoons, were so scantily provided, that when the public table was very full one day, the knives and forks for our dinner were obliged to be washed from theirs; and the luxury of a carving-knife was not to be procured at all on that occasion: it is true that they had sometimes as many as two hundred and fifty guests at the ordinary. The servants, who, as I said before, were just a quarter as many as the house required, had no bed-rooms allotted to them, but slept _about_ any where, in the public rooms, or on sofas in drawing-rooms, let to private families. In short, nothing can exceed the want of order, propriety, and comfort in this establishment, except the enormity of the tribute it levies upon pilgrims and wayfarers through the land. And so, as I said, we departed therefrom nothing loath. The morning was dull, dreary, and damp, which I regretted very much. The steam-boat was very large and commodious, as all these conveyances are. I enquired of one of the passengers what the power of the engine was: he replied that he did not exactly know, but that he thought it was about forty-horse power; and that, when going at speed, the engine struck thirty times in a minute: this appeared to me a great number in so short a time; but the weather shortly became wet and drizzly, and I did not remain on deck to observe. My early rising had made me very sleepy, so I came down to the third deck to sleep. These steam-boats have three stories; the upper one is, as it were, a roofing or terrace on the leads of the second, a very desirable station when the weather is neither too foul nor too fair; a burning sun being, I should think, as little desirable there as a shower of rain. The second floor or deck has the advantage of the ceiling above, and yet, the sides being completely open, it is airy, and allows free sight of the shores on either hand. Chairs, stools, and benches, are the furniture of these two decks. The one below, or third floor downwards, in fact, the _ground floor_, being the one near the water, is a spacious room completely roofed and walled in, where the passengers take their meals, and resort if the weather is unfavourable. At the end of this room is a smaller cabin for the use of the ladies, with beds and a sofa, and all the conveniences necessary, if they should like to be sick; whither I came and slept till breakfast time. Vigne's account of the pushing, thrusting, rushing, and devouring on board a western steam-boat at meal times had prepared me for rather an awful spectacle; but this, I find, is by no means the case in these more civilised parts, and every thing was conducted with perfect order, propriety, and civility. The breakfast was good, and served and eaten with decency enough. Came up on the upper deck, and walked about with my father. The width of the river struck me as remarkable; but the shores were flat, and for the most part uninteresting, except for the rich and various tints which the thickets of wood presented, and which are as superior in brilliancy and intenseness to our autumnal colouring as their gorgeous skies are to ours. Opposite the town of Amboy, the Raritan opens into a magnificent lake-like expanse round the extreme point of Staten Island. As the shores on either side, however, were not very interesting, I finished reading Combe's book. There is much sound philosophy in it; but I do not think it altogether establishes the main point that he wishes to make good--the truth of phrenology, and the necessity of its being adopted as the only science of the human mind. His general assertions admit of strong individual exceptions, which, I think, go far towards invalidating the generality. However, 'tis not a full development of his own system, but, as it were, only an introduction to it; and his own admissions of the obscurity and uncertainty in which that system is still involved necessarily enforces a suspension of judgment, until its practical results have become more manifest, and in some measure borne witness to the truth of his theory. At about half-past ten we reached the place where we leave the river, to proceed across a part of the State of New Jersey to the Delaware. The landing was beyond measure wretched: the shore shelved down to the water's edge; and its marshy, clayey, sticky soil, rendered doubly soft and squashy by the damp weather, was strewn over with broken potsherds, stones, and bricks, by way of pathway; these, however, presently failed, and some slippery planks half immersed in mud were the only roads to the coaches that stood ready to receive the passengers of the steam-boat. Oh, these coaches! English eye hath not seen, English ear hath not heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of Englishmen to conceive the surpassing clumsiness and wretchedness of these leathern inconveniences. They are shaped something like boats, the sides being merely leathern pieces, removable at pleasure, but which, in bad weather, are buttoned down, to protect the inmates from the wet. There are three seats in this machine; the middle one, having a movable leathern strap, by way of a dossier, runs between the carriage doors, and lifts away to permit the egress and ingress of the occupants of the other seats. Into the one facing the horses D---- and I put ourselves; presently two young ladies occupied the opposite one; a third lady, and a gentleman of the same party, sat in the middle seat, into which my father's huge bulk was also squeezed; finally, another man belonging to the same party ensconced himself between the two young ladies. Thus the two seats were filled, each with three persons, and there should by rights have been a third on ours; for this nefarious black hole on wheels is intended to carry nine. However, we profited little by the space, for, letting alone that there is not really and truly room for more than two human beings of common growth and proportions on each of these seats, the third place was amply filled up with baskets and packages of ours, and huge _undoubleableup_ coats and cloaks of my father's. For the first few minutes I thought I must have fainted from the intolerable sensation of smothering which I experienced. However, the leathers having been removed, and a little more air obtained, I took heart of grace, and resigned myself to my fate. Away wallopped the four horses, trotting with their front and galloping with their hind legs; and away went we after them, bumping, thumping, jumping, jolting, shaking, tossing, and tumbling, over the wickedest road, I do think the cruellest hard-heartedest road, that ever wheel rumbled upon. Thorough bog and marsh, and ruts wider and deeper than any christian ruts I ever saw, with the roots of trees protruding across our path; their boughs every now and then giving us an affectionate scratch through the windows; and, more than once, a half-demolished trunk or stump lying in the middle of the road lifting us up, and letting us down again, with most awful variations of our poor coach body from its natural position. Bones of me! what a road! Even my father's solid proportions could not keep their level, but were jerked up to the roof and down again every three minutes. Our companions seemed nothing dismayed by these wondrous performances of a coach and four, but laughed and talked incessantly, the young ladies, at the very top of their voices, and with the national nasal twang. The conversation was much of the _genteel_ shopkeeper kind; the wit of the ladies, and the gallantry of the gentlemen, savouring strongly of tapes and yard measures, and the shrieks of laughter of the whole set enough to drive one into a frenzy. The ladies were all pretty; two of them particularly so, with delicate fair complexions, and beautiful grey eyes: how I wish they could have held their tongues for two minutes! We had not long been in the coach before one of them complained of being dreadfully sick. This, in such a space, and with seven near neighbours! Fortunately she was near the window; and during our whole fourteen miles of purgatory she alternately leaned from it overcome with sickness, then reclined languishingly in the arms of her next neighbour, and then, starting up with amazing vivacity, joined her voice to the treble duet of her two pretty companions, with a superiority of shrillness that might have been the pride and envy of Billingsgate. 'Twas enough to bother a rookery! The country through which we passed was woodland, flat, and without variety, save what it derived from the wondrous richness and brilliancy of the autumnal foliage. Here indeed decay is beautiful; and nature appears more gorgeously clad in this her fading mantle, than in all the summer's flush of bloom in our less-favoured climates. I noted several beautiful wild flowers growing among the underwood; some of which I have seen adorning with great dignity our most cultivated gardens. None of the trees had any size or appearance of age: they are the second growth, which have sprung from the soil once possessed by a mightier race of vegetables. The quantity of mere underwood, and the number of huge black stumps rising in every direction a foot or two from the soil, bear witness to the existence of fine forest timber. The few cottages and farm-houses which we passed reminded me of similar dwellings in France and Ireland; yet the peasantry here have not the same excuse for disorder and dilapidation as either the Irish or French. The farms had the same desolate, untidy, untended look: the gates broken, the fences carelessly put up, or ill repaired; the farming-utensils sluttishly scattered about a littered yard, where the pigs seemed to preside by undisputed right; house-windows broken, and stuffed with paper or clothes; dishevelled women, and barefooted anomalous-looking human young things; none of the stirring life and activity which such places present in England and Scotland; above all, none of the enchanting mixture of neatness, order, and rustic elegance and comfort, which render so picturesque the surroundings of a farm, and the various belongings of agricultural labour in my own dear country. The fences struck me as peculiar; I never saw any such in England. They are made of rails of wood placed horizontally, and meeting at obtuse angles, so forming a zig-zag wall of wood, which runs over the country like the herring-bone seams of a flannel petticoat. At each of the angles two slanting stakes, considerably higher than the rest of the fence, were driven into the ground, crossing each other at the top, so as to secure the horizontal rails in their position. There was every now and then a soft vivid strip of turf, along the road-side, that made me long for a horse. Indeed the whole road would have been a delightful ride, and was a most bitter drive. At the end of fourteen miles we turned into a swampy field, the whole fourteen coachfuls of us, and, by the help of Heaven, bag and baggage were packed into the coaches which stood on the rail-way ready to receive us. The carriages were not drawn by steam, like those on the Liverpool rail-way, but by horses, with the mere advantage in speed afforded by the iron ledges, which, to be sure, compared with our previous progress through the ruts, was considerable. Our coachful got into the first carriage of the train, escaping, by way of especial grace, the dust which one's predecessors occasion. This vehicle had but two seats, in the usual fashion; each of which held four of us. The whole inside was lined with blazing scarlet leather, and the windows _shaded_ with stuff curtains of the same refreshing colour; which, with full complement of passengers, on a fine, sunny, American summer's day, must make as pretty a little miniature hell as may be, I should think. The baggage-waggon, which went before us, a little obstructed the view. The road was neither pretty nor picturesque; but still fringed on each side with the many-coloured woods, whose rich tints made variety even in sameness. This rail-road is an infinite blessing; 'tis not yet finished, but shortly will be so, and then the whole of that horrible fourteen miles will be performed in comfort and decency in less than half the time. In about an hour and a half we reached the end of our rail-road part of the journey, and found another steam-boat waiting for us, when we all embarked on the Delaware. Again, the enormous width of the river struck me with astonishment and admiration. Such huge bodies of water mark out the country through which they run, as the future abode of the most extensive commerce and greatest maritime power in the universe. The banks presented much the same features as those of the Raritan, though they were not quite so flat, and more diversified with scattered dwellings, villages, and towns. We passed Bristol and Burlington, stopping at each of them to take up passengers. I sat working, having finished my book, not a little discomfited by the pertinacious staring of some of my fellow-travellers. One woman, in particular, after wandering round me in every direction, at last came and sat down opposite me, and literally gazed me out of countenance. One improvement they have adopted on board these boats is to forbid smoking, except in the fore part of the vessel. I wish they would suggest that, if the gentlemen would refrain from spitting about too, it would be highly agreeable to the female part of the community. The universal practice here of this disgusting trick makes me absolutely sick: every place is made a perfect piggery of--street, stairs, steam-boat, everywhere--and behind the scenes; on the stage at rehearsal I have been shocked and annoyed beyond expression by this horrible custom. To-day, on board the boat, it was a perfect shower of saliva all the time; and I longed to be released from my fellowship with these very obnoxious chewers of tobacco. At about four o'clock we reached Philadelphia, having performed the journey between that and New York (a distance of a hundred miles) in less than ten hours, in spite of bogs, ruts, and all other impediments. The manager came to look after us and our goods; and we were presently stowed into a coach, which conveyed us to the Mansion House, the best-reputed inn in Philadelphia. On asking for our bed-rooms, they showed D---- and myself into a double-bedded room. On my remonstrating against this, the chambermaid replied, that they were not accustomed to allow lodgers so _much room_ as a room apiece. However, upon my insisting, they gave me a little nest just big enough to turn about in, but where, at least, I can be by myself. Dressed, and dined at five; after dinner, wrote journal till tea-time, and then came to bed. _Tuesday, 9th._ Rose at half-past eight. Went and took a bath. On my way thither, drove through two melancholy-looking squares, which reminded me a little of poor old Queen Square in Bristol. The ladies' baths were closed, but, as I was not particular, they gave me one in the part of the house usually allotted to the men's use. I was much surprised to find two baths in one room, but it seems to me that the people of this country have an aversion to solitude, whether eating, sleeping, or under any other circumstances. * * * * * * * * * * I made acquaintance with a bewitching Newfoundland puppy, whom I greatly coveted. Came home, dressed, and breakfasted. After breakfast, righted my things, and wrote journal. Took a walk with my father through some of the principal streets. The town is perfect silence and solitude, compared with New York; there is a greater air of age about it too, which pleases me. The red houses are not so fiercely red, nor the white facings so glaringly white; in short, it has not so new and flaunting a look, which is a great recommendation to me. The city is regularly built, the streets intersecting each other at right angles. We passed one or two pretty buildings in pure white marble, and the Bank in Chestnut Street, which is a beautiful little copy of the Parthenon. The pure, cold, clear-looking marble suits well with the severe and unadorned style of architecture; and is in harmony, too, with the extreme brilliancy of the sky, and clearness of the atmosphere of this country. We passed another larger building, also a bank, in the Corinthian style, which did not please me so much. The shops here are much better looking than those at New York: the windows are larger, and more advantageously constructed for the display of goods; and there did not appear to be the same anomalous mixture of vendibles, as in the New York shops. The streets were very full of men hurrying to the town-house, to give their votes. It is election time, and much excitement subsists with regard to the choice of the future President. The democrats or radicals are for the re-election of General Jackson, but the aristocratic party, which here at all events is the strongest, are in favour of Henry Clay. Here is the usual quantity of shouting and breaking windows that we are accustomed to on these occasions. I saw a caricature of Jackson and Van Buren, his chief supporter, which was entitled "The King and his Minister." Van Buren held a crown in his hand, and the devil was approaching Jackson with a sceptre.--Came in at half-past four, dressed for dinner: they gave us an excellent one. The master of this house was, it seems, once a man of independent fortune, and a great _bon vivant_. He has retained from thence a fellow-feeling for his guests, and does by them as he would be done by. After dinner, worked till tea-time; after tea, wrote journal, and now I'll go to bed. We are attended here by a fat old lively negro, by name Henry, who canters about in our behalf with great alacrity, and seems wrapt in much wonderment at many of our proceedings. By the by, the black who protected our baggage from the steam-boat was ycleped _Oliver Cromwell_. I have begun Grahame's History of America, and like it "mainly," as the old plays say. _Wednesday, 10th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, trimmed a cap, and wrote to dear ----. The streets were in an uproar all night, people shouting and bonfires blazing; in short, electioneering fun, which seems to be pretty much the same all the world over. Clay has it hollow here, they say: I wonder what Colonel ---- will say to that. At twelve o'clock, sallied forth with D---- to rehearsal. The theatre is very pretty; not large but well sized, and, I should think, favourably constructed for the voice. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Unless Aldabella is irresistibly lovely, as well as wicked, there is no accounting for the conduct of Fazio. My own idea of her, as well as Milman's description, is every thing that can be conceived of splendid in beauty, sparkling in wit, graceful in deportment, gorgeous in apparel, and deep and dangerous in crafty wiliness; in short, the old serpent in the shape of Mrs. ----. I wish Mrs. ---- would act that part: I could act it well enough, but she would both act and look it, to the very life. After rehearsal, walked about the town in quest of some _coques de perle_ for my Bianca dress: could not procure any. I like this town extremely: there is a look of comfort and cleanliness, and withal of age about it, which pleases me. It is quieter, too, than New York, and though not so gay, for that very reason is more to my fancy; the shops, too, have a far better appearance. New York always gave me the idea of an irregular collection of temporary buildings, erected for some casual purpose, full of life, animation, and variety, but not meant to endure for any length of time; a fair, in short. This place has a much more substantial, sober, and city-like appearance. Came home at half-past two. In the hall met Mr. ----, who is grown ten years younger since I saw him last: it always delights me to see one of my fellow-passengers, and I am much disappointed in not finding ---- here. Dined at three; after dinner, read my father some of my journal; went on with letter to ----, and then went and dressed myself. Took coffee, and adjourned to the theatre. The house was very full, but not so full as the Park on the first night of his acting in New York, which accounts for the greater stillness of the audience. I watched my father narrowly through his part to-night with great attention and some consequent fatigue, and the conclusion I have come to is this: that though his workmanship may be, and is, far finer _in the hand_ than that of any other artist I ever saw, yet its very minute accuracy and refinement renders it unfit for the frame in which it is exhibited. Whoever should paint a scene calculated for so large a space as a theatre, and destined to be viewed at the distance from which an audience beholds it, with the laborious finish and fine detail of a miniature, would commit a great error in judgment. Nor would he have the least right to complain, although the public should prefer the coarser yet far more effective work of a painter, who, neglecting all refinement and niceness of execution, should merely paint with such full colouring, and breadth and boldness of touch, as to produce in the wide space he is called upon to fill, and upon the remote senses he appeals to, the _effect_ of that which he intends to represent. Indeed he is the better artist of the two, though probably not the most intellectual man. For it is the part of such a one to know exactly what will best convey to the mass of mind and feeling to which he addresses himself the emotions and passions which he wishes them to experience. Now the great beauty of all my father's performances, but particularly of Hamlet, is a wonderful accuracy in the detail of the character which he represents; an accuracy which modulates the emphasis of every word, the nature of every gesture, the expression of every look; and which renders the whole a most laborious and minute study, toilsome in the conception and acquirement, and most toilsome in the execution. But the result, though the natural one, is not such as he expects, as the reward of so much labour. Few persons are able to follow such a performance with the necessary attention, and it is almost as great an exertion to see it _understandingly_, as to act it. The amazing study of it requires a study in those who are to appreciate it, and, as I take it, this is far from being what the majority of spectators are either capable or desirous of doing; the actor loses his pains, and they have but little pleasure. Those who perform, and those who behold a play, have but a certain proportion of power of exciting, and capability of being excited. If, therefore, the actor expends his power of exciting, and his audience's power of being excited, upon the detail of the piece, and continues through five whole acts to draw from both, the main and striking points, those of strongest appeal, those calculated most to rouse at once, and gratify the emotions of the spectator, have not the same intensity or vigour that they would have had, if the powers of both actor and audience had been reserved to give them their fullest effect. A picture requires light and shadow; and the very relief that throws some of the figures in a fine painting into apparent obscurity, in reality enhances the effect produced by those over which the artist has shed a stronger light. Every note in the most expressive song does not require a peculiar expression; and an air sung with individual emphasis on each note would be utterly unproductive of the desired effect. All things cannot have all their component parts equal, and "nothing pleaseth but rare accidents." This being so, I think that acting the best which skilfully husbands the actor's and spectator's powers, and puts forth the whole of the one, to call forth the whole of the other, occasionally only; leaving the intermediate parts sufficiently level, to allow him and them to recover the capability of again producing, and again receiving, such impressions. It is constant that our finest nerves deaden and dull from over-excitement, and require repose, before they regain their acute power of sensation. At the same time, I am far from advocating that most imperfect conception and embodying of a part which Kean allows himself: literally acting detached passages alone, and leaving all the others, and the entire character, indeed, utterly destitute of unity, or the semblance of any consistency whatever. But Kean and my father are immediately each other's antipodes, and, in adopting their different styles of acting, it is evident that each has been guided as much by his own physical and intellectual individuality, as by any fixed principle of art. The one, Kean, possesses particular physical qualifications; an eye like an orb of light, a voice, exquisitely touching and melodious in its tenderness, and in the harsh dissonance of vehement passion terribly true; to these he adds the intellectual ones of vigour, intensity, amazing power of concentrating effect; these give him an entire mastery over his audience in all striking, sudden, impassioned passages, in fulfilling which he has contented himself, leaving unheeded what he probably could not compass, the unity of conception, the refinement of detail, and evenness of execution. My father possesses certain physical defects, a faintness of colouring in the face and eye, a weakness of voice; and the corresponding intellectual deficiencies, a want of intensity, vigour, and concentrating power: these circumstances have led him (probably unconsciously) to give his attention and study to the finer and more fleeting shades of character, the more graceful and delicate manifestations of feeling, the exquisite variety of all minor parts, the classic keeping of a highly-wrought whole; to all these, polished and refined tastes, an acute sense of the beauty of harmonious proportions, and a native grace, gentleness, and refinement of mind and manner, have been his prompters; but they cannot inspire those startling and tremendous bursts of passion, which belong to the highest walks of tragedy, and to which he never gave their fullest expression. I fancy my aunt Siddons united the excellences of both these styles. But to return to my father's Hamlet: every time I see it, something strikes me afresh in the detail. Nothing in my mind can exceed the exquisite beauty of his last "Go on--I follow thee," to the ghost. The full gush of deep and tender faith, in spite of the awful mystery, to whose unfolding he is committing his life, is beautiful beyond measure. It is distinct, and wholly different from the noble, rational, philosophic conviction, "And for my soul, what can it do to that?" It is full of the unutterable fondness of a believing heart, and brought to my mind, last night, those holy and lovely words of scripture, "Perfect love casteth out fear:" it enchanted me. There is one thing in which I do not believe my father ever has been, or ever will be, excelled; his high and noble bearing, his gallant, graceful, courteous deportment; his perfect good-breeding on the stage; unmarked alike by any peculiarity of time, place, or self (except peculiar grace and beauty). He appears to me the beau ideal of the courtly, thorough-bred, chivalrous gentleman, from the days of the admirable Crichton down to those of George the Fourth. Coming home after the play, the marble buildings in the full moonlight reminded me of the Ghost in Hamlet: they looked like pale majestic spirits, cold, calm, and colourless. _Thursday, 11th._ Rose rather late. After breakfast, wrote journal; at twelve, went to rehearsal. * * * * * * * * * * After rehearsal, came home, habited, and went to the riding-school to try some horses. _Merci de moi!_ what quadrupeds! How they did wallop and shamble about; poor half-broken dumb brutes! they know no better; and as the natives here are quite satisfied with their shuffling, rollicking, mongrel pace, half trot, half canter, why it is not worth while to break horses in a christian-like fashion for them. I found something that I think my father can ride with tolerable comfort, but must go again to-morrow and see after something for myself. Came home: the enchanting Mr. Head has allowed me a piano-forte; but in bringing it into the room, the stupid slave broke one of its legs off, whereat I was like to faint, for I thought Mr. Head would wish me hanged therefor. Nothing can exceed the civility of the people here, and the house is extremely well kept, quiet, and comfortable. Came home in high delight with this Quaker city, which is indeed very pretty and pleasant. Played on the piano: dressed for dinner. After dinner, practised till tea-time, finished journal, discussed metaphysics with D----, for which I am a fool; wrote to-day's journal, and now to bed. I have a dreadful cold and cough, and have done nothing but hack and snivel the whole day long: this is a bad preparation for to-morrow's work. Howsoever---- _Friday, 12th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, sat writing journal and letter to ----. At half-past eleven, went to rehearsal. Afterwards walked down to the riding-school with my father. The horse I was to look at had not arrived; but my father saw the grey. We were there for some time; and during that whole some time a tall, thin, unhappy-looking gentleman, who had gotten up upon a great hulking rawboned horse, kept trotting round and round, with his legs dangling down, _sans_ stirrups, at the rate of a mile and a quarter an hour; occasionally ejaculating in the mildest of tones, "keome--keome up;" whereat the lively brute, nothing persuaded, proceeded in the very same pace, at the very same rate; and this went on till I wondered at the man and the beast. Came home and put out things for the theatre. My cold and cough are dreadful. After dinner, practised: invented and executed a substitute for the _coques de perle_ in my Bianca dress; and lay down to rest a little before my work. At six, went to the theatre: the house was very full; and D---- and my father say that I was extremely ungracious in my acknowledgment of their greeting. I cannot tell; I did not mean to be so; I made them three courtesies, and what could woman do more? Of course, I can neither feel nor look so glad to see them as I am to see my own dear London people: neither can I be as profound in my obeisance, as when my audience is civil enough to rise to me: "there is differences, look you." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * My Fazio had a pair of false black whiskers on, which distilled a black stripe of trickling cement down his cheeks, and kept me in agony every time he had to embrace me. My voice was horrible to hear; alternately like Mrs. ---- and ----, and every now and then it was all I could do to utter at all. This audience is the most unapplausive I ever acted to, not excepting my _excitable_ friends north of the Tweed. They were very attentive, certainly, but how they did make me work! 'Tis amazing how much an audience loses by this species of hanging back, even where the silence proceeds from unwillingness to interrupt a good performance: though in reality it is the greatest compliment an actor can receive, yet he is deprived by that very stillness of half his power. Excitement is reciprocal between the performer and the audience: he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them; and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself begets. I know that my aunt Siddons has frequently said the same thing. And besides the above reason for applause, the physical powers of an actor require, after any tremendous exertion, the rest and regathering of breath and strength, which the interruption of the audience affords him; moreover, as 'tis the conventional mode of expressing approbation in a theatre, it is chilling and uncomfortable to go toiling on, without knowing whether, as the maidservants say, "one gives satisfaction or no." They made noise enough, however, at the end of the play. Came home, supped, and to bed; weary to death, and with a voice like a cracked bagpipe. _Saturday, 13th._ Rose at half-past eight. After breakfast, wrote journal; practised for an hour; got things ready for to-morrow; put on my habit, which I had no sooner done than the perverse clouds began to rain. The horses came at two, but the weather was so bad that I sent them away again. Practised for another hour, read a canto in Dante, and dressed for dinner. After dinner, worked and practised. Came to my own room, and tried to scribble something for the Mirror, at my father's request; the editors having made an especial entreaty to him that I might write something for them, and also sit to some artist for them. I could not accomplish any thing, and they must just take something that I have by me: as for my physiognomy, that they shall certainly not have with my own good leave. I will never expend so much useless time again as to sit for my picture; nor will I let any unhappy painter again get abused for painting me as I am, which is any thing but what I look like. Lawrence alone could do it: there is no other that could see my spirit through my face; and as for the face without that, the less that is seen of it the better. Came down to tea, and found a young gentleman sitting with my father; one Mr. ----. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * He was a pretty-spoken _genteel_ youth enough: he drank tea with us, and offered to ride with me. He is, it seems, a great fortune; consequently, I suppose (in spite of his inches), a great man. Now I'll go to bed: my cough's enough to kill a horse. _Sunday, 14th._ Rose late; so late that, by the time I had breakfasted, it was no longer time to go to church. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Finished my first letter to ----. Mr. ---- called, and told us that he was going about _agitating_, and that Jackson was certainly to be re-elected. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * At three o'clock D---- and I sallied forth to go to church. Following the silver voices of the Sabbath bells, as they called the worshippers to the house of prayer, we entered a church with a fine simple faade, and found ourselves in the midst of a Presbyterian congregation. 'Tis now upwards of eight years since, a school girl, I used to attend a dissenters' chapel. The form of worship, though displeasing to me in itself, borrowed a charm to-day from old association. How much of the past it did recall! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Came home and dressed for dinner. After dinner, half-killed myself with laughter over an Irish version of Fazio, ycleped Grimaldi, from which the author swears Milman has shamefully filched the plot, characters, and even the language, I believe, of his drama. A gentleman of the press, by name ----, paid us an evening visit. He seems an intelligent young man enough; and when he spoke of the autumnal woods, by the Oneida lake, his expressions were poetical and enthusiastic; and he pleased me. He seems to think much of having had the honour of corresponding with sundry of the small literati of London. _Je lui en fais mon compliment._ When he was gone, wrote another letter to ----; journal, and now to bed. _Monday, 15th._ Rose at eight; took a hot bath. The more I read of Grahame, the better I like him and his history. Those early settlers in Massachusetts were fine fellows, indeed; and Cotton, one of the finest samples of a Christian priest imaginable. The day was cold, but beautifully bright and clear. The pure, fresh, invigorating air, and gay sunlight, together with the delightfully clean streets, and pretty mixture of trees and buildings in this nice town, caused me to rejoice, as I walked along. After rehearsal, saw Sinclair and his wife. So--we are to act the Gamester here. Went and ordered a dress for that same, my own being at New York. Came home, put out things for the theatre, practised an hour; dined at three. After dinner, read a canto in Dante: he is my admiration!--great, great master!--a philosopher profound, as all poets should be; a glorious poet, as I wish all philosophers were. Sketched till dark. Chose a beautiful claret-coloured velvet for Mrs. Beverley, which will cost Miss Kemble eleven guineas, by this living light. At six, went to the theatre. I never beheld any thing more gorgeous than the sky at sunset. Autumn is an emperor here, clothed in crimson and gold, and canopied with ruddy glowing skies. Yet I like the sad russet cloak of our own autumnal woods; I like the sighing voice of his lament through the vaporous curtain that rises round his steps; I like the music of the withered leaves that rustle in his path; and oh, above all, the solemn thoughts that wait upon him, as he goes stripping the trees of their bright foliage, leaving them like the ungarlanded columns of a deserted palace. The play was Romeo and Juliet. My father was the "youngest of that name," for want of a better, or, rather, of a worse. How beautiful this performance must have been, when the youthful form made that appear natural which now seems the triumph of art over nature. Garrick said, that to act Romeo required a grey head upon green shoulders. Indeed, 'tis difficult! Oh, that our sapient judges did but know half how difficult. It is delightful to act with my father. One's imagination need toil but little, to see in him the very thing he represents; whereas, with all other Romeos, although they were much younger men, I have had to do double work with that useful engine, my fancy: first, to get rid of the material obstacle staring me in the face, and then to substitute some more congenial representative of that sweetest vision of youth and love. Once, only, this was not necessary. * * * * * * * * * * The audience here are, without exception, the most disagreeable I ever played to. Not a single hand did they give the balcony scene, or my father's scene with the friar: they are literally immovable. They applauded vehemently at the end of my draught scene, and a great deal at the end of the play; but they are, nevertheless, intolerably dull; and it is all but impossible to act to them. * * * * * * * * * * The man who acted Capulet did it better than any Capulet I ever acted with; and the nurse, besides looking admirably, acted her part very well: and 'tis hard to please me, after poor dear old Mrs. Davenport. The house was literally crammed from floor to ceiling. Came home tired and hoarse; though my voice was a good deal better to-day. Mr. ---- supped with us. My father expected a visit from the haggling Boston manager, and chose to have a witness to the conference. _Tuesday, 16th._ Rose at nine. After breakfast, read a canto in Dante; wrote journal; practised for an hour. The Boston manager, it seems, does not approve of our terms; and after bargaining till past two o'clock last night with my father, the latter, wearied out with his illiberal trafficking, and coarse vulgarity of manner, declined the thing altogether: so, unless the gentleman thinks better of the matter, we shall not go to Boston this winter. At one o'clock, habited; and at two, rode out with my father. The day was most enchanting, mild, bright, and sunny; but the roads were deplorable, and the country utterly dull. My horse was a hard-mouthed half broken beast, without pace of any christian kind soever; a perfect rack on hoofs: how it did jog and jumble me! However, my bones are young, and my courage good, and I don't mind a little hard work; but the road was so villanously bad, and the surrounding country so weary, dull, stale, and unprofitable, that I was heartily sick of my ride, when we turned towards Fairmount, the site of some large water-works on the Schuylkill, by which Philadelphia is supplied with water. On our right I descried, over some heights, a castellated building of some extent, whose formidable appearance at least bespoke an arsenal; but it was the entrance to the Penitentiary instead: and presently the river, bright, and broad, and placid as a lake, with its beautiful banks, and rainbow-tinted woods, opened upon us. We crossed a covered wooden bridge, and followed the water's edge. The rich colours of the foliage cast a warm light over the transparent face of the mirror-like stream; and, far along the winding shores, a mingled mantle of gorgeous glowing tints lay over the woody banks, and was reflected in the still sunny river. Indeed, it was lovely! But our time was growing short, and we had to turn home; which we did by a pleasant and more direct path. My horse, towards the end of the ride, got more manageable; and I doubt whether it would not be wiser to continue to ride it than try another, which may be just as bad, and, moreover, a _stranger_. My riding-cap seemed to excite universal marvel wherever we passed. We came in at five o'clock; dressed, and dined. Just as I had finished dinner, a most beautiful, fragrant, and delicious nosegay was brought to me, with a very laconic note from a Philadelphia "_friend_," dashed under, as though from a Quaker. Whoever 'tis from, Jew or Gentile, Puritan or Pagan, he, she, or it hath my most unbounded gratitude. Spent an ecstatic half hour in arranging my flowers in glasses; gave orders about my Mrs. Beverley's gown, and began marking journal; while doing so, a card was brought up. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Presently Mr. ---- came in, another of our Pacific fellow-sailors. It pleases me to see them: they seem to bring me nearer to England. He gave a dreadful account of his arrival in Baltimore, and of the state to which the cholera had reduced that city. Mr. ---- amused me, by telling me that he had heard my behaviour canvassed with much censure by some man or other, who met me at Mr. ----'s, and who was horrified at my taking up a book, and then a newspaper, and, in short, being neither tragical nor comical, at a dinner-party. Of course, I must seem a very strange animal to them all; but they seem just as strange to me. * * * * * * * * * * _Wednesday, 17th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, put out things for the theatre. It seems there has been fighting, and rushing, and tearing of coats at the box-office; and one man has made forty dollars by purchasing and reselling tickets at an increased price. Mr. ---- called, and sat some time: he sails for England on the twenty-fourth. England, oh England!--yet, after all, what is there in that name? It is not my home; it is not those beloved ones' whose fellowship is half the time what we call _home_. Is it really and truly the yearning of the roots for the soil in which they grew? Perhaps it is only the restless roving spirit, that still would be where it is not. I know not. His description of American life and manners (and he knows both, for he has lived constantly in this country, and his particularities are, I believe, fairly divided between it and his own,) is any thing but agreeable. * * * * * * * * * * The dignified and graceful influence which married women, among us, exercise over the tone of manners, uniting the duties of home to the charms of social life, and bearing, at once, like the orange-tree, the fair fruits of maturity with the blossoms of their spring, is utterly unknown here. Married women are either house-drudges and nursery-maids, or, if they appear in society, comparative ciphers; and the retiring, modest, youthful bearing, which among us distinguishes girls of fifteen or sixteen, is equally unknown. Society is entirely led by chits, who in England would be sitting behind a pinafore; the consequence is, that it has neither the elegance, refinement, nor the propriety which belongs to ours; but is a noisy, rackety, vulgar congregation of flirting boys and girls, alike without style or decorum. When Mr. ---- was gone, practised till dinner-time. After dinner, practised for half an hour; marked journal, till time to go to the theatre; took coffee, and away. The house was crammed again, and the play better acted than I have ever seen it out of London, though Mrs. Candour had stuck upon her head a bunch of feathers which threatened the gods; and Lady Sneerwell had dragged all her hair off her face, which needed to be as pretty as it was, to endure such an exposure. I do not wonder the New Yorkians did not approve of my Lady Teazle. If, as ---- tells me, Mrs. ---- is their idea of the perfection of good-breeding, well may my delineation of a lady be condemned as "nothing particular." Yet I am sorry I must continue to lie under their censure, for I, unfortunately for myself, have seen ladies, "ripe and real," who, from all I can see, hear, and understand, differ widely from the good manners of their "beau ideal." The fact is, I am not "_genteel_" enough, and I am conscious of it. The play went off remarkably well. Came to bed at half-past eleven. * * * * * _Thursday, 18th._ Here is the end of October, the very mourning-time of the year with us, and my room is full of flowers, and the sun is so bright and powerful, that it is impossible to go out with a shawl, or without a parasol. Went to rehearsal at twelve; at two, came in and habited; and at half-past two, rode out with my father. We took the road to the Schuylkill at once, through Arch Street, which is a fine, broad, long street, running parallel with Chestnut Street. We walked along the road under the intense sunlight that made all things look sleepy around. Turning between some rising banks, through a defile where the road wound up a hill, we caught a glimpse of a white house standing on the sunny slope of a green rise. The undulating grounds around were all bathed in warm light, relieved only by the massy shadows of the thick woods that sheltered them. It was a bit of England. * * * * * Some good farming and tidy out-houses, and dependencies, completed the resemblance, and made me think that this must be the dwelling of some of my own country people. How can they live here? Here, even in the midst of what is fair and peaceful in nature, I think my home would haunt me, and the far-off chiming of the waves against her white shores resound in my ears through the smooth flowing of the Schuylkill. After pursuing a level uninteresting road for some time, we turned off to the right, and, standing on the brow of a considerable declivity, had a most enchanting glimpse of the Schuylkill and its woody shores. The river makes a bend just above the water-works, and the curving banks scooping themselves form a lovely little sunny bay. It was more like a lake, just here, than a flowing stream. The sky was so blessedly serene, and the air so still, that the pure deep-looking water appeared to sleep, while the bright hues of the heavens, and the glowing lints of the woody shores, were mirrored with wondrous vividness on its bosom. I never saw such gorgeousness, and withal such perfect harmony of colouring. The golden sky, the mingled green, brown, yellow, crimson, and dark maroon, that clothed the thickets; the masses of grey granite, with the vivid mossy green that clung round them; the sunny purple waters; the warm red colour of the road itself, as it wound down below, with a border of fresh-looking turf on either side of it; the radiant atmosphere of rosy light that hung over all; all combined to present a picture of perfect enchantment. The eye was drunk with beauty. How I though t of Mr. ----. Indeed a painter would have gone crazy over it, and I, who am not a painter, was half crazy that I was not. Though if I had been, what would it have availed? Such colours are from God's pallet, and mortal hand may no more copy, than it could mingle them. We rode on through scenery of the same description, passing in our way a farm and dairy, where the cattle were standing, not in open pastureland, but in a corner of forest-ground, all bright with the golden shedding of the trees; it was very picturesque. A little runlet of water, too, that held the middle of a tangled ravine, ran glittering like a golden snake through the underwood, while the stems of the trees, and the light foliage on the edge of the thick woody screens, were bathed in yellow sunshine. All around was beautiful, and rich, and harmonious to the eye, and should have been so to the spirit. * * * * * Returned home at about half-past five, dined at six; found another beautiful nosegay waiting for me, from my unknown furnisher of sweets. This is almost as tantalising as it is civil; and I would give half my lovely flowers to find out who sends them to me. Distributed them all over the room, and was as happy as a queen. Mr. ---- called. My father was obliged to go out upon business, so D---- and I had to entertain that worthy youth. He seems to have a wonderful veneration for a parcel of scribblers, whose names were never heard of in England, beyond the limits of their own narrow coteries. But he speaks like an enthusiast of the woods and waters of his glorious country, and I excuse his taste in poetry. Now isn't this strange, that a man who can feel the amazing might, majesty, and loveliness of nature, can endure for a moment the mawkish scribbling of these poetasters? Verily, we be anomalous beasts. * * * * * AUTUMN. Thou comest not in sober guise, In mellow cloak of russet clad-- Thine are no melancholy skies, Nor hueless flowers pale and sad; But, like an emperor, triumphing, With gorgeous robes of Tyrian dyes, Full flush of fragrant blossoming, And glowing purple canopies. How call ye this the season's fall, That seems the pageant of the year, Richer and brighter far than all The pomp that spring and summer wear? Red falls the westering light of day On rock and stream and winding shore; Soft woody banks and granite grey With amber clouds are curtain'd o'er; The wide clear waters sleeping lie Beneath the evening's wings of gold, And on their glassy breast the sky And banks their mingled hues unfold. Far in the tangled woods, the ground Is strewn with fallen leaves, that lie Like crimson carpets all around Beneath a crimson canopy. The sloping sun with arrows bright Pierces the forest's waving maze; The universe seems wrapt in light,-- A floating robe of rosy haze. Oh, Autumn! thou art here a king; And round thy throne the smiling Hours A thousand fragrant tributes bring Of golden fruits and blushing flowers. Oh, not upon thy fading fields and fells In such rich garb doth Autumn come to thee, My home!--but o'er thy mountains and thy dells His footsteps fall slowly and solemnly. Nor flower nor bud remaineth there to him, Save the faint-breathing rose, that, round the year Its crimson buds and pale soft blossoms dim In lowly beauty constantly doth wear. O'er yellow stubble lands, in mantle brown, He wanders through the wan October light; Still, as he goeth, slowly stripping down The garlands green that were the Spring's delight. At morn and eve thin silver vapours rise Around his path; but sometimes at mid-day He looks along the hills with gentle eyes, That make the sallow woods and fields seem gay. Yet something of sad sovereignty he hath-- A sceptre crown'd with berries ruby red; And the cold sobbing wind bestrews his path With wither'd leaves that rustle 'neath his tread; And round him still, in melancholy state, Sweet solemn thoughts of death and of decay, In slow and hush'd attendance, ever wait, Telling how all things fair must pass away. _Tuesday, 23d._ At ten o'clock, went to rehearsal. Rehearsed the Hunchback, and then Fazio: this is tolerably hard work, with acting every night: we don't steal our money, that's one comfort. Came home, found a letter for me in a strange hand. * * * * * * * * * * Went on with my letter to ----: while doing so, was interrupted by the entrance of a strange woman, who sat herself down, apparently in much confusion. She told me a story of great distress, and claimed my assistance as a fellow-countrywoman. I had not a farthing of money: D---- and my father were out; so I took the reference she gave me, and promised to enquire into her condition. The greatest evil arising from the many claims of this sort which are made upon us, wherever we go, is the feeling of distrust and suspicion which they engender, and the sort of excuse which they teach us to apply plausibly to our unwillingness to answer such demands. "Oh, ten to one, an impostor," is soon said, and instances enough may unfortunately be found to prove the probability of such a conclusion. Yet in this sweeping condemnation one real case of misery may be included, and that possibility should make us pause, for 'tis one that, if afterwards detected, may be the source of heavy condemnation, and bitter regret to ourselves. * * * * * * * * * * The fact is, that, to give well, one should give equally one's trouble with one's money: the one in all cases, the other where one's enquiries are satisfactorily answered.--Received a purple-bound gilt-edged periodical, published at Boston, from Mr. ----. * * * * * * * * * * The literary part of the book seems much on a par with that of similar works in England, but there was a wide difference in the excellence of the engravings. There was one from that pretty picture, the Bride's-Maid; a coarse bad engraving, but yet how much of the sadness of the original it recalled to me! It is a painful thing to look at: it brings before one too much of the sorrow of life, of the anguish that has been endured, that is daily, hourly, endured, in this prison-house of torments. After dinner, went on writing to ----, till time to go to the theatre. The house was not as full as I had expected, though a good one enough. My father looked wonderfully well and young: there is certainly some difference in acting with him; but this part fatigues me horribly. _Wednesday, 24th._ Went to rehearsal at eleven; at half-past one, went with D---- to find out something about my yesterday's poor woman. The worst of it is, that my trouble involves necessarily the trouble of somebody else, as I cannot go trotting and exploring about by myself. The references were sufficiently satisfactory, that is, they proved that she was poor, and in distress, and willing to work. I gave her what I could, and the man by whom she is employed seems anxious to afford her work: so I hope she will get on a little. The "God bless you," of gratitude, even if uttered by guileful and unworthy lips, is surely yet a blessing if it alights on those who are seeking to do good. And if I were assured that that woman was the veriest impostor under the sun, I still should hope her prayer might descend with profit on my head; for I was sincere in my desire to do well by her. Came home, wrote a letter to ----, finished one to ----; and went to the theatre. It seems there have been "Bloody noses and crack'd crowns, And all the currents of a heady fight," at the box-office, and truly the house bore witness thereto; for it was crammed from floor to ceiling. The play was the Hunchback. I played very well, in spite of no green carpet, and no letter in the letter scene, which lost one of my favourite points; one, by the by, that I am fond of, because it is all my own. * * * * * * * * * * _Thursday, 25th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal. Came home, put out things for the theatre, made myself a belt; received a whole bundle of smart annuals from Mr. ----; spent some time in looking over their engravings. My gown looked very handsome, but my belt was too small; had to make another. The house was good, but not great. I played only so-so: the fact is, it is utterly impossible to play to this audience at all. They are so immovable, such very stocks and stones, that one is fairly exhausted with labouring to excite them, before half one's work is done. * * * * * * * * * * AUTUMN SONG. The merriest time of all the year Is the time when the leaves begin to fall, When the chestnut-trees turn yellow and sear, And the flowers are withering one and all; When the thick green sward is growing brown, And the honeysuckle berries are red, And the oak is shaking its acorns down, And the dry twigs snap' neath the woodman's tread. The merriest dance that e'er was seen Is the headlong dance of the whirling leaves, And the rattling stubble that flies between The yellow ranks of the barley sheaves. The merriest song that e'er was heard Is the song of the sobbing autumn wind; When the thin bare boughs of the elm are stirr'd, And shake the black ivy round them twined. The merriest time of all the year Is the time when all things fade and fall, When the sky is bleak, and the earth is drear, Oh, that's the merriest month of all. _Friday, 26th._ While I was dressing, D----, like a good angel, came in with three letters from England in her hand. * * * * * The love of excellent friends is one of God's greatest blessings, and deserves our utmost thankfulness. The counsel of sound heads and the affection of Christian spirits is a staff of support, and a spring of rejoicing through life. * * * * * * * * * * A Mr., Mrs., and young Mr. ----, called upon us: they are the only inhabitants of this good city who have done us that honour. * * * * * As soon as my father came in, we sallied forth to see the giantess of a ship the Americans have been building, to thresh us withal. I hooked myself up to ----, and away we strode; D---- and my father struggling after us, as best they might. The day was most beautiful; bright, sunny, and fresh. After walking at an immense pace for some time, we bethought us of looking for our _poursuivants_; but neither sign nor vestige appeared of them. We stood still and waited, and went on, and stood still again. ---- looked foolish at me, and I foolish at him: at length we wisely agreed that they had probably made the best of their way to the Navy-yard, and thither we proceeded. We found them, according to our expectations, waiting for us, and proceeded to enter the building where this lady of the seas was propped upon a hundred stays, surrounded with scaffolding, with galleries running round from the floor to the ceiling. We went on deck; in fact, the Pennsylvania has been boarded by the English in our person, before she sets foot on the sea. How I should like to see that ship launched; how she will sweep down from her holdings, and settle to the water, as a swan before swimming out! How the shores will resound with living voices, applauding her like a living creature; how much of national pride, of anticipated triumph, will be roused in every heart, as her huge wings first unfold their shadow over the sea, and she moves abroad, the glory and the wonder of the deep! How, if this ship should ever lie in an English harbour! If I were an American on board of her, I would sooner blow her up, with all the "precious freighting souls" within her, than see such a consummation. When my wonderment had a little subsided, it occurred to me that she would not, perhaps, be so available a battle-ship as one of a smaller size: it must be impossible to manoeuvre her with any promptitude. * * * * * My father and ---- indulged in sundry right English bits of bragging, as they stood at her stern, looking down the enormous deck. I wish I knew her exact measurements: she is the largest ship ever built, larger than any East Indiaman; the largest ship in the world. How the sea will groan under her; nathless in a storm I would rather be in the veriest nutshell that ever was flung from wave-top to wave-top. How she would sink! she would go down like another Atlantis, poor ship! I have an amazing horror of drowning. Came home just in time to dine. After dinner, wrote letters; at six, went to the theatre; play, Hunchback; played so-so: the audience are detestable. The majority are so silent that they not only do not applaud the acting, but most religiously forbear to notice all noises in the house, in consequence of which some impudent women amused themselves with talking during the whole play, much "louder than the players." At one time their impertinent racket so bewildered me, that I was all but out, and this without the audience once interfering to silence them; perhaps, however, that would have been an unwarrantable interference with the sacred liberties of the people. I indulged them with a very significant glance; and at one moment was most strongly tempted to request them to hold their tongues. _Saturday, 27th._ The poor sick lady, whose pretty children I met running about the stairs, sent to say she should be very glad if I would go in and see her: I had had sundry inward promptings to this effect before, but was withheld by the real English dread of intruding. At eleven, went to rehearsal: on my return, called on Mrs. ----. * * * * * * * * * * She interested me most extremely: I would have stayed long with her, but feared she might exhaust herself by the exertion of conversing. On my return to my own room, I sent her Mr. ----'s annuals, and the volume of Mrs. Hemans's poetry he lent me. Began practising, when in walked that interesting youth, Mr. ----, with a nosegay, as big as himself, in his hand. Flowers,--sweet blooming, fresh, delicious flowers,--in the last days of October; the very sackcloth season of the year. How they do rejoice my spirit. He sat some time, making most excessively fine speeches to me: while he was here, arrived another bouquet from my unknown friend; how nice, to be sure! all but not knowing who they come from. When my visiter was gone, wrote to ---- till dinner-time. After dinner, spent nearly the whole afternoon in dressing my pretty flowers. Sent some of them in to Mrs. ----. I don't know why, but it seemed a sad present to make to her; for I almost fear she will never see the blossoms of another year. Yet why do I say that?--is not heaven brighter than even this flowery earth? * * * * * * * * * * Finished my letter to ----; went to the theatre. My benefit: the Provoked Husband. The house was very good. I played so-so, and looked very nice. What fine breeding this play is, to be sure: it is quite refreshing to act it; but it must be heathen Greek to the American _exclusives_, I should think. _Sunday, 28th._ Had only time to swallow a mouthful of breakfast, and off to church. I must say it requires a deal of fortitude to go into an American church: there are no pew-openers, and the people appear to rush indifferently into any seats that are vacant. We went into a pew where there were two women and a man, who did not take up one half of it; but who, nevertheless, looked most ungracious at our coming into it. They did not move to make way or accommodate us, but remained, with very discourteous unchristian-like sulkiness, spread over twice as much space as they required. The spirit of independence seems to preside paramount, even in the house of God. This congregation, by frequenting an Episcopalian temple, evidently professed the form of faith of the English church; yet they neither uttered the responses, nor observed any one of the directions in the Common Prayer-book. Thus, during portions of the worship where kneeling is enjoined, they sat or stood; and while the Creed was being read, half the auditors were reclining comfortably in their pews: the same thing with the Psalms, and all parts of the service. I suppose their love of freedom will not suffer them to be amenable to forms, or wear the exterior of humbleness and homage, even in the house of the Most High God. The whole appearance of the congregation was that of indifference, indolence, and irreverence, and was highly displeasing to my eye. After church, came home, and began writing to ----. ---- called. He sat some time mending pens for me; and at half-past one D----, he, and I packed ourselves into a coach, and proceeded on to Fair Mount, where we got out, and left the coach to wait for us. The day was bright and bitter cold: the keen spirit-like wind came careering over the crisping waters of the broad river, and carried across the cloudless blue sky the golden showers from the shivering woods. They had not lost their beauty yet; though some of their crimson robes were turned to palest yellow, and through the thin foliage the dark boughs and rugged barks showed distinctly, yet the sun shone joyfully on them, and they looked beautiful still; and so did the water, curled into a thousand mimic billows, that came breaking their crystal heads along the curving shore, which, with its shady indentings and bright granite promontories, seemed to lock the river in, and gave it the appearance of a lovely lake. We took the tow-path, by D----'s desire; but found (alas, that it is ever so!) that it was distance lent enchantment to the view. For, though it was very pretty, it had lost some of the beauty it seemed to wear, when we looked down upon it from the woody heights that skirt the road. On we went, ---- and I moderating our strides to keep pace with D----; and she, puffing, panting, and struggling on to keep pace with us; yet I was perished, and she was half melted: like all compromises, it was but a botched business. The wind was deliciously fresh; and I think, as we buffeted along in its very face, we should have made an admirable subject for Bunbury. I, with my bonnet off, my combs out, and all my hair flying about, hooked up to ----, who, willow-like, bent over me, to facilitate my reaching his arm. D---- following in the rear, her cap and hair half over her face, her shawl and clothes fluttering in the blast, her cheeks the colour of crimson, which, relieved by her green bonnet, whose sides she grappled tightly down to balk the wind, had much the effect of a fine carnation bursting its verdant sheath. I never saw any thing half so absurd in my life, as we all looked. Yet it was very pleasant and wholesome, good for soul and body. After walking for some time, I asked D---- the hour. It was three, and we were to dine at four, in order to accommodate the servants, who, in this land of liberty, make complete slaves of their masters. Horror took possession of us,--how were we ever to get back in time? To turn back was hopeless: the endless curvings of the shore, however much we had admired their graceful sinuosities before, would now have appeared abominable to our straight-forward designs of home, so we agreed to climb the hill and take the upper road--and what a hill it was!--the sun poured his intense rays down upon it; and, what with the heat and the wind, and the steep path-way, I thought poor D---- would have died. We turned once as we reached the summit, and I never saw any thing more lovely than the scene we were leaving behind us. The beautiful blue water winding far away between its woody shores; close below the hill, a small reed-crowned island lying like a gem on the bright river, and a little beyond, the unfinished arches of a white bridge: the opposite shores were bathed with the evening light, and far away the varied colours of the autumnal woods were tinged with the golden glory of sunset. But we were pursued by the thought of four o'clock, and paused but a moment. On we struggled, and at last my frozen blood began to warm; and by the time we reached the carriage, I was in a fine glow. Certainly exercise is, in itself, very delightful, but in scenes like these it is doubly so: the spirit is roused to activity by the natural beauties around, and the fancy and feelings seem to acquire vigour from the quick circulation of the blood, and the muscular energy of the limbs; it is highly excellent. We jumped into the coach, adjured the man by all the saints in the calendar to put wings to his chariot wheels, and sat concocting plausible lies, by way of excuses, all the way home. At last we hit upon an admirable invention. The cause of our being so late was to be, that we stopped to render our assistance in reviving an unfortunate young woman (a lovely creature, of course), who had thrown herself into the Schuylkill, in consequence of some love disappointment, and who was withdrawn just in time to be preserved. ---- was to tell this story with the gravest face he could summon for the occasion, while we went up to dress, and when we came down we were to corroborate his statement as correctly as good chance might enable us. We dressed in half a minute, and found Mr. ---- sitting with my father, and ---- looking amazingly demure. It seemed, however, that no remark had been made, nor question asked, about our protracted perambulations, so that we had actually thrown away all our ingenuity. This vexed me so much, that in the middle of dinner I introduced the topic of drowning, and, with a lamentable face, related the circumstance; but, alas! one of my auditors was occupied with a _matelotte d'anguilles_, another with an oyster _vol-au-vent_, and all the pretty girls in creation might have been drowned, without the loss in any degree affecting the evident satisfaction which the above subjects of meditation seemed to afford the gentlemen: what selfish brutes men are! shocking. Our invention was thus twice thrown away: one said "Humph!" and the other "Ha!" and that was the extent of their sympathy. After dinner, came up to my own room, lay down, and fairly slept till coffee was announced. Came down with half an eye open, and found the circle augmented by the delectable presence of Mr. ----. What an original that youth is! They talked politics, abused republicanism, lauded aristocracy, drank tea, took snuff, ate cakes, and pottered a deal. My father was going fast asleep, ---- was making a thousand signs to me to go to the piano, when Mr. ---- rose to depart: the other gentlemen took the hint, and left us at half-past ten. _Tuesday, 30th._ At eleven o'clock, went to rehearsal: came home, began letter to ----. Called with my father upon Mrs. ----: the servant committed that awfullest of blunders, letting one into the house, and then finding out that nobody was at home. Came home, practised for some time: all of a sudden the door opened, and in walked Colonel ---- with my father. He had just arrived from New York. He dined with us. After dinner, finished letter to ----. The house was very good; play, Much Ado about Nothing. I played well; but what an audience it is! I have been often recommended, in cases of nervousness on the stage, to consider the audience as just so many cabbages, and, indeed, a small stretch of fancy would enable me to do so here. Colonel ---- supped with us. Found an invitation to dinner from the ----. "One exception makes a rule," say the scholars; by that same token, therefore, the Philadelphians are about the most inhospitable set of people it ever was my good fortune to fall in with. Towards the end of supper, we fell into a strange discussion as to the nature of existence. A vain and fruitless talk, after all; for life shall be happy or sad, not, indeed, according to its events, but according to the nature of the individuals to whom these events befall. Colonel ---- maintained that life was in itself desirable; abounding in blessings, replete with comforts, a fertile land, where still, as one joy decays, another springs up to flourish in its place. He said that he felt thankful every day, and every hour of the day, for his existence; that he feared death, only because life was an absolute enjoyment, and that he would willingly, to-morrow, accept the power of beginning his again, even though he should be placed on the world's threshold, a lonely friendless beggar: so sure was he that his prospects would brighten, and friends spring up to him, and plenty reward labour, and life become pleasant, ere it had grown many years old. How widely human beings differ! It was but an hour before, that I, in counting how many stars I had already seen go down below the horizon of existence,--Weber, Lawrence, Scott, all of whom I have known,--was saying to D----, "How sad a thing, and strange, life is!" adding, what I repent me for, "I wish that I were dead!" Oh, how can any human being, who looks abroad into the world, and within upon himself, who sees the wondrous mystery of all things, the unabidingness which waits on all matter, the imperfection which clogs all spirit; who notes the sovereignty of change over the inanimate creation, of disease, decay, and death over man's body, of blindness and delusion over his mind, of sin over his soul; who beholds the frailty of good men; who feels the miserable inconsistency of his own nature; the dust and ashes of which our love, and what we love, is made; the evil that, like an unwholesome corpse, still clings to our good; the sorrow that, like its shadow, still walks behind our joy;--oh, who that sees all this can say that this life is other than sad--most sad? Yet, while I write this, God forbid that I should therefore want eyes to see, or sense to feel, the blessings wherewith he has blessed it; the rewards with which he sweetens our task, the flowers wherewith he cheers our journey's road, the many props wherewith he supports our feet in it. Yet of all these, the sweetest, the brightest, the strongest, are those which our soul draws from him, the end of its desire, not those it finds here. And how should not that spirit yearn for its accomplishment? If we seek knowledge here, a thousand mists arise between our incapable senses and the truth, how, then, should we not wish to cast away this darkness, and soar to the fountains of all light? If we strive to employ those faculties which, being of our soul, have the strength and enduring of immortality, the objects whereon we expend them here are vague, evanescent, disappointing; how then should we not desire to find food for our capacities, abiding as themselves? If we long to love--ah, are not the creatures in whom we centre our affections frail, capable of change; perishable, born to decay? How then should we not look with unutterable yearning for that life where affection is unchangeable, eternal? Surely, if all the hopes, the fears, the aims, the tendings of our soul, have but their beginning here, it is most natural, it is most fitting, to turn to that future where they shall be fulfilled. But there lies a road between. * * * * * * * * * * A break--a break--a break! So much the better; for the two last days have been nothing but annoyance, hard work, and heartach. * * * * * * * * * * _Friday, November 2d._ A bright sunny day; too hot for a fire; windows open, shutters closed, and the room full of flowers. How the sweet summer-time stays lingering here. Found Colonel ---- in the drawing-room. After breakfast, began writing to ----. Mr. ---- called: he stayed but a short time, and went out with Colonel ----. My father went out soon after, and I began to practise. Mrs. ---- came in and sat with me: she played to me, and sang "Should those fond hopes ever leave thee." Her voice was as thin as her pale transparent hands. She appeared to me much better than when last I saw her; but presently told me she had just been swallowing eighty drops of laudanum, poor thing! When she was gone, went on practising, and writing, till my father came home. Walked with him and D---- to call on old Lady ----. The day was so hot that I could scarcely endure my boa. The election was going on; the streets full of rabblement, the air full of huzzaing, and the sky obscured with star-spangled banners, and villanous transparencies of "Old Hickory," hung out in all directions. We went round the Town-House, and looked at the window out of which Jefferson read the Act of Independence, that proclaimed the separation between England and America. Called at a music-shop, tossed over heaps of music, bought some, and ordered some to be sent home for me to look over. Came home, put out things for the theatre. Dined at three. * * * * * * * * * * Received another beautiful nosegay. After dinner, went on with letter to ----; tried over my music; Heber's song that I wanted is not among them. The sunset was glorious, the uprising of the moon most beautiful. There is an intensity, an earnestness, about the colour of the sky, and the light of its bright inhabitants here, that is lovely and solemn, beyond any thing I ever saw. Can Italy have brighter heavens than these? surely nothing can exceed the beauty of these days and nights. We were obliged to go all manner of roundabouts to the play-house, in order to avoid the rabble that choked up the principal streets. I, by way of striking salutary awe into the hearts of all rioters who might come across our path, brandished my father's sword out of the coach window the whole way along. The play was Venice Preserved; my father played Jaffier. * * * * * * * * * * I played pretty well. The house was very good; but at the end I really was half dead. * * * * * On our return home, met a procession of electioneerers carrying triangular paper lanterns upon poles, with "sentiments" political scribbled thereon, which, however, I could not distinguish. Found a most exquisite nosegay waiting for me at home, so sweet, so brilliant, so fragrant and fresh. * * * * * Found nothing for supper that I could fancy. Drank some tea, wrote journal. Colonel ---- came in after supper, and wondered that I had played better to my father's Jaffier than to Mr. Keppel's. Heaven bless the world, for a _conglomerated amalgamation_ of fools! _Monday, 5th._ Guy Fawkes' day, and no squibs, no firing of pistols, no bonfires, nor parading about of ferocious-looking straw men. Ah! these poor people never had a king and two houses of parliament, and don't know what a mercy it is they weren't blown up before they passed the reform bill. Now if such an accident should occur to them, they'd all be sure to be blown straight into heaven, and hang there. Rose at half-past five. Oh, I quite agree with the Scotch song, "Up in the morning's na for me, Up in the morning early; I'd rather watch a winter's night, Than rise in the morning early." Dressed myself by candlelight. Mrs. ---- sent in to ask me if I would see her, but I had not time. Sent her a note, and received, in exchange, the seed of what I suspect is the wood laurel, common in this country, but unknown in ours. Started from the Mansion House (which is a very nice inn, kept by the civilest of people,) at six, and reached the quay just in time to meet the first rosy breaking of the clouds over the Delaware. * * * * * * * * * * I am sorry to leave Philadelphia. I like the town, and the little I have seen of its inhabitants, very much; I mean in private, for they are intolerable audiences. There is an air of stability, of well-to-do, and occasionally of age, in the town, that reminds me of England. Then, as far as my yesterday's dinner will allow me to judge, I should say, that not only the style of living but the society was superior to that which I saw in New York. Certainly, both the entertainment itself, and the guests, were irreproachable; the first was in very good taste, the latter appeared to me well-informed, and very agreeable. The morning, in spite of all ----'s persuasive prophecies, was beautiful beyond description. The river like the smoothest glass. The sky was bright and cloudless, and along the shores, the distinctness with which each smallest variation of form, or shade of colour, was reflected in the clear mirror of the Delaware was singularly beautiful and fairy-like. The tints of the woods were what no words can convey the slightest idea of. Now, a whole tract of withered oaks, of a red brick hue, like a forest scorched with fire; now, a fresh thicket of cedars of the brightest green; then, wide screens of mingled trees, where the foliage was one gorgeous mixture of vermilion, dark maroon, tender green, golden yellow, and deep geranium. The whole land at a distance appearing to lie under an atmosphere of glowing colour, richer than any crimson mantle that ever clothed the emperors of the olden world; all this illuminated by a sun, which we should have thought too hot for June. It was very beautiful. I did not, however, see much of it, for I was overcome with fatigue, and slept both in the steam-boat and in the stage-coach. When we embarked on the Raritan, I had intended lying down in the cabin, and taking my sleep fairly out, but the jolting of those bitter roads had made every one of the women sick, and the cabin was horrible beyond expression. Came up on deck, and worked till within a quarter of a mile of New York, when I went on the upper deck, and walked about with Colonel ----. I asked Captain Seymour how often the engine would strike in a minute; he told me, thirty-six times. By the by, we had a race, coming down the Raritan, with the Union steam-boat. The Water Witch beat her hollow; but she came so near as to make our water rough, and so impede our progress, that I thought we should have had a concussion; there is something very exciting in emulation, certainly. The sun went down in a watery gloomy sky, though the day had been so fine; and when we got sight of the Narrows, sky, and sea, and land, were all of a dark leaden hue. Our second landing at New York was rather melancholy: shall I ever forget the first? Came up to our comfortless quarters at the American; dressed, and dined, and began finishing my letter to dear ----, when they brought me in another from her, by the packet that has just come in. * * * * * * * * * * _Tuesday, 6th._ It poured with rain. Lucky we did not follow ----'s advice, else we should have been miserably progressing through rain and wretchedness, or perhaps sticking fast in the mud. Went and took a warm bath; came home, breakfasted; after breakfast, practised for an hour; finished letter to ----; wrote to my mother; dined at five. After dinner, Colonel ---- called, and very nearly caused a blow-up between me and my father: he came preaching to me the necessity of restoring those lines of Bianca's, in the judgment-scene, which were originally omitted, afterwards restored by me at Milman's request, and again cut out, on finding that they only lengthened the scene, without producing the slightest effect. My father appeared perfectly to agree with me, but added, that I might as well oblige the people. I straightforth said I would do no such thing. People sitting before the curtain must not come and tell me what I am to do behind it. Not one out of a hundred, in the first place, understand what they are talking about; and why, therefore, am I to alter my work at their suggestion, when each particular scene has cost me more consideration than they ever bestowed upon any whole play in all their lives. Besides, it would be with me and my parts as with the old man, his son, and his ass, in the fable of old; I should never have done altering, and yet never satisfy any body; for the most universal talent I know of is that of finding fault. So, all things well considered, the New Yorkians must e'en be contented with the judgment of Miss O'Neill, my father, and their obedient humble servant. Worked till tea-time; after tea, wrote letters till now, bed-time. _Wednesday, 7th._ Our breakfast was so bad, none of us could eat any thing. After breakfast, despatched letters to Mr. ----, for England. Practised for an hour,--sketched for an hour. * * * * * * * * * * At half-past one, went out with my father to walk on the Battery, while Colonel ---- and D---- went to ----, to see if we could get decent lodgings, and wholesome eatables there. The day was melancholy, grey, cold; with a full fresh wind, whirling the rattling leaves along, and rippling the leaden waters of the wide estuary that opens before this beautiful parade. The Jersey shore and Staten Island, with their withered woods all clothed in their dark warm autumnal hues, at a distance reminded me of the heathery hills of Scotland; they had that dark purple richness of colouring. * * * * * * * * * * D---- and Colonel ---- joined us, and we walked up Broadway together: my father left me to go with them, and look at our proposed dwelling. It is all in vain struggling with one's fate; 'tis clear they haven't the most distant idea of the comforts of life in these parts. Darkness, dinginess, and narrowness, were the attributes of the apartments into which we were shown; then, as the Colonel had never eaten in the house, he did not know what our food might be--pleasant this! _Resolved_, that we were better off where we are, and so returned to the American. Sketched and practised for some time longer. Mr. ---- called to go with my father to Mrs. ----'s, where they were to dine. He certainly is one of the handsomest men I ever saw; but he looks half dead, and is working himself to death, it should seem. * * * * * * * * * * He told me that Boston was the most charming town in America. * * * * * Put away things, while D---- unpacked them. Dressed for dinner. Dined at five; afterwards proceeded in the unpacking and stowing away. * * * * * I was interrupted by the announcement of an incomprehensible cognomen, which solved itself in the shape of Mr. ----, who walked in, sat down, and began talking a deal of nonsense. I worked, that I might not go to sleep. He was most exceedingly odd and dauldrummish, I think he was a little "how com'd you so indeed." He sat very near me, spoke exceedingly drowsily, and talked an amazing quantity of thickish philosophy, and moral and sentimental potter. I bore it as well as I could, till ten o'clock, when I asked him how long it was "reckoned" discreet, in this country, to prolong evening visits; whereupon he arose and took his departure. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Worked at the ornaments of my Bianca dress, finished one, and wrote journal. _Thursday, 8th._ * * * * * After breakfast, worked at my dress till late; Mr. ---- called. Put away goods and chattels; put out things for the theatre. A brother of Mr. ---- called upon us, and sat some time: when he was gone, came back to my room to finish the ornaments for my dress. This day has been spent in the thorough surroundings of my vocation; foil stone, glass beads, and brass tape! ---- came just before dinner; and at the end of it, Colonel ---- called. He read us a paragraph in one of the Philadelphia papers, upon me, and all my good parts; there was actually a column of them. It was well written, for I was absolute perfection; excepting, indeed, in one respect, the hauteur and disdain with which I had treated the "_rank_ and fashion of Philadelphia." Now this was not true, for, to speak candidly, I did not know that there were such things as rank and fashion in all America. However, the article made me laugh extremely, for, as I could not help observing, "there are real lords and ladies in my country." * * * * * Came to my own room,--refurbished my green velvet bonnet. 'Tis a worthy old thing that, and looks amazingly well. The cold weather is setting in very bitterly to-day; we were obliged to have a fire. Heard my father his part: whilst saying it, he received a subpoena on some business between Mr. ---- and Mr. ----. At a quarter to six, went to the theatre. Play, Fazio; house very fine; dress like a bonfire. I played well, but then my father was the Fazio. The people cried abundantly. Mrs. ---- was shocked at having to play that naughty woman Aldabella (I wish they would let me try that part); and when the Duke dismissed her in the last scene, picked up her train, and flounced off in a way that made the audience for to laugh. Coming home, Mr. ---- overtook us. My father asked him in, but he excused himself; before, however, we were well seated, he had repented the refusal, and came rushing back. Colonel ---- came in, and they both of them supped with us, discussing many matters of pith. Received a nosegay, as big as myself, of dahlias and other autumnal flowers. * * * * * The moon is resplendent! the earth is flooded with her cold light--beautiful! By the by, _last night_, at three o'clock this morning, I was awakened by music. It was a military band playing Yankee Doodle, the national anthem of the Americans, accompanied by the tramp of a considerable body of men. They took the direction of the Park, and there halted, when I heard a single voice haranguing for a length of time, with occasional interruptions of vehement huzzas, and rolling of drums. And anon, the march struck up again, grew faint, and died into the stillness of night. * * * * * I was much bounden to the Jacksonites, who are carrying it by fair means or foul. One man, I was assured, voted nine times over! He was an Irishman, and, it is to be presumed, a tailor. _Saturday, 10th._ Skipped yesterday: so much the better, for though it began, like May, with flowers and sunshine, it ended, like December, with the sulks, and a fit of crying. The former were furnished me by my friends and Heaven, the latter, by myself and the devil. * * * * * * * * * * At six o'clock, D---- roused me; and grumpily enough I arose. I dressed myself by candlelight in a hurry. Really, by way of a party of pleasure, 'tis too abominable to get up in the middle of the night this fashion. At half-past six, Colonel ---- came; and as soon as I could persuade myself into my clothes, we set off to walk to the quay. Just as we were nearing the bottom of Barclay Street, the bell rang from the steam-boat, to summon all loiterers on board; and forthwith we rushed, because in this country steam and paddles, like wind and tide in others, wait for no man. We got on board in plenty time, but D---- was nearly killed with the pace at which we had walked, in order to do so. One of the first persons we saw was Mr. ----, who was going up to his father's place beyond West Point, by name Hyde Park, which sounds mighty magnificent. I did not remain long on the second deck, but ascended to the first with Colonel ----, and paced to and fro with infinite zeal till breakfast-time. The morning was grey and sad-looking, and I feared we should not have a fine day: however, towards eight o'clock, the grey clouds parted, and the blue serene eyes of heaven looked down upon the waters; the waves began to sparkle, though the sun had not yet appeared; the sky was lighter, and faint shadows began to appear beside the various objects that surrounded us, all which symptoms raised our hopes of the weather. At eight o'clock, we went down to breakfast. Nobody, who has not seen it, can conceive the strange aspect of the long room of one of these fine boats at meal-time. The crowd, the hurry, the confusion of tongues, like the sound of many waters, the enormous consumption of eatables, the mingled demands for more, the cloud of black waiters hovering down the sides of the immense tables, the hungry eager faces seated at them, form altogether a most amusing subject of contemplation, and a caricaturist would find ample matter for his vein in almost every other devouring countenance. As far as regards the speed, safety, and convenience with which these vessels enable one to perform what would be in any other conveyance most fatiguing journeys, they are admirable inventions. The way in which they are conducted, too, deserves the highest commendation. Nothing can exceed the comfort with which they are fitted up, the skill with which they are managed, and the order and alacrity with which passengers are taken up from, or landed at, the various points along the river. The steamer goes at the rate of fifteen miles an hour; and in less than two minutes, when approaching any place of landing, the engine stops, the boat is lowered--the captain always convoys his passengers himself from the steamer to the shore--away darts the tiny skiff, held by a rope to the main boat; as soon as it grazes the land, its freight, animate and inanimate, is bundled out, the boat hauls itself back in an instant, and immediately the machine is in motion, and the vessel again bounding over the water like a race-horse. Doubtless all this has many and great advantages; but to an English person, the mere circumstance of being the whole day in a crowd is a nuisance. As to privacy at any time, or under any circumstances, 'tis a thing that enters not into the imagination of an American. They do not seem to comprehend that to be from sunrise to sunset one of a hundred and fifty people confined in a steam-boat is in itself a great misery, or that to be left by one's self and to one's self can ever be desirable. They live all the days of their lives in a throng, eat at ordinaries of two or three hundred, sleep five or six in a room, take pleasure in droves, and travel by swarms. * * * * * In spite, therefore, of all its advantages, this mode of journeying has its drawbacks, and the greatest of all, to me, is the being _companioned_ by so many strangers, who crowd about you, pursue their conversation in your very ears, or, if they like it better, listen to yours, stare you out of all countenance, and squeeze you out of all comfort. It is perfectly intolerable to me; but then I have more than even the national English abhorrence of coming in contact with strangers. There is no moment of my life when I would not rather be alone than in company; and feeling, as I often do, the society of even those I love a burden, the being eternally surrounded by indifferent persons is a positive suffering that interferes with every enjoyment, and makes pleasure three parts endurance. I think this constant living in public is one reason why the young women here are much less retiring and shy than English girls. Instead of the domestic privacy in which women among us are accustomed to live, and move, and have their being, here they are incessantly, as Mr. ---- says, "_en vidence_." Accustomed to the society of strangers, mixing familiarly with persons of whom they know nothing earthly, subject to the gaze of a crowd from morning till night, pushing, and pressing, and struggling in self-defence, conversing, and being conversed with, by the chance companions of a boarding-house, a steam-boat, or the hotel of a fashionable watering-place, they must necessarily lose every thing like reserve or bashfulness of deportment, and become free and familiar in their manners, and noisy and unrefined in their tone and style of conversation. An English girl of sixteen, put on board one of these Noah's arks (for verily there be clean and unclean beasts in them), would feel and look like a scared thing. To return to our progress. After losing sight of New York, the river becomes narrower in its bed, and the banks on either side assume a higher and more rocky appearance. A fine range of basaltic rock, called the Palisadoes, rising to a height of some hundred feet (I guess), immediately from the water on the left, forms a natural rampart, overhanging the river for several miles. The colour of the basalt was greenish grey, and contrasted finely with the opposite shore, whose softer undulations were yet clothed with verdure, and adorned with patches of woodland, robed in the glorious colours of an American autumn. While despatching breakfast, the reflection of the sun's rays on the water flickered to and fro upon the cabin ceiling; and through the loop-hole windows we saw the bright foam round the paddles sparkling like frothed gold in the morning light. On our return to the deck, the face of the world had become resplendent with the glorious sunshine that now poured from the east; and rock and river, earth and sky, shone in intense and dazzling brilliancy. The broad Hudson curled into a thousand crisp billows under the fresh north-wester that blew over it. The vaporous exhalations of night had melted from the horizon, and the bold rocky range of one shore, and exquisite rolling outline of the other, stood out in fair relief against the deep serene of the blue heavens. * * * * * I remained on deck without my bonnet, walking to and fro, and enjoying the delicious wind that was as bracing as a shower-bath. Mr. ---- most civilly offered me, when I returned to New York, the use of a horse, and himself as escort to a beautiful ride beyond Hoboken, which proffer was very gratefully received by me. Colonel ---- introduced me to an old man of the name of ----. * * * * * * * * * * a jester, and a long story-teller;--a man whom it would be awful to meet when you were too late for dinner, still more awful on your progress to a rendezvous;--a man to whom a listener is a Godsend, and a button an anchor of discoursing for half a day. He made me laugh once or twice heartily. As we passed the various points of the river, to which any interest, legendary or historical, attached, each of my three companions drew my attention to it; and I had, pretty generally, three variations of the same anecdote at each point of observation. On we boiled past Spitendevil creek, where the waters of the broad Hudson join those of the East River, and circle with their silver arms the island of Manhattan. Past the last stupendous reach of the Palisadoes, which, stretching out into an endless promontory, seems to grow with the mariner's onward progress, and bears witness to the justice with which Hudson, on his exploring voyage up the river, christened it, the "weary point." Past the thick masses of wood that mark the shadowy site of Sleepy Hollow. Past the marble prison of Sing Sing; and Tarrytown, where poor Andr was taken; and on the opposite shore, saw the glimmering white buildings, among which his tomb reposes.--By the by, for a bit of the marvellous, which I dearly love. I am credibly informed that on the day the traitor Arnold died, in England, a thunderbolt struck the tree that grew above Andr's tomb here, on the shores of the Hudson--nice, that! Crossed the broad, glorious, Tappan Sea, where the shores, receding, form a huge basin, where the brimming waters roll in an expanse of lake-like width, yet hold their rapid current to the ocean, themselves a running sea. The giant shadows of the mountains on the left, falling on the deep basin at their feet, the triumphant sunlight that made the restless mirror that reflected it too bright for the eye to rest upon, the sunny shores to the right, rising and falling in every exquisite form that hill and dale can wear, the jutting masses of granite, glittering like the diamond rocks of fairy-land in the sun, the golden waves flinging themselves up every tiny crevice, the glowing crimson foliage of the distant woods, the fresh vivid green of the cedars, that rifted their strong roots in every stony cleft, and threw a semblance of summer over these November days--all, all was beautiful, and full of brightness. We passed the lighthouse of Stony Point, now the peaceful occupant of the territory where the blood in English veins was poured out by English hands, during the struggle between old-established tyranny and the infant liberties of this giant world. Over all and each, the blessed sky bent its blue arch, resplendently clear and bright, while far away the distant summits of the Highlands rose one above another, shutting in the world, and almost appearing as though each bend of the river must find us locked in their shadowy circle, without means of onward progress. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * At every moment, the scene varied; at every moment, new beauty and grandeur was revealed to us; at every moment, the delicious lights and shadows fell with richer depth and brightness upon higher openings into the mountains, and fairer bends of the glorious river. At about a quarter to eleven, the buildings of West Point were seen, perched upon the rock side, overhanging the water; above, the woody rise, upon whose summit stands the large hotel, the favourite resort of visiters during the summer season; rising again above this, the ruins of Fort Putnam, poor Andr's prison-house, overlooking the Hudson and its shores; and, towering high beyond them all, the giant hills, upon whose brown shoulders the trees looked like bristles standing up against the sky. We left the boat, or rather she left us, and presently we saw her holding her course far up the bright water, and between the hills; where framed by the dark mountains, with the sapphire stream below and the sapphire sky above, lay the bright little town of Newburgh, with its white buildings glittering in the sunshine. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We toiled up the ascent, which, though by comparison with its over-peering fellows inconsiderable, was a sufficiently fatiguing undertaking under the unclouded weather and over the unshaded downs that form the parade-ground for the cadets. West Point is a military establishment, containing some two hundred and fifty pupils, who are here educated for the army under the superintendence of experienced officers. The buildings, in which they reside and pursue their various studies, stand upon a grassy knoll holding the top of the rocky bank of the river, and commanding a most enchanting view of its course. They are not particularly extensive, but commodious and well-ordered. I am told they have a good library; but on reaching the dwelling of Mr. Cozzens (proprietor of the hotel, which being at this season shut, he received us most hospitably and courteously in his own house), I felt so weary, that I thought it impossible I should stir again for the whole day, and declined seeing it. I had walked on the deck at an amazing pace, and without once sitting down, from eight o'clock till eleven; and I think must nearly have killed Colonel ----, who was my companion during this march. However, upon finding that it wanted full an hour till dinner-time, it was agreed that we should go up to the fort, and we set off under the guidance of one of Mr. Cozzens' servants, who had orders not to go too fast with us. Before turning into the woods that cover the foot of the mountain, we followed a bit of road that overhung the river; and stealing over its sleepy-looking waters, where shone like stars the white sails of many a tiny skiff, came the delicious notes of a bugle-horn. The height at which we stood above the water prevented the ear being satisfied with the complete subject of the musician, but the sweet broken tones that came rising from the far-down thickets that skirted the river had more harmony than a distinct and perfect strain. I stood entranced to listen--the whole was like a dream of fairy-land: but presently our guide struck into the woods, and the world became screened from our sight. I had thought that I was tired, and could not stir, even to follow the leisurely footsteps of our cicerone; but tangled brake and woodland path, and rocky height, soon roused my curiosity, and my legs following therewith, I presently outstripped our party, guide and all, and began pursuing my upward path, through close-growing trees and shrubs, over pale shining ledges of granite, over which the trickling mountain springs had taken their silvery course; through swampy grounds, where the fallen leaves lay like gems under the still pools that here and there shone dimly in little hollow glens; over the soft starry moss that told where the moist earth retained the freshening waters, over sharp hard splinters of rock, and rough masses of stone. Alone, alone, I was alone and happy, and went on my way rejoicing, climbing and climbing still, till the green mound of thick turf, and ruined rampart of the fort arrested my progress. I coasted the broken wall, and, lighting down on a broad smooth table of granite fringed with young cedar bushes, I looked down, and for a moment my breath seemed to stop, the pulsation of my heart to cease--I was filled with awe. The beauty and wild sublimity of what I beheld seemed almost to crush my faculties,--I felt dizzy as though my senses were drowning,--I felt as though I had been carried into the immediate presence of God. Though I were to live a thousand years, I never can forget it. The first thing that I distinctly saw was the shadow of a large cloud, which rolled slowly down the side of a huge mountain, frowning over the height where I stood. The shadow moved down its steep sunny side, threw a deep blackness over the sparkling river, and then passed off and climbed the opposite mountain on the other shore, leaving the world in the full blaze of noon. I could have stretched out my arms, and shouted aloud--I could have fallen on my knees, and worshipped--I could have committed any extravagance that ecstasy could suggest. I stood filled with amazement and delight, till the footsteps and voices of my companions roused me. I darted away, unwilling to be interrupted. Colonel ---- was following me, but I peremptorily forbade his doing so, and was clambering on alone, when the voice of our guide, assuring me that the path I was pursuing was impassable, arrested my course. My father beckoned to me from above not to pursue my track; so I climbed through a break, which the rocky walls of nature and the broken fortifications of art rendered tolerably difficult of access, and running round the wall joined my father on his high stand, where he was holding out his arms to me. For two or three minutes we mingled exclamations of delight and surprise: he then led me to the brink of the rampart; and, looking down the opposite angle of the wall to that which I was previously coasting, I beheld the path I was then following break suddenly off, on the edge of a precipice several hunched feet down into the valley: it made me gulp to look at it. Presently I left my father, and, after going the complete round of the ruins, found out for myself a grassy knoll commanding a full view of the scene, sufficiently far from my party not to hear their voices, and screened from seeing them by some beautiful young cedar bushes; and here I lay down and cried most abundantly, by which means I recovered my senses, which else, I think, must have forsaken me. How full of thoughts I was! Of God's great might, and gracious goodness, of the beauty of this earth, of the apparent nothingness of man when compared with this huge inanimate creation, of his wondrous value, for whose delight and use all these fair things were created! I thought of my distant home; that handful of earth thrown upon the wide waters, whose genius has led the kingdoms of the world--whose children have become the possessors of this new hemisphere. I rejoiced to think that when England shall be, as all things must be, fallen into the devouring past, her language will still be spoken among these glorious hills, her name revered, her memory cherished, her fame preserved here, in this far world beyond the seas, this country of her children's adoption. Poor old mother! how she would remain amazed to see the huge earth and waters where her voice is heard, in the name of every spot where her descendants have rested the soles of their feet: this giant inheritance of her sons, poor, poor, old England! * * * * * Where are the poets of this land? Why, such a world should bring forth men with minds and souls larger and stronger than any that ever dwelt in mortal flesh! They should be giants, too; Homers and Miltons, and Goethes and Dantes, and Shakspeares. Have these glorious scenes poured no inspirings into hearts worthy to behold and praise their beauty? Is there none to come here and worship among these hills and waters till his heart burns within him, and the hymn of inspiration flows from his lips, and rises to the sky? Is there not one among the sons of such a soil to send forth its praises to the universe, to throw new glory round the mountains, new beauty over the waves? Is inanimate nature, alone, here "telling the glories of God?" Oh, surely, surely, there will come a time when this lovely land will be vocal with the sound of song, when every close-locked valley and waving wood, rifted rock and flowing stream, shall have their praise. Yet 'tis strange how marvellously unpoetical these people are! How swallowed up in life and its daily realities, wants, and cares! How full of toil and thrift, and money-getting labour! Even the heathen Dutch, among us the very antipodes of all poetry, have found names such as the Donder Berg for the hills, whilst the Americans christen them Butter Hill, the Crow's Nest, and _such like_. Perhaps some hundred years hence, when wealth has been amassed by individuals, and the face of society begins to grow checkered, as in the old lands of Europe, when the whole mass of population shall no longer go running along the level road of toil and profit, when inequalities of rank shall exist, and the rich man shall be able to pay for the luxury of poetry, and the poor man who makes verses no longer be asked, "Why don't you cast up accounts?" when all this comes to pass, as _perhaps_ some day it may, America will have poets. It seems strange to me that men, such as the early settlers in Massachusetts, the Puritan founders of New England, the "Pilgrim Fathers," should not have had amongst them some men, or at least man, in whose mind the stern and enduring courage, the fervent enthusiastic piety, the unbending love of liberty, which animated them all, became the inspiration to poetic thought, and the suggestion of poetical utterance. They should have had a Milton or a Klopstock amongst them. Yet, after all, they had excitement of another sort, and, moreover, the difficulties and dangers, and distresses of a fate of unparalleled hardship, to engross all the energies of their minds; and I am half inclined to believe that poetry is but a hothouse growth, and yet I don't know: I wish somebody would explain to me every thing in this world that I can't make out. We came down from the mountain at about half-past one: our party had been joined by Colonel ----, governor of the College, who very courteously came toiling up to Fort Putnam, to pay his compliments to us. I lingered far behind them, returning; and, when they were out of sight, turned back, and once more ascended the ruin, to look my last of admiration and delight, and then down, down, every step bringing me out of the clouds, farther from heaven, and nearer this work i' day world. I loitered, and loitered, looking back at every step; but at last the hills were shut out by a bend in the road, and I came into the house to throw myself down on the floor, and sleep most seriously for half an hour; at the end of which time we were called to dinner. In England, if an innkeeper gives you a good dinner, and places the first dish on the table himself, you pay him, and he's obliged to you. Here, an innkeeper is a gentleman, your equal, sits at his table with you, you pay him, and are obliged to him besides. 'Tis necessary therefore for a stranger, but especially an Englishman, to understand the fashions of the land, else he may chance to mistake that for an impertinent familiarity, which is in fact the received custom of the country. Mr. Cozzens very considerately gave us our dinner in a private room, instead of seating us at an ordinary with all the West Point officers. Moreover, _gave_ in the literal sense, and a very good dinner it was. He is himself a very intelligent courteous person, and, during the very short time that we were his guests, showed us every possible attention and civility. We had scarce finished our dinner, when in rushed a waiter to tell us that the boat was in sight. Away we trotted, trailing cloaks, and shawls, any-how fashion, down the hill. The steamer came puffing up the gorge between the mountains, and in a moment we were bundled into the boat, hauled alongside, and landed on the deck; and presently the glorious highlands, all glowing in the rosy sunset, began to recede from us. Just as we were putting off from shore, a tiny skiff, with its graceful white sail glittering in the sun, turned the base of the opposite hill, evidently making to the point whence we embarked. I have since learned that it contained a messenger to us, from a gentleman bearing our name, and distantly connected with us, proprietor of some large iron-works on the shore opposite West Point. However, our kinsman was too late, and we were already losing sight of West Point, when his boat reached the shore. Our progress homeward was, if any thing, more enchanting than our coming out had been, except for leaving all this loveliness. The sun went down in splendour, leaving the world robed in glorious beauty. The sky was one glowing geranium curtain, into which the dark hills rose like shadow-land, stretching beyond, and still beyond, till they grew like hazy outlines through a dazzling mist of gold. The glory faded; and a soft violet colour spread downwards to the horizon, where a faint range of clouds lay floating like scattered rose leaves. As the day fell, the volumes of smoke from our steam-boat chimneys became streams of fiery sparks, which glittered over the water with a strange unearthly effect. I sat on deck watching the world grow dark, till my father, afraid of the night air, bade me go down; and there, in spite of the chattering of a score of women, and the squalling of half as many children, I slept profoundly till we reached New York, at a quarter to seven. _Saturday, 17th._ After breakfast, wrote journal: while doing so, Mr. ---- called to know if I held my mind in spite of the grey look of the morning. A wan sunbeam just then lighted on the earth, and I said I would go; for I thought by about twelve it probably would clear. * * * * * They called for me in the carriage at eleven; and afterwards we mounted our steeds in Warren Street to escape the crowd in Broadway. We rode down to the ferry. The creature, _on top_ of which I sat, was the real _potatuppy_ butcher's horse. However, it did not shake me, or pull my arms much, so I was content. As to a horse properly broken, either for man or woman, I have done looking for it in this land. We went into the steam-boat on our horses. The mist lay thick over the river; but the opposite shores had that grey distinctness of colour and outline that invariably foretells rain in England. The wind blew bitterly keen and cold. * * * * * Our riding party was Mr. ----, whom I like; Mrs. ----, whom I also like, in spite of her outlandish riding-habiliments, a brother of his, * * * * * and a young ---- in white hair and spectacles. The carriage held old Mr. ----, Miss ----, the youngest daughter, and that beautiful youngest boy of theirs, who is so like his handsome sister; also sundry baskets of cake, and bottles of champagne. After landing, we set off at a brisk canter to Weehawk. None of these people know how to ride: they just go whatever pace their horse likes, sitting as backward as they can in the saddle, and tugging at the reins as hard as ever they can, to the infinite detriment of their own hands and their horses' mouths. When we had reached the height, we dismounted and walked through the woods that crown the cliffs, which here rise to an elevation of some hundred feet above the river. Our path lay through tangled brakes, where the withered trees and fallen red leaves, the bright cedar bushes, and pale slabs of granite, formed a fine and harmonious contrast of colouring; the whole blending beautifully together under the grey light, that made it look like one of Ruysdael's pictures. Our walk terminated at a little rocky promontory, called the Devil's Pulpit, where, as legends say, Satan was wont to preach, loud enough to drown the sound of the Sabbath bells in New York. The Hudson, far below, lay leaden and sullen; the woods along the shores looked withered and wintry; a thick curtain of vapour shrouded all the distance: the effect of the whole was very sad and beautiful; and had I been by myself I should have enjoyed it very much. But I was in company, and, moreover, in company with two punsters, who uttered their atrocities without remorse in the midst of all that was most striking and melancholy in nature. When we mounted our horses again, Mrs. ---- complained that hers pulled her wrists most dreadfully; and, as they seemed none of the strongest, I exchanged steeds with her. The lady proprietress of the grounds over which we had been walking and riding invited us into the house, but, being mounted, I declined, and we set off for the pavilion. Just as we arrived there, it began to rain. Mercy on me and Mrs. ----! how our arms will ach to-morrow! This worthy animal of hers had a mouth a little worse than a donkey's. Arrived at the pavilion, we dismounted, and swallowed sundry champagnes and lumps of plum cake, which were singularly refreshing. We set off again, and presently it began to pelt with rain. We reached and crossed the ferry without gelling very wet. Arranged to ride on Wednesday, if fine, and so home. Upon the whole, rather satisfied than otherwise with my expedition. Dressed for dinner at once; went on with journal; Colonel ---- called, and sat some time. After dinner, embroidered till eight: teaed:--my father went over to the theatre: I practised for two hours. _Sunday, 18th._ The muscles of my arms (for I have such unlady-like things) stand out like lumps of stone, with the fine exercise they had yesterday. I wonder how Mrs. ----'s shoulders and elbows feel. * * * * * It rained so, we hackneyed to church. This is twice Mr. ---- has not been to church, which is really very wrong, though it leaves us the pew comfortably to ourselves. Dr. ---- must be an excellent good man--his sermons are every way delightful; good sense, sound doctrine, and withal a most winning mildness and gentleness of manner. A benevolent good man, I am sure, he must be. Came home--copied snuff-box verses for my father; divided out my story of the Sisters into acts and scenes: began doing the same by the English tragedy; but in the midst took a fancy to make a story instead of a play of it--and so I will, I think. Dressed for dinner. At about half-past five Colonel ---- and his Quaker wife came. She is a most delightful creature, with the sweetest expression of face imaginable. She reminded me several times of dear Mrs. ----. Her dress, too, the rich brown watered silk, made so plainly, recalled Mrs. ---- to me very forcibly. We had a very comfortable dinner and evening. They went away at about half-past ten. _Monday, 19th._ After breakfast, wrote journal. Went out shopping and returning cards; called on Mrs. ----, and was let in. I like her; she is a nice person, with agreeable manners. Came home at about half-past two; put out things for the theatre; dined at three. After dinner, pottered about clothes till time to go to the theatre. My benefit--play, Much Ado about Nothing. I played very well. I am much improved in my comedy acting. Came home in a coach--it poured with rain. What a stupid day! The accounts of cholera in New Orleans are frightful; they have the yellow fever there too. Poor people! what an awful visitation! _Tuesday, 20th._ After breakfast, wrote journal. At twelve, went and called upon Mrs. ----: the day was bright, but bitter cold, with a keen piercing wind that half cut one in half, and was delicious. The servant denied Mrs. ----; but we had hardly turned from the door when both the ladies came rushing after us, with nothing on their heads and necks, and thin summer gowns on. They brought us into a room where there was a fire fit to roast an ox. No wonder the women here are delicate and subject to cold, and die of consumption. Here were these sitting absolutely in an oven, in clothes fit only for the hottest days in summer, instead of wrapping themselves up well, and trotting out, and warming their blood wholesomely with good hard exercise. The pretty Mrs. ---- looks very sickly, and coughs terribly. Her beauty did not strike me so much to-day. I do not admire any body who looks as if a puff of wind would break them in half, or a drop of water soak them through. I greatly prefer her sister's looks, who certainly is not pretty, but tall and straight, and healthy-looking, and springy as a young thing ought to be. Was introduced to a most enchanting young Newfoundland dog, whom I greatly coveted. Settled to ride to-morrow, if fine. Called at ----'s, also at a furrier's about cap, and came home. Found ---- and ---- with my father. What a very bad expression of face the former has; sneering and false--terrible! I looked at ---- with much respect. I like his spirit, as it shines through his works, greatly. He was a pale sickly-looking man, without any thing at all remarkable in the expression of his countenance. While they were here, Mr. ---- called to settle about to-morrow. He is a nice person, sensible and civil, and civil in the right way. Arrangements were made for dear ----'s going, which I rejoiced in greatly. I do not like at all leaving her behind. When the folks were gone, put out things for the theatre. While doing so, Mr. ---- and Mr. and Mrs. ---- called. Great discoursing about horses and horsemanship. Dined at three. After dinner, put fur upon my habit. At half-past five, went to the theatre. House very good; play, Hunchback. By the by, Colonel ---- called to-day, to entreat me to go and see his "Honour, the Recorder," who had sent me tickets of admission to the town-hall, to see ---- receive the freedom of the city. I could not go, because of our horseback expedition--this by the way. I played so-soish. ---- was at the play; and at the end, somebody in the house exclaimed, "Three cheers for ----!" whereupon a mingled chorus of applause and hisses arose. The Vice-president looked rather silly, and acknowledged neither the one nor the other. How well I remember the Duke of ---- coming to the orchestra to see this play, the night before it was expected the Whigs would go out. I dare say he knew little enough what the Hunchback was about. I do not think the people noticed him, however; so the feeling of the pulse must have been unsatisfactory. Mr. ---- said to Modus to-night in the play, speaking of me, "a change of linen will suffice for her." How absurd! we were all dying on the stage. Came home; supped:--looked at silks; chose a lovely rose-coloured one to line my Portia dress; with which good deed my day ended. _Wednesday, 21st._ Looked at the sun, and, satisfied with his promise, went to bed again, and slept till half-past eight. After breakfast, wrote to his honour, the Recorder, an humble apology in true Old Bailey style. Wrote journal, and began practising. Mrs. ---- called before I was out of my bed to tell us that the ----'s were not going, but that either her husband or her brother-in-law would be too glad to go in the gig with D----. This, however, the latter refused, not choosing, as she said, to make any young man do the penance of keeping her company on a party of pleasure. Dear good old D----! I was vexed and provoked; but it could not be helped. At eleven, ---- came for me. I found Mrs. ---- in the carriage waiting for me. We adjourned to Warren Street, where were assembled all the party. While we waited for our horses, Neptune, the beautiful Newfoundland, was admitted, and amused himself by prancing over tables, and chairs, and sofas, to his own infinite delight, and the visible benefit of the furniture. Our steeds having arrived, we mounted and began to progress. Myself, and Mrs. ----, her husband, his brother, ----, and papa ----, Dr. ----, Mrs. ----'s brother, and Mr. ----, nephew, I believe, of the Irish patriot, were the equestrians of the party. After, followed Mr. ---- and Mrs. ----, all be-coated and be-furred, in the stanhope. After, followed the ammunition-waggon, containing a negro servant, Neptune, and sundry baskets of champagne, cake, and cherry bounce. Away we rushed down Broadway, to the infinite edification of its gaping multitudes. Mr. ---- had gotten me an enchanting horse that trotted like an angel. So, in spite of Major ----'s awful denunciation of "disgusting," I had a delicious hard trot all through the streets, rising in my saddle like a lady, or rather, a gentleman. My habit seemed to excite considerable admiration and approbation, and indeed it was _great_. Crossed the Brooklyn ferry in the steam-boat, and safely landed on the opposite side. The whole army defiled; the stanhope taking the van, the horses forming the main body, and the provisions bringing up the rear. Our party separated constantly, as we progressed, into various groups, but I remained chiefly with Dr. ----, Mr. ----, and old Mr. ----. By the by, those ----s are a charming family; for Mrs. ---- sits straight in her saddle, and the Doctor settled, when we started, that when he had _despatched his patients_, he would call for D---- in the gig, and come down to meet us at the fort. Our ride thither was extremely agreeable: the day was clear, cold, and grey; a delightful day for riding. I trotted to my heart's content; and kept my blood warm, and my spirits like champagne, till we reached the fort, when, at sight of the Narrows, and the Sandy Hook lighthouse, they sank deep, deep down. * * * * * * * * * * The sea lay grey and still, without a wave or scarce a ripple. A thousand light skiffs, of various shapes, lay upon the leaden waters. The sky was a fine heap of heavy purple clouds, from behind which the sun shot down his rays, which threw a melancholy wan lustre on the sea beneath them. 'Twas a sad and beautiful scene. The colouring of the whole was gloomily harmonious; and the dark shores and grey expanse of water blended solemnly with the violet-coloured curtain of the heavens. We went over the fort. 'Tis a fortification of no great size, or, I should think, strength; but its position, which commands the narrow entrance to the bay of New York, effectually checks the pass, and guards the watery defile that leads to the city of Mammon. We looked at the guns and powder-magazine, walked round the walls, and peeped into the officers' quarters, and then descended to seek where we might eat and be satisfied. Mrs. ---- is a very nice creature: she looks the picture of good temper--never stands still a minute; and as we rode along to-day, when, fearing she might be cold, I asked her how she found herself, she replied, with perfect innocence and sincerity, "Oh, delightful!" which made us all scream. We knocked up the quarters of an old woman who kept a cottage, not exactly young love's humble shed, but good enough for our purpose. We got sundry logs of wood, and made a blazing fire; moreover, the baskets were opened, and presently we presented the interesting spectacle of a dozen people each with a lump of cake in one hand, and a champagne glass in the other. Mr. ---- and Mrs. ---- stuck to the cherry bounce, and, as we afterwards heard, drove home accordingly. Having discussed, we remounted, and set forwards home by another road; a very lovely one, all along the river side. Ere we had progressed long, we met D---- and Dr. ---- in the gig. The nice good man had kept his word, and gone to fetch her. They had met Mr. ----'s equipage going cherry-bounce pace, it seems, two miles ahead of us. The men here are never happy unless they are going full speed. 'Tis no wonder their horses are good for nothing: they would ruin any horses that were good for any thing. Such unskilful horsemanship I never saw: going full tear; crossing one another in every direction; knocking up against one another; splashing through puddles because they have no hand over their horses, and either overshooting their point, or being half thrown at every turn of the road, for the same reason. Came home full speed, and arrived at half-past four, having ridden, I should think, nearly twenty miles. Found Mrs. ---- at home. They pressed me very much to stay dinner with them; but my father expected me, and I would not. That worthy youth, ----, insisted upon my accepting his beautiful large dog, Neptune, which I did conditionally, in case Mr. ---- should fail me, which I think a very improbable case indeed. They ordered the carriage, and Mr. ---- persisted in seeing me home in it, much to my annoyance, as 'twas a very useless ceremony indeed. Did not dishabit, but dined _en amazone_. * * * * * Gave D---- her muff and tippet, which are exceedingly magnificent. After dinner, pottered about, and dressed at once. Played on the piano till nine, when we adjourned to ----'s. A complete "small party, my dear." Dr. ---- was there, whom I was glad to see; also Mrs. ----; also Mr. and Miss ----; also that Mrs. ----, who is utter horror and perturbation of spirit to me; also ----; also ----; all our riding party, and a world besides. After a little time, dancing was proposed; and I stood up to waltz with Mr. ----, who observed that Dr. ---- was gone, as he never chose to be present while waltzing was going on. I felt shocked to death that unconsciously I should have been instrumental in driving him away, and much surprised that those who knew his disapprobation of waltzing should have proposed it. However, he was gone, and did not return. Therefore I waltzed myself out of my conscientious remorse. Sang them Fanny Gray, and Ye Mariners of Spain. Danced sundry quadrilles; and, finally, what they called a Kentucky reel,--which is nothing more than Sir Roger de Coverley turned Backwoodsman--and afterwards a "foursome reel." Played magic music; and, finally, at one o'clock, came home, having danced myself fairly off my legs. _Thursday, 22d._ It poured with rain all day. Dr. ---- called, and gave me a sermon about waltzing. As it was perfectly good sense, to which I could reply nothing whatever in the shape of objection, I promised him never to waltz again, except with a woman, or my brother. * * * * * After all, 'tis not fitting that a man should put his arm round one's waist, whether one belongs to any one but one's self or not. 'Tis much against what I have always thought most sacred,--the dignity of a woman in her own eyes and those of others. I like Dr. ---- most exceedingly. He spoke every way to my feelings of what was right, to-day. After saying that he felt convinced, from conversations which he had heard amongst men, that waltzing was immoral in its tendency, he added, "I am married, and have been in love, and cannot imagine any thing more destructive of the deep and devoted respect which love is calculated to excite in every honourable man's heart, not only for the individual object of his affections, but for her whole sex, than to see any and every impertinent coxcomb in a ball-room come up to her, and, without remorse or hesitation, clasp her waist, imprison her hand, and absolutely whirl her round in his arms." So spake the Doctor; and my sense of propriety and conviction of right bore testimony to the truth of his saying. So, farewell, sweet German waltz!--next to hock, the most intoxicating growth of the Rheinland. I shall never keep time to your pleasant measure again!--no matter; after all, any thing is better than to be lightly spoken of, and to deserve such mention. Mr. ---- called, and sat some time with me. He is grown monstrously fat, and looks perfectly radiant. He brought with him a good-looking staring man of the name of ----. We dined at three. After dinner, received a pretty anonymous nosegay, with sundry very flattering doggrel. The play was the Stranger. It poured cats and dogs, and the streets were all grey pudding. I did not expect to see six people in the house; instead of which 'twas crowded: a satisfactory proof of our attraction. _Friday, 23d._ At eleven, went to rehearsal--Isabella. I have forgotten all about it. They all read their parts; came home; began to practise. The two Mrs. ---- called. I like them mainly, Mrs. ---- particularly. While they were here, Mr. ---- and a man called; they stayed but a minute. By and by, in walked Mr. and Mrs. ----; whereupon the ---- departed. * * * * * * * * * * While they were here, received from ---- the beautiful annual he has bought for me, which is, indeed, most beautiful; and with it, literally a copy of verses, which are _not so bad neither_--only think of that!!! The engravings are from things of Stanfield's, taken on the Rhine; and made my heart ach to be once more in Europe, in the old land where fairy tales are told; in the old feudal world, where every rock, and valley, and stream, are haunted with imaginings wild and beautiful: the hallowed ground of legend history; the dream-land of fancy and of poetry. Colonel ---- called: he brought news of the arrival of a Liverpool packet, and prophesied letters to me. Went to the theatre. Play, Hunchback--house very fine again. Just as I was dressing for the second act, three letters were brought into my room. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I was so much overset by them, that with the strange faculty I have of pouring one feeling into another, I cried so bitterly in the parting scene with Clifford, that I could scarcely utter the words of my part. * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, 24th._ Our riding expedition having been put off, the day was beautifully bright and clear. Sat stitching and pottering an infinity. My feet got so perished that I didn't know what to do. Wrote journal; practised for an hour; Mr. ---- called. When he was gone, went out with my father. Called at ----'s to order home my gown for dinner-time. Left a card at Mrs. ----'s, and then marched down to the tailor's to upbraid him about my waistcoat, which is infamously ill made. Coming home, met that very odious Mr. ----, who is the perfection of genteel vulgarity. He walked home with us. Dressed for dinner. Mme. ---- did not send my gown home in time: abominable sempstress! so put on my blue, and looked rather dowdy. Found sundry that we knew: Colonel ----; Mr. ----; my favourite aversion, Mr. ----; that signal fool, Mr. ----; Miss ----, who looked like a hair-dresser's wax block; a Miss ----, with lovely feet, and a terrified Bacchante-looking head, _cum multis aliis_. I sat by one Mr. ----, who talked without end, and cleverly enough: indeed, it was rather clever to talk so wonderfully fast and much. After dinner, the party became much larger: Dr. ----, Mr. ----, the ---- (all but ----), that entire self-satisfaction, Mr. ----, Mr. ----, and the knight of the rueful countenance; three singing men, ycleped ----; and a shoal besides. One of the Mr. ---- and Miss ---- sang the duet in the Didone, that dear ---- and ---- used to sing so lovelily. They both had good voices, but the style is but so-soish. Presently, three men sang that sea glee that I remember Lord and Lady ---- teaching me at ----. What a strange faculty of our nature this is, this leading back of our minds to the past, through the agency of our senses, acted upon by present influences, the renewing life, the magical summoning up of dead time from its grave, with the very place and circumstance it wore. Wondrous riddle! what--what are we, that are so curiously made? By and by dancing was proposed, and I was much entreated and implored to change my determination about waltzing; but I was inexorable, and waltzed only with the ladies, who one and all dance extremely well. Mrs. ---- looked lovely to-night. Dr. ---- says very true, she has a thorough-bred look, which reminds me a little of our noble English ladies. He says she is like Lady ----. I think she is prettier: she certainly looks like a gem. We danced a Kentucky reel, and sundry quadrilles. That long ens, Mr. ----, was tipsy, and went slithering about in a way to kill one; and Mr. ---- was sitting slyly in the corner, pretending to talk to D----, but in fact dying with laughter at poor ----, who meandered about the room, to the infinite dismay and confusion of the whole dance. Vain were the vigorous exertions of his partner, who pulled him this way and that, and pushed him hither and thither, to all which the unresisting creature submitted incorrigibly. Remained dancing till half-past twelve, in fact Sunday morning, and then came home. They made me sing, which I did abominably. On my return home, found my black satin gown, every atom of which will have to be unpicked--pleasant! the tradespeople here are really terrible; they can do nothing, and will take no pains to do any thing: 'tis a handsome gown spoilt. _Sunday, 25th._ My dear father's birth-day! also, by the by, a grand occasion here--the anniversary of the evacuation of the island by the British troops, which circumstance the worthy burghers have celebrated ever since with due devotion and thankfulness. Went to church: Dr. ---- did not preach, which was a disappointment to me. The music was exquisite; and there was a beautiful graceful willow branch, with its long delicate fibres and golden leaves, waving against the blue sky and the church window, that seemed to me like a magical branch in a fairy tale. It struck me as strange to-day, as I looked from the crowded gloomy church to the bright unbounded sky, to think that we call the one the house of God; to be sure, we have other authority for calling the blue heavens his throne; and oh, how glorious they did look! The day was bright, but bitter cold. Coming out of church, saw all our last night's party. On my return home found a perfect levee; Dr. ----, Mr. ----, Mr. ----, Mr. ----, Mr. ----, a whole regiment. When they were all gone, wrote journal: having finished that and my lunch, set out with my father to _fetch a walk_; which we did to the tune of near six miles, through all the outskirts of the town, an exceedingly low-life ramble indeed--during which we came across a man who was preaching in the street. He had not a very large assembly round him, and we stood in the crowd to hear him. By his own account, he had been imprisoned before for a similar proceeding; and he was denouncing, most vehemently, signal judgments on the blind and wicked corporation who had so stopped the work of righteousness. The man's face was a very fine one, remarkably intelligent and handsome: he was cleanly and well dressed, and had altogether a respectable appearance. When we came home, it was past four. Dressed for dinner. My father dined with Mr. ----; so D---- and I had a _tte--tte_ dinner. After which, played on the piano for some time; after which, began letter to H----; after which, wrote journal. * * * * * * * * * * _Monday, 26th._ Yesterday was evacuation day; but as yesterday was the Lord's day also, the American militia army postponed their yearly exhibition, and, instead of rushing about the streets in token of their thankfulness at the departure of the British, they quietly went to church, and praised God for that same. To-day, however, we have had firing of pop-guns, waving of star-spangled banners (some of them rather the worse for wear), infantry marching through the streets, cavalry (oh, Lord, what delicious objects they were!) and artillery prancing along them, to the infinite ecstasy and peril of a dense mob. Went to rehearsal at half-past ten. Was detained full ten minutes on the way thither, by the defiling of troops, who were progressing down Broadway. After rehearsal, came home--put out things for the theatre. Mr. ---- called: while he was here, spent a delightful half hour at the window, which, overlooking the Park, commanded a full view of the magnanimous military marshalled there. O, pomp and circumstance of glorious war! They were certainly not quite so bad as Falstaff's men, of ragged memory; for, for aught I know to the contrary, they perhaps _all_ of them had shirts to their backs. But some had gloves, and some had none; some carried their guns one way, and some another; some had caps of one fashion, and some of another; some had no caps at all, but "shocking bad hats," with feathers in them. The infantry were, however, comparatively respectable troops. They did not march many degrees out of the straight line, or stoop _too much_, or turn their heads round _too often_. Mr. ---- remarked, that militia were seldom more steady and orderly in their appearance. But the cava'ry! oh, the cavalry! what gems without price they were! Apparently extremely frightened at the shambling _tituppy_ chargers upon whose backs they clung, straggling in all directions, putting the admiring crowd in fear of their lives, and proving beyond a doubt how formidable they must appear to the enemy, when, with the most peaceable intentions in the world, they thus jeopardied the safety of their enthusiastic fellow citizens. Bold would have been the man who did not edge backwards into the crowd, as a flock of these worthies a-horseback came down the street--some trotting, some galloping, some racking, some ambling; each and all "witching the world with wondrous horsemanship." If any thing ever might be properly called wondrous, they, their riders and accoutrements, deserve the title. Some wore boots, and some wore shoes, and one independent hero had got on grey stockings and _slippers_! Some had bright yellow feathers, and some red and black feathers! I remembered, particularly, a doctor, in a black suit, Hessian boots, a cocked hat, and bright yellow gauntlets; another fellow was dressed in the costume of one of the Der Freyschutz's corps: it looked for all the world like a _fancy_ parade. The officers fulfilled completely my idea of Macheath's company of gentlemen of the road; only, I strongly suspect the latter would have been heartily ashamed of the unhappy hacks the evacuation heroes had gotten up upon. The parade terminated with a full half hour's _feu de joie_. * * * * * * * * * * The bands of these worthies were worthy of them; half a dozen fifers and drummers playing old English jig tunes. In spite of the folly and injustice of such a comparison, I could not keep out of my head the last soldiers I had seen, those fine tall fellows, the grenadier guards, that used to delight us of a Sunday morning in St. James's Park, and their exquisite band, and dandy-looking officers. Those _looked_ like soldiers, whatever they may fight like; and allowing these excellent good folks to be very lions, look you, I can only say their appearance approached the sublime, by as near as the French critic assures us the extreme of the ridiculous does. Dined at three; ---- and ---- called after dinner. My father went with Mr. ---- to Tammany Hall, where there was a grand democratic dinner, in honour of the triumph of the Jackson party, the mob men here. I sat writing to ---- till time to go to the theatre. The play was Isabella; the house crammed; a regular holiday audience--shrieking, shouting, laughing, and rowing, like one of our own Christmas audiences. I acted like a wretch. My dresses looked very handsome, particularly my marriage dress; but my muslin bed-gown was so long that, I set my feet through it the very first thing; and those _animaux btes_, who dragged me off, tore a beautiful point lace veil I had on to tatters, a thing that cost three guineas, if a farthing! My father received a most amusing letter this morning from Lord ----, asking us to come over to Jamaica and act, offering us quarters in his house, and plenty of volunteer actors (did he include himself, I wonder?) to make up a company, if we will come. I should like it very well: to pass the winter in that nice warm climate would be delightful, and I dare say we should find our stay there amusing and agreeable enough. I wish we could do it. _Tuesday, 27th._ After breakfast, Colonel ---- called. Put out things for to-night. At half-past twelve, went out with my father and Colonel ----. Called upon his honour, the Recorder, but he was in court, and not to be seen. Walked down to the Battery. The day was most lovely, like an early day in June in England: my merino gown was intolerable, and I was obliged to take a parasol with me, the sun was so powerful. The Battery was, as usual, totally deserted, though the sky, and shores, and beautiful bright bay, were smiling in perfect loveliness. A delicious fresh breeze came wandering over the wide estuary; and graceful boats, with their full sails glittering in the sun, glided to and fro, swift and strong, over the smooth waters, like summer clouds across the blue heavens--as silently, as rapidly, as tracklessly. * * * * * * * * * * Came home at half-past one. Found a card from Mrs. ----. I'm sorry I didn't see her. ---- called, with one Mr. ----, kinsman to the authoress. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * While they were here, Mrs. ---- called to settle about to-morrow's ride. Mr. and Mrs. ---- arriving, the rest departed. We dined at three. After dinner, came to my own room; wrote journal; went on with letter to ----. Play, the Gamester; my father's benefit; the house was very good. Mr. ---- thoroughly bothered me, by standing six yards behind me: what a complete stroller's trick that is. So we are to act on Saturday. If I can go to the opera, all the same, I sha'n't mind so much; but I will be in most horrible dudgeon if it prevents that, for I want to hear this new prima donna. Mr. ---- was behind the scenes, and ---- _wrapt_, in his usual seat: he's a delightful bit of audience. Received a bill of the intended performances for Thursday, Mr. ----'s benefit; and such another farce as the whole thing is I never heard of; as Mr. ---- says, "the benefit of humbug," indeed. While we were at supper, my father showed me a note he had received from ----, which, to use a most admirable vulgarism, struck me all of a heap. A sort of threatening letter, desiring him, as he valued his interest, to come forward and offer to act Charles the Second for the said Mr. ----'s benefit, having already agreed to act in one piece, for said Mr. ----'s benefit. "O monstrous! monstrous! most unnatural!" What a vulgar wretch the man must be! _Wednesday, 28th._ Mary ----'s wedding day! Poor lassie! I looked at the bright morning sun with pleasure for her sake. After breakfast, sat reading the poems of Willis, a young man, whose works, young as they evidently are, would have won him some consideration in any but such a thorough work-day world as this. I cried a good deal over some of this man's verses. I thought some of them beautiful; and 'tis the property of beauty to stir the wells of my soul sadly, rather than cast sunshine over them. I think all things are sad. 'Tis sad to hear sweet music; 'tis sad to read fine poetry; 'tis sad to look upon the beautiful face of a fair woman; 'tis sad to behold the unclouded glory of a summer's sky. There is a deep and lingering tone in the harmony of all beauty that resounds in our souls with too full and solemn a vibration for pleasure alone. In fact, _intensity_, even of joy and delight, is in itself serious; 'tis impossible to be fulfilled with emotion of any sort, and not feel as though we were within the shadow of a cloud. I remember when first I recited Juliet to my mother, she said I spoke the balcony scene almost sadly. Was not such deep, deep love too strong, too passionate, too pervading, to be uttered with the light laughing voice of pleasure? Was not that love, even in its fulness of joy, sad--awful? However, perhaps, I do but see through my own medium, and fancy it the universal one. My eyes are dark, and most things look darkly through them. At about twelve o'clock Mrs. ---- called for me; and, escorted by her husband and Mr. ----, we rode forth to visit the island. We went to a pretty cottage belonging to Mr. ----'s father-in-law, Dr. ----. The day was still and grey--a pleasant day; there was no sunshine, but neither were there any dark shadows. My horse had been ill ridden by somebody or another, and was mighty disagreeable. Our ride was pleasant enough: there was not much variety in the country we passed through. Masses of granite and greenish basalt, wild underwood, and vivid bright-looking cedar bushes. The Hudson lay leaden and sullen under the wings of the restless wind. We stood to hear the delicious music of the water plashing against the rocky shore, which is the pleasantest sound in all the world. We then rode to a place ycleped Hell-gate, from a dangerous current in the East river, where ships have been lost--and home through the mellow sunlight of a warm autumnal afternoon. Came in at a little past four. Devoured sundry puddings and pies; put out clothes for the evening; dined at five. My father dined at ----'s: I've an especial fancy for that man. After dinner, sat making blonde tippet, and strumming on the piano till eight. Drank tea, dressed, and off to Mrs. ----'s "small party, my dear." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The people here have no conscience about the questions they ask, and, as I have one in answering, and always give them "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," it follows that nothing can be more disagreeable than their queries, except my replies. Mr. ---- was there; I like him: he has something in him, and is not vulgar or impertinent. Was introduced to a very handsome French creole woman, whom I liked: she reminded me of my mother, and her son bore a striking resemblance to dear ----. We stood up to dance a couple of quadrilles; but as they had not one distinct idea of what the figures were, the whole was a mess of running about, explaining, jostling, and awkward blundering. I took greatly to the governess of the family, a German woman, with a right German face, a nice person, with quiet simple manners. The women's voices here distract me; so loud, so rapid, and with such a twang! What a pity! for they are, almost without an exception, lovely looking creatures, with an air of refinement in their appearance, which would be very attractive, but for their style of dress, and those said tremendous shrill loud voices. Came home at twelve o'clock. My favourite aversion, Mrs. ----, was there. _Thursday, 29th._ My birth-day * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * After breakfast, sat writing to dear ---- for some time. Put out things for the theatre, and went to rehearsal. My father has received a most comical note from one ----, a Scotch gardener, florist, and seedsman; the original, by the by, of Galt's Lawrie Todd,--and original enough he must be. The note expresses a great desire that my father and myself will call upon him, for that he wishes very much to _look at us_--that the hours of the theatre are too late for him, and that besides, he wants to see us as ourselves, and not as "kings and princesses." I have entreated my father to go: this man must be worth knowing. I shall certainly keep his note. Wrote to ----, to dear ----. Mr. ---- called; also Colonel ----, who gave an account of the proceedings of the committee for ----'s benefit, which, added to the gentleman's own note to my father, thoroughly disgusted me. And here I do solemnly swear, never again, with my own good will, to become acquainted with any man in any way connected with the public press. They are utterly unreliable people, generally; their vocation requires that they should be so; and the very few exceptions I must forego, for however I might like them, I can neither respect nor approve of their trade; for trade it is in the vilest sense of the word. Dined at five. After dinner Mr. and Mrs. ---- came in. * * * * * * * * * * At eight, went to the theatre. The house was, in consequence of the raised prices, only three parts full. I just caught a glimpse of Forrest in the fourth act of Brutus. What an enormous man he is! After the play came sundry songs and recitations, and then Katharine and Petruchio. I did not play well: the actors were very inattentive, as well as stupid, and annoyed my father very much. The pit was half filled with women, opera fashion, who, for the greater attraction of the night, and satisfaction of themselves, were allowed to sit out of their proper places: to be sure they had the pleasure of the society of the volunteer heroes, who, for the benefit of Mr. ----, were all in full uniform. What an absurdity! Swallowed an ice. Saw ----, also Mr. ----, and young ---- behind the scenes. Came home and supped. Colonel ---- called, and discussed, first, the farce on the boards; then the farce before the curtain; finally, the farce of life, which, to my mind, is but a melancholy one. _Friday, 30th._ How the time goes! Bless the old traveller, how he posts along! After breakfast, Mrs. ---- and her son, and Mr. ---- called. I like the latter; his manners are very good, and he is altogether more like a gentleman than most men here. When they were gone, walked out with my father to ----'s. The day was grey, and cold, and damp--a real November day, such as we know them. We held the good man's note, and steered our course by it, and in process of time entered a garden, passed through a green-house, and arrived in an immense and most singularly-arranged seed-shop, with galleries running round it, and the voice of a hundred canaries resounding through it. I don't know why, but it reminded me of a place in the Arabian Nights. "Is Mr. ---- within?" shouted forth my father, seeing no one in this strange-looking abode. "Yes, he is," was replied from somewhere, by somebody. We looked about, and presently, with his little grey bullet head, and shrewd piercing eyes, just appearing above the counter, we detected the master of the house. My father stepped up to him with an air like the Duke of ----, and, returning his coarse curiously-folded note to him, said, "I presume I am addressing Mr. ----: this, sir," drawing me forward, "is Miss Fanny Kemble." The little man snatched off his spectacles, rushed round the counter, rubbed his enormous hand upon his blue stuff apron, and held it out to us with a most hearty welcome. He looked at us for some time, and then exclaimed, "Ha! ye're her father. Well, ye'll have married pretty early--ye look very young: I should not have been sae much surprised if ye had called her ye're wife!" I laughed, and my father smiled at this compliment, which was recommended by a broad Scotch twang, which always sounds sweetly in my ears. The little man, whose appearance is that of a dwarf in some fairy tale, then went on to tell us how Galt had written a book all about him; how it was, almost word for word, his own story; how he had come to this country in early life, with three halfpence in his pocket, and a nail and hammer in his hand, for all worldly substance; how he had earned his bread by making nails, which was his business in Scotland; how, one day, passing by some flowers exposed for sale, he had touched a geranium leaf by accident, and, charmed with its fragrance, bought it, having never seen one before; how, with fifteen dollars in his pocket, he commenced the business of a florist and gardener; and how he had refused as many thousand dollars for his present prosperous concern; how, when he first came to New York, the place opposite his garden, where now stands a handsome modern dwelling-house, was the site of a shed where he did his first bit of work; how, after six-and-twenty years' absence from Scotland, he returned home; how he came to his father's house--"'Twas on a bright morning in August--the eighth of August, just, it was--when I went through the door. I knew all the old passages so well: I opened the parlour door, and there, according to the good old Scottish custom, the family were going to prayers afore breakfast. There was the old Bible on the table, and the old clock ticking in the corner of the room; there was my father in his own old chair, exactly just where I had left him six-and-twenty years gone by. The very shovel and tongs by the fire were the same; I knew them all. I just sat down, and cried as sweetly as ever a man did in his life." These were, as nearly as I can recollect, his words; and oh, what a story! His manner, too, was indescribably vivid and graphic. My father's eyes filled with tears. He stretched out his hand, and grasped and shook the Scotchman's hand repeatedly without speaking; I never saw him more excited. I never was more struck myself with the wonderful strangeness of this bewildering life. He showed us the foot of a rude rustic-looking table. "That," he said, "was cut from out the hawthorn hedge that grows by my father's house; and this," showing us a wooden bowl, "is what I take my _parritch_ in!" I asked him if he never meant to leave this country, and return to bonny Scotland. He said, No, never: he might return, but he never meant to settle any where but here. "For," added he, "I have grown what I am in it, madam, and 'tis a fine country for the poor." He had been an early martyr, too, to his political opinions; and, when only nineteen years of age, had been imprisoned in Edinburgh for advocating the cause of that very reform which the people are at this moment crying jubilee over in England. He seemed to rejoice in this country, as in the wide common land of political freedom, unbounded by the limits of long-established prejudice, unbroken by the deep trenches which divide class from class in the cultivated soil of the old world. I could have listened to this strange oracle for a day; but in the midst of his discourse he was summoned to dinner; and presenting his son to us, who presented a nosegay to me, left us to wander about his singular domain. His father, by the by, is still alive, and residing within six miles of Edinburgh, a man of ninety years and upwards. We walked about the shop, visited the birds, who are taken most admirable care of, and are extremely beautiful. I saw several mocking birds: they should sing well, for they are not pretty. Their plumage is of a dull grey colour, and they are clumsy-looking birds. Saw two beautiful African widow birds, with their jet black hoods and trains. Saw an English blackbird, and thrush, _in cages_. They made my heart ach. I wonder if they ever think of the red ripe cracking cherries, the rich orchard lands, and the hawthorn-hedged lanes in the summer sunsets of dear England? I did for them. We then went and looked at a tank full of beautiful gold fish, as they indiscriminately called them. But though the greater number were the glittering scarlet creatures usually so denominated, some were of the richest purple, with a soft dark bloom playing over their sides; others, again, were perfectly brown, with a glancing golden light shining through their scales; others were palest silver; others, again, mingled the dazzling scarlet with spots of the most beautiful gloomy violet, like dark-coloured jewels set in fire. Their tank was planted with the roots of aquatic vegetables, which, in summer, spread their cool leaves over the water, which is perpetually renewed by means of an escape, and a little silvery fountain which keeps bubbling up in the midst. They seemed very happy, and devoured sundry pieces of wafer paper, while we admired them at our leisure. Saw an India-rubber tree, a very young one, which had not attained its full growth. 'Tis a fine broad-leaved tree, unlike any that I ever saw before. After dawdling about very satisfactorily for some time, we departed from the dwelling of Lawrie Todd. Of a verity, "truth is strange, stranger than fiction." Went to a bookseller's. I bought a Bible for little ----; my father, a Shakspeare for ----. Came home. Mr. ---- called, and gossiped some time with me. Told me a bit of scandal, of which I had some slight suspicion before, _i. e._ that Mr. ---- was pretty Mrs. ----'s very devoted. At half-past four dressed for dinner. Colonel ---- called just as we were going to dinner. At five, my father and I went to Mrs. ----'s. A pleasant dinner. I like him enough, and I like her very much. She is extremely pretty, and very pleasant. Sat by that tall ninny, Mr. ----, who uttered inanity the whole of dinner-time. After dinner, the usual entertaining half hour among the ladies passed in looking over caricatures. When the men joined us, Mr. ---- came and sat down by me, and in the course of a few minutes, poor Lord ---- having by chance been mentioned, we fell into English talk; and it appears that he knows sundry of my gracious _patrons_; among the rest, the ----s. He had been at ----; and it pleased me to speak of it again. But what in the name of all wonders could possess him with the idea that Lady ---- was guilty of editing the Comic Annual. Was asked to sing, and sang "Ah no ben mio" pretty well. Mr. ---- sang a thing of his own very well, though it was not in itself worth much. Discussed all manner of prima donnas with him. At half-past nine, D---- came for me, and we proceeded to the ----s. The people here never tell one when they mean to dance; the consequence is, that one is completely put out about one's toilet. I was in a black satin dress; and dancing in these hot rooms, might as well have been in a pall. * * * * * * * * * * In the middle of the evening, Dr. ---- asked if I would allow him to introduce to me one Mr. ----, a very delightful man, full of abilities, _and_ writer in such and such a paper. I immediately called to mind my resolution, and refused. In the mean time, Mrs. ----, less scrupulous, and without asking my leave, brought the gentleman up, and introduced him. I was most ungracious and forbidding, and meant to be so. I am sorry for this, but I cannot help it: he is ----'s brother, too, which makes me doubly sorry. As he is an agreeable man, and ----'s brother, I esteem and reverence him; but, as he belongs to the press gang, I will not know him. The room was full of pretty women, one prettier than another. I danced myself half dead, and came home. By the by, was introduced to young ----, who, at the corner of a street, with a red cap on his head, might pass for a capital hickory pole. Mrs. ----'s bed-room, where we left our cloaks, made my heart ach. 'Twas exactly like my dear little bed-room at home; the bed, the furniture, and the rose-coloured lining, all the same. _Saturday, December 1st, 1832._ First day of the last month of the year--go it, old fellow! I'm sick of the road, and would be at my journey's end. Got two hundred dollars from my father, and immediately after breakfast sallied forth: paid bills and visits, and came home. Found my father sitting with our kinsman, Mr. ----, busily discussing the family origin, root, branches, and all. We are an old family, they say, but the direct line is lost after Charles the Second's reign. Our kinsman is a nice man, with a remarkably fine face, with which I was greatly struck. When he was gone, persuaded my father to come down and take a breathing on the Battery with me. And a breathing it was with a vengeance. The wind blew tempestuously, the waters, all troubled and rough, were of a yellow green colour, breaking into short, strong, angry waves, whose glittering white crests the wind carried away, as they sank to the level surface again. The shores were all cold, distinct, sharp-cut, and wintry-looking, the sky was black and gloomy, with now and then a watery wan sunlight running through it. The wind was so powerful, we could scarcely keep our legs. My sleeves and skirts fluttered in the blast, my bonnet was turned front part behind, my nose was blue, my cheeks were crimson, my hair was all tangled, my breath was gone, my blood was in a glow: what a walk! Met dear Dr. ----, whom I love. Came in--dined. After dinner, bethought me that I had not called upon Mrs. ----, according to promise. Sent for a coach, and set forth thither; didn't know the number, so drove up Spring Street, and down Spring Street, and finally stopped at a shop, got a directory, and found the address. Sat a few minutes with her, and at five o'clock left her. The day was already gone--the _gloamin_ come. The keen cutting wind whizzed along the streets; huge masses of dark clouds, with soft brown edges, lay on the pale delicate blue of the evening sky. The moon was up, clear, cold, and radiant; the crowd had ebbed away from the busy thoroughfare, and only a few men in great-coats buttoned up to their chins, and women wrapped in cloaks, were scudding along in the dim twilight and the bitter wind towards their several destinations, with a frozen shuddering look that made me laugh. I had got perished in the coach, and seeing that the darkness covered me, determined to walk home, and bade the coach follow me. How pleasant it was! I walked tremendously fast, enjoying the fresh breath of the north, and looking at the glittering moon, as she rode high in the evening sky. How I do like walking alone--being alone; for this alone I wish I were a man. The house was crammed; play, Hunchback. I missed ---- from his accustomed seat, and found that like a very politician he had changed sides. I played abominably; my voice was weak and fagged. After the play, Katharine and Petruchio. I played that better; my father was admirable--it went off delightfully. When it was over, they called for my father, and with me in his hand he went on. The pit rose to us like Christians, and shouted and hallooed as I have been used to hear. I felt sorry to leave them: they are a pleasant audience to act to, and exceedingly civil to us, and I have got rather attached to them. New York, too, seems nearer home than any other place, and I felt sorry to leave it. When we had withdrawn, and were going up stairs, we heard three distinct and tremendous cheers. On asking what that meant, we learnt 'twas a compliment to us--thank 'em kindly. Came home: found Mr. ---- had sent me Contarini Fleming. Began reading it, and could scarce eat my supper for doing so. * * * * * * * * * * _Sunday, 2d._ While dressing, received a "sweet note" from Mrs. ----, accompanied with a volume of Bryant's poetry, which, as I like very much, I am her obliged. Swallowed two mouthfuls of bread, and away to church. It was very crowded, and a worthy woman had taken possession of the corner seat in Mr. ----'s pew, with a fidgetting little child, which she kept dancing up and down every two minutes: though in church, I wished for the days of King Herod. What strange thoughts did occur to me to-day during service! 'Tis the first Sunday in Advent. The lesson for the day contained the history of the Annunciation. What a mystery our belief is! how seldom it is that we consider and, as it were, _take hold_ of what we say we believe, and when we do so, how bewildered and lost we become,--how lost among a thousand wild imaginations,--how driven to and fro by a thousand doubts,--how wrecked amidst a thousand fears! Surely we should be humble: we should indeed remember that we _cannot know_, and not strive for that knowledge which our souls will lose themselves in seeking for, and our overstrained minds crack in reaching at. * * * * * * * * * * At the end of service they sang Luther's hymn. I cried with nervous excitement, not at that, but at my recollection of Braham's singing it with that terrible trumpet accompaniment, that used to make my heart stand still and listen. Stayed and took the sacrament. * * * * * * * * * * Came home: found a whole regiment of men. His honour the Recorder, who is my especial delight, Mr. ----, ----, whom I greatly affection; to these presently entered Mr. ---- and Mr. ----. They one by one bade me good-by; how disagreeable that is, that good-by! Mr. ---- read me a passage out of one of Jeffrey's letters, describing an English fine lady. The picture is admirable, and most faithful; they are, indeed, polished, brilliant, smooth as ice, as slippery, as treacherous, as cold. When they were all gone, Colonel ---- gave me to read the descriptive sketch of the French opera, La Tentation, that has been setting all Paris wild. What an atrocious piece of blasphemy, indecency, and folly--what a thoroughly French invention. Mad people! mad people! mad people! Looked over bills, settled accounts, righted desk, tore up papers; among others, sundry anonymous love-letters that I had treasured up as specimens of the purely funny in composition, but which began to take up too much room. Dressed for dinner. After dinner, sat writing journal, and reading Contarini Fleming. * * * * * * * * * * _Monday, 3d._ Rose at half-past four. The sky was black as death, but in the night winter had chopped his mantle on the earth, and there it lay, cold, and purely white, against the inky sky. Dressed: crammed away all the gleanings of the packing, and in thaw, and sleet, and rain, drove down to the steam-boat. Went directly to the cabin. On my way thither, managed to fall down half-a-dozen steep steps, and give myself as many bruises. I was picked up and led to a bed, where I slept profoundly till breakfast time. Our kinsman, Mr. ----, was our fellow-passenger: I like him mainly. After breakfast, returned to my crib. As I was removing Contarini Fleming, in order to lie down, a _lady_ said to me, "Let me look at one of those books;" and, without further word of question of or acknowledgment, took it from my hand, and began reading. I was a _little surprised_, but said nothing, and went to sleep. Presently I was roused by a pull on the shoulder, and another lady, rather more civil, and particularly considerate, asked me to do her the favour of lending her the other. I said, by all manner of means, wished her at the devil, and turned round to sleep once more. Arrived at Amboy, we disembarked and bundled ourselves into our coach, ourselves, our namesake, and a pretty quiet lady, who was going, in much heaviness of heart, to see a sick child. The roads were unspeakable; the day most delightfully disagreeable. My bruises made the saltatory movements of our crazy conveyance doubly torturing; in short, all things were the perfection of misery. I attempted to read, but found it utterly impossible to do so. Arrived at the Delaware, we took boat again; and, as I was sitting very quietly reading Contarini Fleming, with the second volume lying on the stool at my feet, the same unceremonious lady who had _borrowed_ it before snatched it up without addressing a single syllable to me, read as long as she pleased, and threw it down again in the same style when she went to dinner. Now I know that half the people here, if they were to read that in Mrs. Trollope, would say, "Oh, but you know she could not have been a lady, 'tis not fair to judge of our manners by the vulgar specimens of American society which a steam-boat may afford." Very true: but granting that she was _not_ a lady (which she certainly was not), supposing her to have been a housemaid, or any thing else of equal pretensions to good breeding, the way to judge is by comparing her, not with ladies in other countries, but with housemaids, persons in her own condition of life; and 'tis most certain that no person whatsoever, however ignorant, low, or vulgar, in England, would have done such a thing as that. But the mixture of the republican feeling of equality peculiar to this country, and the usual want of refinement common to the lower classes of most countries, forms a singularly felicitous union of impudence and vulgarity, to be met with no where but in America. Arrived at the Mansion House, which I was quite glad to see again. Installed myself in a room, and, while they brought in the packages, finished Contarini Fleming. It reminded me of Combes' book: I wonder whether he is turning phrenologist at all? those physiological principles were the bosom friends of the Combes' phrenological ones. Stowed away my things, made a delicious huge wood fire, dressed myself, and went down to dinner. Our kinsman dined with us. Mr. ---- came in while we were at dinner. After dinner, came up to my room, continued unpacking and putting away my things till near nine o'clock. When we went down to tea, my father was lying on the sofa asleep, and a man was sitting with his back to the door, reading the newspaper. He looked up as we came in: it was ----, whom I greatly rejoiced to see again. During tea, he told us all the Philadelphia gossip. So the ladies are all getting up upon horses, and wearing the "_Kemble_ cap," as they call Lady ----'s device. How she would laugh if she could hear it; how I did laugh when I did hear it. The Kemble cap, forsooth! thus it is that great originators too often lose the fame of their inventions, and that the glory of a _new idea_ passes by the head that conceived it, to encircle, as with a halo, that of some mere imitator; thus it is that this very big world comes to be called America, and not Columbia, as it _ought to_; thus it is--etc., etc., etc. He sat for some time. Saw poor Mrs. ----. * * * * * * * * * * She is better, poor thing; I like her amazingly. _Tuesday, 4th._ After breakfast practised for two hours. ---- called and stayed some time. Came up to my own room; wrote journal: while doing so a note containing two cards, and an invitation to "tea," from the Miss ----s was brought to me. Presently I was called down to receive our kinsman, who sat some time with me, whom I like most especially, who is a gentleman, and a very nice person. Came up and resumed my journal: was again summoned down to see young Mr. ----. * * * * * * * * * * When he was gone, finished journal, wrote to Mrs. ----, to my mother, read a canto in Dante, and began to write a novel. Dined at five. After dinner, put out things for this evening, played on the piano, mended habit shirt, dressed myself, and at a quarter to ten went to the theatre for my father. I had on the same dress I wore at Devonshire House, the night of the last ball I was at in England, and looked at myself in amazement, to think of all the strangenesses that have befallen since then. We proceeded to Miss ----'s, and this tea-party turned out to be a very crowded dance, in small rooms upon carpets, and with a roasting fire. Was introduced to all the world and his wife. Dr. ---- claimed acquaintance with us, and danced with me: I like his manners very much. I have beheld Miss ----, and should doubtless now depart in peace. Lord! what fools men and women do make themselves. Was introduced to one Mr. ----, Mr. ----'s partner, whom I received graciously for the sake of the good days on board the Pacific. Came away at a little after twelve. I never felt any thing like the heat of the rooms, or heard any thing so strange as the questions the people ask one, or saw any thing more lovely than the full moonlight on the marble buildings of Philadelphia. _Wednesday, 5th._ After breakfast, practised: Mr. and Mrs. ---- called, also Dr. ----. Went and saw poor Mrs. ---- for a little time; she interests me most extremely--I like her very very much. Came up to my own room; read a canto of Dante. Was called down to see folk, and found the drawing-room literally thronged. The first face I made out was Mr. ----'s, for whom I have taken an especial love: two ladies, a whole load of men, and Mr. ----, who had brought me a curious piece of machinery, in the shape of a musical box, to look at. It contained a little bird, no larger than a large fly, with golden and purple wings, and a tiny white beak. On the box being wound up, this little creature flew out, and, perching itself on the brink of a gold basin, began fluttering its wings, opening its beak, and uttering sundry very melodious warblings, in the midst of which, it sank suddenly down, and disappeared, the lid closed, and there was an end. What a pity 'tis that we can only realise fairy-land through the means of machinery. One reason why there is no such thing left as the believing faculty among men, is because they have themselves learnt to make magic, and perform miracles. When the coast was once more clear, I returned to my room, got out things for the theatre, dined _tte--tte_ with D----; my father dined at the public table. After dinner, came up stairs, read Grahame, wrote journal, began my novel under another shape. I can't write prose; (query, can I any thing else?) I don't know how, but my sentences are the comicalest things in the world; the end forgets the beginning, and the whole is a perfect labyrinth of parenthesis within parenthesis. Perhaps, by the by, without other view, it would be just as well if I exercised myself a little in writing my own language, as the grammar hath it, "with elegance and propriety." The play was Romeo and Juliet; the house not good. Mr. ---- played Romeo. * * * * * * * * * * I acted like a wretch, of course; how could I do otherwise? Oh, Juliet! vision of the south! rose of the garden of the earth! was this the glorious hymn that Shakspeare hallowed to your praise? was this the mingled strain of Love's sweet going forth, and Death's dark victory, over which my heart and soul have been poured out in wonder and ecstasy?--How I do loathe the stage! these wretched, tawdry, glittering rags, flung over the breathing forms of ideal loveliness; these miserable, poor, and pitiful substitutes for the glories with which poetry has invested her magnificent and fair creations--the glories with which our imagination reflects them back again. What a mass of wretched mumming mimicry acting is! Pasteboard and paint, for the thick breathing orange groves of the south; green silk and oiled parchment, for the solemn splendour of her noon of night; woolen platforms and canvass curtains, for the solid marble balconies and rich dark draperies of Juliet's sleeping-chamber, that shrine of love and beauty; rouge, for the startled life-blood in the cheek of that young passionate woman; an actress, a mimicker, a sham creature, me, in fact, or any other one, for that loveliest and most wonderful conception, in which all that is true in nature, and all that is exquisite in fancy, are moulded into a living form. To _act_ this! to _act_ Romeo and Juliet! horror! horror! how I do loathe my most impotent and unpoetical craft! * * * * * * * * * * In the last scene of the play, I was so mad with the mode in which all the preceding ones had been perpetrated, that, lying over Mr. ----'s corpse, and fumbling for his dagger, which I could not find, I, Juliet, thus apostrophised him,--Romeo being dead--"why, where _the_ devil _is_ your dagger, Mr. ----!" What a disgusting travesty. On my return home, I expressed my entire determination to my father to perform the farce of Romeo and Juliet no more. Why, it's an absolute _shame_ that one of Shakspeare's plays should be thus turned into a mockery. I received a note from young Mr. ----, accompanied by a very curious nosegay in shells; a poor substitute for the breathing, fresh, rosy flowers he used to furnish me with, when I was last here. _Thursday, 6th._ The morning was beautifully bright and warm, like a May morning in England. After breakfast, practised for two hours: while doing so, was interrupted by Mr. ----, who came to bid us good-by. He was going on to New York, and thence to England. * * * * * * * * * * He sat some time. When he was gone, and I had finished my practising, came up to my own room. Was summoned thence to see my kinsman, who sat some time with me, and whom I like of all things. He makes it out (for he seems a great meddler in these matters) that we are originally Italian people, pirates by name, Campo Bello; the same family as the Scottish Campbells; the same family as the Norman Beauchamps: how I only wish it were true! I have, and always have had, the greatest love and veneration for old blood; I would rather by far have some barbarous Saxon giant to my ancestor, than all the wealth of the earth to my dower. I parted from my friend with much regret; he has won my heart fairly. When he was gone, came up to my own room. The day was brilliant and unclouded; and, as I looked into the serene blue sky, my spirit longed for wings. * * * * * * * * * * Dr. ---- called this morning, and interested me by a long account of Webster; in the course of which, however, he gave me, if possible, a stronger distaste than I had before to the form of government in this country, from various results which he enumerated as inevitably belonging to it. Read a canto in Dante: it consoles me to read my Italian, and forget for a time all that is. * * * * * * * * * * I sat watching the glorious sunset, as it came redly streaming into my room, touching every thing with glory, and shining through my hair upon my book. It suggested to me a picture; and I wrote one for Mrs. ----, who had been consulting me about a costume in which to sit for her portrait. Dined at five: my father dined out. After dinner, sat writing journal till ten, when he returned. The moon was shining soft and full, and he asked me if I would take a walk. I bonneted and booted, and we sallied forth to the Schuylkill. The moon withdrew herself behind a veil of thin white clouds, but left a grey clear light over the earth, and through the sky. We reached the Fair Mount bridge at about eleven. The turnpike was fast, and every body asleep, so we climbed over the gate, and very deliberately pursued our way through the strange dark-looking covered bridge, where the glimmering lamps, at distant intervals, threw the crossing beams and rafters into momentary brightness, that had a strange effect contrasted with the surrounding gloom. We reached the other side, and, turning off from the road, began climbing the hill opposite the breakwater. The road was muddy in the valley with heavy rains; and unwilling to wade through the dirt, we clambered along a paling for several yards, and so escaped the mire. My father steered for the grassy knoll just opposite Fair Mount; and there, screened by a thicket of young cedar bushes, with the river breaking over the broad dam far below us, and the shadowy banks on the other side melting away in the soft grey light, we sat down on a tree trunk. Here we remained for upwards of a quarter of an hour without uttering a syllable; indeed, we had not spoken three words since we set out. My father was thinking, I presume, of ---- something; I, of the day of judgment--when these thick forests, and wide strong waters, like a shrivelled scroll, are to burn to ashes before the coming of God's justice. We were disturbed by a large white spaniel dog, who, coming down from among the cedar bushes, reminded me of the old witch stories, and Faust. We arose to depart, and took our way towards the Market Street bridge, along the banks of the river. The broken notes of a bugle-horn came at intervals across the sleeping waters from the opposite shore, where shone reflected the few lingering lights from the houses that had not yet shut up for the night. The moon, faintly struggling through the clouds, now touched the dark pyramids of the cedar trees that rose up into the grey sky, and threw our shadows on the lonely path we were pursuing, now cast a pale gleam through the rapid clouds that chased one another like dreams across the sky. The air was soft and balmy as the night air of mid August. The world was still; and, except our footfalls, as we trudged along, no sound disturbed the universal repose. We did not reach home till half-past twelve. As we walked down Market Street, through the long ranges of casks, the only creatures stirring, except some melancholy night-loving cat, my father said very calmly, "How I do wish I had a gimlet." --"What for?" --"What fun it would be to pierce every one of these barrels." For a gentleman of his years, this appeared to me rather a juvenile prompting of Satan; and as I laughingly expostulated on the wickedness of such a proceeding, he replied with much innocence, "I don't think they'd ever suspect me of having done it;" and truly I don't think they would. Came home, and to bed. That was a curious fancy of my father's. A PICTURE. Through the half open'd casement stream'd the light Of the departing sun. The golden haze Of the red western sky fell warm and bright Into that chamber large and lone: the blaze Touch'd slantingly curtain and couch, and threw A glory over many an antique gem, Won from the entombed cities that once grew At the volcano's foot. Mingled with them Stood crystal bowls, through which the broken ray Fell like a shower of precious stones, and lay Reflected upon marble; these were crown'd With blushing flowers, fresh and glittering yet With diamond rain-drops. On the crimson ground A shining volume, clasp'd with gold and jet, And broken petals of a passion-flower Lay by the lady of this silent bower. Her rippling hair fell from her pearly round That strove to clasp its billowy curls: the light Hung like a glory on their waves of gold. Her velvet robe, in many a violet fold, Like the dark pansy's downy leaf, was bound With a gold zone, and clasp'd with jewels bright, That glow'd and glanced as with a magic flame Whene'er her measured breathing stirr'd her frame. Upon her breast and shoulders lay a veil Of curious needle-work, as pure and pale As a fine web of ivory, wrought with care, Through which her snowy skin show'd smooth and fair. Upon the hand that propp'd her drooping head, A precious emerald, like a fairy well, Gleam'd with dark solemn lustre; a rich thread Of rare round pearls--such as old legends tell The Egyptian queen pledged to her Roman lord, When in her cup a kingdom's price she pour'd,-- Circled each soft white arm. A painter well Might have been glad to look upon her face, For it was full of beauty, truth, and grace; And from her lustrous eyes her spirit shone Serene, and strong, and still, as from a throne. _Friday, 7th._ A break. Found ---- in the breakfast-room. The morning was very unpropitious; but I settled to ride at one, if it was tolerably fine then. He remained pottering a long time: when he was gone, practised, habited, went in, for a few minutes, to Mrs. ----. At one the horses came; but mine was brought without a stirrup, so we had to wait, Lord knows how long, till the blundering groom had ridden back for it. At length we mounted. "Handsome is that handsome does," is verity; and, therefore, pretty as was my steed, I wished its good looks and itself at the devil, before I was halfway down Chestnut Street. It pranced, and danced, and backed me once right upon the pavement. We took the Laurel Hill road. The day was the perfection of gloom--the road six inches deep in heavy mud. We walked the whole way out! my father got the cramp, and lost his temper. At Laurel Hill we dismounted, and walked down to the river side. How melancholy it all looked! the turbid rhubarby water, the skeleton woods, the grey sky, and far winding away of the dark rocky shores; yet it was fine even in this gloom, and wonderfully still. The clouds did not move,--the water had not the faintest ripple,--the trees did not stir a branch; the most perfect and profound trance seemed to have fallen upon every thing. ---- and I scrambled down the rocks towards the water, expatiating on the capabilities of this place, which was once a country-seat, and with very little expense might be made a very enchanting as well as a very comfortable residence; always excepting, of course, the chance of fever and ague during the summer months, when the whole of the banks of the Schuylkill, high and rocky as they are, are considered so unhealthy, that the inhabitants are obliged to leave their houses until the winter season, when the country naturally loses half its attractions. At half-past three, we mounted, and, crossing the river, returned home by a much better road. My horse, however, was decidedly a brute,--pulled my arms to pieces, cantered with the wrong leg foremost, trotted in a sort of scuttling fashion, that rendered it utterly impossible to rise in the stirrup, and, instead of walking, jogged the breath out of my body. I was fairly done up when we reached home. Dressed, and dined; ---- dined with us. After dinner, went and sat with Mrs. ----. So it seems Carolina is in a state of convulsion. Reports have arrived that the Nullifiers and Unionists have had a fight in Charleston, and that lives have been lost. "Bide a wee," as the Scotchman says; we talk a good deal on the other side the water of matters that are far enough off; but as for America, the problem is not yet solved--and this very crisis (a more important one than has yet occurred in the political existence of this country) is threatening to slacken the bonds of brotherhood between the states, and shake the Union to its centre. The interests of the northern states are totally different from, and in some respects opposite to, those of the southern ones. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The tariff question is the point in debate; and the Carolinians have, it seems, threatened to secede from the Union in consequence of the policy pursued with regard to that. I was horrified at Dr. ----'s account of the state of the negroes in the south. To teach a slave to read or write is to incur a penalty either of fine or imprisonment. They form the larger proportion of the population, by far; and so great is the dread of insurrection on the part of the white inhabitants, that they are kept in the most brutish ignorance, and too often treated with the most brutal barbarity, in order to insure their subjection. Oh! what a breaking asunder of old manacles there will be, some of these fine days; what a fearful rising of the black flood; what a sweeping away, as by a torrent, of oppressions and tyrannies; what a fierce and horrible retaliation and revenge for wrong so long endured--so wickedly inflicted. When I came in to tea, at half-past eight, found Dr. ---- there. * * * * * When he was gone, sang a song or two, like a crow in the quinsy. * * * * * _Wednesday, 12th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal; after rehearsal, went to ----'s. It poured with rain. Came home; put out things for the theatre; practised for an hour; finished letter to ----; wrote journal; dined at three. Sang to her all my old Scotch ballads; read the first act of the Hunchback to her. Play, King John; house good: I played horribly. My voice, too, was tired with my exertions, and cracked most awfully in the midst of "thunder," which was rather bad. * * * * * * * * * * I had finished early, and came home in my dress in order to show it to Mrs. ----. She was just gone to bed, but admitted me. * * * * * Sat talking to her until my father came home. So "Old Hickory" means to lick the refractory southerns: why they are coming to a civil war! However, the grumblers haven't the means of fighting without emancipating and arming their slaves. That they will not and dare not do; the consequence will be, I suppose, that they will swallow the affront, and submit. _Thursday, 13th._ While dressing, had the pleasure of witnessing from my window a satisfactory sample of the innate benevolence, gentleness, and humanity of our nature: a child of about five years old, dragging a cat by a string tied to its throat round and round a yard, till the poor beast ceased to use its paws, and suffered itself to be trailed along the ground, after which the little fiend set his feet upon it, and stamped and kicked it most brutally. The blood came into my face; and, though almost too far for hearing, I threw up the sash, and at the top of my voice apostrophised the little wretch with "Hollo there! wicked, naughty boy!" He seemed much puzzled to discover whence this appeal proceeded, but not at all at a loss to apply it; for, after looking about with a very conscience-stricken visage, he rushed into the house, dragging his victim with him. I came down, fairly sick, to breakfast. After despatching it, I put on my bonnet and walked round to the house where this scene had taken place. I enquired for the child, describing his appearance, and he was presently brought to me; when I sat down at the foot of the stairs in the hall, and spent some time in expatiating on the enormity of such proceedings to the little ruffian, who, it seems, has frequently been corrected for similar ferocities before. I fear my preachment will not avail much. Came home, put room to rights, practised for an hour; got ready, and dawdled about most dreadfully, waiting for D----, who had gone out with my father. At half-past twelve, set off with her to the riding-school. It was full of women in long calico skirts, and gay bonnets with flaunting feathers, riding like wretches; some cantering, some trotting, some walking--crossing one another, passing one another in a way that would have filled the soul of Fossard with grief and amazement. I put on a skirt and my riding-cap, and mounted a rough, rugged, besweated white-brown beast, that looked like an old trunk more than any thing else, its coat standing literally on end, like "quills upon the fretful porcupine," with heat and ill condition. 'Tis vain attempting to ride like a Christian on these heathen horses, which are neither broken, bitted, nor bridled properly; and poor dumb _creturs_ have no more idea of what a horse ought to be, or how a horse ought to behave, than so many cows. My hair, presently, with the damp and the shaking, became perfectly straight. As I raised my head, after putting it up under my cap, I beheld ---- earnestly discoursing to D----. I asked for Tuesday's charger; and the school having by degrees got empty, I managed to become a little better acquainted with its ways and means. 'Tis a pretty little creature, but 'tis not half broken, is horribly ill ridden, and will never be good for any thing--what a pity! At two o'clock I dismounted: ---- walked home with us. Went in to see Mrs. ----: she seemed a good deal better, I thought; sat some time with her. Mr. ---- has sent me back my book of manuscript music: played and sang half through it. Came to my room; tried on dresses for Lady Macbeth, and the Wonder, and dressed for dinner. My father dined out. After dinner, went in to see Mrs. ----. Sat some time with her mother, her chicks, and her young doctor of a cousin, who is quite a civilised mortal. Poor Mrs. ---- was too ill to see me. Came to the drawing-room, wrote journal, played and sang till tea-time. After tea, read the history of Knickerbocker, whereat I was like to have died, through the greate merrimente its rare and excellente pleasantries did cause in me, insomuche that I lay on the sofa screaming, very much like one lunaticke. _Friday, 14th._ After breakfast, put out things for the theatre. Practised for an hour; read and marked the Comedy of Errors, which is really great fun: perhaps not funnier than Amphytrion, but the subject is more agreeable a good deal. Read a canto in Dante; got ready for the riding-school; found ---- and Mr. ---- in the drawing-room. As we were going out, the gentlemen did not remain long. When they were gone, D---- and I set off for the riding-school. We were hardly there before ---- made his appearance: I wonder what he'll do for an _interest_, by the by, when we are gone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The school was quite empty, so we had it all to ourselves. D---- mounted up upon a detestable shambling brute, that wouldn't go _no how_. I had a fancy for making my little fiery charger leap over the bar, and made Mr. ---- put it down for me. The beast had no idea of such saltatory proceedings, and jerked himself over it three times most abominably. The fourth time I pushed him at it, he jumped, and I jumped too, out of the saddle on to my feet, having lighted down very comfortably at the horse's head with the reins in my hand, neither hurt nor frightened. This is the first time a horse ever had me off. I got on again, but declined leaping any more. At a quarter to three we returned home. ---- walked with us. At the corner of Sansom Street, met young ----. Heaven bless ---- from a challenge! Came home; dined: after dinner, went in and sat with Mrs. ---- till coffee-time. Showed her my dresses, and read her a scene or two of the Hunchback. Went to the theatre at half-past five. Play, the Hunchback--the house was literally crammed. I played very well, except being out in my town scene--an unwonted occurrence with me. After the play, came home, supped, and read the Wonder, which I thought wondrous dull. _Saturday, 15th._ If I were to write a history of Philadelphia, according to the profound spirit of investigation for which modern tourists are remarkable, I should say that it was a peculiarity belonging to its climate, that Saturday is invariably a wet day. At twelve, went to rehearsal, after putting out things for the theatre. Had a long talk with Mr. ---- about Pasta, the divine,--the only reality that ever I beheld that was as fair, as grand, as glorious as an imaginary being. Shall I ever forget that woman in Medea? I am thankful I have seen her. After rehearsal, called at Mr. ----'s. Saw and carried off his head of me in Juliet. Certainly the resemblance between myself and Mrs. Siddons must be very strong; for this painting might almost have been taken for a copy of Harlowe's sketch of my aunt in Lady Macbeth: 'tis very strange and unaccountable. Came home; wrote journal: went and sat with Mrs. ---- till dinner-time. After dinner, went and sat with her again till coffee-time. Was introduced to Dr. ----, whom I liked very much. * * * * * * * * * * Showed her my dress and my bracelets. Had a long discussion about the precedence of one lady before another among the nobility of European courts, whereat her republican pride seemed highly offended. If Clay _did_, as Dr. ---- describes, pass before titled men, at a dinner in England, with his hands in his breeches' pockets, it only follows thence that he was really ill bred, and would be thought vulgar if he did it unwittingly, and absurd if he did it intentionally. The house was wonderful, considering the weather: the play was Fazio. I played pretty well: my dress was _splendid_. _Sunday, 16th._ Had only time to swallow a mouthful of breakfast, and off to church; where I heard about as thorough a cock and bull sermon as ever I hope to be edified withal. What shameful nonsense the man talked! and all the time pretending to tell us what God had done, what he was doing, and what he intended to do next, as if he went up into heaven and saw what was going on there, every five minutes. Came home; sat with Mrs. ---- for a long time: I am very fond of her. * * * * * * * * * * Came to my own room, and studied Violante till dinner-time. How tiresome this pointless prose is to batter into one's head. After dinner, went and sat with Mrs. ---- till near tea-time, when I came to the drawing-room. Presently, Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- called, also Dr. ----. I went to my father's room to apprise him of this invasion of the Goths, and found him very unwell, and labouring under a severe cold. He would not come down; so D---- and I had to entertain these interesting youths what fashion we best might. She gave them tea, and I gave them music, till half-past ten, when they departed. _Monday, 17th._ It poured with rain like the very mischief: a sort of continual gushing down from the clouds, combining all the vehemence of a thunder shower with all the pertinacity of one of our own November drizzles--delightful! Went to rehearse Macbeth. Had a delightful palaver with Mr. ----, who knows all the music that ever was writ, and all the singers that ever sang, and worships Pasta as I do. Came home; put out things for the theatre: dined at three. After dinner, went and sat with Mrs. ---- till coffee-time. In spite of the rain, the house was very full; and in all my life I never saw so large an assembly of people so perfectly and breathlessly still as they were during several of our scenes. I played like a very clever girl as I am; but it was about as much like Lady Macbeth as the Great Mogul. My father laboured his part too much. _Tuesday, 18th._ Received letters; one from dear ----, and one from ----. They did as letters from England always do by me,--threw me into a perfect nervous fever. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * After breakfast, went to rehearse the Wonder. Called in on my way on Mr. ----, who is painting a portrait of my father. Saw one or two lovely women's pictures. I wish he would go to England: I think it would answer his purpose very well. At two, went to the riding-school: rode till half-past three. The day was bitter cold, with a piercing wicked wind riding through the grey sky. D---- and I walked to pay sundry calls. Met ----, whom we had not seen for two or three days--a most unusual circumstance. On returning home, I found a most lovely nosegay of real, delicious, fragrant flowers. Sweet crimson buds of the faint-breathing monthly rose; bright vivid dark green myrtle; the honey Daphne Odora, with its clusters of pinky-white blossoms; and the delicate bells of the tall white jasmine,--all sweet, and living, and fresh, as at midsummer: I was blissful! After dinner, I went in to Mrs. ----. Came back to the drawing-room. ----, who had taken the hint about our being alone in the evening, came in. I began making him sing, and taught him the Leaf and the Fountain: his voice sounded like when we were nearer home. * * * * * * * * * * Presently Mr. ---- was announced. He was the author of the flowers. * * * * * _Wednesday, 19th._ After breakfast, ---- called. * * * * * * * * * * Went to rehearsal,--afterwards, to the riding-school. The school was quite empty, and I alone. The boy brought me my horse, and I mounted by means of a chair. As I was cantering along, amusing myself with cogitations various, ---- came in. He stayed the whole time I rode. I settled with him about riding to-morrow, and came home to dinner. After dinner, went in to see Mrs. ----: Dr. ---- was there, who is a remarkably nice man. She is a very delightful person, with a great deal of intellect, and a wonderful quantity of fortitude and piety, and a total absence of knowledge of the world, except through books. * * * * * * * * * * Her children enchant me, and her care of them enchants me too. She is an excellent person, with a heart overflowing with the very best affections our nature is capable of, fulfilled, I think, to the uttermost. * * * * * * * * * * Stayed with her till time to go to the theatre. The house was very full: the play was the Wonder--my first time of acting Violante. My dress was not finished till the very last moment,--and then, oh, horror! was so small that I could not get into it. It had to be pinned upon me; and thus bebundled, with the dread of cracking my bodice from top to bottom every time I moved, and the utter impossibility of drawing my breath, from the narrow dimensions into which it squeezed me, I went on to play a new part. The consequence was that I acted infamously, and for the first time in my life was horribly imperfect--out myself and putting every body else out. Between every scene my unlucky gown had to be pinned together; and in the laughing scene, it took the hint from my admirable performance, and facetiously grinned in an ecstasy of amusement till it was fairly open behind, displaying, I suppose, the lacing of my stays, like so many teeth, to the admiring gaze of the audience; for, as I was perfectly ignorant of the circumstance, with my usual easy _nonchalance_, I persisted in turning my back to the folk, in spite of all my father's pulls and pushes, which, as I did not comprehend, I did not by any means second either. ---- was at the play, also Dr. ----, also Henry Clay, who was received with cheers and plaudits manifold. Came home in my dress, and went in to show it to Mrs. ---- and her mother, who were both in bed, but marvellously edified by my appearance. _Thursday, 20th._ The day was beautifully brilliant, clear, and cold--winter, but winter in dazzling array of sunshine and crystal; blue skies, with light feathery streaks of white clouds running through them; dry, crisp, hard roads, with the delicate rime tipping all the ruts with sparkling jewellery; and the waters fresh, and bright, and curling under the keen breath of the arrow-like wind. After breakfast, ---- called. Walked out with him to get a cap and whip for D----. The latter he insisted on making her a present of, and a very pretty one indeed it was, with a delicate ivory handle, and a charming persuading lash. Went in for a short time to Mrs. ----, who entertained herself with letting all my hair down about my ears, and pulling it all manner of ways. At twelve habited, and helped to equip dear D----, who really looked exceedingly nice in her jockey habiliments. Went to the school, where we found ---- waiting for us. Mounted and set forth. We rode out to Laurel Hill. The road was not very good, but no mud; and the warm gleesome sunlight fell mellowly over the lovely undulations of the land, with their patches of green cedar trees, and threadbare cloak of leafless woods, through which the little birds were careering merrily, as the reviving sunshine came glowingly down upon the world, like a warm blessing. Passed that bright youth, Mr. ----, on the road, riding very like an ass on horseback. When we reached Laurel Hill, we dismounted, tied up the horses, slacked their girths, and walked first up to that interesting wooden monument, where I inscribed my initials on our first ride thither. Afterwards, ---- and I scrambled down the rocks to the river side, which D---- declined doing, _'cause vy?_--she'd have had to climb up again. The water was like a broad dazzling river of light, and had a beautiful effect, winding away in brightness that the eye could scarce endure, between its banks, which, contrasted by the sunny stream, and blue transparent sky, appeared perfectly black. As I bent over a fine _bluff_ (as they here call any mass of rock standing isolated), I espied below me a natural rocky arch, overhanging the river, all glittering with pure long diamond icicles. Thither ---- convoyed me, and broke off one of these wintry gems for me. It measured about two feet long, and was as thick at the root as my wrist. I never saw any thing so beautiful as these pendant adornments of the silver-fingered ice god. Toiled up to the house again, where, after brushing our habits, we remounted our chargers, and came home. The river was most beautiful towards the bridge that they are building: the unfinished piers of which have a very pretty effect, almost resembling their very opposite, a ruin. The thin pale vapour of the steam-engine, employed in some of the works, rising from the blue water, and rolling its graceful waves far along the dark rocky shore, had a lovely fairy-like look, which even drew forth the admiration of ----, who, from sundry expressions which have occasionally fallen from him, I suspect to be rather well endowed with ideality. Reached home at half-past four. It was past ----'s dinner-time; so we invited him to stay and dine with us. After dinner, we fell somehow or another into a profound theological discussion; ---- suddenly proposing for my solution the mysterious doctrine of the inherent sin of our nature, and its accompanying doom, death,--inherited from one man's sin, and one man's punishment. I am not fond of discoursing upon these subjects. 'Tis long since I have arrived at the conviction that the less we suffer our thoughts to dwell upon what is vague and mysterious in our most mysterious faith, and the more we confine our attention and our efforts to that part of it which is practical and clear as the noon-day, the better it will be for our minds here, and our souls hereafter. Surely they are not wise who seek to penetrate the unfathomed counsels of God, whilst their own natures, moral, mental, nay, even physical, have depths beyond the sounding of their plummet line. ---- spoke in perfect sincerity and simplicity of the difficulty he found in believing that which was so "hard a saying;" and, as there was not the slightest particle of levity or ridicule in his manner, I spoke as earnestly as I felt and always feel upon this subject,--very strenuously advising him not to strain his comprehension upon matters which baffle human endeavour, which, after all our wanderings and weary explorings, still lead us back to the wide boundless waste of uncertainty; concluding by exhorting him to read his Bible, say his prayers, and go to church if he could,--or, if he could not, at all events to be as good as he could. While we were at tea, young ---- and Dr. ---- came in. They put me down to the piano, and I continued to sing until past eleven o'clock, when, somebody looking at a watch, there was a universal exclamation of surprise, the piano was shut down, the candles put out, the gentlemen vanished, and I came to bed. WINTER. I saw him on his throne, far in the north, Him ye call Winter, picturing him ever An aged man, whose frame, with palsied shiver, Bends o'er the fiery element, his foe. But him I saw was a young god, whose brow Was crown'd with jagged icicles, and forth From his keen spirit-like eyes there shone a light, Broad, glaring, and intensely cold and bright. His breath, like sharp-edged arrows, pierced the air; The naked earth crouch'd shuddering at his feet; His finger on all murmuring waters sweet Lay icily,--motion nor sound was there; Nature seem'd frozen--dead; and still and slow A winding-sheet fell o'er her features fair, Flaky and white, from his wide wings of snow. I am sorry to find that I must skip Friday and Saturday, thereby omitting an account of an interesting ball at Mrs. ----'s, where the floors were duly chalked, the music very good, the women very lovely, and where I fell in again with my dear kinsman, whom I love devotedly, and whom I jumped half across a quadrille to greet with extended hands, which must greatly have edified the whole assembly. Likewise I must skip a most interesting account of a second polemical conversation with ----; in the course of which, to my great amazement, he managed to introduce a most vehement abuse of Dr. ----, whose admiration of my singing appears to have troubled him fully as much as the doctrine of original sin,--together with many other things worthy of note, which shall now die in oblivion, and the times return unenlightened to their graves. _Sunday, 23d._ Was only dressed in time to swallow two mouthfuls of breakfast, and get ready for church. ---- came to know at what time we would ride, and walked with us to the church door. * * * * * * * * * * After church, came home,--habited; went and sat with Mrs. ---- till half-past one. The villanous servants did not think fit to announce the horses till they had been at the door full half an hour, so that when we started it was near two o'clock. D---- seemed quite at her ease upon her gangling charger, and I had gotten up upon Mr. ----'s big horse, to see what I could make of him. The day was beautifully bright and clear, with a warm blessed sunshine causing the wintry world to smile. We had proceeded more than halfway to Laurel Hill without event, when, driving my heavy-shouldered brute at a bank, instead of lifting up his feet, he thought fit to stumble, fall, and fling me very comfortably off upon the mound. I sprang up neither hurt nor frightened, shook my habit, tightened my girths, and mounted again; when we set off, much refreshed by this little incident, which occasioned a world of mirth and many saucy speeches from my companions to me. At Laurel Hill the master of the house came bowing forth with the utmost courteousness to meet me, expressing his profound sense of the honour I did him in deigning to inhale the air around his abode, and his unspeakable anguish at having been absent when I had so far condescended before. He was a foreigner,--French or Italian, or _such like_,--which accounts for his civility. Had the horses taken to the stable, and their girths slackened. D---- kept the heights, and ---- and I ran, slipped, slid, and scrambled down to the water's edge. The river was frozen over, not, however, strongly enough to bear much, and every jutting rock was hung with pure glittering icicles that shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. Far down the river all was still and lonely, and bright, yet wintry-looking. The flow of the water and its plashing music were still; there was no breath of wind stirring the leafless boughs; the sunlight came down, warm and dazzling upon the silent sparkling world, all clad in its shimmering ice robe: the air was transparent and clear, and the whole scene was perfectly lovely. Taming to re-ascend the rocks, I called aloud to D----, and the distinctest loudest echo answered me. So perfect was the reflection of the sound, that at first I thought some one was mocking me. I ran up a scale as loud, and high, and rapid as I could; and, from among the sunny fields, a voice repeated the threaded notes as clearly, as rapidly, only more softly, with a distinctness that was startling. I never heard an echo that repeated so much of what was sung or said. I stood in perfect enchantment, exercising my voice, and provoking the hidden voice of the air, who answered me with a far-off tone, that seemed as though the mocking spirit fled along the hill tops, repeating my notes with a sweet gleeful tone that filled me with delight. Oh, what must savages think an echo is? How many many lovely and wild imaginations are suggested by that which natural philosophers analyse into mere conformations of earth and undulations of air! At length we joined D----, and walked to the house, where presently appeared the master of the mansion, with cakes, wine, cordial, preserves, or, as Comus hath it, "a table covered with all manner of deliciousness." I was at first a little puzzled by the epithet _cordial_ applied to three goodly-looking _decanters_ full of rosy and golden liquor, and which ---- informed me is the invariable refreshment presented to visiters of both sexes who ride or drive up to Laurel Hill. To satisfy my curiosity, I put my lips to some of it, which proved to be no other than liqueur, an indifferent sort of noyau--that which soberest folks in England take but a thimble-full of after dinner, by way of _chasse-caf_, and drunkenest folk would be ashamed to touch in the morning. It seems that it is otherwise here; and, indeed, generally speaking, Americans swallow much more of all sorts of spirituous nauseousness than we do in our country. The men take brandy, in a way that would astound people of any respectability in England, and in this, as well as many other ways, contribute to assist the enervating effects of their climate. Our host waited himself most attentively upon us, and refused all species of remuneration save thanks, which, indeed, he said he owed me for so far honouring him as to stuff his cakes and drink his wine. We mounted again, being refreshed, and, taking leave of this pearl of innkeepers, continued our ride along the banks of the Schuylkill, until we came to Manayunk, a manufacturing place, where they create cottons, and which has the additional advantage of being most lovelily situated upon the banks of the river, backed by rocky heights, where the cedar bushes, with their rich dark tufts, and the fine bold masses of grey granite, together with a hundred little water-courses now hanging from every ridge they used to flow over in brilliant ice pendants, had a most beautiful effect. It was getting late, however, and we pushed on to the bridge; but, lo! when we reached it, it was under repair and impassable. What was to be done? the sun had withdrawn his warm rays from the heavens,--the lower earth was shadowy and dark,--a rich orange light hung over the brow of the ridge of hills on the opposite side of the river, whose current, rapid and strong, flowed darkly between beautiful slabs of granite which lay in its path, and round which the water hurried angrily. To turn back was disheartening,--to go on for the chance of a bridge was also to run the chance of being utterly benighted in paths we knew nothing of, and on horses which were any thing but safe. However, my evident inclination to the latter course prevailed with my companions. We crossed a narrow bridge, and pursued a sort of tow-path between the canal and the river. The glimmering daylight was fading fast from the sky, and the opposite shores of the river were losing their distinctness of outline, when, from between two beautiful bold masses of rock which overhung its entrance, the wooden bridge appeared. I should like to have lingered in this spot till nightfall, but this was by no means the bargain either with my fellow-travellers or my horse. So on we went over the bridge, and, turning to the left, pursued the river's side,--now close down to its gushing fretful waters, hurrying from between the rocky impediments of their path,--now high above its course, in the midst of woods growing to the very edge of the precipitous bank, with rocky ridges rising again above us, crowned with the black-looking tufts of the cedar, jagged with icicles, and from which descended, at every ten yards, a trickling rill, which, smoothed over by the glassy ice, rendered our horses' footing, particularly in the twilight, very insecure. We were _in for it_; and when that is the case, 'tis vain making lamentations or piteous retrospections: I therefore pushed on, with as much care as I could of Mr. ----'s tumble-down charger, whose headlong motion kept me in agonies, leaving ---- to take care of dear D----, whose bones I feared would ach for this adventure most bitterly. The road was perfectly beautiful. Broad masses of shadowy clouds hung in the sky, and were reflected in the waters, together with the pale delicate grey of evening, and the last amber tinge of sunset. We did not reach Philadelphia till it was perfectly dark. To add to my consternation, too, when we asked ---- to dine with us, he said that he had an engagement, for which I began to fear this ill-starred ride would have kept him too late. * * * * * * * * * * I came up to my own room, changed my clothes, and went in to see Mrs. ----. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * She was completely overpowered with laudanum. Her head was declined upon a chair. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * She looked very lovely, with her beautiful head bowed, and her dark eyelashes lying on her wan cheeks. Her features were contracted with suffering. I sat watching her with much heartfelt sadness and interest. I was summoned away, however, to see some gentlemen who were in the drawing-room, whither I adjourned, and where I found Mr. ---- and Dr. ----. I was stupid and sleepy, and the gentlemen had the charity not to keep me up, or make me sing. _Monday, 24th, Christmas-eve._ After breakfast, put out clothes for to-night. When I came down, found ---- in the drawing-room with my father: paid him his bill, and pottered an immensity. Went to rehearsal,--afterwards paid all manner of cards with poor dear D----, who puffed and panted through the streets in order not to freeze me, which, however, she did not escape. * * * * * * * * * * After dinner, went and sat with my poor invalid, whom, in spite of her republicanism, I am greatly inclined to like and admire. Remained with her till coffee-time. Went to the theatre: the play was the Merchant of Venice,--my favourite part, Portia. The house was very full: I played so-soish. * * * * * * * * * * _Tuesday, 25th, Christmas-day._ I wish you a merry Christmas, poor child! away from home and friends. Truly, the curse of the old Scriptures has come upon me; my lovers and my acquaintance are far off from me. After breakfast, practised for and hour; went and saw Mrs. ----; drove out shopping; saw ---- walking with my father. Came home and wrote journal: went out with D----; bought a rocking-horse for Mrs. ----'s chicks, whose merry voices I shall miss most horribly by and by. Dragged it in to them in the midst of their dinner. Dined at three. After dinner, went and sat with her till coffee-time. When I came into the drawing-room, found a beautiful work-box sent me by that very youthful admirer of mine, Mr. ----. I was a little annoyed at this, but still more so at my father's desiring me to return it to him, which I know will be a terrible mortification to him. Went to the theatre: the house was crammed with men, and very noisy,--a Christmas audience. Play, Macbeth: I only played so-so. Oh, me! these marks in the stream of time, over which it breaks as over a dam, drawing our attention, which without them would even less often note its rapid, rapid current! They do but become halting-posts for our souls, round which gather the memories of days and hours escaped and gone from us for ever. * * * * * * * * * * _Wednesday, 26th._ After breakfast, put out things for theatre. When I came down to the drawing-room, I found a middle-aged gentleman of very respectable appearance sitting with my father. He rose on my coming in, and, after bowing to me, continued his discourse to my father thus:--"Yes, sir, yes; you will find as I tell you, sir, the winter is our profitable theatrical season, sir; so that if any thing should take you to England, you can return again at the beginning of next fall." I modestly withdrew to another end of the room, supposing they were engaged upon business. But my curiosity was presently attracted by the continuation of his discourse. "And recollect, sir, and this lady, your daughter, too, if you please, that what I have said must not on any account be repeated out of this room. I am myself going immediately to England, and from thence direct to _Jerusalem_!" I stared. "There, sir, is my real name, ----: the card I sent up to you is not my real name. You see, sir, I am an Irishman, that is to say, in fact, I am really a Jew. _I am one of those of the tribe of Ephraim who refused to cross the Red Sea: we were not to be humbugged by that damned fellow, Moses,--no, sir, we were not!_" Here my heart jumped into my throat, and my eyes nearly out of my head with fright and amazement. "Well," continued the poor madman, "I suppose I may deliver this to the young lady herself;" giving me a small parcel, which I took from him as if I thought it would explode and blow me up. "And now, sir, farewell. Remember remember, my words,--in three years, perhaps, but _certainly_ in ten, _He_ that will come _will come_, and it's all up with the world, and the children of men!" This most awful announcement was accompanied with a snap of his fingers, and a demi-pirouette. He was then rushing out of the room, leaving his cloak behind him. My father called him back to give it him. He bundled himself into it, exclaimed, "God bless you both! God bless you both!--remember, what I have said requires the profoundest secrecy, as you perceive," and darted out of the room, leaving my father and myself with eyes and mouth wide open, gaping in speechless astonishment. At last I bethought me of opening the little packet the madman had left me. It was a small box, on the cover of which was written, To Miss Kemble, with the compliments of St. George. I then recollected, that some time past I had received some verses, in which love and religion were very crazily blended, signed St. George. But, as I am abundantly furnished with epistles of this sort, I had flung them aside, merely concluding the writer to be gone a short way from his wits. The box contained a most beautiful and curious ornament, something like a Svign, highly wrought in gold and enamel, and evidently very costly. I was more confounded than ever, and did not recover from my amazement and fright for a long time. I went in to Mrs. ---- to tell her the event. Thence we began talking about young ----'s box; and, upon her advice, I again spoke to my father and obtained his leave not to send it back; so I indited him a thankful epistle. Practised for a short time, and then went to the riding-school. It was quite empty: I put on my cap and skirt, and was sitting, thinking of many things, in the little dressing-room, when I heard the school-door open, and Mr. ---- walked straight up to me. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dr. ---- called to-day. I was quite glad to see him: he gave me all the New York news, and brought with him a gentleman, a friend of his, who nearly made me sick by very deliberately spitting upon the carpet. Mercy on me! I thought I should have jumped off my chair, I was so disgusted. Mr. ----, too, does this constantly. * * * * * * * * * * After dinner, went and sat with Mrs. ----; was called away to see Mr. ----, whom I thanked for his present. The house was very fair, considering the weather, which was very foul. Play, School for Scandal. They none of them knew their parts, or remembered their business--delightful people, indeed! I played only so-so. ---- supped with us. He is a very gentlemanly nice person, and I am told he is extremely amiable. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * He told me sundry steam-boat stories that made my blood curdle; such as, a public brush, a public comb, and a public _tooth-brush_. Also, of a gentleman who was using his own tooth-brush,--a man who was standing near him said, "I'll trouble you for that article when you've done with it." When he had done with it, the gentleman presented it to him, and on receiving it again, immediately threw it into the river, to the infinite amazement of the borrower, who only exclaimed, "Well, however, you're a queer fellow." _Thursday, 27th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal. Katharine and Petruchio. After rehearsal, went to the riding-school. It was quite empty, except of Mr. ----, and Mr. ----. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Came home: found a letter to me from that strange madman. On opening it, it proved a mere envelope, containing a visiting-card with the name St. George upon it. After dinner, wrote journal; went and sat with Mrs. ---- till coffee-time. I have had a most dreadful side-ach all day. Play, Much Ado about Nothing; farce, Katharine and Petruchio. * * * * * At the end I was so tired, and so overcome with the side-ach, that I lay down on the floor perfectly done up. _Friday, 28th._ After breakfast, ---- called. Settled to ride, if possible, to-morrow. I would give the world for a good shaking. I'm dying of the blue devils: I have no power to rouse myself. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When ---- was gone, sat down to practise. Tried Mrs. Hemans's Messenger Bird, but the words were too solemn and too sad: I sobbed instead of singing, and was a little relieved. Went in to see Mrs. ----. She seemed better; she was _en toilette_, in a delicate white wrapper, with her fine hair twisted up round her classical head. She is a beautiful person; she is better--an amiable, a sensible, and a pious one; I am very deeply interested by her; I like her extremely. At half-past one, went to the riding-school. I met there a daughter of old Lady ----'s, who introduced herself to me, and asked leave to stay and see me ride, which leave I gave her. The bay pony is, however, fairly ruined. A little wretch not twelve years old had just been riding it: it had fallen from all its paces, and went so lame that I gave up riding, and sat disconsolately enough in the little dressing-closet, looking through a window six inches square, at the blessed mild blue heavens, and longing for wings, till my soul was like to faint. * * * * * * * * * * After dinner, wrote journal. Went in and sat with Mrs. ----. By the by, that worthy youth, Mr. ----, dined with us. I got rid of some of my vapours by sundry hearty laughs at him. I am sorry to leave Philadelphia on Mrs. ----'s account. I am growing to her. Oh, Lord! how soon, how soon we do this!--how we do cling to every thing in spite of the pitiless wrenches of time and chance! Her dear babies are delightful to me; their laughing voices have power to excite and make me happy,--and when they come dancing to meet me, my heart warms very fondly towards them. * * * * * * * * * * She amuses me much by her intense anxiety that I should be married. First, she wishes ---- would propose to me; then she thinks Mr. ----'s estates in Cuba would be highly acceptable; in short, my single blessedness seems greatly to annoy her, and I believe she attributes every thing evil in life to that same. She seemed surprised, and a little shocked, when I said I would accept death most thankfully in preference to the happiest lot in life,--and so I would--I would. Yet death----. 'Tis strange, that Messenger Bird threw more than a passing gloom over me. If the dead do indeed behold those whom they have loved, with loving eyes and fond remembrance, do not the sorrows, the weariness, the toiling, the despairing of those dear ones rise even into the abodes of peace, and wring the souls of those who thence look down upon the earth, and see the woe and anguish suffered here? Or, if they do not feel,--if, freed from this mortal coil, they forget all they have suffered, all that we yet endure, oh! then what fourfold trash is human love! what vain and miserable straws are all the deep, the dear, the grasping affections twined in our hearts' fibres,--mingled with our blood! How poor are all things,--how beggarly is life! Oh! to think that while we yet are bowed in agony, and mourning over the dead,--while our bereaved hearts are aching, and our straining eyes looking to that heaven, beyond which we think they yet may hear our cries, they yet may see our anguish, the dead, the loved, the mourned, nor see, nor hear; or if they do, look down with cold and careless gaze upon the love that lifts our very souls in desperate yearning towards them. Yet one of the two must surely be: either the other life is like this, a life of pain, though not like this, perhaps, a life of selfishness; or this earth, and time, and all they hold, are a more hollow mockery than even I sometimes dream they are. I will not think any more of it. We went to the theatre at half-past five. Play, Hunchback; after it, Katharine and Petruchio. I thought I should have died of the side-ach,--I was in perfect agony. The people here are more civil and considerate than can be imagined. I sent, yesterday evening, for some water-ice: the confectioner had none; when, lo! to-night he brings me some he has made on purpose for me, which he entreats my acceptance of. I admired a very pretty fan Mrs. ---- had in her hand; and at the end of the play she had it sent to my dressing-room;--and these sort of things are done by me, not once, but ten times every day. Nothing can exceed the kindness and attention which has encountered us every where since we have been in this country. I am sure I am bound to remember America and Americans thankfully; for, whatever I may think of their ways, manners, or peculiarities, to me they have shown unmingled good will, and cordial real kindness. Remained up, packing, till two o'clock. TO ---- ----. Many a league of salt sea rolls Between us, yet I think our souls, Dear friend, are still as closely tied As when we wander'd side by side, Some seven years gone, in that fair land Where I was born. As hand in hand We lived the showery spring away, And, when the sunny earth was gay With all its blossoms, still together We pass'd the pleasant summer weather, We little thought the time would come, When, from a trans-Atlantic home, My voice should greet you lovingly Across the deep dividing sea. Oh, friend! my heart is sad: 'tis strange, As I sit musing on the change That has come o'er my fate, and cast A longing look upon the past, That pleasant time comes back again So freshly to my heart and brain, That I half think the things I see Are but a dream, and I shall be Lying beside you, when I wake, Upon the lawn beneath the brake, With the hazel copse behind my head, And the new-mown fields before me spread. It is just twilight: that sweet time Is short-lived in this radiant clime,-- Where the bright day, and night more bright, Upon the horizon's verge unite, Nor leave those hours of ray serene, In which we think of what has been: And it is well; for here no eye Turns to the distant days gone by: They have no legendary lore Of deeds of glory done of yore,-- No knightly marvel-haunted years, The nursery tales of adult ears: The busy present, bright to come, Of all their thoughts make up the sum: Little their little past they heed; Therefore of twilight have no need. Yet wherefore write I thus? In the short span Of narrow life doled out to every man, Though he but reach the threshold of the track, Where from youth's better path, strikes out the worse, If he has breathed so long, nor once look'd back, He has not borne life's load, nor known God's curse. And yet, but for that glance that o'er and o'er Goes tearfully, where we shall go no more; Courting the sunny spots, where, for a day, Our bark has found a harbour on its way; O! but for this, this power of conjuring Hours, days, and years into the magic ring, Bidding them yield the show of happiness, To make our real misery seem less, Life would be dreary. But these memories start, Sometimes, unbidden on the mourner's heart; Unwish'd, unwelcome, round his thoughts they cling,-- In vain flung off, still dimly gathering, Like melancholy ghosts, upon the path Where he goes sadly, seeking only death. Then live again the forms of those who lie Gather'd into the grave's dark mystery. Vainly at reason's voice the phantom flies,-- It comes, it still comes back to the fond eyes,-- Still, still the yearning arms are spread to clasp The blessing that escapes their baffled grasp: Still the bewildering memory mutters "Gone!" Still, still the clinging aching heart loves on. Oh, bitter! that the lips on which we pour Love's fondest kisses, feel the touch no more; Oh, lonely! that the voice on which we call In agony, breaks not its silent thrall; Oh, fearful! that the eyes in which we gaze With desperate hope through their thick filmy haze, Return no living look to bless our sight! Oh, God! that it were granted that one might But once behold the secret of the grave,-- That but one voice from the all-shrouding cave Might speak,--that but one sleeper might emerge From the deep death-sea's overwhelming surge! Speak, speak from the grey coffins where ye lie Fretting to dust your foul mortality! Speak, from your homes of darkness and dismay,-- To what new being do ye pass away?-- O _do_ ye live, indeed?--speak, if on high One atom springs whose doom is not to die!-- Where have I wandered? * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, 29th._ When I came down to breakfast, found a very pretty diamond ring and some Scotch rhymes, from Mr. ----, what we call a small return of favours. I wish my hand wasn't so abominably ugly,--I hate to put a ring upon it. ---- called to see if we would ride; but D---- had too much to do; and, after sitting pottering for some time, I sang him the Messenger Bird, and sent him away. Went for a few moments to Mrs. ----, who seemed much better. Went out to pay sundry bills and visits. Called at Mr. ----'s, and spent half an hour most delightfully in his study. His picture of my father is very like, and very agreeable. 'Tis too youthful by a good deal; but the expression of the face is extremely good, and upon the whole, except that stern-looking thing of Kearsley's, 'tis the likest thing I have seen of him. We had a long discussion about the stage,--the dramatic art; which, as Helen says, "is none," for, "no art but taketh time and pains to learn." Now I am a living and breathing witness that a person may be accounted a good actor, and to a certain degree deserve the title, without time or pains of any sort being expended upon the acquisition of the reputation. But, on other grounds, acting has always appeared to me to be the very lowest of the arts, admitting that it deserves to be classed among them at all, which I am not sure it does. In the first place, it originates nothing; it lacks, therefore, the grand faculty which all other arts possess--creation. An actor is at the best but the filler-up of the outline designed by another,--the expounder, as it were, of things which another has set down; and a fine piece of acting is at best, in my opinion, a fine translation. Moreover, it is not alone to charm the senses that the nobler powers of mind were given to man; 'tis not alone to enchant the eye, that the gorgeous pallet of the painter, and the fine chisel of the statuary, have become, through heavenly inspiration, magical wands, summoning to life images of loveliness, of majesty, and grace; 'tis not alone to soothe the ear that music has possessed, as it were, certain men with the spirit of sweet sounds; 'tis not alone to delight the fancy, that the poet's great and glorious power was given him, by which, as by a spell, he peoples all space, and all time, with undying witnesses of his own existence; 'tis not alone to minister to our senses that these most beautiful capabilities were sown in the soil of our souls. But 'tis that, through them, all that is most refined, most excellent and noble, in our mental and moral nature, may be led through their loveliness, as through a glorious archway, to the source of all beauty and all goodness. It is that by them our perceptions of truth may be made more vivid, our love of loveliness increased, our intellect refined and elevated, our nature softened, our memory stored with images of brightness, which, like glorious reflections, falling again upon our souls, may tend to keep alive in them the knowledge of, and the desire after, what is true, and fair, and noble. But, that art may have this effect, it must be to a certain degree enduring. It must not be a transient vision, which fades and leaves but a recollection of what it was, which will fade too. It must not be for an hour, a day, or a year, but abiding, inasmuch as any thing earthly may abide, to charm the sense and cheer the soul of generation after generation. And here it is that the miserable deficiency of acting is most apparent. Whilst the poems, the sculptures, of the old Grecian time yet remain to witness to these latter ages the enduring life of truth and beauty; whilst the poets of Rome, surviving the trophies of her thousand victories, are yet familiar in our mouths as household words; whilst Dante, Boccaccio, that giant, Michael Angelo, yet live, and breathe, and have their being amongst us, through the rich legacy their genius has bequeathed to time; whilst the wild music of Salvator Rosa, solemn and sublime as his painting, yet rings in our ears, and the souls of Shakspeare, Milton, Raphael, and Titian, are yet shedding into our souls divinest influences from the very fountains of inspiration;--where are the pageants that, night after night, during the best era of dramatic excellence, riveted the gaze of thousands, and drew forth their acclamations?--gone, like rosy sunset clouds;--fair painted vapours, lovely to the sight, but vanishing as dreams, leaving no trace in heaven, no token of their ever having been there. Where are the labours of Garrick, of Macklin, of Cooke, of Kemble, of Mrs. Siddons?--chronicled in the dim memories of some few of their surviving spectators; who speak of them with an enthusiasm which we, who never saw them, fancy the offspring of that feeling which makes the old look back to the time of their youth as the only days when the sun knew how to shine. What have these great actors left, either to delight the sense or elevate the soul, but barren names, unwedded to a single lasting evidence of greatness! If, then, acting be alike without the creating power and the enduring property, which are at once the highest faculty of art, and its most beneficial purpose, what becomes of it when ranked with efforts displaying both in the highest degree? To me it seems no art, but merely a highly rational, interesting, and exciting amusement; and I think men may as well, much better, perhaps, spend three hours in a theatre than in a billiard or bar-room,--and this is the extent of my approbation and admiration of my art. Called on Mrs. ----, whom I like very much. Went to the riding-school to try a new horse, which was ten hands high, all covered with shaggy angry-looking hair, with a donkey's head, and cart-horse legs, with one of which he peached. ---- came to see me mount. Dr. ----'s grey horse was standing in the school with a man's saddle on. I persuaded ---- to put me on it, and I then sent him away. * * * * * * * * * * When he was gone, rode for about an hour without any pommel, and found I managed it famously. I slipped my foot out of the stirrup in order to see if I could sit without both; but this proved rather too much, for I presently slid very comfortably off. On my way home, met young ----, with his head so completely in the clouds, that I had bowed to him, and was driving on, when he just perceived me, and fell into a confusion of bows, which he continued long after the coach had passed him. Found the usual token of his having been at our house--a most beautiful nosegay; roses, hyacinths, and myrtle. While I was arranging them, I heard a tremendous shriek of laughter in the hall, which was followed by the appearance of Mr. ----. After sitting with him some time, I went and sat with Mrs. ----. The amiable Charg d'Affaires dined with us. After dinner, went to see Mrs. ----; but she was too unwell to receive me. * * * * * * * * * * Saw Dr. ----, who expressed manifold deplorings at my departure: gave him the words of the Sisters. At half-past five, went to the theatre: play, the Wonder. I acted only so-so: my father was a _leetle dans les vignes du Seigneur_. When the play was over, the folk called for us, and we went on: he made them a neat speech, and I nothing but a cross face and three courtesies. How I do hate this! 'Tis quite enough to exhibit myself to a gaping crowd, when my profession requires that I should do so in a feigned semblance; but to come bobbing and genuflexioning on, as me myself, to be clapped and shouted at, and say, "Thank ye kindly," is odious. After the play, dressed, and off to Mrs. ----, with my father and Mr. ----. On our way thither, the spring of our coach broke, and we had to go halting along for half an hour, with a graceful inclination towards the pavement on one side, which was very pleasant. There was quite a brilliant party at Mrs. ----'s. Told Mr. ---- that I had thrown his horse down. Saw and spoke to all Philadelphia. ---- was there, and actually sitting still. Fell in love with Mr. ----'s youngest son, who is a youth of some ten years old, and hovers round me with a plenitude of silent admiration and astonishment that is most delightful. Miss ----, who is a very pretty creature (in fact, all American women are pretty creatures, I never saw any prettier), sang Dalla Gioga e del Piacer. She sings very well, but pronounces Italian very Americanly, which is a pity. I don't know any thing so necessary to good singing as a good Italian pronunciation, _except_ perhaps a good voice, and a good school. They made me sing, and I sang them the galley song, after which Miss ---- warbled again. They were surrounding me again, with a shower of "pray do's," when perceiving D---- making towards me, with my boa on her arm, I sat down and sang them, "Yes, aunt, I am ready to go," to their infinite edification. I wonder if Mrs. ---- would object to this; I should think not, as ---- is not here to catch it again. I had eaten nothing since four o'clock, and was famished; for I do not like stewed oysters and terrapins, which are the refreshments invariably handed round at an American evening party. Did not get to bed till two o'clock. How beautifully bright the heavens are here! The sky has an earnest colour that is lovely and solemn to look at; and the moon, instead of being "the maiden with white fire laden," has a rich, mellow, golden light, than which nothing can be more beautiful. The stars, too, are more vivid than in our skies, and there is a variety of hues in their light which I never observed before,--some reddish, some violet, and again others of the palest silver. _Sunday, 30th._ After breakfast, Mr. ---- called, also ----, to know at what time we would ride. I fixed at twelve, thereby calculating that we should escape the people coming out from church. Went and sat a few minutes with Mrs. ----. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Spent my Sunday morning on my knees, indeed, but packing, not praying. The horses did not come till half-past twelve; so that, instead of avoiding, we encountered the pious multitude. I'm sure when we mounted there were not less than a hundred and fifty beholders round the Mansion House. Rode out to Laurel Hill. The cross road was muddy, so we took the turnpike, which was clean and short, and would have been pleasant enough but for my brute of a horse. Upon my word, these American horses are most unsafe to ride. I never mount one but I recommend myself to the care of Heaven, for I expect to have every bone in my body broken before I dismount again. At Laurel Hill we lunched. While D---- put up her hair, ---- and I ran down to the water side. The ice had melted from the river, in whose still waters the shores, and trees, and bridge lay mirrored with beautiful and fairy-like distinctness. The long icicles under the rocky brow beneath which we stood had not melted away, though the warm sun was shining brilliantly on them, and making the granite slab on which we stood sparkle like a pavement of diamonds. I called to the echo, and sang to it scales up, and scales down, and every manner of musical discourse I could think of, during which interesting amusement I as nearly as possible slipped from my footing into the river, which caused both ---- and myself to gulp. We left our pleasant sunny stand at last, to rejoin D---- and the lunch, and, having eaten and drunken, we remounted and proceeded on to Manayunk, under the bright, warm, blessed sunshine, which came down like a still shining shower upon the earth. The beautiful little water-courses had all broken from their diamond chains, and came dancing and singing down the hills, between the cedar bushes, and the masses of grey granite, like merry children laughing as they run. After crossing the bridge at Flat Rock, I took the van, riding by myself much faster than my companions, whom I left to entertain each other. Several times, as I looked down at the delicious fresh water, all rosy with the rosy light of the clouds, and gushing round the masses of rock that intercepted their channel, I longed to jump off my horse, and go down among their shallow brilliant eddies. The whole land was mellow with warm sunset, the sky soft, and bright, and golden, like a dream. I stopped for a long time opposite the Wissihiccon creek. The stone bridge, with its grey arch, mingled with the rough blocks of rock on which it rested, the sheet of foaming water falling like a curtain of gold over the dam among the dark stones below, on whose brown sides the ruddy sunlight and glittering water fell like splinters of light. The thick, bright, rich tufted cedars basking in the warm amber glow, the picturesque mill, the smooth open field along whose side the river waters, after receiving this child of the mountains into their bosom, wound deep, and bright, and still, the whole radiant with the softest light I ever beheld, formed a most enchanting and serene subject of contemplation. Further on, I stopped again, to look at a most beautiful mass of icicles, formed by some water falling from a large wooden conduit which belonged to a mill. The long thick masses of silvery white clung in downward pyramids together, and on the ground, great round balls of purest transparent ice, like enormous crystal grapes, lay clustered upon each other. I waited on a little sunny knoll above this glittering fairy work, till my companions joined me, when, leaving D---- to pursue the main road, ---- and I turned off, and explored a pretty ravine, down which another mountain stream, half free wild water, half shimmering diamond ice, sparkled in the sunset. We reached Philadelphia at half-past four, and had again to canter down Chestnut Street just as the folks were all coming from church, which caused no little staring, and turning of heads. My father asked ---- to dine with us, but he refused. Mr. ---- dined with us. After dinner, went in to pay my last visit to my poor sick friend. I sat with her until summoned to see some gentlemen in the drawing-room. It pained me to part from her; for though she exerted herself bravely, she was very much overcome. I fear she will miss me, poor thing; I had become very much attached to her. I went in to bid Mrs. ---- good-by. ---- was not gone to bed; I took her in my arms and kissed her, saying I should not see her for a long time again. The tears came into her baby eyes, and she said very sadly, "God bless you, Fanny." How curious a train of associations that word produced in me! It brought ----, and Lord ----, and that beautiful creature his child, before my very eyes. But her father had told little Lady ---- to say that,--I am sure he did; now this little creature blessed me out of her own heart. A child's blessing is a holy thing. Came into the drawing-room. Found Dr. ----, young Mr. ----, and Mr. ---- there. Presently, Mr. ---- came in, with Baron ----, a man with a thick head, thick white hair, that stood out round it like a silver halo, and gold ear-rings. I sang to them till past ten o'clock, and then came to my own room, where I remained up packing and pottering until past two. _Monday, 31st._ The river being yet open, thank Heaven, we arose at half-past four o'clock. Dressed sans dawdling for once, and came down. * * * * * * * * * * D---- and I were bundled into a coach, and rumbled and tumbled over the stones, through the blackness of darkness down to the steam-boat. ---- was waiting for us, and convoyed us safely to the cabin, where I laid myself down, and slept till breakfast-time. My father, Captain ----, Mr. ----, and Baron ----, sat themselves down most comfortably to breakfast, leaving us entirely to the charge and care of ----, who fulfilled his trust with infinite zeal. 'Tis curious; there was a man on board whom I have now seen every time I have been going to or from New York to Philadelphia, whose appearance was in itself very remarkable, and the subsequent account I received of him perhaps increased the sort of impression it made upon me. He was a man of about from thirty to thirty-five, _I guess_, standing about five feet ten, with a great appearance of strength and activity. His face was that of a foreigner, the features were remarkably well cut, and the piercing black eyes, dark hair, and brown complexion, gave a Spanish character to his countenance. There was a sort of familiar would-be gentlemanly manner in his deportment and address, and a species of slang gentility in his carriage and conversation, that gave me a curiosity to ascertain what on earth he could be. After breakfast, walked up and down deck with ----. ---- was on board. I am happy to hear he is thriving: I love all my fellow-passengers; and when I see one of them, my heart warms towards them, as to a bit of the dear old land left behind. After about an hour's steaming, we disembarked to cross the narrow neck of land which divides the Delaware from the Chesapeake. Here we got into a coach holding some twelve of us, to be conveyed over the rail-road by one of Stevenson's engines. Neither the road nor the conveyances are comparable to those of the Liverpool and Manchester rail-way; and instead of those luxurious roomy coaches, which form the merit of the Liverpool train, we were squeezy and uncomfortable to a degree. The country along this slip of land is flat and very uninteresting, clothed with threadbare young woods, whose thin spare skeletons, without their leafy mantles, looked excessively miserable. The distance from the Delaware to Frenchtown, on the Elk, where we were again to take water, is about sixteen miles, which we did in an hour. The first part of the road lies in Delaware, the latter in Maryland. The Elk, which in this world of huge waters is considered but a paltry ditch, but which in our country would be thought a very decent-sized river, was, a few days ago, frozen up, thereby putting a stop to the steam-boat travelling. But, fortunately for us, it was open to-day, and presently we beheld the steamer coming puffing up to take us from the pier. This boat--the Charles Carroll--is one of the finest they have. 'Tis neither so swift nor so large, I think, as some of the North river boats, but it is a beautiful vessel, roomy and comfortable in its arrangements. I went below for a few minutes, but found, as usual, the atmosphere of the cabin perfectly intolerable. The ladies' cabin, in winter, on board one of these large steamers, is a right curious sight. 'Tis generally crammed to suffocation with women, _strewn_ in every direction. The greater number cuddle round a stove, the heat of which alone would make the atmosphere unbreathable. Others sit lazily in a species of rocking-chair,--which is found wherever Americans sit down,--cradling themselves backwards and forwards, with a lazy, lounging, sleepy air, that makes me long to make them get up and walk. Others again manage, even upon fresh water, to be very sick. There are generally a dozen young human beings, some naughty, sick, and squalling, others happy, romping, and riotous; and what with the vibratory motion of the rocking-chairs and their contents, the women's shrill jabber, the children's shriller wailing and shouting, the heat and closeness of the air, a ladies' cabin on board an American steam-boat is one of the most overpowering things to sense and soul that can well be imagined. There was a poor sick woman with three children, among our company, two of which were noisy unruly boys, of from eight to ten years old. One of them set up a howl as soon as he came on board, which he prolonged, to our utter dismay, for upwards of half an hour sans intermission, except to draw breath. I bore it as long as I could; but threats, entreaties, and bribes having been resorted to in vain, by all the women in the cabin, to silence him, I at length very composedly took him up in my arms, and deposited him on his back in one of the upper berths; whereupon his brother flew at his mother, kicking, thumping, screaming, and yelling. The cabin was in an uproar; the little wretch I held in my arms struggled like a young giant, and though I succeeded in lodging him upon the upper shelf, presently slid down from it like an eel. However, this effort had a salutary effect, for it obtained silence,--the crying gave way to terror, which produced silence, of which I availed myself to sleep till dinner-time. At dinner, ---- and Mr. ---- took charge of D---- and me, who, seeing that we were to get no dinner till six o'clock, thought fit to eat some lunch. The strange dark man was sitting opposite us, and discoursing away to his neighbours in a strain and tone in which shrewdness and swagger, and vulgarity and a sort of braggart gallantry, were curiously jumbled. From his conversation, it was evident that he was a seafaring man. He spoke of having been a midshipman on board an American frigate. The question they were debating was that of superstitious prejudice, involving belief in lucky and unlucky days, witches, ghosts, etc. The stranger professed perfect faith in all, and added sundry experiences of his own, at the same time observing, that with regard to sailors, the strong prejudice they have against sailing on certain days often creates the very ill luck they apprehend; for if any danger should occur, 'tis all attributed to evil influences against which they have no power, and they are at once deprived of half their energy in labour, and half their courage in peril. When dinner was over, I pointed out this strange man to my father, asking him if he had any idea who he was. "I am told," was his reply, "that he is but just returned from New York, where he has been tried for piracy." This accounted for every thing,--dare-devil look and language, seafaring adventures, and superstitious creed. It is a pleasant mode of travelling that throws one into contact with such company. * * * * * * * * * * Touching pirates, Baltimore, I was told (I know not how truly) is famous for them. They have small schooners there of a particularly light build, and raking masts, which are the prettiest craft in the world to look at, and the swiftest that sail sea. The Baltimore clippers are proverbial for their elegance and fleetness: they are like greyhounds on the water. These, I was told, were frequently owned by gentlemen of rather an ambiguous character, something between pirate, smuggler, and wrecker, perhaps a judicious compound of all three. Their trade is chiefly, I believe, with and about the West India islands. I looked at my Spanish-faced friend with redoubled curiosity: he was the very man for a pirate. We reached Baltimore at about half-past four. The Chesapeake bay, like the Delaware river, appeared to me admirable only as an immense sheet of water. At some parts that we passed, it was six, at others, ten, at others, thirteen miles across. The shores were flat and uninteresting on one side, but on the other occasionally very picturesque and beautiful, rising in red-looking cliffs from the water's edge, and crowned with beautiful green tufts of wood--cedar, I suppose, for nothing else is green at this time. The curvings of the shore, too, are very pretty; but, owing to the enormous width of the water, my imperfect vision could hardly discern the peculiar features of the land. The day was more lovely than a fine day in early September, in England,--bright, soft and sunny, with the blue in the sky of the delicate colour one sees in the Svres porcelain. As we entered the Patapsco, and neared Baltimore, North Point and Fort M'Henry were pointed out to me. My spirits always sink when I come to a strange place; and as we came along the wharf sides, under the red dingy-looking warehouses, between which the water ran in narrow dark-looking canals, I felt terribly gloomy. We drove up to Barnham's, the best house in the town; and, having found out where to lay my head, I had my fill of crying. After dinner, went and lay down; slept profoundly till nine o'clock. On my return to the drawing-room, found ---- there, and Mr. ----, the man who owns the Front Street theatre, but who it seems is only just out of gaol, and has neither actors nor scenes to get up a play withal. While he was here, came missives from the proprietors of the Holliday Street theatre, to inform my father that it was lighted up, and requesting him to come and look at it. This was awkward rather. When Mr. ---- was gone, I came to my room, where I remained without a fire, cold without and disconsolate within, till past one o'clock. I did not know it was New-Year's eve; and so the waters carried me over this other dam without my looking back at what was past, or forward at what is to come: and why should I?--surely "the thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done, is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun:" sorrow and joy, hoping and fearing, pain and pleasure, laughing and weeping, striving and yielding,--they will all come again and again, and all things will be the same, till all things cease. _Tuesday, January, 1st_, } _New-Year's Day_, } 1833. There it lies in its cradle! its pure forehead yet unstained by sin, unfurrowed by care; and not an hour shall have passed without the traces of both becoming visible. And where is the mother gone? where is the fulfilled year?--Gone sorrowing to join the crowd of ancestors, who witness each against me for the unthrift waste I have made of the rich legacies they one by one have bestowed on me. Oh, new-born year! ere half thy hours are spent, how often will my weary spirit have wished them fleeter wings than even those they wear! What secrets are there folded in thy breast,--what undreamt-of chances,--what strange befallings,--what unforeseen sorrows,--what unexpected joys! Perhaps, in the mysterious accomplishments with which thou art laden, my death may be numbered!--perhaps, ere thy course be duly run, the death of Time may be decreed! Oh! this life, and all things in it, remind me of the thin veils of spiders' webs which divided Desire from his aim, and which, though light and transparent, were so numerous, that to lift them all away was hopeless. After breakfast, began writing journal. 'Twas not until dating it that I discovered it was New-year's day. When I did so, and looked at my strange surroundings, at the gloomy wintry sky, and thought of the heathenish disregard with which I was passing over, in this far land, the season of home-gathering and congregating of kin in my own country, I could not refrain from crying bitterly. In spite of the pouring rain, and Mr. ----'s hints to keep us away, my father, who wished to ascertain the truth of the reports with regard to the state of his theatre, set forward thither with me. We found a very large handsome house, larger, I think, than the Park, but dirty, dilapidated, and looking as if there had been eleven executions in it that morning. No actors, scarcely any scenes,--in short, such a state of things as rendered it totally impossible for us to think of acting there. Came home; sat diligently crying the whole morning. The afternoon cleared up, and became soft and sunny. My father insisted on my taking a walk; so I bonneted and set out with him. What I saw of the town appeared to me extremely like the outskirts of Birmingham or Manchester. Bright-red brick houses, in rows of three and five, with interesting gaps of gravel-pits, patches of meadow, and open spaces between, which give it an untidy straggling appearance. They are building in every direction, however, and in less than two years, these little pauses being filled up, Baltimore will be a very considerable place; for it covers, in its present state, a large extent of ground, and contains a vast population. Immediately after dinner, our host made his entre with a piano-forte. I had suggested to Mr. ---- that I should be glad of one; and here it came. I had asked him to return in the evening, and was glad of the piano, for it helps the time away. At six o'clock, the managers of the Holliday Street theatre made their appearance; and my father stating that Mr. ---- was literally unable to fulfil his engagement with us, entered into arrangements with them, during which I sat up at a tremendously high window, looking at the beautiful serious skies, and radiant moon, and listening to a tolerable band playing sundry of Rossini's airs. When these men had departed, ---- came in. I sang and made him sing till tea-time. After that, he entertained us with a very long, but not very clear, account of the various processes of making, polishing, etc. steel, as practised in his manufactory. His account of their hard dealings with the poorer manufacturers was dreadful; and he himself spoke with horror of it, saying, "Oh, they are so miserably ground, poor wretches, they cannot be said to live,--they barely exist." When I remonstrated with him upon the wickedness of such proceedings, he replied, "We are compelled to do it in self-defence: if we did not use the same means as other manufacturers, we should presently be undersold." And this is the game playing all over England at this moment, in every department of her commerce and manufacture,--this cruel oppression of the poor, this forcing them by a league against them, as it were, to toil in bitterness for their scanty daily bread, while those who thus inhumanly depreciate their labour, and wring their hard earnings from their starving grasp, grow wealthy on their plunder. Are not these the things for which God has said he will avenge? Is his abomination of the false balance, and the stinted measure, and the unjust reckoning, less than in the days when he said he would visit the oppressor of the poor, and plead the cause of the widow and fatherless? Are not these the things that make a nation rotten at core, and ripe for decay? Are not these the things for which retribution is laid up, and fourfold restitution will be demanded?--'Tis awful to think of. From this the conversation grew to the means of obtaining interest upon money in this country, which the gentlemen discussed together for a length of time. I listened to them with many sad thoughts. How intent they seemed in their discourse, how much they appeared to value every slightest advantage of place or circumstance which enabled them to draw a greater profit from their capital; how eagerly, how earnestly, they seemed absorbed in these calculations. I do not know when I have been so forcibly struck with the worthlessness of money, and the strange delusion under which all men seem to be labouring, giving up their lives, as they do, to the hunting of wealth. Are these the cares that should engross the faculties of immortal souls, and rational thinking creatures? That we must live, I know, and that money is necessary to live, I know; but that our glorious capacities of soul, mind, and body, the fitting exercise of which alone, in itself, is happiness, should thus be chained down to the altar horns of Mammon, is what I never will believe wise, right, or fitting. I at length spoke, for my heart was burning within me, and burst into an eloquent lamentation on the folly and misery of which the world was guilty in following this base worship as it does. But when I said that I was convinced happiness might and did exist most blessedly upon half the means which men spent their lives in scraping together, my father laughed, and said I was the last person in the world who could live on little, or be content with the mediocrity I vaunted. I looked at my satin gown, and held my tongue, but still I was not convinced. We returned to our music till ten o'clock, when they had some supper, after which they drank a happy new year to England:--poor old England, God bless it! At about twelve o'clock, ---- departed. Sat up a long time at the window, listening to some serenading, which, in the moonlight, sounded pleasantly enough. _Sunday, 6th._ At about half-past ten, Mr. ---- called for us, and we walked up to the cathedral, which is a large unfinished stone building, standing on the brow of a hill, which is to be the fashionable quarter of the town, and where there are already some very nice-looking houses. The interior of the church is large and handsome, and has more the look of a church than any thing I have been inside of in this country yet. 'Tis full eight years since I was in a Catholic church; and the sensation with which I approached the high altar, with its golden crucifix, its marble entablatures, and its glimmering starry lights, savoured fully as much of sadness as devotion. I have not been in a Catholic place of worship since I was at school. How well I remember the beautiful music of the military mass, the pageants and processions of the feast days at high mass, and the evening service, not vespers, but the Salut. They sang that exquisitely mournful and beautiful _Et incarnatus est_, of Haydn's, which made my blood all run backwards. One thing disgusted me dreadfully, though the priests who were officiating never passed or approached the altar without bending the knee to it, they kept spitting all over the carpet that surrounded and covered the steps to it, interrupting themselves in the middle of the service to do so, without the slightest hesitation. We had a very indifferent sermon: the service was of course in Latin. When it was over, Mr. ---- insisted on showing me some paintings which hung on either side the grand entrance. These were a couple of pictures by Paulin Guerin; the one representing the descent from the cross, the other, the burying of the dead, by St. Charles, in the Holy Land. I do not understand much about bad pictures, but I know good ones when I see them; and I think these were not such. There was no beauty of imagination or poetical conception whatever in them, and there appeared to me to be manifold glaring faults in the execution. I could have sworn to their being French pictures. Was introduced to several people, coming out of church. A little way beyond the cathedral stands Washington's monument,--a _neat and appropriate_ pillar,--which, together with a smaller one erected at the head of our street, to the memory of the North Point heroes, has given Baltimore the appellation of the monumental city, which never could have befallen it in any other country under heaven but this. At eight o'clock, we went to Mrs. ----'s. They are all in deep mourning, and the circle was very small. They are most agreeable pleasant people, with a peculiar gentleness of manner, like very high breeding, which I have often observed in Catholics of the better orders. Their conversation appeared to me totally divested of the disagreeable accent which seems almost universal in this country. Mrs. ---- talked to me about my aunt Whitelock, and what a charming actress she was, and what an enchanting thrilling voice she had. I spent a delightful evening. Before we went away, Mr. ---- showed us a picture of Lady ----, by Lawrence. It looked quite refreshing, with its lovely dark curls unfrizzed, and the form of the neck and arms undisguised by the hideousness of modern fashions. Saw a very good likeness, too, of the Duke of ----. 'Twas very like him, though many years younger. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * By the by, somebody said that ---- had turned Roman Catholic, and very devout. Some of the Marys and Magdalens of the old Italian painters are very converting pictures, with their tearful melancholy eyes, and golden, glorious, billowy hair. Mrs. ---- amused me very much by her account of the slaves on their estates, whom, she said, she found the best and most faithful servants in the world. Being born upon the land, there exists among them something of the old spirit of clanship, and "our house," "our family," are the terms by which they designate their owners. In the south, there are no servants but blacks; for the greater proportion of domestics being slaves, all species of servitude whatever is looked upon as a degradation; and the slaves themselves entertain the very highest contempt for white servants, whom they designate as "poor white trash." _Monday, 7th._ Young ---- called, and stayed about an hour with us. At half-past five, took coffee, and off to the theatre. The play was Romeo and Juliet; the house was extremely full: they are a delightful audience. My Romeo had gotten on a pair of trunk breeches, that looked as if he had borrowed them from some worthy Dutchman of a hundred years ago. Had he worn them in New York, I could have understood it as a compliment to the ancestry of that good city; but here, to adopt such a costume in Romeo, was really perfectly unaccountable. They were of a most unhappy choice of colours, too,--dull, heavy-looking blue cloth, and offensive crimson satin, all be-puckered, and be-plaited, and be-puffed, till the young man looked like a magical figure growing out of a monstrous strange coloured-melon, beneath which descended his unfortunate legs, thrust into a pair of red slippers, for all the world like Grimaldi's legs _en costume_ for clown. The play went off pretty smoothly, except that they broke one man's collar-bone, and nearly dislocated a woman's shoulder by flinging the scenery about. My bed was not made in time, and when the scene drew, half a dozen carpenters in patched trowsers and tattered shirt-sleeves were discovered smoothing down my pillows, and adjusting my draperies. The last scene is too good not to be given verbatim:-- ROMEO. Rise, rise, my Juliet, And from this cave of death, this house of horror, Quick let me snatch thee to thy Romeo's arms. Here he pounced upon me, plucked me up in his arms like an uncomfortable bundle, and staggered down the stage with me. JULIET. (_aside._) Oh, you've got me up horridly!--that'll never do; let me down, pray let me down. ROMEO. There, breathe a vital spirit on thy lips, And call thee back, my soul, to life and love! JULIET. (_aside._) Pray put me down; you'll certainly throw me down if you don't set me on the ground directly. In the midst of "cruel cursed fate," his dagger fell out of his dress; I, embracing him tenderly, crammed it back again, because I knew I should want it at the end. ROMEO. Tear not our heart-strings thus! They crack! they break!--Juliet! Juliet! (_dies._) JULIET. (_to corpse._) Am I smothering you? CORPSE. (_to Juliet._) Not at all; could you be so kind, do you think, as to put my wig on again for me?--it has fallen off. JULIET. (_to corpse._) I'm afraid I can't, but I'll throw my muslin veil over it. You've broken the phial, haven't you? (_Corpse nodded._) JULIET. (_to corpse._) Where's your dagger? CORPSE. (_to Juliet._) 'Pon my soul, I don't know. _Sunday, 13th._ By half-past ten we were packed in what in this country is termed an _exclusive extra_, _i. e._ a stage-coach to ourselves, and progressing towards Washington. The coach was comfortable enough, and the country, for the first twelve or fifteen miles, owing to the abominable account I had heard of it from every body, disappointed me rather agreeably. It was by no means so dreary or desolate as I had been led to expect. There was considerable variety in its outline, and the quantity of cedar thickets scattered over it took away from the comfortless threadbare look of the wintry woods. Threadbare, indeed, the trees can scarce be called; for the leaves of the black oak, instead of falling as they fade, remain upon the branches, and give the trees more the effect of being lightning-struck, or accidentally blasted, than withered by the fair course of the seasons. I think the effect is more disagreeable than that of absolutely bare leafless boughs. When near, the trees look singularly deplorable and untidy, although at the distance, the red-brown of the faded oaks mingling with the bright, vivid, green cedars, and here and there a silver-barked buttonwood tree raising its white delicate branches from among them, produce a very agreeable and harmonious blending to the eye. The soil, the banks by the road-side, and broken ridges of ravines, and water-courses, attracted my attention by the variety and vividness of their colours; the brightest red and yellow, and then again pale green, and rich warm gravel-colour. I wished I had been a geologist. How much pleasure of reflection and contemplation is lost to the ignorant, whose outward sense wanders over the objects that surround it, deriving from them but half the delight that they give the wise and well-informed; even fancy is at fault, for fancy itself scarce devises images more strange, and beautiful, and wonderful, than the reality of things presents to those who understand their properties and natures. The waters were all fast frozen up, and one or two little pools, all curdled with ice, and locked up in deep gravelly basins, looked like onyx stones set in gold. As for the road, we had been assured it was exceedingly good; but mercy on us! I can't think of it without aching. Here we went up, up, up, and there we went down, down, down,--now, I was in my father's lap, and now I was half out of window. The utter impossibility of holding one's self in any one position for two minutes is absolutely ridiculous. Sometimes we laughed, and at other times we groaned, at our helpless and hopeless condition; but at last we arrived, with no bones broken, at about three o'clock, at the capital and seat of government of the United States. Upon the height immediately above the city is situated the Capitol, a very handsome building, of which the Americans are not a little proud; but it seems placed there by mistake, so little do the miserable untidy hovels above, and the scattered unfinished red-brick town below, accord with its patrician marble and high-sounding title. We drove to Gadsby's, which is an inn like a little town, with more wooden galleries, flights of steps, passages, door-ways, exits, and entrances, than any building I ever saw: it reminded me of the house in Tieck's Love-charm. We had not been arrived a quarter of an hour, when in walked Mr. ---- and Captain ----, and presently Mr. ----. They sat for some time discussing, laughing, quizzing, and being funny, and then departed. Captain ---- was telling us a story about a man somewhere up in the lost lands, who was called Philemon, and whose three sons were paganed (christened, I suppose, one can't say,) Romulus, Remus, and Tiberius. I thought this was too good to be true; and D---- and I, laughing over it at dinner, agreed that we wished any thing of the sort had happened to us. "Some bread, waiter: what is your name?" said I to the black who was waiting upon us. "Horatius!" was the reply; which sent me and D---- into fits. _Monday, 14th._ When I came in to breakfast, found Mr. ----, whom I like mainly. While he was here, Dr. ---- and ---- came in. I gave the latter a most tremendous grasp of the hand: it was like seeing a bit of England to see him. He said to me, "Oh, how strange it is to see you here;" which caused my eyes to fill with tears, for, Heaven knows, it feels strange enough. They had hardly been seated two minutes, when in rushed a boy to call us to rehearsal. I was as vexed as might be. They all departed; ---- faithfully promising to come again, and have a long talk about the old country: we then set forth to rehearsal. The theatre is the tiniest little box that ever was seen,--not much bigger, I verily think, than the baby's play-house at Versailles. When I came to perceive who the company were, and that sundry of our Baltimore comrades were come on hither, I begged to be excused from rehearsing, as they had all done their parts but a few days before with me. At about two o'clock, Mr. ---- came to take us to the Capitol. Mr. ---- was in the drawing-room. He had just seen the President; and it seems, that far from coming to any accommodation with the South Carolinians, there is an immediate probability of their coming to blows. They say, the old General is longing for a fight; and, most assuredly, to fight would be better, in this instance, than to give in; for to yield would be virtually to admit the right of every individual state to dictate to the whole government. We walked up to the Capitol: the day was most beautifully bright and sunny, and the mass of white building, with its terraces and columns, stood out in fine relief against the cloudless blue sky. We went first into the senate, or upper house, because Webster was speaking, whom I especially wished to hear. The room itself is neither large nor lofty; the senators sit in two semi-circular rows, turned towards the President, in comfortable arm-chairs. On the same ground, and literally sitting among the senators, were a whole regiment of ladies, whispering, talking, laughing, and fidgeting. A gallery, level with the floor, and only divided by a low partition from the main room, ran round the apartment: this, too, was filled with pink, and blue, and yellow bonnets; and every now and then, while the business of the house was going on, and Webster speaking, a tremendous bustle, and waving of feathers, and rustling of silks, would be heard, and in came streaming a reinforcement of political beauties, and then would commence a jumping up, a sitting down, a squeezing through, and a how-d'-ye-doing, and a shaking of hands. The senators would turn round; even Webster would hesitate, as if bothered by the row, and, in short, the whole thing was more irregular, and unbusiness-like, than any one could have imagined. Webster's face is very remarkable, particularly the forehead and eyes. The former projects singularly, absolutely overhanging the latter, which have a very melancholy, and occasionally rather wild, expression. The subject upon which he was speaking was not one of particular interest,--an estimate of the amount of French spoliations, by cruizers and privateers, upon the American commerce. The heat of the room was intolerable; and after sitting till I was nearly suffocated, we adjourned to the House of Representatives. On our way thither, we crossed a very beautiful circular vestibule, which holds the centre of the building. It was adorned with sundry memorable passages in American history, done into pictures by Colonel Trumbull. In the House of Representatives we were told we should hear nothing of interest, so turned off, under Mr. ----'s escort, to the Library, which is a comfortable well-sized room, where we looked over Audubon's Ornithology, a beautiful work, and saw a man sitting, with his feet upon the table, reading, which is an American fashion. Met half the New York world there. After we had stayed there some time, we went into the House of Representatives. The room itself is lofty and large, and very handsome, but extremely ill-constructed for the voice, which is completely lost among the columns, and only reaches the gallery, where listeners are admitted, in indistinct and very unedifying murmurs. The members not unfrequently sit with their feet upon their desks. We walked out upon the terrace, and looked at the view of the Potomac, and the town, which, in spite of the enlivening effect of an almost summer's sky, looked dreary and desolate in the extreme. We then returned home. At half-past five, we went to the theatre. We were a long time before we could discover, among the intricate dark little passages, our own private entrance, and were as nearly as possible being carried into the pit by a sudden rush of spectators making their way thither: I wish we had been; I think I should like to have seen myself very much. The theatre is absolutely like a doll's play-house: it was completely crammed with people. I played ill; I cannot act tragedy within half a yard of the people in the boxes. By the by, a theatre may very easily be too small for tragedies which is admirably adapted to comedies. In the latter species of dramatic representations, the incidents, characters, manners, and dresses, are, for the most part, modern,--such as we meet with, or can easily imagine, in our own drawing-rooms, and among our own society. There is little if any exaggeration of colouring necessary, and no great exertion of fancy needful either in the actor or audience in executing and witnessing such a performance. On the contrary, comedy,--high comedy,--generally embodying the manners, tone, and spirit of the higher classes of society, the smaller the space, consistent with ease and grace of carriage, in which such personifications take place, the less danger there is of the actor's departing from that natural, quiet, and refined deportment and delivery, which are, in the present day, the general characteristics of polished society. 'Tis otherwise with tragic representations. They are unnatural, not positively, but comparatively unnatural; the incidents are, for the most part, strange, startling, unusual; and though they always must be within possibility, in order to excite the sympathies of beholders,--though some of them may even be historical facts,--yet they are, for the most part, events which come within the probabilities of few of us, and this renders necessary a degree of excitement and elevation in the mind of the spectator, foreign to, and at variance with, the critical spirit of prosaic reality. Again, the scene of a comedy is generally a drawing-room; and the smaller the stage, the greater is the possibility of rendering it absolutely like what we all have seen, and are daily in the habit of seeing; but to represent groves and mountains, or lakes, or the dwellings of the kings of the earth, satisfactorily to the spectator's mind, there must be a certain distance observed, from which the fancy may take its stand for the best perception of what is intended. Whereas, in closer contact with such scenes, not only does their immediate proximity convey an unpleasing consciousness of the unreality of the whole, but the near and absolute detail of paint, canvass, and gilding, is obtruded in a manner that destroys all illusion, and, by disturbing the effect of the whole upon the spectator, necessarily weakens that part which depends solely upon the actor. The same thing applies to dress. Foil-stone, paste, and coloured glass, by French ingenuity have been manufactured into toys, which, with the help of distance, may be admitted as representing the splendours of Eastern costume, or even the glittering trappings of those gaudy little superhumans, the fairies. But nearness utterly dissolves the spell, and these substitutes for magnificence become palpable impositions, and very often most ludicrous ones. I have often been accused of studying my attitudes; but the truth is, that most things that are presented to my imagination, instead of being mere abstractions, immediately assume form and colour, and become pictures; these I constantly execute on the stage as I had previously seen them in my fancy: but as few pictures as large as life admit of being seen to best effect immediately close to the spectator, so the whole effect produced by a graceful attitude, fine colours, or skilful grouping on the stage, is considerably diminished when the space is restricted, and the audience brought too near the performers. So much for little theatres. ---- came in after the play. He told us that as he was coming out of the theatre, a Kentuckian accosted him with, "Well, what do you think of that 'ere _gal_?" --"Oh," hesitatingly replied ----, "I don't quite know." --"Well," retorted the questioner, "any how, I guess she's o' some account!" _Tuesday, 15th._ At eleven o'clock, Mr. ---- called. Went with him to see the original of the Declaration of Independence, also a few medals, for the most part modern ones, and neither of much beauty or curiosity. Afterwards went to the War-Office, where we saw sundry Indian properties,--bows and arrows, canoes, smoking-pipes, and, what interested me much more, the pictures of a great many savage chiefs, and one or two Indian women. The latter were rather pretty: the men were not any of them handsome; scorn round the mouth, and cunning in the eyes, seemed to be the general characteristic of all their faces. There was a portrait of Red Jacket, which gave me a most unpoetical low-life impression of that great palaverer. The names of many of them delighted me,--as, _the Ever-awake; the Man that stands and strikes; the North Wind_. One of the women's names amused me a great deal,--_the Woman that spoke first_; which title occasioned infinite surmise among us as to the occasion on which she earned it. After we had done seeing what was to be seen, we went on to the President's house, which is a comfortless handsome-looking building, with a withered grass-plot enclosed in wooden palings in front, and a desolate reach of uncultivated ground down to the river behind. Mr. ---- gave us a most entertaining account of the levees, or rather public days, at the President's house. Every human being has a right to present himself there; the consequence is, that great numbers of the very commonest sort of people used to rush in, and follow about the servants who carried refreshments, seizing upon whatever they could get, and staring and pushing about, to the infinite discomfiture of the more respectable and better-behaved part of the assembly. Indeed, the nuisance became so great, that they discontinued the eatables, and in great measure got rid of the crowd. Mr. ---- assured me that on one of these occasions, two _ladies_ had themselves lifted up and seated on the chimney-piece, in order to have a better view of the select congregation beneath them. Mr. ---- left us to go to the Capitol, and we came home. ----, Mr. ----, and Captain ---- called. We sat discussing names; which, in this country, are certainly more ambitious than in any other in the world. Besides Captain ----'s classical family, Mr. ---- assured us that he knew of a man whose name was _Return Jonathan Meigs_; and ---- swore to one in New York called _Alonzo Leontes Agamemnon Beaugardus_. I have myself seen a _Harmanus Boggs_, _Aquila Jones_, and _Alpheus Brett_; but I have not been favoured with an acquaintance with any such names as they quoted. ---- appears to me altered since I saw him in England. He was always silent, and quiet, and gentle; but there was an air of complacency and contented cheerfulness about him, which I think he has very much lost: he looks sad and careworn. I was sorry to see it. After dinner, sat writing journal. Mr. ---- came in and sat some time with us. He is very clever and agreeable, and I like him greatly. _Wednesday, 16th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal. At half past twelve, Mr. ---- came to ride with me. The horse he had gotten for me was base; but never mind, the day was exquisitely mild and bright,--the sort of early spring-feeling day, when in England the bright gold and pale delicate violet of the crocus buds begin to break the rich dark mould, and the fragrant gummy leaves of the lilac bushes open their soft brown folds. We had a very pleasant ride through some pretty woodlands on the opposite side of the river. The play was the Hunchback: the house was crowded. In the last scene, Master Walter upbraided me thus:-- The engineer Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower, And, smiling at it, bids the winds and waves To roar and whistle now--but in a night Beholds the tempest sporting in its place, May look _agash_ as I did. Also in the exclamation,-- Fathers, make straws your children: nature's nothing, Blood nothing: once in other veins it flows, It no more _yawneth_ for the parent flood Than doth the stream that from the stream disparts. Mr. ---- and ---- came in after the play. We had a discussion as to how far real feeling enters into our scenic performances. 'Tis hard to say: the general question it would be impossible to answer, for acting is altogether a monstrous anomaly. John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons were always in earnest in what they were about; Miss O'Neill used to cry bitterly in all her tragedy parts; whilst Garrick could be making faces and playing tricks in the middle of his finest points, and Kean would talk gibberish while the people were in an uproar of applause at his. In my own individual instance, I know that sometimes I could turn every word I am saying into burlesque (_never_ Shakspeare, by the by), and at others my heart aches, and I cry real, bitter, warm tears, as earnestly as if I was in earnest. _Thursday, 17th._ Sat writing journal till twelve o'clock, when we went to Mr. ----'s. Took him up, and thence proceeded to the Presidency to be presented in due form. His Excellency Andrew Jackson is very tall and thin, but erect and dignified in his carriage--a good specimen of a fine old well-battered soldier. His hair is very thick and grey: his manners are perfectly simple and quiet, therefore very good; so are those of his niece, Mrs. ----, who is a very pretty person, and lady of the house, Mrs. Jackson having been dead some time. He talked about South Carolina, and entered his protest against scribbling ladies, assuring us that the whole of the present southern disturbances had their origin in no larger a source than the nib of the pen of a lady. Truly, if this be true, the lady must have scribbled to some purpose. We sat a little more than a quarter of an hour; Mr. ---- was calling at the same time. We afterwards adjourned to Mr. ----'s house. * * * * * * * * * * Appointed Mr. ---- to come down directly and ride with me. Drove with my father and Mr. ---- to leave cards on ----, and then walked home. The day was bright and fine, but very cold. Habited, and at about one o'clock Mr. ---- called for me. On going to the door, I found him and his horse, and a strange, tall, grey horse for me, and a young gentleman of the name of ----, to whom I understood it belonged, and whom Mr. ---- introduced to me as very anxious to join my party. I was a little startled at this, as I did not quite think Mr. ---- ought to have brought any body to ride with me without my leave. However, as I was riding his horse, I was just as well pleased that he was by, for I don't like having the responsibility of such valuable property as a private gentleman's horse to take care of. I told him this, alleging it as a reason for my preferring to ride an indifferent hack horse, about which I had no such anxiety. He replied that I need have none about his. I told him laughingly that I would give him two dollars for the hire of it, and then I should feel quite happy; all which nonsense passed as nonsense should, without a comment. He is a son of ----: I thought him tolerably pleasant and well informed. * * * * * * * * * * I would have a man who lived in the wretchedest corner of the earth think his own country the first of countries; for 'tis noble and natural, one of the most respectable instincts in the human heart. We rode till half-past three. The horse I was upon was, Mr. ---- assured me, an English one, but he had been long enough in this world to learn racking, and forget every other more christian pace; he tired me dreadfully. After dinner, wrote journal till time to go to the theatre. The play was the School for Scandal; in the fourth act of which Joseph Surface assured me that _I was a plethora_!!!--Mr. ---- came in and supped with us after the play. He gave us a very interesting account of a school that had been attempted to be formed in Massachusetts, for the purpose of educating young men of the savage tribes, who were willing to become Christians, and receive instruction. It was obliged, however, to be given up, in consequence of several of them having fallen in love with and married American girls, whom they took away into the woods, many of them after they were there returning to their savage ways of living, which must have placed their wretched Christian wives in a horrible situation. _Friday, 18th._ At eleven, Mr. ---- called to take D---- and myself to the War-Office: I wanted her to see the Indian spoils there. On our way thither, he read us some very pretty verses which he had written upon the subject of the "woman who spoke first." When we had seen what we wanted to see, we returned home, and I began to habit. While doing so, received a most comical Yankee note, signed by Mr. ----, but written, I am sure, by Captain ----, to apprize me that the former was unwell, but that he, Captain ----, would accompany me on horseback, if I pleased. The note was exquisite. I finished dressing, and then we set off. I charged Captain ---- with the note, and he pleaded guilty,--the thing was evident. While we were riding, Captain ---- told me sundry most exquisite native morceaux, and one thing that half-killed me with laughing. Mr. ----'s negro servant and Mr. ----'s conversing together about me, one asked the other if he had seen me yet at the theatre, to which Mr. ----'s man replied, "No, sir; I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Kemble in private society:"--he brings my horse down every morning for me! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Perhaps, after all, life is worth no more than a laugh, and all its strange mysteries of sin and suffering, its summer dreams of excellence innate and to be acquired, its fond yearning affections, its deep passions, its high and glorious tendings,--all but jests to make the worldly-wise smile, and the believers in them despair. God keep me from such thoughts!--they are dreadful! At half-past five, went to the theatre: the play was the Hunchback,--the house was very good. I wonder if any body on earth can form the slightest idea of the interior of this wretched little theatre; 'tis the smallest I ever was in. The proprietors are poor, the actors poorer; and the grotesque mixture of misery, vulgarity, stage-finery, and real raggedness, is beyond every thing strange, and sad, and revolting,--it reminds me constantly of some of Hogarth's pictures, and passages in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister. After the play, came home and supped. By the by, just as I had done breakfast this morning, Judge ---- called, who is the most exquisite original I have met with even in this land of their abundance. He gave me a long scolding for getting up so late, and assured me that I meant to settle in this country, at the same time drawing an enchanting picture of rural happiness to the west,--a cottage by a rivulet, with two cows, and just enough to starve upon!--I think I see myself there. This sentimental prophecy was prefaced by a remark that he knew I was very romantic, and interrupted every two minutes by a dexterous expectoral interjection, which caused me nearly to jump off my chair with dismay. _Saturday, 19th._ _Giorno d'orrore!_--but I won't anticipate. They have settled to act Much Ado about Nothing, instead of the Inconstant. I have no clothes for Beatrice,--but that don't matter. After breakfast, went to rehearsal, and then walked with my father to see a very pretty model of what is to be the town-hall. It never will be, for the corporation are as poor as _Job's kittens_ (Americanism--communicated by Captain ----), and the city of Washington itself is only kept alive by Congress. Talking of the city of Washington,--'tis the strangest thing by way of a town that can be fancied. It is laid out to cover, I should think, some ten miles square, but the houses are here, there, and no where: the streets, conventionally not properly so called, are roads, crooked or straight, where buildings are _intended_ to be. Every now and then an interesting gap of a quarter of a mile occurs between those houses that _are_ built: in the midst of the town, you can't help fancying you are in the country; and between wooden palings, with nothing to be seen on either side but cedar bushes and sand, you are informed you are in the midst of the town. The Elysian Fields is a broken patch of moorland, sand, and gravel: the Jardin des Plantes is a nursery-ground full of slips of shrubs a foot and a half high; the Tiber, alias Goose Creek, is an unhappy-looking ditch;--and Washington altogether struck me as a rambling red-brick image of futurity, where nothing _is_, but all things _are to be_. Came home and habited. At half-past twelve, Captain ---- came for me; just as we were going, ---- called. He was on horseback, and asked leave to join us, which I agreed to very readily. He was pilot, and led us round and about, through the woods, and across the waters; all of which, as Captain ---- observed, was in the day's work. We returned at half-past three. Directly after dinner, I set out to pay sundry cards. The day had been heavenly,--bright, and warm, and balmy; the evening was beautifully soft; and as I drove over hill and dale, marsh and moorland, through the city of Washington, paying my cards, the stars came out one after another in the still sky, and the scattered lights of the town looked like a capricious congregation of Jack-o'-lanterns, some high, some low, some here, some there, showing more distinctly, by the dark spaces between them, the enormous share that emptiness has in the congressional city. One of my visits lay nearly three miles out of town, so that I was not back until six o'clock. As I came rushing along the corridor, I met D---- coming to meet me, who exclaimed, with an air of mingled horror and satisfaction, "Oh, here you are!--here is coffee and Mr. ---- waiting for you!" I went into the room, and found a goodly-looking personage, old enough to know better, sitting with my father, who appeared amazingly disturbed, held an open letter in his hand, and exclaimed, the moment I came in, "There, sir, there is the young lady to speak for herself." I courtesied, and sat down. "Fanny," quoth my father, "something particularly disagreeable has occurred,--pray, can you call to mind any thing you said during the course of your Thursday's ride, which was likely to be offensive to Mr. ----, or any thing abusive of this country?" As I have already had sundry specimens of the great talent there is for tattle in the exclusive coteries of this gossiping new world, I merely untied my bonnet, and replied, that I did not at that moment recollect a word that I had said during my whole ride, and should certainly not give myself any trouble to do so. "Now, my dear," said my father, his own eyes flashing with indignation, "don't put yourself into a passion; compose yourself, and recollect. Here is a letter I have just received." He proceeded to read it, and the contents were to this effect--that during my ride with Mr. ---- I had said I did not choose to ride an American gentleman's horse, and _had offered him two dollars for the hire of his_; that moreover, I had spoken most derogatorily of America and Americans; in consequence of all which, if my father did not give some explanation, or make some apology to the public, I should certainly be hissed off the stage, as soon as I appeared on it that evening. This was pleasant. I stated the conversation as it had passed, adding, that as to any sentiments a person might express on any subject, liberty of opinion, and liberty of speech, were alike rights which belonged to every body, and that, with a due regard to good feeling, and good breeding, they were rights which nobody ought, and I never would forego. Mr. ---- opened his eyes. I longed to add, that any conversation between me and any other person was nobody's business but mine, and his or hers, and that the whole thing was, on the part of the young gentleman concerned, the greatest piece of blackguardism, and on that of the old gentleman concerned the greatest piece of twaddle, that it had ever been my good fortune to hear of. "For," said Mr. ----, "not less than _fifty_ members of Congress have already mentioned the matter to me." Fifty old gossiping women! why the whole thing is for all the world like a village tattle in England, among half a dozen old wives round their tea-pots. All Washington was in dismay; and my evil deeds and evil words were the town talk,--fields, gaps, marshes, and all, rang with them. This is an agreeable circumstance, and a display of national character highly entertaining and curious. It gave me at the time, however, a dreadful side-ach, and nervous cough. I went to the theatre, dressed, and came on the stage in the full expectation of being hissed off it, which is a pleasant sensation, very, and made my heart full of bitterness to think I should stand,--as no woman ought to stand,--the mark of public insult. However, no such thing occurred,--I went on and came off without any such trial of my courage; but I had been so much annoyed, and was still so indignant, that I passed the intervals between my scenes in crying,--which, of course, added greatly to the mirth and spirit of my performance of Beatrice. In the middle of the play, Mr. ---- and Captain ---- came behind the scenes, and then, indeed, I _was_ quite glad to see Englishmen; though their compassionate sympathies for my wrongs, and tender fears lest I should catch cold behind those horrid scenes, very nearly set me off crying again. A soft word, when one is in deep commiseration of one's self, is very apt to open the flood-gates; but I was ashamed to cry before them, so tried to keep my heart-swellings down. When the play was over, came home. Mr. ---- came and supped with us. By the by, he called this morning before I went out riding, and expressed many sorrows at our departure. He is a clever and extremely well-informed man, and I like him very much. When he was gone, sat talking over the ---- affair. My father was in a greater passion than I think I ever saw him before. I am sure I would not have warranted one of that worthy young gentleman's bones, if he had fallen in with him. I am very glad he did not; for, to knock a man down, even though he does deserve it, is a serious matter rather. _Wednesday, 30th, Philadelphia._ After breakfast, practised for an hour: wrote journal. Mr. ----, the wild-eyed, flowing-haired, white-waistcoated, velvet-collared, ---- ---- called upon me. He sat some time asking me questions; but, since the ---- affair, I have grown rather afraid of opening my mouth, and he had the conversation chiefly to himself. Finished journal; dined at half-past three: after dinner, went and sat with Mrs. ----. One Mr. ----, a Boston man who was at Mrs. ----'s ball last night, was in her room. I was introduced to him, and he spoke of the ----s. * * * * * * * * * * Sat with them till coffee-time. It poured with rain, in spite of which the house was very good: the play was Fazio. When I came on in my fine dress, at the beginning of the second act, the people hailed me with such a tremendous burst of applause, and prolonged it so much, that I was greatly puzzled to imagine what on earth possessed them. I concluded they were pleased with my dress, but could not help being rather amused at their vehement and continued clapping, considering they had seen it several times before. However, they ceased at last, and I thought no more about it. Towards the time for the beginning of the third act, which opens with my being discovered waiting for Fazio's return, as I was sitting in my dressing-room working, D---- suddenly exclaimed, "Hark!--what is that?" ---- opened the door, and we heard a tremendous noise of shouts and of applause. "They are waiting for you, certainly," said D----. She ran out, and returned, saying, "The stage is certainly waiting for you, Fanny, for the curtain is up." I rushed out of the room; but on opening the door leading to the stage, I distinctly heard my father's voice addressing the audience. I turned sick with a sort of indefinite apprehension, and on enquiry found that at the beginning of the play a number of handbills had been thrown into the pit, professing to quote my conversation with Mr. ---- at Washington, and calling upon the people to resent my conduct in the grossest and most vulgar terms. This precious document had, it seems, been brought round by somebody to my father, who immediately went on with it in his hand, and assured the audience that the whole thing was a falsehood. I scarce heard what he said, though I stood at the side scene: I was crying dreadfully with fright and indignation. How I wished I was a caterpillar under a green gooseberry-bush! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Oh, how I did wince to think of going on again after this scene, though the feeling of the audience was most evident; for all the applause I had fancied they bestowed upon my dress was, in fact, an unsolicited testimony of their disbelief in the accusation brought against me. They received my father's words with acclamations; and when the curtain drew up, and I was discovered, the pit rose and waved their hats, and the applause was tremendous. I was crying dreadfully, and could hardly speak; however, I mastered myself and went on with my part,--though, what with the dreadful exertion that it is in itself, and the painful excitement I had just undergone, I thought I should have fainted before I got through with it. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, Feb. 2d._ After breakfast, ---- called to see how I did after my walk: he sat for some time. At twelve, went out paying bills and calls; bought a German olina; sat some time with old Mrs. ----, and spent a delightful hour with Mr. ---- and his family. He is a most agreeable person, but he thinks too well of acting. Came home; dined at three; Mr. and Mrs. ---- dined with us. After dinner, went into her room, and remained there till time to go to the theatre. Young ---- and Dr. ---- came in. The play was the Gamester: it was my benefit, and I am afraid the good folks who addressed that amiable placard to the public will have been rather ill satisfied with their suggestion about my benefit. The house was literally crammed, in consequence of that very circumstance,--crammed is the word. When the curtain drew up, they applauded me without end, and I courtesied as profoundly as I was able; indeed, I am extremely obliged to this same excellent public, for they have testified most satisfactorily every way the kindest feeling possible for me, and the most entire faith in my good behaviour. I did not play well, my voice was so dreadfully affected by my cough. _Monday, 4th._ Dined at three. After dinner, Mrs. ---- came into our room, where I sang and played till time to go to the theatre. The play was the Merchant of Venice, and Katharine and Petruchio for the farce;--my father's benefit: the house was crammed from floor to ceiling, as full as it could hold: so much for the success of the hand-bills. Indeed, as somebody suggested, I think if we could find the author of that placard out we are bound to give him a handsome reward, for he certainly has given us two of the finest benefits that ever were seen. I heard that a man said the other day that he should not be surprised if _my father had got the whole of this up himself_. Oh, day and night! that such thoughts should come into any human being's head. At the end, the people shouted and shrieked for us. He went on, and made them a speech, and I went on and made them a courtesy; and certainly they do deserve the civillest of speeches, and lowest of courtesies from us, for they have behaved most kindly and courteously to us; and, for mine own good part, I love the whole city of Philadelphia from this time forth, for evermore. Mr. ---- came round to the stage door to bid us good-night; and as we drove off, a whole parcel of folk, who had gathered round the door to see us depart, set up a universal hurrah! How strange a thing it is, that popular shout. After all, Pitt or Canning could get no more for the finest oratory that human lips ever uttered, or the wisest policy that human brain ever devised. Sometimes they got the reverse; but then the _hereafter_--there's the rub! Praise is so sweet to me that I would have it lasting: above all, I would wish to feel that I deserved it. I must do so if I am to value it a straw; and acting, even the best that ever was seen, is, to my mind, but a poor claim to approbation. I think the applause of an audience in a play-house should be reckoned with the friendly and favourable opinions of a good-natured tipsy man,--'tis given under excitement. Oh Lord! how unsatisfactory all things are! _Wednesday, 13th, New York._ After dinner, ---- came in. He sat himself down, and presently was over-head in reminiscences. His account of Tom Paine's escape from the Conciergerie, on the eve of being guillotined, was extremely interesting. His own introduction to, and subsequent acquaintance with, that worthy, was equally so, and his summing up was highly characteristic. "I tell ye, madam, the saving of that man's life was an especial providence, that he might come over to this country, where his works have done so much harm, and might have done so much more, and just exemplify the result of his own principles put into practice in his own person, and show that the glorious light of reason, and the noble natural gifts of man, of which he preached so much, would neither prevent a man's becoming a drunkard and a spendthrift, nor a debased degraded being. If Paine had been guillotined, madam, he would have been a martyr, and his works would have had ten times the power of evil they had before. But he lived to be a miserable low unthrift, and sot, and died neglected and despised by all reputable and respectable individuals, and, I say again, it was a manifest providence that he did so." We left the gentlemen to their wine for a short time, but were presently summoned back. ---- had gone to the theatre. ---- began his history to me, and it was, word for word, a repetition of Galt's book, except that occasionally it was more touching. The pity of all this is, the man's own consciousness that he is a lion. His vanity is almost as amusing as his recollections are curious and interesting; and though the tears were in my eye several times while he described the blessed time he lived with his sweet Phoebe, yet, at others, I could scarce help exclaiming, in the words of his own countryman, "Heigh, cretur, cretur! thou hast unco plause o' thysel'!" He ended his narrative with a eulogy of women that would have warmed the heart of a stone; and to my utter surprise addressed Mr. ---- with, "Out upon ye, bachelors, all! ye throw away your lives, and your life's happiness!" This last attack of ----'s seemed too much for Mr. ----; and, as I turned to him with the tears in my eyes, to desire he would not laugh, which he was doing very heartily, he said he couldn't stand it any longer, and went away, apparently more amused than edified by ----'s appeal. _Thursday, 14th._ St. Valentine's day! I wish all these pretty golden days, which, like the flowers in the sundial of Linnus, were wont so gaily to mark the flight of time, were not becoming so dim in our calendars; I wish St. Valentine's day, and May morning, and Christmas day, and New-Year's day, were not putting off their holiday suits to wear the work-day russet of their drudging fellows; I wish we were not making all things, of all sorts, so completely of a neutral tint. * * * * * I wouldn't be in the Reform Parliament of England for ten thousand pounds! ----, and ----, the bruiser, and the bankrupt! Oh, shame, England, shame!--Poor England! A RHAPSODY. White lady, sitting on the sea, Tell to me, oh, tell to me, How long shall thy reigning be, White lady, sitting on the sea? Long as the oak with which I'm crown'd Shall bear one leaf above the ground, Round which the crawling ivy's grasp Its cursed tendrils does not clasp; Long as one foot remains to stand Firm on its own ancestral land; Or one true man be left to claim The burden of a noble name; Long as one Gothic shrine shall rise With 'scutcheon'd tomb, and banner'd stall, Or the blest glances of the skies, Through storied casements dimly fall; Long as one heart shall beat to hear Legends of the old valiant time; Long as the Sabbath wind shall bear The music of one haunting chime. White lady, sitting on the sea, Tell to me, oh, tell to me, When shall thy downfalling be, White lady, sitting on the sea? When the vile kennel mud is thrown Upon the ermine of the king, And the old worships are cast down Before a rabble's triumphing; When toothless ---- is young again, To do the mischief he but dreams, And little ---- shall make more plain The good that glitters through his schemes; When the steam-engine of the north Leaves making essays and wry faces; And patriot Whigs forget the worth Of pensions, power, pride, and places; When on the spot where Burke and Pitt Earn'd their high immortality, Boxers and bankrupts boldly sit, Then, then shall my downfalling be. _Monday, 18th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal; came home and stitched at my _Franoise de Foix_ head-dress. My father is extremely unwell; I scarce think he will be able to get through his part to-night. After dinner, practised, and read a canto in Dante. It pleases me, when I refer to Biagioli's notes, to find that the very lines Alfieri has noted are those under which I have drawn my emphatic pencil marks. The play was Macbeth, for my benefit: the house was very full, and I played very ill. My father was dreadfully exhausted by his work. I had an interesting discussion with Mr. ---- about the costume and acting of the witches in this awful play. I should like to see them acted and dressed a little more like what they should be, than they generally are. It has been always customary,--Heaven only knows why,--to make low comedians act the witches, and to dress them like old fish-women. Instead of the wild unearthly appearance which Banquo describes, and which belongs to their most terrible and grotesquely poetical existence and surroundings, we have three jolly-faced fellows,--whom we are accustomed to laugh at, night after night, in every farce on the stage,--with as due a proportion of petticoats as any woman, letting alone witch, might desire, jocose red faces, peaked hats, and broomsticks, which last addition alone makes their costume different from that of Moll Flagon. If I had the casting of Macbeth, I would give the witches to the first melo-dramatic actors on the stage,--such men as T. P. Cooke, and O. Smith, who understand all that belongs to picturesque devilry to perfection,--and give them such dresses as, without ceasing to be grotesque, should be a little more fanciful, and less ridiculous than the established livery; something that would accord a little better with the blasted heath, the dark fungus-grown wood, the desolate misty hill-side, and the flickering light of the caldron cave. * * * * * * * * * * _Wednesday, 20th._ After breakfast, ---- and Mr. ---- came. ---- gave me the words and tune of a bewitching old English ballad. Mr. ---- called and sat some time with me: I like him mainly,--he's very pleasant and clever. That handsome creature, Mme. ----, called with her daughter and her son-in-law. Mr. ---- and ---- dined with us. After dinner, came to my own room, sang over ----'s ballad, and amused myself with writing one of my own. The house was very full; play, the Stranger: I didn't play well: I'd a gown on that did not fit me, to which species of accident our _art_ is marvellously subservient, for a tight arm-hole shall mar the grandest passage in Queen Constance, and too long or too short a skirt keep one's heart cold in the balcony scene in Juliet. Came home; supped; finished marking the Winter's Tale. What a dense fool that fat old Johnson must have been in matters of poetry! his notes upon Shakspeare make one swear, and his summing up of the Winter's Tale is worthy of a newspaper critic of the present day,--in spirit, I mean, not language; Dr. Johnson always wrote good English.--What dry, and sapless, and dusty earth his soul must have been made of, poor fat man! After all, 'tis even a greater misfortune than fault to be so incapable of beauty. The Lord's son stood at the clear spring head, The May on the other side, "And stretch me your lily hand," he said, "For I must mount and ride. "And waft me a kiss across the brook, And a curl of your yellow hair; Come summer or winter, I ne'er shall look Again on your eyes so fair. "Bring me my coal-black steed, my squire, Bring Fleetfoot forth!" he cried; "For three-score miles he must not tire, To bear me to my bride. "His foot must be swift, though my heart be slow; He carries me towards my sorrow; To the Earl's proud daughter I made my vow, And I must wed her to-morrow." The Lord's son stood at the altar stone,-- The Earl's proud daughter near: "And what is that ring you have gotten on, That you kiss so oft and so dear? "Is it a ring of the yellow gold, Or something more precious and bright? Give me that ring in my hand to hold, Or I plight ye no troth to-night." "It is not a ring of the yellow gold, But something more precious and bright; But never shall hand, save my hand, hold This ring by day or night." "And now I am your wedded wife, Give me the ring, I pray." -- "You may take my lands, you may take my life, But never this ring away." They sat at the board; and the lady bride Red wine in a goblet pour'd; "And pledge me a health, sweet sir," she cried, "My husband and my lord." The cup to his lips he had scarcely press'd, When he gasping drew his breath, His head sank down on his heaving breast, And he said, "It is death! it is death!-- "Oh bury me under the gay green shaw By the brook, 'neath the heathery sod, Where last her blessed eyes I saw, Where her blessed feet last trod!" _Saturday, 23d._ We came home at two. ---- and the horses were waiting for me: we mounted and rode down to the Hoboken ferry, where we crossed. The day was like an early day in spring in England; a day when the almond trees would all have been in flower, the hawthorn hedges putting forth their tender green and brown shoots, and the primroses gemming the mossy roots of the trees by the water-courses. The spring is backwarder here a good deal than with us: to be sure, it is sudden compared with ours,--as my poetising friend hath it,-- "Not with slow steps, in smiles, in tears advancing, But with a bound, like Indian girls in dancing." I do not like this: I like to linger over the sweet hourly and daily fufilment of hope, which the slow progress of vegetation in my own dear country allows one full enjoyment of; to watch the leaf from the bark, the blossom from the bud; the delicate, pale-white, peeping heads of the hawthorn, to the fragrant, snowy, delicious flush of flowering; the downy green clusters of small round buds on the apple trees, to the exquisite rosy-tinted clouds of soft blossoms waving against an evening sky. The melted snow had made the roads all but impassable; however, the day was delightfully mild and sunny, and therefore we did not get chilled by the very temperate rate at which we were obliged to proceed. We turned off to look at the Turtle Pavilion, and, pursuing the water's edge, got up upon a species of high dyke between some marshes that open into the river. Our path, however, was presently intercepted by a stile, and as the horses were not quite of the sort one could have risked a leap with, ---- got off and endeavoured to lead his charger round the edge of the steep bank, but the brute refused that road, and we were forced to turn back; and, after floundering about over some of the roughest worst ground imaginable, we e'en went out of the Hoboken domain at the gate where we entered, and pursued that beautiful road overlooking the Hudson, under that fine range of cliffs which are the first idea, as it were, of the Palisadoes. We took the lower road down into the glen below Weehawk. The sun shone gloriously: the little fairy stream that owns this narrow glade was singing and dancing along its beautiful domain with a sweet gleesome voice, and a succession of little sparkling breaks and eddies that looked like laughter. We left the muddy road, and turned our horses into the stream; but its bed was very stony and uneven, and we were obliged to turn out of it again. We rode like very impudent persons up to the house on the height. The house itself is too unsheltered for comfort either in summer or winter, but the view from its site is beautiful, and we had it in perfection to-day. Standing at an elevation of more than a hundred feet from the river, we looked down its magnificent, broad, silvery avenue, to the Narrows--that rocky gate that opens towards my home. New York lay bright and distinct on the opposite shore, glittering like a heap of toys in the sunny distance: the water towards Sandy Hook was studded with sails; and far up on the other side the river rolled away among shores that, even in this wintry time of bare trees and barren earth, looked gay and lovely in the sunshine. We turned down again; but after crossing the bridge over the pretty brook, we took an upper path to the right, and riding through some leafless, warm, sunny woodlands, joined the road that leads to the Weehawken height, and so returned to New York. On our way, discussing the difference between religion as felt by men and women, ---- agreed with me, that hardly one man out of five thousand held any distinct entire and definite religious belief. He said that religion was a sentiment, and that, as regarded all creeds, there was no midway with them; that faith or utter disbelief were the only alternatives; for that displacing one jot of any of them made the whole totter,--which last is, in some measure, true, but I do not think it is true that religion is _only_ a sentiment. There are many reasons why women are more religious than men. Our minds are not generally naturally analytical--our education tends to render them still less so: 'tis seldom in a woman's desire (because seldom in her capacity) to investigate the abstract bearings of any metaphysical subject. Our imaginations are exceedingly sensitive, our subservience to early impressions, and exterior forms, proportionate; and our habits of thought, little enlarged by experience, observation, or proper culture, render us utterly incapable of almost any logical train of reasonings. With us, I think, therefore, faith is the only secure hold; for disbelief, acting upon mental constructions so faulty and weak, would probably engender insanity, or a thousand species of vague, wild, and mischievous enthusiasms. I believe, too, that women are more religious than men, because they have warmer and deeper affections. There is nothing surely on earth that can satisfy and utterly fulfil the capacity for loving which exists in every woman's nature. Even when her situation in life is such as to call forth and constantly keep in exercise the best affections of her heart, as a wife, and a mother, it still seems to me as if more would be wanting to fill the measure of yearning tenderness, which, like an eternal fountain, gushes up in every woman's heart; therefore I think it is that we turn, in the plenitude of our affections, to that belief which is a religion of love, and where the broadest channel is open to receive the devotedness, the clinging, the confiding trustfulness, which are idolatry when spent upon creatures like ourselves, but become a holy worship when offered to Heaven. Nor is it only from the abundance and overflowing of our affections that we are devout; 'tis not only from our capacity of loving, but also from our capacity of suffering, that our piety springs. Woman's physical existence, compared with that of man, is one of incessant endurance. This in itself begets a necessity for patience, a seeking after strength, a holding forth of the hands for support; thus, the fragile frame, the loving heart, and the ignorant mind, are in us sources of religious faith. But it often happens that those affections, so strong, so deep, so making up the sum and substance of female existence, instead of being happily employed, as I have supposed above, are converted into springs of acute suffering. These wells of feeling hidden in the soul, upon whose surface the slightest smile of affection falls like sunlight, but whose very depths are stirred by the breath of unkindness, are too often un-visited by the kindly influence of kindred sympathies, and go wearing their own channels deeper, in silence and in secrecy, and in infinite bitterness,--undermining health, happiness, the joy of life, and making existence one succession of burden-bearing days, and toilsome, aching, heavy hours. It is in this species of blight, which falls upon many women, that any religious faith becomes a refuge and a consolation, more especially that merciful and compassionate faith whose words are, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." To that rest betakes itself the wearied spirit, the wounded heart; and it becomes a blessing beyond all other blessings; a source of patience, of fortitude, of hope, of strength, of endurance; a shelter in the scorching land,--a spring of water in the wilderness. * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, April 13th._ At a quarter after four, drove down to the boat. ---- was waiting to see us off, and ---- presently made his appearance to see us on. Owing to the yesterday's boat not having sailed, it was crowded to-day, and freighted most heavily, so as to draw an unusual quantity of water, and proceed at a much slower rate than common. At a few minutes after five, the huge brazen bell on deck began to toll; the mingled crowd jostled, and pushed, and rolled about; the loiterers on shore rushed on board; the bidders-farewell on board rushed on shore; D---- and I took a quiet sunny stand, away from all the confusion, and watched from our floating palace New York glide away like a glittering dream from before us. A floating palace indeed it was, in size and in magnificence: I never saw any thing to compare with the beauty, and comfort, and largeness of all its accommodations. Our Scotch steam-boat, the United Kingdom, is a cockboat to it, and even the splendid Hudson boat, the North America, is far inferior to it in every respect, except, I believe, swiftness,--but then these Boston boats have sometimes very heavy sea to go through. Besides the ladies' cabin, this boat is furnished with half a dozen state rooms, taken from the upper deck,--an inexpressible luxury. Into one of these our night-bags were conveyed, and we returned to the deck to watch the sun down. A strong and piercing wind blew over the waters, and almost cut me in half as I stood watching the shores, which I did not wish to lose by going in. However, I might have done so, and lost but little; for after passing Hell-gate, where the rocks in the river and the banks have rather a picturesque appearance, there was neither form nor comeliness in the flat wearisome land to either side; and the only objects which detained me on deck were the bright blue waters themselves, all shining in the sunset, and those lovely little boats, with one mast and two glittering sails, scudding past us like fairy craft upon the burnished waves. At about eight, we were summoned down to tea, which was a compound meal of tea and supper. The company were so numerous that they were obliged to lay the table twice. We waited till the crowd had devoured their feed, and had ours in comparative peace and quiet. An excellent man, by name ----, an officer in the American army, made himself known to me, considering, as he afterwards told me, his commission to be a sufficient right of introduction to any body. He was a native of Boston, and was returning to it, after an absence of _fourteen years_. * * * * * * * * * * _Sunday, 14th._ The morning was beautifully bright and clear. While dressing, heard the breakfast-bell, and received sundry intimations to descend and eat; however, I declined leaving my cabin until I had done dressing, which I achieved very comfortably at leisure, during which time the ship weathered Point Judith, where the Atlantic comes in to the shore between the termination of Long Island and the southern extremity of Rhode Island. The water is generally rough here, and I had been prophesied an agreeable little fit of sea-sickness; but no such matter,--we passed it very smoothly, and presently stopped at Newport, on Rhode Island, to leave and take up passengers. The wind was keen and bracing; the morning beautifully bright and sunny; the blue waters, all curled and crisped under the arrow-like wind, broke into a thousand sapphire ridges tipped with silver foam, that drove away in sparkling showers before the bitter breath of the north. We entered Providence river in a few moments, and steamed along between Rhode Island and the main land, until we reached Providence, a town on the shore of Rhode Island, where we were to leave the boat, and pursue our route by coach to Boston. I walked on deck with Captain ---- for an hour after breakfast, breasting the wind, which almost drove us back each time we turned up the deck towards the prow. After my walk, went in, righted my hair, which the wind had dressed _ la frantic_, and came and sat in the sun with Brewster's book,--which I like mainly,--till we reached Providence. The boat was so heavily laden that she drew an enormous quantity of water, and was fairly aground once, as we were nearing the pier. When the crowd of passengers had ebbed away, and we had seen them pack themselves into their stages and drive off, we adjourned to our exclusive extra, which, to our great sorrow, could not take all our luggage after all. The distance from Providence to Boston is forty miles; but we were six hours and a half doing it over an excellent road. The weather was beautiful, but the country still sad and wintry-looking. The spring is backwarder here than in New York by full three weeks: the trees were all bare and leafless, except the withered foliage of the black oaks; and the face of the country, with its monotonous rises, and brooks flowing through flat fields, reminded me of parts of Cumberland. Every now and then, however, we came to a little lakelet, or, as they call them here, pond, of the holiest deepest dark-blue water, sparkling like a magic sapphire, against smooth, bright, golden, sandy shores, and screened by vivid thickets of cedar bushes. They were like little bits of fairy-land, and relieved the wearisomeness of the road. As we approached Boston, the country assumed a more cultivated aspect,--the houses in the road-side villages were remarkably neat, and pretty, and cottage-like,--the land was well farmed; and the careful cultivation, and stone walls, which perform the part of hedges here, together with the bleak look of the distances on each side, made me think of Scotland. We entered Boston through a long road with houses on each side, making one fancy one's self in the town long before one reaches it. We did not arrive until half-past six. Went to my own room and dressed for dinner. When I came to the drawing-room, found the ----s: dear ---- was half crazy at seeing us again. After dinner, came to my room with her, and righted all my clothes, and established myself; after tea, returned to the same work, and, at about half-past ten, came to bed. Here we are in a new place!--How desolate and cheerless this constant changing of homes is! the Scripture saith, "There is no rest to the wicked;" and truly I never felt so convinced of my own wickedness as I have done since I have been in this country. _Monday, 15th._ Went over to the theatre to rehearse Fazio. Mr. ----, however, met us at the door, and assured me there was no necessity for my doing so till to-morrow. ---- came early to see me, and stayed all the morning. Mr. ---- called this morning,--I was quite glad to see him,--and Mrs. ----, whom I thought beautiful. Tried to finish letter to ----, but was interrupted about a dozen times. At about half-past four, the horses came to the door. The afternoon was lovely, and the roads remarkably good: I had a fine handsome spirited horse, who pulled my hands to pieces for want of being properly curbed. We rode out to _Cambridge_, the University of Massachusetts, about three miles distant from Boston. The village round it, with its white cottages, and meeting roads, and the green lawns and trees round the college, reminded me of England. We rode on to a place called Mount Auburn, a burial-ground which the Bostonians take great pride in, and which is one of the lions of the place. The entrance is a fine solid granite gateway, in a species of _Egyptian_ style, with this inscription engraved over it: "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God, who gave it." The whole place is at present in an unfinished state, but its capabilities are very great, and, as far as it has progressed, they have been taken every advantage of. The enclosure is of considerable extent,--about one hundred acres,--and contains several high hills and deep ravines, in the bottom of which are dark, still, melancholy-looking meres. The whole is cut, with much skill and good taste, by roads for carriages, and small narrow footpaths. The various avenues are distinguished by the names of trees, as, Linden walk, Pine walk, Beech walk; and already two or three white monuments are seen glimmering palely through the woods, reminding one of the solemn use to which this ground is consecrated, which, for its beauty, might seem a pleasure-garden instead of a place of graves. Mr. ---- delighted me very much: he told me he was looking for a plot of earth in this cemetery which he intended to dedicate to poor English people, who might come out here, and die without the means of being decently laid to rest. We looked, with this view, at a patch of ground on the slope of a high hill, well shadowed over with trees, and descending to a great depth to a dark pond, shining in the hollow like an emerald. 'Twas sad and touching to gaze at that earth, with the thought that amidst strangers, and in a strange land, the pity of a fellow-countryman should here allot to his brethren a grave in the quiet and solemn beauty of this hallowed ground. Our time was limited; so, after lingering for a short space along the narrow pathways that wind among dwellings of the dead, we rode home. We reached Boston at a quarter to seven. My father and D---- were already gone to the theatre. I dressed, and went over myself immediately. The play was begun: the house was not very full. The managers have committed the greatest piece of mismanagement imaginable,--they advertise my father alone in Hamlet to-night, and instead of making me play alone to-morrow night, and so securing our attraction singly before we act together, we are _both_ to act to-morrow in Fazio, which circumstance, of course, kept the house thin to-night. My father's Hamlet is very beautiful. 'Tis curious, that when I see him act I have none of the absolute feeling of contempt for the profession that I have while acting myself. What he does appears, indeed, like the work of an artist; and though I always lament that he loves it as he does, and has devoted so much care and labour to it as he has, yet I certainly respect acting more while I am seeing him act than at any other time. Yet surely, after all, acting is nonsense, and as I sit here opposite the churchyard, it seems to me strange to think, that when I come down into that darkness, I shall have eaten bread, during my life, earned by such means. The Ophelia was perfectly beautiful: I think I scarcely ever saw a more faultless piece of mortality in point of outward loveliness. The eyes and brow of an angel, serene and calm, yet bright and piercing; a mouth chiselled like a Grecian piece of sculpture, with an expression of infinite refinement; fair round arms and hands, a beautifully-moulded foot, and a figure that seemed to me perfectly proportioned. It did not perhaps convey to me the idea of such absolute loveliness as ----'s figure did; but altogether I think I never saw a fairer woman--it was delightful lo look at her. The audience are, upon the whole, cold;--very still and attentive, however, and when they do warm, it is certainly very effectually, for they shout and hurrah like mad. * * * * * _Wednesday, 27th._ Somebody very civilly has sent me that beautiful book, Rogers's Italy: it set me wild again with my old frenzy for the south of Europe. Wrote to ----; after dinner, practised for an hour; at half-past five, off to the theatre. The house was crammed: the play, the Stranger. It is quite comical to see the people in the morning at the box-office: our window is opposite to it, and 'tis a matter of the greatest amusement to me to watch them. They collect in crowds for upwards of an hour before the doors open, and when the bolts are withdrawn, there is a yelling and shouting as though the town were on fire. In they rush, thumping and pummelling one another, and not one comes out without rubbing his head, or his back, or showing a piteous rent in his clothes. I was surprised to see men of a very low order pressing foremost to obtain boxes, but I find that they sell them again at an enormous increase to others who have not been able to obtain any; and, the better to carry on their traffic, these worthies smear their clothes with molasses, and sugar, etc., in order to prevent any person of more decent appearance, or whose clothes are worth a cent, from coming near the box-office: this is ingenious, and deserves a reward. Our other window looks out upon a large churchyard, in the midst of which stands a cenotaph, erected by Franklin in honour of his father. Between the view of the play-house, and the view of the burial-ground, my contemplations are curiously tinged. This house (the Tremont) is admirably quiet and comfortable. _Thursday, 18th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal,--the School for Scandal,--however, half the people were not there, so the rehearsal was nought. Came home, and at half-past eleven rode out; the day was beautifully bright: we rode to a beautiful little mere, called Jamaica Pond, through some country very like Scotland. We turned from the road into a gentleman's estate, and rode up a green rise into an enclosed field, which commanded an extensive view of the country below. But the spring tarries still, and though her smile is in the sky, the trees are leafless, and blossomless, and wintry-looking still. We came in by a pretty village called Roxbury, about two miles and a half distant from Boston: here we stopped to get a nosegay for my Lady Teazle, at a very pretty green-house, kept by a mechanic, who has devoted his leisure hours to the pleasurable and profitable pursuits of gardening. We returned to town at about half-past two. I ran into the drawing-room, and found ---- sitting with my father. * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, 20th._ Walked up to the State House. The day was any thing but agreeable; a tremendous high wind (easterly of course,--'tis the only wind they have in Boston), and a burning sun tempered only by clouds of dust, in which, every two minutes, the whole world,--at least, as much as we could see of it,--was shrouded. On entering the hall of the State House, we confronted Chantry's statue of Washington, which stands in a recess immediately opposite the entrance. I saw that, how many years ago, in his study at Pimlico! We proceeded to mount into the cupola, whence a very extensive view is obtained of the city and its surroundings,--and a cruel height it was! I began it at full speed, like a wise woman, but before I got to the top was so out of breath, that I could hardly breathe at all: defend me from such altitudes!--and, after all, the day was hazy and not favourable for our purpose; the wind came in through the windows of the lantern like a tornado; and, as my father observed, after the exertion of ascending, 'twas the very best place in the world for catching one's death of cold. We came down as quickly as we could. At about twelve, we rode to Mount Auburn. The few days of sunshine since we were last there have clothed the whole earth with delicate purple and white blossoms, a little resembling the wood anemone, but growing close to the soil, and making one think of violets with their pale purple colour: they have no fragrance whatever. We afterwards rode on to a beautiful little lake called Fresh Pond, along whose margin we followed a pretty woody path: a high bank covered with black-looking pines rose immediately on our right, and on our left the clear waters of the rippling lake came dancing to and fro along the pebbly shore, which shone bright and golden under their crystal folds. We stood with our hats off to receive the soft wind upon our brows, and to listen to the chiming of the water upon the beach, the most delicious sound in all nature's orchestra. We then turned back and rode home. By the by, on our way out to Mount Auburn we took the Charleston road, and rode over Bunker Hill. They have begun a monument upon the spot where General Warren was killed, to commemorate the event. I felt strangely as I rode over that ground. Mr. ---- was the only American of our party, but, though in the minority, he had rather the best of it. And this is where so much English blood was shed, thought I; for, after all, 'twas all English blood,--do as they can, they can never get rid of their stock; and deeply as oppression and resistance have dug the grave in which all kindred feeling seems for a time to have been buried,--'tis only, I believe and trust, for a time,--buried in blood and fierce warfare, to spring up again in peace and mutual respect. England and America ought not to be enemies, 'tis unnatural while the same language is spoken in both lands. Until Americans have found a tongue for themselves, they must still be the children of old England, for they speak the words her children speak by the fireside of her homes. Oh, England! noble, noble land! They may be proud of many things, these inheritors of a new world, but of nothing more than that they are descended from Englishmen; that their fathers once trod the soil whereon has grown more goodness, more greatness, more beauty, and more truth, than on any other earth under God's sun. * * * * * * * * * * At half-past four, we went to dine with the ----s. Their house is very pretty and comfortable. When first we went in, we were shown into a couple of drawing-rooms, in which there were beautiful marble copies of one or two of the famous statues. One of Canova's dancing girls, the glorious Diana, a reclining figure of Cleopatra, an exquisite thing,--the crouching Venus, and the lovely antique Cupid and Psyche. * * * * * * * * * * 'Tis strange that feelings should pass from our hearts and minds as clouds pass from the face of heaven, as though they had never been there;--yet not so, after all; they do not pass so tracklessly,--they do leave faint shadows behind; they leave a darker colour upon the face of all existence: sometimes they leave a sad conviction of wasted capabilities, and time, precious time, expended in vain. Yet not in vain: even though our feelings change,--pass, perhaps, to our own consciousness--cease altogether,--'tis not in vain--life is going on--experience and solemn wisdom may come with the coming time; and existence is, after all, but a series of experiments upon our spiritual nature. Our trials vary with our years; and though we deem (too often rightly) that suffering and disappointment are but barren thorns, whereon grows neither fruit nor flower, 'tis our sin that they are so, for they are designed to bear an excellent harvest. "Sweet are the uses of adversity;" so he has said who knew all things, and so indeed to the wise they are. _Tuesday, 30th._ We rode down to the "Chelsea Ferry," and crossed over the Charles river, where the shore opposite Boston bears the name of that refuge for damaged marine stores. The breath of the sea was delicious, as we crossed the water in one of the steam-boats constantly plying to and fro; and on the other side, as we rode towards the beach, it came greeting us delightfully from the wide waters. When we started from Boston, the weather was intensely hot, and the day promised to be like the day before yesterday, a small specimen of the dog-days. We had about a five miles' ride through some country that reminded me of Scotland: now and then the dreary landscape was relieved by the golden branches of a willow tree, and the delicate pale peach blossoms, and tiny white buds in the apple orchards, peeping over some stone dyke, like a glance over the wall from the merry laughing spring. So we reached Chelsea beach, a curving, flat, sandy shore, forming one side of a small bay which runs up between this land and a rocky peninsula that stretches far out into the ocean, called Nahant. At the extremity of the basin lay glimmering a while sunny town, by name _Lynn_;--'tis quite absurd the starts and stares which the familiar names cause one for ever to make here. This small bay is beautifully smooth and peaceful; the shore is a shelving reach of hard fine sand, nearly two miles long, and the wild waves are warded off in their violence from it by the rocky barrier of Nahant. How happy I was to see the beautiful sea once more,--to be once more galloping over the golden sands,--to be once more wondering at and worshipping the grandeur and loveliness of this greatest of God's marvellous works. How I do love the sea!--my very soul seems to gather energy, and life, and light, from its power, its vastness, its bold bright beauty, its fresh invigorating airs, its glorious, triumphant, rushing sound. The thin, thin rippling waves came like silver leaves spreading themselves over the glittering sand, with just a little, sparkling, pearly edge, like the cream of a bright glass of champagne. Close along the shore the water was of that pale transparent green colour, that blends so delicately with the horizon, sometimes at sunset; but out beyond, towards the great deep, it wore that serene and holiest blue that surrounds one in mid-ocean, when the earth is nearly as far below as the heaven seems high above us. For a short time my spirits seemed like uncaged birds; I rejoiced with all my might,--I could have shouted aloud for delight; I galloped far along the sand, as close into the water's restless edge as my horse would bear to go. But the excitement died away, and then came vividly back the time when last I stood upon the sea beach at Cramond, and lost myself in listening to that delicious sound of the chiming waters--I was many years younger then. * * * * * * * * * * The end of my ride was sadder than the beginning, for at first my senses alone took cognizance of what surrounded me, and afterwards my soul looked on it, and it grew dark. We rode two miles along the beach, and stopped at a little wooden hut, where, Mr. ---- told me, sportsmen, who come to shoot plover along the flats by the shore, resort to dress their dinners and refresh themselves. Here we dismounted: lay in the sun on the roof with the fresh, sweet, blessed breath of heaven fanning us. My horse thought proper to break his bridle and walk himself off through the fields: they followed him with corn, and various inducements; ---- and I, meantime, ran down to the water, collecting interesting relics, muscle shells, quartz, pebbles, and sea-weed; finally, we remounted and returned home. The weather had changed completely, and become quite bleak and cold: the variations of the climate in this place are terrible. As we rode down a pleasant lane towards the Salem road, we met a large crowd of country-people busily employed in raising the framework of a house. In this part of the country, the poorer class of people build their houses, or rather, the wooden frames of their houses, entirely before they set them up. When the skeleton is entirely finished, they call together all their neighbours to assist in the raising, which is an event of much importance, and generally ends in a merry-making. The filling up the outline of the habitation, which they do with boards here, is an after work: the frame seems to be the material part of the building, and slight enough too, I thought, for protection against these bitter east winds. We reached home at about half-past two. The play was Much Ado about Nothing: the house was spoilt by the fair which the ladies have been getting up for the blind here, and which was lighted and open for inspection previous to to-morrow, when the sale is to take place. * * * and I Am reading, too, my book of memory: With eyelids closed, over the crested foam, And the blue marbled sea, I seek my home. All present things forgotten, on the shore Of the romantic Forth I stand once more; Once more I hear the waves' harmonious strife; Once more, upon the mountain coast of Fife, I see the checker'd lights and shadows fall. Upon the sand crumbles the ruin'd wall That guards no more the desolate demesne, And the deserted mansion. High between The summer clouds the Ochil hills arise; And far, far, like a shadow in the skies, Ben Lomond towers aloft in sovereign height. O, Cramond beach! are thy sands still as bright-- Thy waters still as sunny,--thy wild shore As lonely and as lovely as of yore?-- Haunts of my happy time! as wandering back Along my life, on memory's faithful track, How fair ye seem,--how fair, how dear ye are! Ye need not to be gazed at from afar; Deceptive distance lends no brighter hue; Your beauty and your peacefulness were true. Not yours the charms from which we wearied stray, And own them only when they're far away. O, be ye blest for all the happiness Which I have known in your wild loneliness. Old sea, whose voice yet chimes upon my ear,-- Old paths, whose every winding step was dear,-- Dark rocky promontories,--echoing caves, Worn hollow by the white feet of the waves,-- Blue lake-like waters,--legend-haunted isle, Over ye all, bright be the summer's smile; And gently fall the winter on your breast, Haunts of my youth, my memory's place of rest. _Wednesday, May 1st._ Mr. ---- came in the morning, and I settled to call down at eleven for Mrs. ---- to go to the fair. We drove to Faneuil Hall, a building opposite the market, which was appropriated to the uses of the fair; but the crowd was so dense round the steps, that we found it impossible to approach them, and wisely gave up the attempt, determining to take our drive, and then come back and try our later fortune. We drove down to the Chelsea beach. The day was bleak and cold, though bright, with a cutting east wind. After taking a good race along the bright creaming edge, we returned to the carriage, and drove into town again to the fair, which we managed at last to enter. The whole thing was crowd, crush, and confusion, to my bewildered eyes. We got upon a platform behind the stalls, and squeezed our way to Mrs. ----'s shop, where my father had desired me to buy him a card-case, which I did. I found ---- installed in her stall. ---- joined us, and Mr. ----, who drew me away to his wife's table, where I bought one or two things, and, having emptied my purse, came away. After dinner, Mr. ---- came in: he showed us some things he had bought at the fair. I thought the prices enormous, but the money is well spent in itself, or rather, on its ultimate object, and the immediate return is of no import. _Thursday, 2d._ After breakfast, went over to rehearsal; at half-past eleven, went out to ride: the day was heavenly, bright, and mild, with a full, soft, sweet spring breeze blowing life and health over one. The golden willow-trees were all in flower, and the air, as we rode by them, was rich with their fragrance. The sky was as glorious as the sky of Paradise: the whole world was full of loveliness; and my spirits were in most harmonious tune with all its beauty. We rode along the chiming beach, talking gravely of many matters, temporal and spiritual; and when we reached the pines, I dismounted, entreated for a scrap of paper, and, in the miserable little parlour of this miserable little mansion, sat down and scribbled some miserable doggrel to ease my heart. How beautiful the scene around me was! the bright boundless sea, smooth as a sapphire, except at the restless rippling edge; the serene holy sky looking down so earnestly and gently on the flowering earth; the reviving breeze, dipping like a bird its fresh wings into the water,--how beautiful all things did seem to me,--how full of witnesses of the great power and goodness that created them. Why is it that clouds ever come between us and God when there are seasons like this, when we seem to sit at his very feet,--when his glory and his mercy seem the atmosphere we are breathing, and our whole existence is lifted, for a time, into the reality of all we hope and pray for? Yet these are but passing emotions: they are not, indeed, the very spirit of God,--they are but reflections of his image, caught from the glorious mirror of nature. The sky becomes cloudy,--the sea stormy; the blossoming and the bearing seasons pass away, and winter comes apace, with withered aspect, and bitter biting breath; the face of the universe becomes dark, and the trust, and faith, and joy of our souls, fade into doubt, disbelief, and sorrow. Infirmity and imperfection pluck us back from our heavenward flight, and the weight of our mortality drags us down fast, fast again towards the earth. These fair outward creatures, and the blessed emotions they excite, will pass away,--must--do pass away,--and where is the abiding revelation of God to which we shall turn? It lives for ever, in the still burning light of a strong and steadfast soul; in the resolute will and high unshaken purpose of good; in the quiet, calm, collected might of reason; in the undying warmth and brightness of a pure and holy heart. * * * * * My ride did me ten thousand goods. As we were riding through Mrs. ----'s farm, a little boy came running to meet me with his hand full of beautiful flowers, which he stood upon tiptoe to thrust into my hand, and, without waiting to be thanked, rushed back into the house. I was delighted: the flowers were exquisite, and the manner of the gift very enchanting. Altogether, I do not know when I have been so completely filled with pleasurable emotions as during this ride. To the smooth beach, the silver sea Comes rippling in a thousand smiles, And back again runs murmuringly, To break around yon distant isles. The sunshine, through a floating veil Of golden clouds, looks o'er the wave, And gilds, far off, the outline pale, Of many a rocky cape and cave, The breath of spring comes balmily Over the newly-blossom'd earth; The smile of spring, on sea, and sky, Is shedding light, and love, and mirth. I would that thou wert by my side, As underneath the rosy bloom Of flowering orchard trees I ride, And drink their fragrant fresh perfume; I would that thou wert by my side, To feel this soft air on thy brow, And listen to the chiming tide Along that smooth shore breaking now; I would that thou wert here to bless, As I do now, the love and care, That, with such wealth of loveliness, Have made life's journeying-land so fair. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I have taken several enormous rides round Boston, and am more and more delighted with its environs, which are now in full flush of blossoming, as sweet, and fresh, and lovely as any thing can be. On Saturday, rode to the Blue Hills, a distance of upwards of twelve miles. The roads round this place are almost as good as roads in England, and the country altogether reminds me of that dear little land. These Blue Hills were, a few years ago, a wilderness of forest--the favourite resort of rattlesnakes; but the trees have been partly cleared, and though 'tis still a wild desolate region, clothed with firs, and uncheered by a human habitation, its more savage tenants have disappeared with the thick coverts in which they nestled, and we rode to the summit of the highest hill without seeing any thing in the shape of Eve's enemy. At the top, by the by, we did find some species of building in decay and ruin. Whoever perched himself up there had no mind to be overlooked, and must have been fond of fresh air. The view from the mountain is magnificent, yet I do not believe the elevation to be very extraordinary; although, as I looked down, it seemed to me as though the world was stretched at my feet; and I thought of the temptation of our Saviour. The various villages, with their blossoming orchards, looked like patches of a snow-scene; the river wound, like a silver snake, all round the fields; the little lakes lay diminished to drops of bright blue light; and the lesser mountains rose below us like the waves of a dark sea. The whole was strange and awful to me--the savage loneliness of the place, its apparent remoteness from the earth, and its walkers, filled me with a solemn sensation. Had I been there alone, I do not know a place where I should sooner have expected to meet some of the wandering spirits of mid-air,--shapes, and sights, and beings of another order from those of the world, that lay like a map below me. The mountain itself is formed of granite, of which large slabs appeared through the turf and brushwood. I looked in vain for what I found in such abundance on the Portland hill, the sweet wild thyme. I thought I should find some of it among the stony rifts, where it loves to cling, but I was disappointed. Indeed, I met with a much more severe disappointment than that. The turf was thickly strewn with clumps of violets, the very same in form and colour as our own sweet wood violet. I stooped in an ecstasy to gather them, but found they were totally senseless--mere pretences of violets. A violet without fragrance! a wild one, too!--the thing's totally unnatural. I flung the little purple cheat away in a rage. I have since found cowslips with the same entire absence of fragrance. The heat and cold of this climate chill or wither every thing; and almost all the flowers which are most common and sweet, growing in the moist soil of England, seem reared with difficulty here, and lose their great fragrance, their soul, as it were, under the extreme influences of this sky. There were many wild things growing on this mountain, that for beauty, and delicacy of form and colour, would have found honourable place in our conservatories; but they had not the slightest perfume, and I took no delight in them. A scentless flower is a monster; and though I acknowledge with due admiration the pale beauty of that queen of flowers, the camelia, I never see it in its cold pearl-like pride of bloom, that it does not strike me like a fine lady--an artificial creature, fair indeed to behold, but without the very property of a flower--sweetness. Oh, the lilies of the valley,--the primroses,--the violets,--the sweet, sweet hawthorn,--the fresh fragrant blush rose,--the purple lilac bloom,--the silver serynga,--the faint breathing hyacinths,--the golden cowslips, of a morning, at the close of May in England!--the fulness of sweetness that loads the temperate air, as it breathes over the fresh lawns of that flower garden! * * * * * * * * * * I took another long ride to a quarry ten miles distant from Boston, whence the granite, which is much used in Boston for building, is drawn. I started at six in the morning, and rode about twenty miles before breakfast, which I think was a piece of virtue bordering upon heroism: to be sure, I had my reward, for any thing so sweet as the whole world, at about half-past six, I never beheld. The dew was yet fresh upon tree and flower,--the roads were shady and cool,--the dust had not yet been disturbed; a mild, soft, full breeze blew over the flowery earth, and the rosy apple blossoms stirred on the rocking boughs against the serene and smiling sky. They have in this country neither nightingales, thrushes, linnets, nor blackbirds, at least, none with the same notes as ours; but every now and then, from the snowy cherry trees, there came a wild snatch of trilling melody, like the clear ringing song of a canary bird. My companion did not know the minstrel by his note; but I never heard a more brilliant and joyful strain, or one more fitted to the bright hour of opening day,--always excepting the lark's, that triumphant embodied spirit of song. The blackbird's song is to me the sweetest in the world,--sad and soft, and rich as the sunsets through which it is heard. The quarry which we visited is an extensive vein of fine dark-coloured granite. We dismounted, and walked among the workmen to see them at their various processes. This quarry, and one at a short distance, merely supply the blocks of granite, which, being detached from the main stone, are piled upon cars, and sent down an inclined plane to the rail-road, by means of a powerful chain, which acts at once as a support and check, suffering the load to proceed slowly down the declivity, and at the same time sending up from the bottom, upon another track, the empty car from which the granite has been unloaded below, as the buckets of a well are drawn up and down. A very serious accident occurred here, by the by, to a party of gentlemen, among whom Mr. ---- was one. They had placed themselves in the empty car at the bottom of the inclined plane, and were being slowly drawn up, as the car loaded with granite descended on the other track. Just as they were approaching the summit, the chain by which the car was drawn up gave way, and it rolled backwards down the plane with fearful velocity, and, starting off the track of the rail-road, pitched down into a ravine full of rocks and blocks of granite, over which the road passes like a bridge at the foot of the quarry. I believe one of them was killed, and the others most terribly injured. The rough blocks of granite are conveyed by horses, in the same rail-road cars, to smaller quarries below, where they are wrought and shaped for their appointed uses. After looking down from the summit of the granite rock upon the country which lay smiling for many a sunny mile of flowery earth and sparkling sea below, and wandering about the works, which are interesting and curious, we remounted, and rode home over turfy wood-paths, through tangled thickets of pine, fir, and cedar, whose warm fragrance was beginning to be drawn forth by the morning sun. We disturbed in our path a poor woodcock, who was sitting with her young: it was a pity to see the poor thing flutter about her treasure, and go trailing a little way into the brush-wood, to entice us away from them. Poor mother! what a tempest of fear and agony was in your downy breast. I was very sorry we had frightened her, poor creature. The country we rode through was extremely pretty,--so, indeed, I think all the country round Boston is; the only deficiency is water,--running water, I mean; for there are several beautiful pools in this vicinity,--and, turn which way you will, the silver shield of the sea shining against the horizon is a lovely feature of the landscape. But there are no rivulets, no brooks, no sparkling singing water-courses to refresh one's senses, as one rides across the fields and through the woodlands. ---- called on us on Sunday last. He is very enchanting: I wish it had been my good fortune to see him oftener. One of the _great men_ of this country, he would have been a first-rate man all the world over; and, like all first-rate people, there is a simplicity and a total want of pretension about him that is very delightful. He gave us a description of Niagara, which did what he complained no description of it ever does,--conveyed to us an exact idea of the natural position and circumstances which render these falls so wonderful; whereas, most describers launch forth into vague and untangible rhapsodies, which, after all, convey no express idea of any thing but water in the abstract, he gave me, by his few simple words, a more _real_ impression of the stupendous cataract than all that was ever writ or spoken of waterfalls before, not excepting Byron's Terni. Last Saturday, I dined at ----'s; where, for my greater happiness, I sat between ---- and ----. I remember especially two bright things uttered; the one by the one, the other by the other of these worthies. Mr. ----, speaking of Knowles's Hunchback, said, "Well, after all, it's no great matter. The author evidently understands stage effect and dramatic situations, and so on; but as for the writing, it's by no means as good as Shakspeare." I looked at the man in amazement, and suggested to him that Shakspeare did not grow upon every bush. Presently, Mr. ---- began a sentence by assuring me that he was a worshipper of Shakspeare; and ended it by saying that Othello was disgusting, King Lear ludicrous, and Romeo and Juliet childish nonsense: whereat I swallowed half a pint of water, and nearly my tumbler too, and remained silent; for what could I say? However, in spite of this, I owe ---- some gratitude, for he brought ---- to see me the other day, whose face is more like that of a good and intellectual man than almost any face I ever saw. The climate of this place is dreadful! The night before last, the weather was so warm, that, with my window open, I was obliged to take half the clothes off my bed: last night was so cold, that, with window shut, and additional covering, I could scarce get to sleep for the cold. This is terrible, and forms a serious drawback upon the various attractions of Boston; and to me it has many. The houses are like English houses: the Common is like Constitution Hill; Beacon Street is like a bit of Park Lane; and Summer Street, now that the chestnut trees are in bloom, is perfectly beautiful. But for the climate, I should like to live in Boston very much: my stay here has been delightful. It is in itself a lovely place, and the country round it is charming. The people are intellectual, and have been most abundantly good-natured and kind to me. * * * * * * * * * * I have finished ----'s sermons, which are most excellent. I think he is one of the purest English prose-writers now living. I revere him greatly; yet I do not think his denial of the Trinity is consistent with the argument by which he maintains the truth of the miracles. I have begun the Diary of an Ennuye again: that book is most enchanting to me,--merely to read the names of the places in which one's imagination goes sunning itself for ever, is delightful. _New York._ I have seen ----, who in his outward man bears but little token of his inward greatness. Miss ---- had prepared me for an exterior over which debility and sickness had triumphed now for some years; but, thought I, there must be eyes and a brow; and there the spirit will surely be seen upon its throne. But the eyes were small grey eyes, with an expression which struck me at first as more akin to shrewdness of judgment, than genius and the loftier qualities of the mind; and though the brow and forehead were those of an intellectual person, they had neither the expanse nor conformation I had imagined. The subject of our conversation, though sufficiently natural for him to choose, addressing one of my craft, did not appear to me to be a happy one for his own powers,--perhaps I thought so because I differed from him. He talked about the stage and acting in as unreal, and, in my opinion, mistaken, a manner as possible. Had he expressed himself unknowingly about acting, that would not have surprised me; for he can have no means of judging of it, not having frequented the theatre for some years past: and those who have the best means of forming critical judgments upon dramatic subjects for the most part talk arrant nonsense about them. Lawrence was the only man I ever heard speak about the stage who did so with understanding and accuracy. I have heard the very cleverest men in England talk the greatest stuff imaginable about actors and acting. But to return to ----: he said he had not thought much upon the subject, but that it appeared to him feasible and highly desirable to take detached passages and scenes from the finest dramatic writers, and have them well declaimed in comparatively private assemblies,--this as a wholesome substitute for the stage, of which he said he did not approve; and he thought this the best method of obtaining the intellectual pleasure and profit to be derived from fine dramatic works, without the illusion and excitement belonging to theatrical exhibitions. My horror was so unutterable at this proposition, and my amazement so extreme that he should make it, that I believe my replies to it were all but incoherent. What! take one of Shakspeare's plays bit by bit, break it piece-meal, in order to make recitals of it!--destroy the marvellous unity of one of his magnificent works, to make patches of declamation! If the stage is evil, put it away, and put away with it those writings which properly belong to it, and to nothing else; but do not take dramatic compositions, things full of present action and emotion, to turn them into recitations,--and mutilated ones too. Get other poems to declaim, no matter how vivid or impassioned in their descriptions, so their form be not dramatic. It is not to be supposed that the effect proper and natural to a fine dramatic conception can be preserved when the language is merely declaimed without the assistance of distance, dress, scenic effects,--all the appertainings that the author has reckoned upon to work out his idea. ---- mentioned the dagger soliloquy in Macbeth, as an instance which would admit of being executed after his idea; saying, that that, well read by any person in a drawing-room, would have all the effect necessary or desirable. I remember hearing my aunt Siddons read the scenes of the witches in Macbeth; and, while doing so, was obliged to cover my eyes, that her velvet gown, modern cap, and spectacles might not disturb the wild and sublime images that her magnificent voice and recitation were conjuring up around me. If a man professes to tell you a story, no matter what,--say the story of Romeo and Juliet,--and sits in a modern drawing-room, in modern costume, it matters not,--_he_ is no part of his story,--you do not connect him with his narrative,--his appearance in no way clashes with your train of thought,--you are not thinking of him, but of the people he is talking about. But if a man in a modern drawing-room, and in modern costume, were to get up, and begin reciting the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, I think the case would be altered. However, never having heard such a proposal before, I had not thought much about it, and only felt a little stunned at the idea of Shakspeare's _histories_ being broken into fragments. _Thursday._ At a little after ten, ---- came to take us to see the savages. We drove down, D----, my father, he, and I, to their hotel. We found, even at that early hour, the portico, passage, and staircase, thronged with gazers upon the same errand as ourselves. We made our way, at length, into the presence-chamber; a little narrow dark room, with all the windows shut, crowded with people, come to stare at their fellow wild beasts. Upon a sofa sat Black Hawk, a diminutive shrivelled-looking old man, with an appearance of much activity in his shrunk limbs, and a calmness and dignified self-composure in his manner, which, in spite of his want of size and comeliness, was very striking. Next to him sat a young man, the adopted son of his brother the prophet, whose height and breadth, and peculiar gravity of face and deportment, were those of a man nearly forty, whereas he is little more than half that age. The undisturbed seriousness of his countenance was explained to me by _their keeper_, thus: he had, it seems, the day before, indulged rather too freely in the delights of champagne, and was suffering just retribution in the shape of a headach,--unjust retribution, I should say, for in his savage experience no such sweet bright poison had ever before been recorded, _I guess_, by the after pain it causes. Next to him sat Black Hawk's son, a noble big young creature, like a fine Newfoundland puppy, with a handsome scornful face, which yet exhibited more familiarity and good-humoured amusement at what was going on than any of the rest. His hair was powdered on the top, and round the ears, with a bright vermilion-coloured powder, and knots of scarlet berries or beads, I don't know which, hung like ear-rings on each side of his face. A string of glass beads was tied round his naked throat; he was wrapped in a large blanket, which completely concealed his form, except his legs and feet, which were clothed in common leather shoes, and a species of deerskin gaiter. He seemed much alive to what was going on, conversed freely in his own language with his neighbour, and laughed once or twice aloud, which rather surprised me, as I had heard so much of their immovable gravity. The costume of the other young man was much the same, except that his hair was not adorned. Black Hawk himself had on a blue cloth surtout, scarlet leggings, a black silk neck-handkerchief, and ear-rings. His appearance altogether was not unlike that of an old French gentleman. Beside him, on a chair, sat one of his warriors, wrapped in a blanket, with a cotton handkerchief whisped round his head. At one of the windows apart from their companions, with less courtesy in their demeanour, and a great deal of sullen savageness in their serious aspects, sat the great warrior, and the prophet of the tribe--the latter is Black Hawk's brother. I cannot express the feeling of commiseration and disgust which the whole scene gave me. That men such as ourselves, creatures with like feelings, like perceptions, should be brought, as strange animals at a show, to be gazed at the livelong day by succeeding shoals of gaping folk, struck me as totally unfitting. The cold dignity of the old chief, and the malignant scowl of the prophet, expressed the indecency and the irksomeness of such a situation. Then, to look at those two young savages, with their fine muscular proportions, and think of them cooped up the whole horrible day long, in this hot prison-house full of people, made my heart ach. How they must loathe the sight of these narrow walls, and the sound of these strange voices; how they must sicken for their unmeasured range of wilderness! The gentleman who seemed to have the charge of them pressed me to go up and shake hands with them, as every body else in the room did; but I refused to do so from literal compassion, and unwillingness to add to the wearisome toil they were made to undergo. As we were departing, however, they reiterated their entreaties that we would go up and shake hands with them,--so I did. Black Hawk and the young men received our courtesy with great complaisance; but when we went to the great warrior and the prophet, they seemed exceedingly loath to receive our hands, the latter particularly, who had, moreover, one of the very worst expressions I think I ever saw upon a human countenance. I instinctively withdrew my hand; but when my father offered his, the savage's face relaxed into a smile, and he met his greeting readily. I wonder what pleased him about my father's appearance, whether it was his large size or not. I had a silver vinaigrette in my pouch, which I gave Black Hawk's son, by way of keepsake: it will make a charming present for his squaw. _Sunday, June 30th._ Rose at four, but, after looking at my watch, resumed my slumbers until six, when I started up, much dismayed to find it so late, and presently, having dressed as fast as ever I could, we set off for the steam-boat. The morning was the brightest possible, the glorious waters that meet before New York were all like rivers of light blazing with the reflected radiance of the morning sky. We had no sooner set foot on board the steam-boat, than a crowd of well-known faces surrounded us: I was introduced to Mr. ----, and Mr. ---- the brother of our host at Cold Spring. Mr. ---- came and stood by me for a considerable time after we started. It is agreeable to talk to him, because he has known and seen so much; traversed the world in every direction, and been the friend of Byron and Shelley; a common mind, that had enjoyed the same opportunities (that's impossible, by the by, no common mind would have sought or found them), must have acquired something from intercourse with such men, and such wide knowledge of things; but he is an uncommon man, and it is very interesting to hear him talk of what he has seen, and those he has known. * * * * * When we reached West Point, Mr. ---- was waiting with his boat to convey us over to Cold Spring; and accordingly, bidding our various acquaintance and companions farewell, we rowed over out of the course of the river, into a sunny bay it forms among the hills, to our kinsman's abode. Mr. ----'s place is a lovely little nook, situated on the summit of a rise on the brink of the placid curve of water formed here by the river, and which extends itself from the main current about a mile into the mountains, ending in a wide marsh. The house, though upon a hill, is so looked down upon, and locked in by the highlands around it, that it seems to be at the bottom of a valley. From the verandah of his house, through various frames which he has had cut, with exceeding good judgment, among the plantations around the lawn, exquisite glimpses appeared of the mountains, the little bay, the glorious Hudson itself, with the graceful boats for ever walking its broad waters, their white sails coming through the rocky passes where the river could not be detected, as though they were sailing through the valleys of the earth. The day was warm, but a fresh breeze stirred the boughs, and cooled the air. My father and D---- seemed overcome with drowsiness, and lay in the verandah with half-closed eyes, peeping at the dream-like scene around them. I was not inclined to rest; and Mr. ---- having promised to show me some falls at a short distance from the house, he, his brother, and I set forth thither. We passed through the iron-works: 'twas Sunday, and every thing, except a bright water-course, laughing and singing as it ran, was still. They took me over the works; showed me the iron frames of large mill-wheels, the machinery and process of boring the cannon, the model of an iron forcing-pump, the casting-houses, and all the wonders of their manufactory. All mechanical science is very interesting to me, when I have an opportunity of seeing the detail of it, and comprehending, by illustrations presented to my eyes, the technical terms used by those conversing with me. We left these dark abodes, and their smouldering fires, and strange powerful-looking instruments, and, taking a path at the foot of the mountains, skirted the marsh for some time, and then struck into the woods, ascending a tremendous stony path, at the top of which we threw ourselves down to pant, and looked below, through a narrow rent in the curtain of leaves around us, on the river, and rocks, and mountains, bright with the noonday splendour of the unclouded sky. After resting here a few moments, we arose, and climbed again, through the woods, across a sweet clover-field, to the brow of the hill where stands the highland school, a cheerful-looking cottage, with the mountain tops all round, the blessed sky above, and the downward sloping woods, and lake-like river below. Passing through the ground surrounding it, we joined a road skirting a deep ravine, from the bottom of which the waters called to me. I was wild to go down, but my companions would not let me: it was in vain that I strained over the brink, the trees were so thickly woven together, and the hollow so deep, that I could see nothing but dark boughs, except every now and then, as the wind stirred them, the white glimmer of the leaping foam, as it sprang away with a shout that made my heart dance. We followed the path, which began to decline; and presently a silver thread of gushing water ran like a frightened child across our way, and flung itself down into the glen. At length we reached the brown golden-looking stream. Mr. ---- was exhorting us to take an upper path, which, he said, would bring us to the foot of the fall; but I was not to be seduced away from the side of the rivulet, and insisted upon crossing it then and there, through the water, over moss-capped stones, across fallen trees, which, struck by the lightning, or undermined by the cold-kissing waters, had choked up the brook with their leafy bridges. So striving on, as best we might, after wading through the stream two or three times, we reached the end and aim of our journey, the waterfall. We stood on the brink of a pool, about forty feet across, and varying in depth from three to seven or eight feet: it was perfectly circular, and except on the south, where the waters take their path down the glen, closed round with a wall of rock about thirty feet high, in whose crevices trees with their rifted roots hung fearlessly, clothing the grey stone with a soft curtain of vivid green. Immediately opposite the brook, and at the north of the pool, the water came tumbling over this rocky wall in three distinct streams, which, striking the projecting ledges of iron-looking stone, at different angles, met within eight or ten feet of the pool, and fell in a mingled sheet of foam. The water broke over the rocks like a shower of splintered light; the spray sprang up in the sunlight, and fell again all glittering into the dark basin below, that gleamed like a magic jewel set in the mossy earth. On the edge of the rocks, beside the waterfall, a tree stood out among its greenly-mantled fellows, bare, broken, and scathed to the very roots with lightning. Its upper half had fallen aslant one branch of the waterfall, and lay black and dripping over the pure white torrent; half falling down its course, half stayed by some rocky ledges on which it rested. As I gazed up in perfect ecstasy, an uncontrollable desire seized me to clamber up the rocks by the side of the fall, and so reach the top of it. My companions laughed incredulously as I expressed my determination to do so; but followed where I led, until they became well assured that I was in earnest. Remonstrance, and representation of impossibility, having been tried in vain, Mr. ---- prepared to guide me, and Mr. ---- with my bag, parasol, and bonnet in charge, returned to the edge of the pool to watch our progress. Away we went over the ledges of the rocks, with nothing but damp leaves, and slippery roots of trees, for footing. At one moment, the slight covering of mould on which I had placed my foot crumbled from beneath it, and I swung over the water by a young sapling which upheld me well, and by which I recovered footing and balance. We had now reached the immediate side of the waterfall, and my guide began ascending the slippery slanting rocks down which it fell. I followed: in an instant I was soaked through with the spray, my feet slipped, I had no hold, he was up above me, the pool far below. With my head bowed against the foam and water, I was feeling where next to tread, when a bit of rock, that my companion had thought firm, broke beneath his foot, and came falling down beside me into the stream. I paused, for I was frightened: I looked up for a moment, but was blinded by the water, and could not see where my guide was; I looked down the slanting ledge we had climbed, over which the white water was churning angrily: "Shall I come down again?" I cried to Mr. ----, who was anxiously looking up at our perilous path. "Give me your hand," shouted his brother, above me. I lifted my head, and turned towards him, and a dazzling curtain of spray and foam fell over my face. "I cannot see you," I replied; "I cannot go on; I do not know what to do." "Give me your hand!" he exclaimed again; and I, planting one foot upon a ledge of rock so high as to lift me off the other, held up my arm to him: but my limbs were so strained from his height above me, that I had no power to spring or move, either up or down. However, I felt my presence of mind going: I knew that to go down was impossible, except headlong; the ascent must therefore be persevered in. "Are you steady, quite, quite steady?" I enquired; he replied, "Yes;" and holding out his hand, I locked mine in it, and bade him draw me up. But he had not calculated upon my weight; my slight appearance had deceived him; and as I bore upon his arm, we both of us slipped. I turned as sick as death; but only cried out, "Recover yourself, recover yourself, I am safe;" which I was, upon a rocky rim about three inches wide, with my arm resting on the falling stump of the blasted tree. He did recover his balance; and, again holding out his hand, drew me up beside where he was sitting, on the edge of the rocks, in the water. We pledged each other in the clear stream; and, standing on the top of our hardly-gained eminence, in the midst of the rushing brook I wrang my handkerchief triumphantly at Mr. ----; which was rather a comical consideration, as I was literally dripping from head to foot. No Naad ever looked so thoroughly watery, or could have taken more delight in a ducking. As soon as he saw us safe, he scrambled up through the woods to the road; and we doing the same, we presently all met on the dusty highway, where we congratulated each other on our perseverance and success, and laughed very exceedingly at my soaked situation. We determined not to pass through the highland school-ground, but kept the main road for the advantage of sun and wind, the combined influences of which presently dried my frock and handkerchief. When I reached home, ran up stairs, and dressed myself for dinner, which we sat down to at about four. After dinner, came up to my room and slept very profoundly, until summoned to coffee, which we drank in the verandah. At about eight o'clock, the sun had left the sky; but his warm mantle lay over the western clouds, and hung upon the rocks and woody mountain sides. A gentle breeze was stirring the trees round where we sat; and through the thick branches of a chestnut tree, as they waved to and fro, the silver disk of the full moon looked placidly down upon us. We set out strolling through the woods: leisurely as foot could fall, we took our way through the twilight paths; and when we reached the Roman Catholic chapel our host is building by the river side, the silent thoughtful mountains were wrapped in deep shadows, and the broad waters shone like a sheet of silver in the moonlight. We sat down on the cannon lying on the pebbly shore, and Mr. ---- ran off to order the boat, which presently came stealing round over the shining waters. We got in, ---- rowing, and they put me at the helm: but, owing to Mr. ----'s misdirections, who seemed extremely amused at my awkwardness, and took delight in bothering poor ----, by making me steer all awry, we made but little progress, and that rather crab-wise; backing, and sideling, and turning, as though the poor boat had been a politician. * * * * * Full of my own contemplations, I kept steering round and round, and so we wandered, as purposeless as the night air over the smooth waters, and beneath the shadows of the solemn hills, till near eleven o'clock, when we made for shore, and slowly turned home. We sat for a length of time under the verandah: the gentlemen were discussing the planetary system, as accepted in the civilised world; and Mr. ---- maintained, with sufficient plausibility, that we knew nothing at all about it, in spite of Newton: for that, though his theories were borne out by all observation, it did not follow, therefore, that another theory equally probable might not exist; that because he had found out one way of accounting for the construction and motion of the heavenly bodies, there was no other possible way in which they were constructed and impelled; because one means is sufficient, he argued, it does not thence follow, that 'tis the only sufficient means. Mr. ---- maintained that there was, at least, strong presumption in favour of Newton's systems; because they are borne out by our observation of results, and also because hitherto no other better method of accounting for what we perceive has been discovered. And so they went on, the end of all being, to my mind, as usual, utter unsatisfactoriness; and, as the mosquitoes were stinging me, I left them to their discussions, and came to bed. _Monday, July 1st._ Major ---- and Mr. ---- came over from West Point: they were going to prove some cannon that had not yet been fired; and some time passed in the various preparations for so doing. At length, we were summoned down to the water-side, to see the success of the experiment. The cannon lay obliquely one behind the other, at intervals of about six yards, along the curve line of the little bay; their muzzles pointed to the high gravelly bank into which they fired. The guns were double-loaded, with very heavy charges; and as soon as we were safely placed, so as to see and hear, they were fired. The sound was glorious: the first heavy peal, and then echo after echo, as they _rimbombavano_ among the answering hills, who growled aloud at the stern voice waking their still and noonday's deep repose. I pushed out in the boat, from shore, to see the thick curtain of smoke as it rolled its silver, and brassy, and black volumes over the woody mountain-sides; parting in jagged rents as it rose; through which the vivid green, and blessed sky, smiled in their peaceful loneliness. They ended in discharging all the cannon at once; which made a most glorious row, and kept the mountains grumbling with its echoes for some minutes after the discharge. All the pieces were sound; which was highly satisfactory, as upon each one that flaws in the firing Mr. ---- loses the cost of the piece. Just as the smoke cleared off from the river, we saw the boat making to shore; and, presently, Mr. ----, his wife and children, and a young Mr. ----, landed. After introductions, and one or two questions, Mrs. ---- went up to her cottage to put things in order there; Mr. ---- betook himself to Froissart and the shade; Mr. ---- to his business; and D----, my father, Mr. ---- and myself, set forth to the fountain in the glen. The weather was intensely hot; the thermometer above ninety in the shade; it was about half-past twelve; and we toiled and gasped on like so many Indians up the steep path. The walk had been so laborious, that neither D---- nor my father were willing, at first, to admit that the object was a sufficient one. We sat for some time by the dark shady pool; and they, by degrees, recovered their breath and complacency, and began to perceive how beautiful the place really was. My father said the waterfall looked like a fine lace veil torn by the rocks; which pleased me, because it did look like that. Mr. ---- proposed an admirable plan, that of walking down the water's side, and taking a boat upon the Hudson; and so avoiding the long hot walk home. We called at the highland school; where the worthy man who keeps it received us with infinite civility, put us into a delicious cool room, and gave us some white hermitage and water to drink, which did us all manner of good. We then descended to the river: after some delay and difficulty, got a boat and rowed home. Here be the free gifts of the morning for thee; Dog-roses, with their thorns all strung with pearls, And a large round diamond in each rosy cup: Their leaves are the colour of Aurora's cheeks. Here is a pale white flower, without a name, At least to me, who am a stranger here: It has a delicate almond smell, and grew Among thick boughs, and leaves that guarded it. Poor thing! I took it from its shelter for thee. Here be some lilac heads of clover, sweet As the breath of love: they lay amongst the hay In a new-mown meadow, glittering in the sun. Here are the leaves of the wild vine, that shine Like glass without, and underneath are white And soft as a swan's breast. There is an oak branch; I gather'd it, because it grows at home, And in this strange land look'd as sad and loving As a friend's face: when it is wither'd, keep it. They are all heavy with the tears of the night, Who weeps, because she may not meet the sun; And when he comes down from the mountain tops, Parting the forests with his hands of fire, He drinks her weeping, kissing all the flowers With passionate love, which makes them look so blushing. _Tuesday, 2d._ Packed up my bag, took a cup of tea, went and gathered some flowers, and gave the poor lamb some heads of clover; bade a very unwilling farewell to the pretty place, and rowed over to West Point, where Mr. ---- was waiting for us. We breakfasted at ten, and went down to meet the boat. Young Mr. ---- came over to see us off, and brought me some lovely fresh flowers. Mr. ---- and Mr. ---- were both at the embarking-post. When the boat came up, the rush to and from it was, without exception, the most frightful thing I ever saw. The ----s were landing; and I just spoke to her, as she was borne past by the throng. Safely on board, I again found myself surrounded by familiar faces: I took out my work, and Mr. ---- sat down by us. As a nuisance, which all unsought-for companionship is, he is quite the most endurable possible; for he has seen such things, and known such people, that it is greatly worth while to listen to him. Every thing he says of Byron and Shelley confirms my own impression of them. The scenery of the Hudson, immediately beyond West Point, loses much of its sublimity, though no beauty. The river widens, and the rugged summits of the highlands melt gradually into a softer and more undulating outline. The richness, and swelling, and falling of the land reminded me occasionally of England. The yellow grain was giving diversity and warmth to the green landscape; and the shadowy woods fencing the corn-fields threw over the whole picture a sheltering peaceful charm. On the left, we presently began to see the blue outline of the Catskill mountains, towering into the hot sky, and looking most blessedly cool and dark amid the fervid glowing of the noonday world. Mrs. ---- came on board at one of the stopping places. I was quite glad to see her sweet face, and hear her gentle voice again. Mr. ---- was greatly smitten with her calm look of repose, and lulling speech, and took to her vehemently. She told me long stories, like fairy tales, of caverns lately discovered in the bosom of these mountains; of pits black and fathomless; of subterranean lakes in gloomy chambers of the earth; and tumbling waters, which fall down in the dark, where men heard, but none had dared to go. How I should like to go there! Oh, who will lead me into the secret parts of the earth; who will guide me to the deep hiding-places where spirits are--where the air of this upper world is not breathed, and its sounds are unknown--where the light of the sun is unseen, and the voice of human creatures unheard? At about half-past three in the afternoon, the sky became suddenly and thickly overcast: the awning which sheltered the upper deck was withdrawn, and every preparation made for a storm. The pale angry-looking clouds lay heaped like chalk upon a leaden sky; and presently one red lightning dipped down into the woods like a fiery snake falling from the heavens. At the same time, a furious gust of wind and torrent of rain rushed down the mountain side. We scuttled down to the lower deck as fast as ever we could; but the storm met us at the bottom of the stairs, and in an instant I was drenched. Chairs, tables, every thing was overturned by the gust; and the boat was running with water in every direction. It thundered and lightened a little; but the noise of the engine was such, that we scarce heard the storm. I stood by the door of the furnace, and dried leisurely, talking the while to Mr. ----, who is sun-burnt enough to warm one through with a look. During our progress, one of the wheels (or paddles, as they are properly called) took it into its head to knock its case to pieces, and banged the boards about in a strange way. Accident the second:--one of the men, a black, who was employed in tending the fire, got so dreadfully heated with the intense furnace, that he rushed out of the engine-room, and swallowed two or three draughts of cold water. The effect was instantaneous: he fell down in violent internal spasms, and died, poor wretch! before we arrived at Albany. We reached that town at about half-past five in the afternoon, and went to a house the ----s recommended to us. At about seven, they gave us dinner; and immediately after I came up to my own room. I was so exhausted with fatigue, and a violent cold and cough, that I literally fell down on the floor, and slept till dark. As we came up the river, we passed Dr. ----'s place, Hyde Park, which has the reputation of being the best-kept private estate in America: the situation of the house, on the edge of a ridge, appeared to me, from the river, rather too much exposed. _Saturday, 6th._ My father had settled to go to the Cohoes Falls. * * * * * * * * * * When we were in the steam-boat, going up to Troy, ---- put a letter into my hands, which he told me was written by the mother of Allegra, Byron's child. The letter was remarkable only for more straightforwardness and conciseness than is usual in women's letters. I do not know whether ---- gave it me to read on that account alone, or because it contained allusions to wild and interesting adventures of his own: perhaps there was a mingling of motives. There never was, by the by, a _homogeneous_ motive, as Brewster would say, in the human breast. We reached Troy in about twenty minutes, and walked up into the town to procure some species of vehicle for our progress to the falls. There was none ready; and while one was being procured, a man, who was standing near us, very civilly invited us to come into his shop and sit down, which we did very readily. The situation of the warehouses, on the side near the river, of the main street of Troy, is exceedingly pretty. They are, for the most part, large long rooms, opening to the street at the one end, and on the other looking down, from a considerable height, upon the Hudson. The shop we were in was a china-store; and the nice cold crockery-ware made one cool to look at it: the weather was roasting. Mr. ---- left us to gather information, and kindly brought me back word that the population of Troy was five hundred, _or_ five thousand, I really forget which; and, for my journal, it don't much matter; and that the storekeeper assured him the Trojans were an exceedingly refined and literary set of folks; and that the society, in point of these two advantages, was no whit behind Boston: there's for Boston!--We obtained a coach, and crossed a ferry, such as I had never seen before, worked by horses. Poor wretches! they reminded me of ----'s steeds, Martyre et Souffrance. Mr. ---- observed that they led the life of the majority; and so they do,--labour and suffering that custom renders endurable, and that ends by grinding down every faculty of mind or soul: we're a blessed pack of drudges, and deserve to be just what we are. After crossing the ferry, we drove about five miles through some gentle smiling lands, that made one feel very charitable. The Cohoes is, I believe, a Dutch name for a hill just above a turn in the Mohawk, where, after some shallow, rapid, hasty running over a rocky bed, the river flings itself down over a broad barrier, between thirty and forty feet high, with the most delightful gushing sound in the world. The foam looked very nice, and soft, and thick, and cold: I longed to be in the middle of it. * * * * * * * * * * After wandering about for some time, we sat ourselves down on a high grassy knoll just above the falls. * * * * * We returned in time, as we flattered ourselves, to meet the steam-boat which leaves Troy for Albany at four; but, just as we were crossing the ferry, the steamer ran past us, leaving us, with eyes and mouths wide open, very much bothered as to how we were to get down to Albany. D---- proposed a row-boat, and the sense of the company seemed to agree thereto; but, upon driving to the inn where we hired our carriage, and enquiring for such a conveyance, we were assured that there was no such thing to be had: whereupon my father, good easy man! believed there was not, and got into the coach again. Mr. ----, however, had absconded, and remained gone so long, that I began to think he had, perhaps, started to swim down the river; when he presently appeared, informing us that he had gotten a boat for us. We jumped readily out of the coach; and, though my father had actually made a bargain for the hire of it, to convey us to Albany, with the innkeeper, and, moreover, given him the money, the righteous man refunded the dollars; which, Falstaff knows, is a displeasing thing to do: "I hate that paying back!" Our row back was delightful: the evening was calm and lovely beyond description; the sun had lost his fierceness, and the warm air clasped the fresh woods tenderly; the waters were unbroken as a mirror; the very spirit of love and peace possessed the world: the effect of all which was to send me into a very sound sleep. * * * * * * * * * * We reached Albany in very good time for dinner. Mr. ---- dined with us: what a savage he is, in some respects! He's a curious being: a description of him would puzzle any one who had never seen him. A man with the proportions of a giant for strength and agility; taller, straighter, and broader than most men; yet with the most listless indolent carelessness of gait, and an uncertain wandering way of dropping his feet to the ground, as if he didn't know where he was going, and didn't much wish to go any where. His face is as dark as a Moor's; with a wild strange look about the eyes and forehead, and a mark like a scar upon his cheek: his whole appearance giving one an idea of toil, hardship, peril, and wild adventure. The expression of his mouth is remarkably mild and sweet, and his voice is extremely low and gentle. His hands are as brown as a labourer's: he never profanes them with gloves, but wears two strange magical-looking rings: one of them, which he showed me, is made of elephant's hair. * * * * * * * * * * Occasionally, in his horror of one class of prejudices, he embraces the opposite ones: perhaps the extreme of any evil, in this world of imperfect means, can only be effectually resisted by its reverse extreme. _Monday, 8th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal: Mr. ---- came with us. The actors were one and all reading their parts: the lady who played Charlotte was the only exception--she was perfect. As I sat on the stage, between my scenes, a fat, good-tempered, rosy, bead-eyed, wet-haired, shining-faced looking man accosted me; and, having ascertained that I was myself, proceeded to accuse me of having, in Mrs. Haller, pronounced the word "industry" with the accent on the middle syllable, as "in_dus_try;" adding, that he had already quoted my authority to several people for the emphasis, and begging to know my "exquisite reason" therefor. It was in vain that I urged that it must have been a mistake if I said so; that I never meant to say so, if I did say so; that if I did say so, I was very wrong to say so; that I was very sorry for having said so; that I never would say so again. Between each of my humblest apologies my accuser merely replied, "But you _did_ say in_dus_try," with an inflexible pertinacity of condemnation, which was not a whit softened by my sincere confessions. Presently the worthy creature, adverting to the letter in the Mirror about General Jackson, begged that as I had passed the fourth of July, that glorious anniversary, in Albany, I would illustrate its celebration by some remarks in the style of that admirable composition. Great was the fat man's surprise, and evident his contempt for me, when I disclaimed the authorship of that document. Greater still waxed both, when I assured him that on the fourth of July I positively walked out of the town, to avoid the noise in it. After this, he remained gazing at me in silent amazement; and, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from it to move, he took up his hat, and briefly wished me "good morning." Mr. ---- told me the man was a newspaper-editor; but I think he looked too fat, and fresh, and good-tempered for that. When we returned home, sat down to write journal. * * * * * * * * * * The play was the Gamester: the house was very full. Mr. ---- did not know one syllable of his part, and bothered me utterly. At the end of the play, they called for my father, and civilly desired we would act the Hunchback; as, however, we had not the dresses for it with us, he declined, but promised we would return hereafter. * * * * * * * * * * _Tuesday, 9th._ After breakfast, the day being extremely fine, Mr. ---- urged us to go out, and take a walk; so forth we set, my father and I leading the way, and D---- and Mr. ---- following. * * * * * * * * * * We crossed the river, and, following the first road like a flock of geese errant, arrived at the top of a delightful breezy knoll, opposite a tiny waterfall, the rocks and basin of which were picturesque; but the water had been turned off to turn a mill. The hill where we stood commanded a beautiful view of the Hudson, Albany, and the shores stretching away into sunny indistinctness. My father, and D----, and Mr. ----, sat down under some oak trees: I ran off to explore the stream. * * * * * * * * * * After looking about in every direction, I returned to my friends: we strolled away through the woods and along the high road, with the sweet smell of mellow hay keeping us company the while. We halted at an orchard corner, near a pleasant-looking farm, where we all agreed we should like to live. * * * * * * * * * * Mr. ---- killed us with laughing with an account he gave us of some of Byron's sayings and doings, which were just as whimsical and eccentric as unamiable, but very funny. To-morrow we start for Utica: Mr. ---- comes with us: I am glad of it--I like him. _Wednesday, 10th._ Just as we were getting into the railroad coach for Schenectady, a parcel was put into my hand: it was a letter from ----, and Pellico's "Mie Prigioni:" I was glad of it. At Schenectady we dined. By the by, I must not forget to mention the civility we met with from the people who kept the house. There have been so many instances given of the discomfort and discourteousness which travellers encounter in America, that it is but justice to record the reverse when one meets with it. For my own part, with very few exceptions, I have hitherto met with nothing but civility and attention of every description. We have almost always commanded private sitting, and single sleeping, rooms; have had our meals served in tolerable comfort and decency; and even on board the steam-boats, where every thing is done by shoal, I have found that, in spite of being an inveterate dawdle, and never ready at any of the bell-ringings, I have always had a place reserved for me, and enough to eat without fighting for it. But to return to our Schenectady hosts. The house was very full; and, while waiting for the canal boat, to avoid the gaping crowds with which all the rooms were filled, D---- and I walked out into the verandah, when a pretty lassie, the daughter, I conclude, of the house, invited us into a very nice private parlour, belonging to the family, where I found a fine piano, books, music, and all civilisation as well as civility. We proceeded by canal to Utica, which distance we performed in a day and a night, starting at two from Schenectady, and reaching Utica the next day at about noon. I like travelling by the canal boats very much. Ours was not crowded; and the country through which we passed being delightful, the placid moderate gliding through it, at about four miles and a half an hour, seemed to me infinitely preferable to the noise of wheels, the rumble of a coach, and the jerking of bad roads, for the gain of a mile an hour. The only nuisances are the bridges over the canal, which are so very low, that one is obliged to prostrate one's self on the deck of the boat, to avoid being scraped off it; and this humiliation occurs, upon an average, once every quarter of an hour. Mr. ---- read Don Quixote to us: he reads very peculiarly; slowly, and with very marked emphasis. He has a strong feeling of humour, as well as of poetry: in fact, they belong to each other; for humour is but fancy laughing, and poetry but fancy sad. The valley of the Mohawk, through which we crept the whole sunshining day, is beautiful from beginning to end; fertile, soft, rich, and occasionally approaching sublimity and grandeur in its rocks and hanging woods. We had a lovely day, and a soft blessed sunset, which, just as we came to a point where the canal crosses the river, and where the curved and wooded shores on either side recede, leaving a broad smooth basin, threw one of the most exquisite effects of light and colour I ever remember to have seen over the water and through the sky. The sun had scarce been down ten minutes from the horizon, when the deck was perfectly wet with the heaviest dew possible, which drove us down to the cabin. Here I fell fast asleep, till awakened by the cabin girl's putting her arms affectionately round me, and telling me that I might come and have the first choice of a berth for the night, in the horrible hen-coop allotted to the female passengers. I was too sleepy to acknowledge or avail myself of the courtesy; but the girl's manner was singularly gentle and kind. We sat in the men's cabin until they began making preparations for bed, and then withdrew into a room about twelve feet square, where a whole tribe of women were getting to their beds. Some half undressed, some brushing, some curling, some washing, some already asleep in their narrow cribs, but all within a quarter of an inch of each other: it made one shudder. As I stood cowering in a corner, half asleep, half crying, the cabin girl came to me again, and entreated me to let her make a bed for me. However, upon my refusing to undress before so much good company, or lie down in such narrow neighbourhood, she put D---- and myself in a small closet, where were four empty berths, where I presently fell fast asleep, where she established herself for the night, and where D----, wrapped up in a shawl, sat till morning under the half-open hatchway, breathing damp starlight. _Thursday, 11th._ D----'s exclamations woke me in the morning: the day was breaking brightly, and the dewy earth was beginning to smile in the red dawn, when we approached Little Falls, a place where the placid gentle character of the Mohawk becomes wild and romantic, and beautifully picturesque. The canal is for some space cut through the solid rock, and the banks, high and bold, were crowned with tangled woods, and gemmed with wild flowers, and the delicate vivid tufts of fern. It was exceedingly beautiful; and though I believe I missed some part of the scenery immediately surrounding Little Falls, the approach to it, which is of the same nature, enchanted me extremely. When we arrived at Utica, I gave the nice cabin-girl my silver needle-case: her tenderness and care of me the night before made it impossible for me to offer her money. She took my gift, and, throwing her arms round my neck, kissed me very fervently for it. I was struck with her manner, which had appeared to me, in discharge of her common duties, reserved, and rather dignified. This exhibition of feeling surprised me therefore; and together with her dark eyes, hair, and complexion, made me think she must have foreign blood in her veins. I asked her, but she said no: American by birth, English by descent: certainly she had neither the face nor bearing of the one or the other. She was a very singular and striking looking person. As for Mr. ----, he fell in love with her forthwith, and, I think, had half a mind to settle on the Mohawk, and make her his fellow farmer. At Utica we dined; and after dinner I slept profoundly. The gentlemen, I believe, went out to view the town, which twenty years ago _was not_, and now is a flourishing place, with fine-looking shops, two or three hotels, good broad streets, and a body of lawyers, who had a supper at the house where we were staying, and kept the night awake with champagne, shouting, toasts, and clapping of hands: so much for the strides of civilisation through the savage lands of this new world. The house was full, and we could not get a room to ourselves; so we sat in a corner of the large dining-room. Passed the evening in writing journal. Mr. ---- showed me his of Sunday last. _Friday, 12th._ We all breakfasted early together, and immediately after breakfast got into an open carriage and set off for Trenton. D---- and my father sat beside each other, and I opposite them; Mr. ---- on the box; and so we progressed. The day was bright and breezy: the country was all smiling round us in rich beauty; the ripening sheets of waving grain; the sloping fields, with here and there the grey tomb-stone of a forest tree; the vivid thickets bounding the pale harvest plots; the silvery-looking fences, with their irregular lines relieved against the dark woods; the clear sky above; all was lovely. About seven miles from Utica, we stopped to water the horses at a lonely road-side house: we alighted, and without ceremony strolled into the garden,--a mere wilderness of overgrown sweet briar, faint breathing dog-roses, and flaunting red poppies, overshadowed by some orchard trees, from which we stole sundry half-ripe cherries. The place was desolate, I believe; yet we lingered in it, and did not think it so. We got into the carriage again: the remaining eight miles of our journey were as beautiful and as bad as the preceding ones had been. I thought of our dark drive back through these miry and uneven ways. At last we reached the house at which visiters to the Falls put up; a large comfortable dwelling enough, kept by a couple of nice young people, who live in this solitude all the year round, and maintain themselves and a beautiful big baby by the profits they derive from the pilgrims to Trenton. We ordered dinner, and set forth to the Falls, with our host for guide. We crossed a small wood immediately adjoining the house, and, descending several flights of steps connected by paths in the rocky bank, we presently stood on the brink of the channel, where the water was boiling along, deep, and black, and passing away like time. We followed along the rocky edge: the path is not more than a foot wide, and is worn into all manner of unevenness and cavities, and slippery with the eternal falling of the spray. ---- walked before me: we dared not turn our heads, for fear of tumbling into the black whirlpool below. We walked on steadily, warning each other at every step, and presently we arrived at the first fall, where the rest of our party were halting. I can't describe it: I don't know either its height or width; I only know it was extremely beautiful, and came pouring down like a great rolling heap of amber. The rocks around are high to the heavens, scooped, and singularly regular; and the sides of the torrent are every now and then paved with large smooth layers of rock, as even and regular in their proportions as if the fairies had done the work. After standing before the tumbling mass of water for a length of time, we climbed to the brink above, and went on. Mr. ---- flung himself down under a roof of rock by the waterfall. My father, D----, and the guide, went on out of sight, and ---- and I loitered by the rapid waters, flinging light branches and flowers upon the blood-coloured torrent, that whirled, and dragged, and tossed them down to the plunge beneath. When we came to the beautiful circular fall, we crept down to a narrow ridge, and sat with our feet hanging over the black caldron, just opposite a vivid rainbow that was clasping the waterfall. We sat here till I began to grow dizzy with the sound and motion of the churning darkness beneath us, and begged to move, which we did very cautiously. I was in an agony lest we should slip from the narrow dripping ledges along which we crawled. We wandered on, and stopped again at another fall, upon a rocky shelf overhanging the torrent, beside the blasted and prostrate trunk of a large tree. I was tired with walking, and ---- was lifting me up to seat me on the fallen tree, when we saw Mr. ---- coming slowly towards us. He stopped and spoke to us, and presently passed on; we remained behind, talking, and dipping our hands into the fresh water. At length we rejoined the whole party, sitting by a narrow channel, where the water looked like ink. Beyond this our guide said it was impossible to go: I was for ascertaining this by myself, but my father forbade me to attempt the passage further. I was thirsty; and the guide having given me a beautiful strawberry and a pale blue-bell, that he had found, like a couple of jewels in some dark crevice of the rocks, I devoured the one, and then going down to the black water's edge, we dipped the fairy cup in, and drank the cold clear water, with which abundant draught I relieved my father's thirst also. Around the place where we were resting, the rocks rose like circular walls up to the very sky. From their overhanging edges, tiny threads of water fell upon the rocky pavement beneath, with a silver glancing, and a clear plashing tone, that sounded even amid the hoarse talking of the dark waters below. In some mould among these cliffs, at their very highest edge, a tree had struck its roots, and, growing upside down, stretched its drooping green arms to the hurrying stream below, that would not tarry. We had walked, I suppose, a mile and a half along the water's side, and in this distance its course is broken by six beautiful cataracts. The variety of the colour of the water, occasioned by the various depths of its channel, and the different tints of the rocks over which it flows, is singular. Where the river expands, its rapid broken waves were of the darkest red-brown, like coffee; or rather, indeed, redder than that, like a deep blood colour: reaching the walls of rock, over which they fall into a lower bed, they became pouring masses of amber and diamonds, or soft thick heaps of whitest foam; and then again, in the deep narrow channels which received their headlong leaping, all was black as blackest night, and the waters were sucked away under the hollow rocks in inky eddies, that made me think of drowning with double horror. The several falls are very various in their height and forms, but they are all beautiful, most beautiful; not a place to visit for a day, but to live the summer away in. * * * * * When we were all rested, we rose to retrace our steps: our guide was a man of some cultivation, and of much natural refinement, with a strong feeling of the exquisite beauty of the scenes in which he was living. These falls are upon his own land, belong to him, and he pointed out to us a spot beside the torrent where, he said, he had read all Byron's works: this pleased me. Returning, I thought the path even more difficult than it was before: there is a chain fastened along the rock where it narrows, for the security of persons walking: this has been put up since the lamentable loss of a young girl, who, following her party along this slippery path, missed her footing, and was swept into a foaming whirlpool, whence nothing could ever emerge. Our guide told us of another terrible accident, which happened not long before we were there. A young lady and her lover were going along the water side, and, in order to retain hold of her hand, he walked upon a narrow ridge, where he could hardly balance himself: the girl said, "Oh, if you walk there, I shall let you go:" she did so, and in the same instant he slipped from the rock and was dragged away to that dark death. The chain upon the rock was about as high as my shoulder; but when the river is swollen, it constantly rises above the chain: at which time, it is scarce possible to go any distance along its banks. This had been the case a short time before we were there. We returned to the house, and dined. After dinner, had a gossip with Mrs. ----, and a romp with her beautiful baby. I strolled into the garden: it was in disorder, and looked like a wilderness; but I saw some roses drooping their full bosoms to the earth, and I went to fetch them. Our host came with me: he said he had but little leisure to cultivate his garden, and could not well afford to have it kept in better order; that it supplied them with nearly all they required; and that, with his other occupations, he had hardly time to make it more than useful. I questioned him about the number of visiters who came to the falls. He said in summer there was a constant succession of them; but that in winter no one came there. Upon my expressing some surprise that people did not come, and remain for some weeks at least, in so beautiful a place, he told me that the generality of visiters were quite satisfied with an hour's stroll by the water; and that some had arrived at his door, alighted from their carriage, dined, sauntered round the house, and, _without even going down to the river_, returned to Utica quite satisfied with having been at Trenton. I was amazed. But the utter insensibility of the generality of Americans to the beauty and sublimity of nature is nothing short of amazing; and in this respect they literally appear to me to want a sense. I have been filled with astonishment and perplexity at the total indifference with which they behold scenes of grandeur and loveliness, that any creature, with half a soul, would gaze at with feelings almost of adoration. But in these glorious tabernacles of nature, where God's majesty seems, as it were, visibly resting on his works, I have seen Americans come and stare, and stand for a moment, and depart again, apparently impressed with nothing but the singularity of the man or woman who could remain there longer than they did. What can be the cause of this?--Is it possible that a perception of the beautiful in nature is a result of artificial cultivation?--is it that the grovelling narrowness of the usual occupations to which the majority addict themselves has driven out of them the fine spirit, which is God's altar in men's souls?--is it that they become incapable of beauty? Wretched people! They remind me, by contrast, as I see them toiling along the crowded streets of their cities, those dens of Mammon, of Wordsworth's noble description of him "Who walk'd in glory and in joy, Behind his plough, upon the mountain side." * * * * * * * * * * At about sunset, I wandered into the wood, to the top of the steps leading to the waterfall; where I could hear, far below, its sweet voice singing as it passed away. I remained standing here till the carriage was announced. Just before we went away, our host gave me a small piece of crystal. It is found among the rocks here, which, I believe, present many curious geological phenomena, which I leave to the learned to describe. The strata are the most beautifully regular possible; and, upon their broad smooth surfaces, a thousand theories sit; which I hope I did not disturb, as I walked over them in the plenitude of my ignorance, admiring God's masonry. Oh, fair world!--oh, strange, and beautiful, and holy places--where one's soul meets one in silence--and where one's thoughts arise, with the everlasting incense of the waters, from the earth, which is _His_ footstool, to the heavens, which are _His_ throne. It grew dark long before we reached Utica: half the way I sang; the other half I slept, in spite of ruts five fathoms deep, and all the joltings of these evil ways. To-morrow we start on our way to Niagara; which, Mr. ---- says, is to sweep Trenton clean from our memories. I do not think it. _Saturday, 13th._ Left Utica at six o'clock, in our exclusive extra: we were to go on as far as Auburn, a distance of seventy-six miles. The day was very beautiful, but extremely hot. At Vernon, where we stopped to breakfast, we overtook the ----s: we had a very good breakfast; and, I think, for the first time since our land journey from Baltimore to Philadelphia, last winter, we were waited on by women. Found a case of musical glasses: sat on the floor, in great delight, amusing myself with them, while the stage was getting ready, ---- and I began wandering about; but the place did not look promising, and the heat was intense. We sat ourselves down under the piazza of the tavern, and I gave him the words of "To that lone Well." In about an hour we set off again. The country was very rich and beautiful; and, at every knoll, backed by woodlands, and skirted by golden grain fields, Mr. ---- exclaimed, "Come, we will have a farm here." He and my father were to smoke, reflect, and enjoy life; I was to sing, whenever I happened to please, and enjoy life too; D---- was to brew, to bake, wash, iron, plough, manage the house, look after the cattle, take care of the poultry, mind the dairy; in short, do every thing on earth that was to be done, and enjoy life too: all which arrangements afforded us matter of converse on the way, and much amusement. Then my father and Mr. ---- had long argumentations about acting: the latter is a vehement admirer of Kean; and of course, that being the case, matter of debate was not wanting. It was all extremely pleasant and profitable; and while the sun shone, and we all kept our tempers, nothing could do better. ---- amused me by telling me portions of ----'s book, the Adventures of a younger Son, with which he had been extremely charmed; and which I remember beginning on board ship, as we crossed from England. * * * * * * * * * * At about half-past three, we arrived at a place called _Syracuse_!! !--where, stopping to change horses, my father observed that here there were two different routes to our point of destination; and desired our driver to take that which passes through Skaneateles, a very beautiful village, situated on a lake so called. However, to this the master of the inn, who was also, I believe, proprietor of the coach, seemed to have some private objection; and while my father was yet speaking, very coolly shut the coach door in his face, and desired the driver to go on in the contrary direction. The insolence of the fellow enraged my father extremely; and it was rather astonishing, that's the fact: but the deuce is in't if, in a free country, a man may not choose which way his own coach shall go, in spite of the folk who pay him for the use of it. We had to pocket the affront; and, what was much more disagreeable, to travel an ugly uninteresting road, instead of a picturesque and pretty one. We had not proceeded many miles after this occurrence, and were just recovering our equanimities, when the said vehicle broke down. We were not overturned or hurt, only tilted a little on one side. The driver, however, did not seem to think it safe to proceed in this condition: the gentlemen got out, and searched the hedges and thickets for a piece of oak sufficiently strong and stout to repair, at least for the moment, the damage: we were not at the time within reach of any house. At last, they procured what they wanted; and, having propped up the carriage after the best fashion they could, we proceeded at a foot pace to the next village. Here, while they were putting our conveyance into something like better order, ---- and I wandered away to a pretty bright water-course, which, like all water in this country, was made to turn a mill. The coach being made sound once more, we packed ourselves into it, and progressed. The evening was perfectly sultry. I never shall forget, at a place where we stopped to water the horses, a cart-full of wretched sheep and calves, who were, I suppose, on their way to the slaughterhouse, but who, in the mean time, seemed enduring the most horrible torture that creatures can suffer. They were jammed into the cart so as to be utterly incapable of moving a single limb; the pitiless sun shone fiercely upon their wretched heads, and their poor eyes were full of dust and flies. I never saw so miserable a spectacle of suffering. I looked at the brutal-looking man that was driving them, and wondered whether he would go to hell, for tormenting these helpless beasts in this fashion. The sun set gloriously. Mr. ---- began talking about Greece, and, getting a good deal excited, presently burst forth into "The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!" which he recited with amazing vehemence and earnestness. He reminded me of Kean several times: while he was declaiming, he looked like a tiger. 'Tis strange, or, rather, 'tis not strange, 'tis but natural, how, in spite of the contempt and even hatred which he often expresses for England, and every thing connected with it, his thoughts and plans, and all the energies of his mind, seem for ever bent upon changes to be wrought in England--freer government, purer laws, more equal rights. He began to talk about Cromwell: he wanted, he said, to have a play written out of Cromwell's life. We talked the matter over with infinite zeal, and established most satisfactorily, that to accomplish such a thing, as it ought to be done, would be quite one of the most difficult tasks in the world. Nobody but a religious and political enthusiast could do it: a poet, unless himself a republican Englishman, and fanatical sectarian, hardly could: it must be unlike all other works of art--not an imitation of truth, but truth itself. Schiller is the only man I can imagine who could have attempted it with any chance of success: and I even doubt whether he would have made of it the firebrand our friend wants. Towards evening the heat became more and more oppressive. Our coach was but ill cobbled, and leaned awfully to one side. I fell asleep lying in my father's lap; and when we reached Auburn, which was not until nine o'clock, I was so tired, so miserably sleepy, and so tortured with the side-ach, from the cramped position in which I had been lying, that I just crawled into the first room in the inn where we alighted, and dropped down on the floor fast asleep. They roused me for supper; and very soon after I betook myself to bed. The heat was intolerable; the pale feet of the summer lightning ran along the black edges of the leaden clouds,--the world was alight with it. I could not sleep: I never endured such suffocating heat. _Sunday, 14th._ Rose at eight: the morning was already sultry as the hottest noon in England. After breakfast, I wandered about the house in search of shade; went into an empty room, opened the shutters, and got out upon a large piazza, or rather colonnade, which surrounded it. The side I had chosen was defended by the house from the fierce sunlight; and I walked up and down in quiet and loneliness for some time. Not far from the house stood the prison, one of the state prisons of the country; a large grey building, which appeared like a huge block of granite, unsheltered by a single tree or bush, and dim with the hazy heat of the atmosphere. Being Sunday, we were not able to visit it; but the person who kept the house where we were, a very intelligent and civil man, gave us some account of it, and fully corroborated the fact which Stuart mentions,--that when the prison took fire, and all the criminals confined in it were liberated to assist in saving the building, in spite of the general confusion and total absence of restraint or observation, which for some time left them the most easy opportunity of escape, not one of them took advantage of this accident to recover their liberty, but every prisoner returned voluntarily, after the fire was got under, to his cell. This seems miraculous, and speaks more for the excellence of the system pursued in these establishments than all the disquisitions in the world. At about ten, our exclusive extra having driven to the door, we packed ourselves into it, and proceeded towards Geneva, where we were to dine. The sky, however, presently became overcast; and, towards noon, the world was absolutely shrouded in a lead-coloured pall. The air was stifling: it was impossible to draw one's breath; and a quarter of a degree more of heat would certainly have occasioned suffocation. We were all gasping. Suddenly the red lightning tore open the heavy clouds, the thunder rolled round the heavens, the rain came down in torrents: we were away from all shelter, and obliged to proceed through the storm. The leather curtains of our coach were speedily unrolled and buttoned down; but this formed but a miserable shelter against the furious rain. Our carpet bags, which were on the outside of the carriage, were soaked through; and we ourselves were soon in nearly as bad a plight. The rain came in rivulets through the crevices of our insufficient shelter, and the seats and bottom of the coach were presently standing pools. We arrived between twelve and one o'clock at Cayuga; and here we drew up before the inn door, to await the end of the storm. The rain was still so violent, that we preferred remaining in the coach to getting out and being still more thoroughly drenched. The thunder growled sulkily at a distance, and the lightning glared rapidly from side to side. By degrees, the over-swollen clouds, having emptied themselves, rolled away; the rain became less violent; the mist and heavy vapour parted from off the face of the earth, and the lake appeared blending with the sky amid the indistinct and hazy outlines of the half-shrouded country. While we were sitting listening to the storm, silence had fallen upon us all: a thunderstorm is apt to prove an interruption to conversation. During this pause, Mr. ---- took out his pencil, and wrote upon a scrap of paper a very eloquent Mahomedan description of the attributes of God. I do not know whether it was his own, or an authentic Mahomedan document: it was sublime. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The storm having abated, we proceeded on our way; crossed a bridge a mile and some roods long, over the Cayuga lake; which, however, was still so veiled with scowling mist and clouds, that we could discern none of its features. At about three o'clock we reached Geneva, a small town situated on a lake called Seneca Water. Here we dined. ---- had most providentially brought silver forks with him: for the wretched two-pronged iron implements furnished us by our host were any thing but clean or convenient. After dinner, the weather having become mild and bright, we went up to a piazza on the second floor, which overlooked the lake and its banks: the latter are very picturesque; and the town itself, climbing in terraces along the side of a steep acclivity, rising from the water, has a very good effect. The lake at this point did not appear very wide; for we could distinguish, from where we stood, minute objects on the opposite shore. After resting ourselves for a short time, we again took to our coach, and pursued our route towards Canandaigua, where we were to pass the night. The afternoon was bright and beautiful, the road tolerable, and the country through which we passed fertile and smiling. As the evening began to come on, we reached Canandaigua Lake, a very beautiful sheet of water, of considerable extent; we coasted for some time close along its very margin. The opposite shore was high, clothed with wood, from amidst which here and there a white house looked peacefully down on the clear mirror below: the dead themselves can hardly inhabit regions more blessedly apart from the evil turmoil of the world, than the inhabitants of these beautiful solitudes. Leaving the water's edge, we proceeded about a quarter of a mile, and found ourselves at the door of the inn at Canandaigua, the principal among some houses surrounding an open turfed space, like an English village green, across which ran the high road. My father, Mr. ----, and I went up to a sort of observatory at the top of the house, from whence the view was perfectly enchanting. The green below, screened on three sides with remarkably fine poplar trees, and surrounded by neat white houses, reminded me of some retired spot in my own dear country. Opposite us, the land rose with a gentle wooded swell; and to the left, the lake spread itself to meet the horizon. A fresh breeze blew over the earth, most grateful after the intense heat of the morning, and the sky was all strewed with faint rosy clouds, melting away one by one into violet wreaths, among which the early evening star glittered cold and clear. We came down to supper, which was served to us, as usual, in a large desolate-looking public room. After this, we came to the sitting-room they had provided for us, a small comfortable apartment, with a very finely-toned piano in it. To this I forthwith sat down, and played and sang for a length of time: late in the evening, I left the instrument, and my father, Mr. ----, and I took a delightful stroll under the colonnade, discussing Milton; many passages of which my father recited most beautifully, to my infinite delight and ecstasy. By and by they went in, and ---- came out to walk with me. Certainly this climate is the most treacherous imaginable: the heat this morning had been intolerable, and to-night a piercing cold wind had arisen, that would have rendered winter clothing by no means superfluous. We walked rapidly up and down, till the bleak blast became so keen, that we were glad to take refuge in the house. Our unfortunate carpet bags and their contents are literally drenched: many of my goods and chattels will never recover this ablution; among others, I am sorry to say, ----'s beautiful satchel. _Monday, 15th._ Our breakfast, which was extremely comfortable and clean, was served to us in our private room; a singular favour: one, I hope, which will become a custom as the country is travelled through by greater numbers. Before breakfast, D---- had been taking a walk about the pretty village, and trying to beg, borrow, or steal some flowers for me. The master of the inn, however, succeeded better than she did; for he presently made his appearance with a very beautiful and fragrant nosegay, which I found, to my utter dismay, had been levied from a gentleman's private garden in my name. My horror was excessive at this, and was scarcely diminished when I discovered, upon enquiry, that they had been gathered from Mr. ----'s garden; that gentleman having large property and a fine residence here. He was not in Canandaigua himself; but, as we drove past his house, I left cards for his lady, who must have thought my demand on her green-house one of the greatest impertinencies extant. It was nine o'clock when we left Canandaigua: we were all a little done up with our two previous days; and it was unanimously settled that we should proceed only to Rochester, a distance of between thirty and forty miles, which we accomplished by two o'clock. Rochester, upon whose site, I understand, twenty years ago there stood hardly a house, is now a large and populous manufacturing town. The progress of life in this country is amazing. From day to day the wilderness becomes inhabited, peopled, civilised; and where yesterday the majestic woods were standing, and the silent waters gliding in all the solemn solitude of unexplored nature, to-day the sound of the forge and anvil is heard, the busy feet of men pass and repass, their mingled voices resound, their dwellings arise; the wheels of a thousand mechanical miracles clash, creak, and jar; the vapours of a thousand steam-engines mingle with the hitherto lonely clouds; and the huge fins of a thousand steam-boats beat the waters, carrying over their hitherto undisturbed surface the vast produce of industry. The labours, the arts, the knowledge, the wealth, the wonders of education and civilisation! It is something that fills one with admiration, in the old, and eke the new, sense of the word. The inn at which we alighted was large and comfortable: in the drawing-room I found a very tolerable piano-forte, to which I instantly betook myself. By the time we had seen our bed-rooms, and ordered dinner, we found we should have leisure, before it was ready, to walk to the falls of the Genesee (the river on which Rochester stands), which have some celebrity for their beauty. A man from the hotel volunteered to be our guide, and joined our party. We walked up the main street, which was crowded and full of business. From this, presently turning off, we followed a wider road, with houses and pretty flower gardens on each side, and reached, after half a mile's walk, a meadow skirted by a deep ravine, through which the river ran; from whence we looked immediately upon the falls. They would be, and were, I doubt not, once beautiful; for the barrier of rock, over which the river throws itself into the valley below, is of considerable breadth and height; but, alas! the waters have been turned off to turn mills, and a thin curtain, which falls over the rocks like a vapoury sheet of blue smoke, is all that remains of the Genesee falls; whilst, from a thousand dingy-looking mills and manufactories, the poor little rivulets of labouring water come rushing through narrow dirty channels, all stained and foaming and hot from their work, to throw themselves into the thin bosom of their parent stream. Truly, mills and steam-engines are wonderful things, and I know that men must live; but I wish it were not expedient to destroy what God has made so very beautiful, in order to make it useful. Our guide perceiving our admiration was a good deal excited by the picturesque beauty of the scene, fell into a species of rhapsody, which terminated thus: "Yes, sir, when I see the waters thus falling _from the bottom to the top_; I say, sir, when I look at the water falling from _the bottom to the top_, I can compare it to nothing--but--but--but--wool out of a cotton-mill!" This was an unlooked-for climax, and gave us all a violent inclination to laugh in the face of the orator; which, however, would have been exceedingly wrong; for so sincere was the good man in his enthusiasm, that he was not in the least aware of the miraculous proceeding which he twice, with much emphasis, ascribed to the _upward falling_ water. * * * * * * * * * * We waited in this meadow for the passing of a train of rail-road carriages, which run between Rochester and a small village about three miles distant, where the river was said to be very beautiful. We hailed them as they went by, and proceeded in them to their destination. The view itself, from this point, though romantic and pretty, was scarce worth going out of the way for; the walk back, however, was delightful. The river runs here through a deep gully, the banks rising precipitously above a hundred feet on each side of it. On one side they are beautifully and thickly wooded; the other presents a bare wall of reddish rock lying in very regular strata. About a mile and a half below the falls, the channel of the river contracts itself, and the water, forcing its way through some irregular rocky projections, forms a very pretty miniature cataract. We walked along the high margin of the glen, upon some very thick soft turf, looking down upon the deep bed of the water, and enjoying a delicious fresh breeze. 'Tis curious enough, that upon this strip of turf, close to the high road, under the shelter of a group of trees, we found a couple of tomb-stones. They were carefully railed round, and bore the names of a man and his wife, without, however, assigning any cause for their choice of a burial-place so public and unhallowed. The last mile of our walk was by no means so agreeable as the previous part had been. Nearing the town, we had to leave the brink of the river and follow the dusty track of the rail-road. When we reached Rochester, we dined; after which I went and lay down, and slept till tea-time. When I came down to tea, found the gentlemen profoundly busied: ---- writing home, Mr. ---- journalising, my father poring over maps and road-books, to find out if we could not possibly get as far as Niagara to-morrow. _Tuesday, 16th._ Had to get up before I'd half done my sleep. At six, started from Rochester for Murray, where we purposed breakfasting. Just as we were nearing the inn, at this same place, our driver took it into his head to give us a taste of his quality. We were all earnestly engaged in a discussion, when suddenly I felt a tremendous sort of stunning blow, and as soon as I opened my eyes, found that the coach was overturned, lying completely on its side. I was very comfortably curled up under my father, who, by Heaven's mercy, did not suffocate me; opposite sat D----, as white as a ghost, with her forehead cut open, and an awful-looking stream of blood falling from it; by her stood Mr. ----, also as pale as ashes: ---- was perched like a bird above us all, on the edge of the doorway, which was open. The first thing I did, was to cry as loud as ever I could, "I'm not hurt, I'm not hurt!" which assurance I shouted sufficiently lustily to remove all anxiety from their minds. The next thing was to get my father up; in accomplishing which, he trampled upon me most cruelly. As soon as I was relieved from his mountainous pressure, I got up, and saw, to my dismay, two men carrying Mr. ---- into the house. We were all convinced that some of his limbs were broken: I ran after as quickly as I could, and presently the house was like an hospital. They carried him into an upper room, and laid him on a bed; here, too, they brought D----, all white and bleeding. Our hand-baskets and bags were ransacked for salts and eau de Cologne. Cold water, hot water, towels, and pocket handkerchiefs, were called into requisition; and I, with my clothes all torn, and one shoulder all bruised and cut, went from the one to the other in utter dismay. Presently, to my great relief, Mr. ---- revived; and gave ample testimony of having the use of his limbs, by getting up, and, in the most skilful manner, plastering poor D----'s broken brow up. ---- went in quest of my father, who had received a violent blow on his leg, and was halting about, looking after the baggage and the driver, who had escaped unhurt. The chief cause of our misfortune was the economy with which the stage-coaches are constructed in this thrifty land; that is, they have but one door, and, of course, are obliged to be turned round much oftener than if they had two: in wheeling us, therefore, rapidly up to the inn, and turning the coach with the side that had a door towards the house, we swung over, and fell. While the coach was being repaired, and the horses changed, we, bound up, bruised, and aching, but still very merry, sat down to breakfast. Mr. ----, who had been merely stunned, seized on the milk and honey, and stuffed away with great zeal: poor D---- was the most deplorable of the party, with a bloody handkerchief bound over one half her face; I only ached a little, and I believe ---- escaped with a scratch on his finger; so, seeing it was no worse, we thanked God, and devoured. After breakfast, we packed ourselves again in our vehicle, and progressed. Mr. ---- had procured for me a bunch of flowers; and I amused myself with making a wreath of them. Our route lay over what is called the Ridge road; a very remarkable tract, pursuing a high embankment, which was once the boundary of Lake Ontario; though the waters are now distant from it upwards of seven miles. The theories of the geologists respecting the former position of the lake are very singular; though borne out by similar instances of natural convulsions, and also by the very features of the land. The country through which we journeyed to-day was wilder and less cultivated than any we have yet seen. A great deal of forest land, consisting of close, thin, tall, second-growth, springing around the stump of many a huge tree; thick tangled underwood; marsh and damp green wilderness, where the grass and bushes trailed about in rank luxuriance; and piles of felled timber, with here and there a root yet smoking, bore witness to the first inroads of human cultivation. None of the trees that were standing were of any girth, or comparable in size and beauty to our park trees; but some of the stumps were of large size, and must have been the foundations of noble forest pillars. Our road, after leaving the Ridge road, was horrible: for some length of time before we reached Lockport, we were dragged over what is called a _corduroy road_; which consists merely of logs of wood laid close to each other, the natural inequalities of which produce a species of jolting incomparably superior to any other I ever felt, and administering but little comfort either to our bruised bones or apprehensive nerves. We reached Lockport at about four o'clock. There had been rain in the course of the morning, but the evening was clear, though very cold. The appearance of Lockport is very singular: a collection of new white houses, that look as though they were but this instant finished, standing in a half-cleared wilderness. All round the town, if such it may be called, stretch the remains of the once pathless woods, half cleared, half savage-looking yet; and, as far as the eye can reach, the country presents a series of dreary slopes, covered with prostrate trees, heaps of hewn timber, smoking stumps, and blackened trunks--a sort of forest stubble-land--a very desolate-looking thing indeed. The house where we stopped appeared to be hardly finished. We ordered dinner, and I forthwith began kindling a fire, which was extremely welcome to us all. I was very much bruised with our morning's overturn, and went and lay down in my bed-room, where I presently slept profoundly. _Wednesday, 17th._ At nine o'clock, we started from Lockport: before doing so, however, we went down to the canal side to look at the works, which are here very curious and interesting. ---- ran into a bookseller's shop, and got ----'s book for me, which he was going to pounce upon without knowing what it was; and ----, for some reasons best known to himself, snatched it away from him, saying it was a book which he was sure he would not like. The road between Lockport and Lewistown is very pretty; and we got out and walked whenever the horses were changed. At one place where we stopped, I saw a meek-eyed, yellowish-white cart-horse, standing with a man's saddle on his back. The opportunity was irresistible, and the desire too--I had not backed a horse for so long. So I got up upon the amazed quadruped, woman's fashion, and took a gallop through the fields, with infinite risk of falling off, and proportionate satisfaction. We reached Lewistown at about noon, and anxious enquiries were instituted as to how our luggage was to be forwarded, when on the other side; for we were _exclusive extras_; and for creatures so above common fellowship there is no accommodation in this levelling land. A ferry and a ferry-boat, however, it appeared, there were, and thither we made our way. While we were waiting for the boat, I climbed out on the branches of a huge oak, which grew over the banks of the river, which here rise nearly a hundred feet high. Thus comfortably perched, like a bird, 'twixt heaven and earth, I copied off some verses which I had scrawled just before leaving Lockport. The ferry-boat being at length procured, we got into it. The day was sultry; the heat intolerable. The water of this said river Niagara is of a most peculiar colour, like a turquoise when it turns green. It was like a thick stream of verdigris, full of pale milky streaks, whirls, eddies, and counter-currents, and looked as if it were running up by one bank, and down by the other. I sat in the sun, on the floor of the boat, revising my verses. * * * * * * * * * * Arrived on the other side, _i. e._ Canada, there was a second pause, as to how we were to get conveyed to the Falls. My father, ----, and D---- betook themselves to an inn by the road-side, which promised information and assistance; and ---- and I, clambering up the heights of Queenston, sat ourselves down under some bushes, whence we looked towards Lake Ontario, and where he told me the history of the place; how his countrymen had thumped my countrymen upon this spot, and how the English general Brock had fallen near where we sat. A monument, in the shape of a stone pillar, has been erected to his memory; and to the top of this ---- betook himself to reconnoitre; which ambitious expedition I felt no inclination to share. After he had been gone some time, I thought I perceived signs of stirring down by the inn door: I toiled up the hill to the base of the pillar to fetch him, and we proceeded down to the rest of the party. An uneasy-looking rickety cart without springs was the sole conveyance we could obtain, and into this we packed ourselves. ---- brought me some beautiful roses, which he had been stealing for me, and ---- gave me a glass of milk; with which restoratives I comforted myself, and we set forth. As we squeaked and creaked (I mean our vehicle) up the hill, I thought either my father's or ----'s weight quite enough to have broken the whole down; but it did not happen. My mind was eagerly dwelling on what we were going to see: that sight which ---- said was the only one in the world which had not disappointed him. I felt absolutely nervous with expectation. The sound of the cataract is, they say, heard within fifteen miles when the wind sets favourably: to-day, however, there was no wind; the whole air was breathless with the heat of midsummer, and, though we stopped our waggon once or twice to listen as we approached, all was profoundest silence. There was no motion in the leaves of the trees, not a cloud sailing in the sky; every thing was as though in a bright warm death. When we were within about three miles of the Falls, just before entering the village of Niagara, ---- stopped the waggon; and then we heard distinctly, though far off, the voice of the mighty cataract. Looking over the woods, which appeared to overhang the course of the river, we beheld one silver cloud rising slowly into the sky,--the everlasting incense of the waters. A perfect frenzy of impatience seized upon me: I could have set off and run the whole way; and when at length the carriage stopped at the door of the Niagara house, waiting neither for my father, D----, nor ----, I rushed through the hall, and the garden, down the steep footpath cut in the rocks. I heard steps behind me; ---- was following me: down, down I sprang, and along the narrow footpath, divided only by a thicket from the tumultuous rapids. I saw through the boughs the white glimmer of that sea of foam. "Go on, go on; don't stop," shouted ----; and in another minute the thicket was passed: I stood upon Table Rock. ---- seized me by the arm, and, without speaking a word, dragged me to the edge of the rapids, to the brink of the abyss. I saw Niagara.--Oh, God! who can describe that sight? THE END. FOOTNOTES: I do not know how it is to be accounted for, but in spite of much lighter duties, every article of dress, particularly silks, embroideries, and all French manufactures, are more expensive here than in England. The extravagance of the American women in this part of their expenditure is, considering the average fortunes of this country, quite extraordinary. They never walk in the streets but in the most showy and extreme toilet, and I have known twenty, forty, and sixty dollars paid for a bonnet to wear in a morning saunter up Broadway. These are the titles of three omnibuses which run up and down Broadway all the day long. The New Yorkers have begun to see the evil of their ways, as far as regards their carriage-road in Broadway,--which is now partly Macadamised. It is devoutly to be hoped, that the worthy authorities will soon have as much compassion on the feet of their fellow-citizens, as they have begun to have for their brutes. The roughness and want of refinement, which is legitimately complained of in this country is often however mitigated by instances of civility, which would not be found commonly elsewhere. As I have noticed above, the demeanour of men towards women in the streets is infinitely more courteous here than with us; women can walk, too, with perfect safety, by themselves, either in New York, Philadelphia, or Boston: on board the steam-boats no person sits down to table until the ladies are accommodated with seats; and I have myself in church benefited by the civility of men who have left their pew, and stood, during the whole service, in order to afford me room. Saw a woman riding to-day; but she has gotten a black velvet beret upon her head.--Only think of a beret on horseback! The horses here are none of them properly broken: their usual pace being a wrong-legged half-canter, or a species of shambling trot, denominated, with infinite justice, a _rack_. They are all broken with snaffles instead of curbs, carry their noses out, and pull horribly; I have not yet seen a decent rider, either man or woman. The spirit of independence, which is the common atmospheric air of America, penetrates into the churches, as well as elsewhere. In Boston, I have heard the Apostles' Creed mutilated and altered; once by the omission of the passage "descended into hell," and another time, by the substitution of the words "descended into the place of departed spirits." Unfortunately this precaution does not fulfil its purpose; universal suffrage is a political fallacy: and will be one of the stumbling-blocks in the path of this country's greatness. I do not mean that it will lessen her wealth, or injure her commercial and financial resources; but it will be an insuperable bar to the progress of mental and intellectual cultivation--'tis a plain case of action and reaction. If the mass, _i. e._ the inferior portion, (for when was the mass not inferior?) elect their own governors, they will of course elect an inferior class of governors, and the government of such men will be an inferior government; that it may be just, honest, and rational, I do not dispute; but that it ever will be enlarged, liberal, and highly enlightened, I do not, and cannot, believe. I do not know whether his honour the Recorder's information applied only to the state of New York, or included all the others; 'tis not one of the least strange features which this strange political process, the American government, presents, that each state is governed by its own laws; thus forming a most involved and complicated whole, where each part has its own individual machinery; or, to use a more celestial phraseology, its own particular system. Whoever pretends to write any account of "Men and Manners" in America must expect to find his own work give him the lie in less than six months; for both men and manners are in so rapid a state of progress that no record of their ways of being and doing would be found correct at the expiration of that term, however much so at the period of its writing. Broadway is not only partly Macadamised since first we arrived here, but there are actually to be seen in it now two or three carriages of decent build, with hammercloths, foot-boards, and even once or twice lately I have seen footmen standing on those foot-boards!!! Perhaps one reason for the perfect coolness with which a fire is endured in New York is the dexterity and courage of the firemen: they are, for the most part, respectable tradesmen's sons, who enlist in this service, rather than the militia; and the vigilance and activity with which their duty is discharged deserves the highest praise. I have lately read Goethe's Wilhelm Meister. In that wonderful analysis of the first work of our master-mind by his German peer, all has been said upon this subject that the most philosophical reason, or poetical imagination, can suggest; and who that has read it can forget that most appropriate and beautiful simile, wherein Hamlet's mind is likened to an acorn planted in a porcelain vase--the seed becomes living--the roots expand--and the fragile vessel bursts into a thousand shivers! The fish of these waters may be excellent in the water; but owing to the want of care and niceness with which they are kept after being caught, they are very seldom worth eating when brought to table. They have no turbot or soles, a great national misfortune: their best fish are rock-fish, bass, shad (an excellent herring, as big as a small salmon), and sheep's-head. Cod and salmon I have eaten; but from the above cause they were never comparable to the same fish at an English table. The lobsters, crabs, and oysters are all gigantic, frightful to behold, and not particularly well-flavoured: their size makes them tough and coarse. My friend was entertaining himself, at the expense of my credulity, in making this assertion. The rattle-snakes and red Indians have fled together before the approach of civilisation; and it would be as difficult to find the one as the other in the vicinity of any of the large cities of the northern states. It is two years since I visited Hoboken for the first time; it is now more beautiful than ever. The good taste of the proprietor has made it one of the most picturesque and delightful places imaginable; it wants but a good carriage-road along the water's edge (for which the ground lies very favourably) to make it as perfect a public promenade as any European city can boast, with the advantage of such a river, for its principal object, as none of them possess. I think the European traveller, in order to form a just estimate both of the evils and advantages deriving from the institutions of this country, should spend one day in the streets of New York, and the next in the walks of Hoboken. If in the one, the toil, the care, the labour of mind and body, the outward and visible signs of the debasing pursuit of wealth, are marked in melancholy characters upon every man he meets, and bear witness to the great curse of the country; in the other, the crowds of happy, cheerful, enjoying beings of that order, which, in the old world, are condemned to ceaseless and ill-requited labour, will testify to the blessings which counterbalance that curse. I never was so forcibly struck with the prosperity and happiness of the lower orders of society in this country as yesterday returning from Hoboken. The walks along the river and through the woods, the steamers crossing from the city, were absolutely thronged with a cheerful well-dressed population abroad, merely for the purpose of pleasure and exercise. Journeymen, labourers, handicraftsmen, tradespeople, with their families, bearing all in their dress and looks evident signs of well-being and contentment, were all flocking from their confined avocations, into the pure air, the bright sunshine, and beautiful shade of this lovely place. I do not know any spectacle which could give a foreigner, especially an Englishman, a better illustration of that peculiar excellence of the American government--the freedom and happiness of the lower classes. Neither is it to be said that this was a holiday, or an occasion of peculiar festivity--it was a common week-day--such as our miserable manufacturing population spends from sun-rise to sun-down, in confined, incessant, unhealthy toil--to earn, at its conclusion, the inadequate reward of health and happiness so wasted. The contrast struck me forcibly--it rejoiced my heart; it surely was an object of contemplation, that any one who had a heart must have rejoiced in. Presently, however, came the following reflections:--These people are happy--their wants are satisfied, their desires fulfilled--their capacities of enjoyment meet with full employment--they are well fed--well clothed--well housed--moderate labour insures them all this, and leaves them leisure for such recreations as they are capable of enjoying; but how is it with me?--and I mean not _me myself_ alone, but all who, like myself, have received a higher degree of mental cultivation, whose estimate of happiness is, therefore, so much higher, whose capacity for enjoyment is so much more expanded and cultivated;--can I be satisfied with a race in a circular railroad car, or a swing between the lime-trees? where are my peculiar objects of pleasure and recreation? where are the picture-galleries--the sculptures--the works of art and science--the countless wonders of human ingenuity and skill--the cultivated and refined society--the intercourse with men of genius, literature, scientific knowledge--where are all the sources from which I am to draw my recreations? They are not. The heart of a philanthropist may indeed be satisfied, but the intellectual man feels a dearth that is inexpressibly painful; and in spite of the real and great pleasure which I derived from the sight of so much enjoyment, I could not help desiring that enjoyment of another order were combined with it. Perhaps the two are incompatible; if so, I would not alter the present state of things if I could. The losers here are decidedly in the minority. Indeed, so much so, as hardly to form a class; they are a few individuals, scattered over the country, and of course their happiness ought not to come into competition with that of the mass of the people; but the Americans, at the same time that they make no provision whatever for the happiness of such a portion of their inhabitants, would be very angry if one were to say it was a very inconsiderable one, and yet that is the truth. The climate of this country is the scape-goat upon which all the ill looks and ill health of the ladies is laid; but while they are brought up as effeminately as they are, take as little exercise, live in rooms like ovens during the winter, and marry as early as they do, it will appear evident that many causes combine, with an extremely variable climate, to sallow their complexions, and destroy their constitutions. The hackney coaches in this country are very different from those perilous receptacles of dust and dirty straw, which disgrace the London stands. They are comfortable within, and clean without; and the horses harnessed to them never exhibit those shocking specimens of cruelty and ill usage which the poor hack horses in London present. Indeed (and it is a circumstance which deserves notice, for it bespeaks general character,) I have not seen, during a two years' residence in this country, a single instance of brutality towards animals, such as one is compelled to witness hourly in the streets of any English town. There is a striking difference in this respect between the tradespeople of New York and those of Boston and Philadelphia; and in my opinion the latter preserve quite self-respect enough to acquit their courtesy and civility from any charge of servility. The only way in which I can account for the difference, is the greater impulse which trade receives in New York, the proportionate rapidity with which fortunes are made, the ever-shifting materials of which its society is composed, and the facility with which the man who has served you behind his counter, having amassed an independence, assumes a station in the first circle, where his influence becomes commensurate with his wealth. This is not the case either in Boston or Philadelphia, at least not to the same degree. The universal hour of dining, in New York, when first we arrived, was three o'clock; after which hour the cooks took their departure, and nothing was to be obtained fit to eat, either for love or money: this intolerable nuisance is gradually passing away; but even now, though we can get our dinner served at six o'clock, it is always dressed at three; its excellence may be imagined from that. To say the truth, I think the system upon which all houses of public entertainment are conducted in this country is a sample of the patience and long-suffering with which dirt, discomfort, and exorbitant charges may be borne by a whole community, without resistance, or even remonstrance. The best exceptions I could name to these various inconveniences are, first, Mr. Cozzen's establishment at West Point; next, the Tremont at Boston, and, lastly, the Mansion House at Philadelphia. In each of these, wayfarers may obtain some portion of decent comfort: but they have their drawbacks; in the first, there are no private sitting-rooms; and in the last, the number of servants is inadequate to the work. The Tremont is by far the best establishment of the sort existing at present. Mr. A----, the millionnaire of New York, is about to remedy this deficiency, by the erection of a magnificent hotel in Broadway. One thing, however, is certain; neither he nor any one else will ever succeed in having a decent house, if the servants are not a little superior to the Irish savages who officiate in that capacity in most houses, public and private, in the northern states of America. It is fortunate for the managers of the Park Theatre, and very unfortunate for the citizens of New York, that the audiences who frequent that place of entertainment are chiefly composed of the strangers who are constantly passing in vast numbers through this city. It is not worth the while of the management to pay a good company, when an indifferent one answers their purpose quite as well: the system upon which theatrical speculations are conducted in this country is, having one or two "stars" for the principal characters, and nine or ten sticks for all the rest. The consequence is, that a play is never decently acted, and at such times as stars are scarce, the houses are very deservedly empty. The terrestrial audiences suffer much by this mode of getting up plays; but the celestial performers, the stars propped upon sticks, infinitely more. Stewart--Bonfanti. The name of shopkeepers in Broadway: the former's is the best shop in New York. Were the morality that I constantly hear uttered a little more consistent, not only with right reason, but with itself, I think it might be more deserving of attention and respect. But the mock delicacy, which exists to so great a degree with regard to theatrical exhibitions, can command neither the one nor the other. To those who forbid all dramatic representations, as exhibitions of an unhealthy tendency upon our intellectual and moral nature, I have no objections, at present, to make. Unqualified condemnation, particularly when adopted on such grounds, may be a sincere, a respectable, perhaps a right, opinion. I have but one reply to offer to it: the human mind requires recreation; is not a theatre (always supposing it to be, not what theatres too often are, but what they ought to be), is not a theatre a better, a higher, a more noble, and useful place of recreation than a billiard-room, or the bar of a tavern? Perhaps in the course of the moral and intellectual improvement of mankind, _all_ these will give way to yet purer and more refined sources of recreation; but in the mean time, I confess, with its manifold abuses, a play-house appears to me worthy of toleration, if not of approbation, as holding forth (when directed as it should be) a highly intellectual, rational, and refined amusement. However, as I before said, my quarrel is not with those who condemn indiscriminately all theatrical exhibitions; they may be right: at all events, so sweeping a sentence betrays no inconsistency. But what are we to say to individuals, or audiences, who turn with affected disgust from the sallies of Bizarre and Beatrice, and who applaud and laugh, and are delighted, at the gross immorality of such plays as the Wonder, and Rule a Wife and have a Wife; the latter particularly, in which the immorality and indecency are not those of expression only, but of conception, and mingle in the whole construction of the piece, in which not one character appears whose motives of action are not most unworthy, and whose language is not as full of coarseness, as devoid of every generous, elevated, or refined sentiment. (The tirades of Leon are no exception; for in the mouth of a man who marries such a woman as Marguerita, by such means, and for such an end, they are mere mockeries.) I confess that my surprise was excited when I was told that an American audience would not endure that portion of Beatrice's wit which the London censors have spared, and that Othello was all but a proscribed play; but it was infinitely more so, when I found that the same audience tolerated, or rather encouraged with their presence and applause, the coarse productions of Mrs. Centlivre and Beaumont and Fletcher. With regard to the Inconstant, it is by far the most moral of Farquhar's plays; that, perhaps, is little praise, for the Recruiting Officer, and the Beaux' Stratagem, are decidedly the reverse. But in spite of the licentiousness of the writing, in many parts, the construction, the motive, the action of the play is not licentious; the characters are far from being utterly debased in their conception, or depraved in the sentiments they utter (excepting, of course, the companions of poor Mirable's last revel); the women, those surest criterions, by whose principles and conduct may be formed the truest opinion of the purity of the social atmosphere, the women, though free in their manners and language (it was the fashion of their times, and of the times before them, when words did not pass for deeds, either good or bad), are essentially honest women; and Bizarre, coarse as her expressions may appear, has yet more _real_ delicacy than poor Oriana, whose womanly love causes her too far to forget her womanly pride. Of the catastrophe of this play, and its frightfully-pointed moral, little need be said to prove that its effect is likely to be far more wholesome, because far more homely, than that of most theatrical inventions; invention, indeed, it is not, and its greatest interest, as perhaps its chief utility, is drawn from the circumstance of its being a faithful representation of a situation of unequalled horror, in which the author himself was placed, and from which he was rescued precisely as he extricates his hero. Of the truth and satirical power of the dialogue, none who understand it can dispute; and if, instead of attaching themselves to the farcical romping of Bizarre and her ungallant lover, the modest critics of this play had devoted some attention to the dialogues between young and old Mirable, their nice sense of decency would have been less shocked, and they might have found themselves repaid by some of the most pointed, witty, and pithy writing in English dramatic literature. I am much obliged to such of my friends as lamented that I had to personate Farquhar's impertinent heroine; for my own good part, I would as lief be such a one, as either Jane Shore, Mrs. Haller, Lady Macbeth, or the wild woman Bianca. I know that great crimes have a species of evil grandeur in them; they spring only from a powerful soil, they are in their very magnitude respectable. I know that mighty passions have in their very excess a frightful majesty, that asserts the vigour of the natures from which they rise; and there is as little similarity between them, and the base, degraded, selfish, cowardly tribe of petty larceny vices with which human societies abound, as there is between the caterpillar blight, that crawls over a fertile district, gnawing it away inch-meal, and the thunderbolt that scathes, or the earthquake that swallows the same region, in its awful mission of destruction. But I maintain that freedom of expression and manner is by no means an indication of laxity of morals, and again repeat that Bizarre is free in her words, but not in her principles. The authoress of the most graceful and true analysis of Shakspeare's female characters has offered a better vindication of their manners than I could write; I can only say, I pity sincerely all those who, passing over the exquisite purity, delicacy, and loveliness of their conception, dwell only upon modes of expression which belong to the times in which their great creator lived. With respect to the manner in which audiences are affected by what they hear on the stage, I cannot but think that gentlemen, who wish their wives and daughters to hear no language of an exceptionable nature, had better make themselves acquainted with what they take them to see, or, at all events, avoid, when in the theatre, attracting their attention to expressions which their disapprobation serves only to bring into notice, and which had much better escape unheard, or at least unheeded. Voluminous as this note has become, I cannot but add one word with respect to the members of the profession to which I have belonged. Many actresses that I have known, in the performance of unvirtuous or unlovely characters (I cannot, however, help remembering that they were also secondary parts), have thought fit to impress the audience with the wide difference between their assumed and real disposition, by acting as ill, and looking as cross as they possibly could, which could not but be a great satisfaction to any moral audience. I have seen this done by that fine part in Milman's Fazio, Aldabella, repeatedly, and not unfrequently by the Queen in Hamlet, Margarita in Rule a Wife and have a Wife (I scarcely wonder at that, though), and even by poor Shakspeare's Lady Falconbridge. I think this is a mistake: the audience, I believe, never forget that the actress is not indeed the wicked woman she seems. In one instance that might have been the case, perhaps. I speak of a great artist, whose efforts I never witnessed, but whose private excellence I have a near right to rejoice in, and who was as true in her performance of the wretch Millwood, as in her personifications of Shakspeare's grandest creations. The Russians and Danes are rich in the possession of an original and most touching national music; Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, are alike favoured with the most exquisite native melodies, probably, in the world. France, though more barren in the wealth of sweet sounds, has a few fine old airs, that redeem her from the charge of utter sterility. Austria, Bohemia, and Switzerland, each claim a thousand beautiful and characteristic mountain songs; Italy is the very palace of music, Germany its temple; Spain resounds with wild and martial strains, and the thick groves of Portugal with native music, of a softer and sadder kind. All the nations of Europe, I presume all those of all the world, possess some kind of national music, and are blessed by Heaven with some measure of perception as to the loveliness of harmonious sounds. England alone, England and her descendant America, seems to have been denied a sense, to want a capacity, to have been stinted of a faculty, to the possession of which she vainly aspires. The rich spirit of Italian music, the solemn soul of German melody, the wild free Euterpe of the Cantons, have in vain been summoned by turns to teach her how to listen; 'tis all in vain--she does listen painfully; she has learnt by dint of time, and much endurance, the technicalities of musical science; she pays regally her instructors in the divine pleasure, but all in vain: the spirit of melody is not in her; and in spite of hosts of foreign musicians, in spite of the King's Theatre, in spite of Pasta, in spite of music-masters paid like ministers of state, in spite of singing and playing young ladies, and criticising young gentlemen, England, to the last day of her life, will be a dunce in music, for she hath it not in her; neither, if I am not much mistaken, hath her daughter. It is but justice to state, that this house has passed into other hands, and is much improved in every respect. Strangers, particularly Englishmen, will find a great convenience in the five o'clock ordinary, now established there, which is, I am told, excellently conducted and appointed. The whole of this passage is in fact a succession of small bays, forming a continuation to the grand bay of New York, and dividing Staten Island from the mainland of New Jersey; the Raritan river does not properly begin till Amboy, where it empties itself into a bay of its own name. I had always heard that the face of nature was gigantic in America; and truly we found the wrinkles such for so young a country. The ruts were absolute abysses. The southern, western, and eastern states of North America have each their strong peculiarities of enunciation, which render them easy of recognition. The Virginian and New England accents appear to me the most striking; Pennsylvania and New York have much less brogue; but through all their various tones and pronunciations a very strong nasal inflection preserves their universal brotherhood. They all speak through their noses, and at the top of their voices. Of dialects, properly so called, there are none; though a few expressions, peculiar to particular states, which generally serve to identify their citizens; but these are not numerous, and a jargon approaching in obscurity that of many of our counties is not to be met with. The language used in society generally is unrefined, inelegant, and often ungrammatically vulgar; but it is more vulgar than unintelligible by far. This appears to me to be a most frequent ailment among the American ladies: they must have particularly bilious constitutions. I never remember travelling in a steam-boat, on the smoothest water, without seeing sundry "afflicted fair ones," who complained bitterly of _sea-sickness_ in the river. In spite of its beauty, or rather on that very account, an American autumn is to me particularly sad. It presents a union of beauty and decay, that for ever reminds me of that loveliest disguise death puts on, when the cheek is covered with roses, and the eyes are like stars, and the life is perishing away; even so appear the gorgeous colours of the withering American woods. 'Tis a whole forest dying of consumption. The magnolia and azalia are two of these; and earlier in the summer, the whole country looks like fairy-land, with the profuse and lovely blossoms of the wild laurel, an evergreen shrub unequalled for its beauty, and which absolutely overruns every patch of uncultivated ground. I wonder none of our parks have yet been adorned with it: it is a hardy plant, and I should think would thrive admirably in England. In the opening chapter of that popular work, Eugene Aram, are the following words:--"It has been observed, and there is a world of homely, ay, and of legislative knowledge in the observation, that wherever you see a flower in a cottage garden, or a bird-cage at the window, you may feel sure that the cottagers are better and wiser than their neighbours." The truth of this observation is indisputable. But for such "humble tokens of attention to something beyond the _sterile labour_ of life" you look in vain during a progress through this country. In New England alone, neatness and a certain endeavour at rustic elegance and adornment, in the cottages and country residences, recall those of their fatherland; and the pleasure of the traveller is immeasurably heightened by this circumstance. If the wild beauties of uncultivated nature lead our contemplations to our great Maker, these lowly witnesses of the industry and natural refinement of the laborious cultivator of the soil warm our heart with sympathy for our kind, and the cheering conviction that, however improved by cultivation, the sense of beauty, and the love of what is lovely, have been alike bestowed upon all our race; 'tis a wholesome conviction, which the artificial divisions of society too often cause us to lose sight of. The labourer, who, after "sweating in the eye of Phoebus" all the day, at evening trains the fragrant jasmine round his lowly door, is the very same man who, in other circumstances, would have been the refined and liberal patron of those arts which reflect the beauty of nature. In all my progress I looked in vain for the refreshing sight of a hedge--no such thing was to be seen; and their extreme rarity throughout the country renders the more cultivated parts of it arid looking and comparatively dreary. These crooked fences in the south, and stone walls to the north, form the divisions of the fields, instead of those delicious "hedge-rows green," where the old elms delight to grow, where the early violets and primroses first peep sheltered forth, where the hawthorn blossoms sweeten the summer, the honeysuckle hangs its yellow garlands in the autumn, and the red "hips and haws" shine like bushes of earthly coral in the winter. But the Americans are in too great a hurry to plant hedges: they have abundance of native material; but a wooden fence is put up in a few weeks, a hedge takes as many years to grow; and, as I said before, an American has not time to be a year about anything. When first the country was settled, the wood was an encumbrance, and it was cut down accordingly: that is by no means the case now; and the only recommendation of these fences is, therefore, the comparative rapidity with which they can be constructed. One of the most amiable and distinguished men of this country once remarked to me, that the Americans were in too great a hurry about every thing they undertook to bring any thing to perfection. And certainly, as far as my observation goes, I should _calculate_ that an American is born, lives, and dies twice as fast as any other human creature. I believe one of the great inducements to this national hurry is, that "time is money," which is true; but it is also true, sometimes, that "most haste makes worst speed." These are two very pretty villages, of Quaker origin, situated in the midst of a fertile and lovely country, and much resorted to during the summer season by the Philadelphians. It has happened to me after a few hours' travelling in a steam-boat to find the white dress, put on fresh in the morning, covered with yellow tobacco stains; nor is this very offensive habit confined to the lower orders alone. I have seen _gentlemen_ spit upon the carpet of the room where they were sitting, in the company of women, without the slightest remorse; and I remember once seeing a gentleman, who was travelling with us, very deliberately void his tobacco-juice into the bottom of the coach, instead of through the windows, to my inexpressible disgust. I wish that somebody would be so obliging as to impress people in general with the extreme excellence of a perception of the _fitness of things_. Besides the intrinsic beauty of works of art, they have a beauty derived from their appropriateness to the situations in which they are placed, and their harmony with the objects which surround them: this minor species of beauty is yet a very great one. If it were more studied, and better understood, public buildings would no longer appear as if they had fallen out of the clouds by chance; parks and plantations would no more have the appearance of nurseries, where the trees were classed by kind, instead of being massed according to their various forms and colours; and Gothic and classic edifices would not so often seem as if they had forsaken their appropriate situations, to rear themselves in climates, and among scenery, with which they in no way harmonise. Politics of all sorts, I confess, are far beyond my limited powers of comprehension. Those of this country, as far as I have been able to observe, resolve themselves into two great motives,--the aristocratic desire of elevation and separation, and the democratic desire of demolishing and levelling. Whatever may be the immediate cause of excitement or discussion, these are the two master-springs to which they are referable. Every man in America is a politician; and political events, of importance only because they betray the spirit which would be called into play by more stirring occasions, are occurring incessantly, and keeping alive the interest which high and low alike take in the evolutions of their political machine. Elections of state officers, elections of civil authorities, all manner of elections (for America is one perpetual contest for votes), are going on all the year round; and whereas the politics of men of private stations in other countries are kept quietly by them, and exhibited only on occasions of general excitement, those of an American are as inseparable from him as his clothes, and mix up with his daily discharge of his commonest daily avocations. I was extremely amused at seeing over a hat-shop in New York one day, "Anti-Bank Hat-Store," written in most attractive characters, as an inducement for all good democrats to go in and purchase their beavers of so republican a hatter. The universal-suffrage system is of course the cause of this general political mania; and during an election of mayor or aldermen, the good shopkeepers of New York are in as fierce a state of excitement as if the choice of a perpetual dictator were the question in point. Politics is the main subject of conversation among American men in society; but, as I said before, the immediate object of discussion being most frequently some petty local interest or other, strangers cannot derive much pleasure from, or feel much sympathy in, the debate. I have often thought that the constant demand for small theatres, which I have heard made by persons of the higher classes of society in England, was a great proof of the decline of the more imaginative faculties among them; and the proportionate increase of that fastidious and critical spirit, which is so far removed from every thing which constitutes the essence of poetry. The idea of illusion in a dramatic exhibition is confined to the Christmas spectators of old tragedies and new pantomimes; the more refined portions of our English audiences yawn through Shakspeare's historical plays, and _quiz_ through those which are histories of human nature and its awful passions. They have forgotten what human nature really is, and cannot even _imagine it_. They require absolute reality on the stage, because their incapable spirits scoff at poetical truth; and that absolute reality, in our days, consists in such representations as the Rent Day; or (crossing the water, for we dearly love what is foreign) the homely improbabilities of Victorine, Henriette, and a pack of equally worthless subjects of exhibition. Indeed, theatres have had an end; for the refined, the highly educated, the first classes of society, they have had an end; it will be long, however, before the mass is sufficiently refined to lose all power of imagination; and while our aristocracy patronise French melodramas, and seek their excitement in the most trashy sentimentalities of the modern _cole romantique_, I have some hopes that our plebeian pits and galleries may still retain their sympathy for the loves of Juliet and the sorrows of Ophelia. I would rather a thousand times act either of those parts to a set of Manchester mechanics, than to the most select of our aristocracy, for they are "nothing, if not critical." Kean is gone--and with him are gone Othello, Shylock, and Richard. I have lived among those whose theatrical creed would not permit them to acknowledge him as a great actor; but they must be bigoted, indeed, who would deny that he was a great genius, a man of most original and striking powers, careless of art, perhaps because he did not need it; but possessing those rare gifts of nature, without which art alone is as a dead body. Who that ever heard will ever forget the beauty, the unutterable tenderness, of his reply to Desdemona's entreaties for Cassio, "Let him come when he will, I can deny thee nothing;" the deep despondency of his "Oh, now farewell;" the miserable anguish of his "Oh, Desdemona, away, away!" Who that ever saw will ever forget the fascination of his dying eyes in Richard, when, deprived of his sword, the wondrous power of his look seemed yet to avert the uplifted arm of Richmond. If he was irregular and unartistlike in his performances, so is Niagara, compared with the water-works of Versailles. I have acted Ophelia three times with my father, and each time, in that beautiful scene where his madness and his love gush forth together like a torrent swollen with storms, that bears a thousand blossoms on its troubled waters, I have experienced such deep emotion as hardly to be able to speak. The exquisite tenderness of his voice, the wild compassion and forlorn pity of his looks bestowing that on others which, above all others, he most needed; the melancholy restlessness, the bitter self-scorning; every shadow of expression and intonation was so full of all the mingled anguish that the human heart is capable of enduring, that my eyes scarce fixed on his ere they filled with tears; and long before the scene was over, the letters and jewel-cases I was tendering to him were wet with them. The hardness of professed actors and actresses is something amazing: after acting this part, I could not but recall the various Ophelias I have seen, and commend them for the astonishing absence of every thing like feeling which they exhibited. Oh, it made my heart sore to act it. I am speaking now only of the common saddle-horses that one sees about the streets and roads. The southern breed of race-horses is a subject of great interest and care to all sporting men here: they are very beautiful animals, of a remarkably slight and delicate make. But the perfection of horses in this country are those trained for trotting: their speed is almost incredible. I have been whirled along in a light-built carriage by a pair of famous professed trotters, who certainly got over the ground at the rate of a moderate-going steam-engine, and this without ever for a moment breaking into a gallop. The fondness of the Americans for this sort of horses, however, is one reason why one can so rarely obtain a well-mouthed riding-horse. These trotters are absolutely carried on the bit, and require only a snaffle, and an arm of iron to hold them up. A horse well set upon his haunches is not to be met with; and owing to this mode of breaking, their action is entirely from the head and shoulders; and they both look and feel as if they would tumble down on their noses. Except where they have been made political tools, newspaper writers and editors have never, I believe, been admitted into good society in England. It is otherwise here: newspapers are the main literature of America; and I have frequently heard it quoted, as a proof of a man's abilities, that he writes in such and such a newspaper. Besides the popularity to be obtained by it, it is often attended with no small literary consideration; and young men here, with talents of a really high order, and who might achieve far better things, too often are content to accept this very mediocre mode of displaying their abilities, at very little expense of thought or study, and neglect far worthier objects of ambition, and the rewards held out by a distant and permanent fame. I know that half my young gentlemen acquaintance here would reply, that they must live in the mean time: and it is a real and deep evil, arising from the institutions of this country, that every man must toil from day to day for his daily bread; and in this degrading and spirit-loading care, all other nobler desires are smothered. It is a great national misfortune. This delightful virtue of neatness is carried almost to an inconvenient pitch by the worthy Philadelphians: the town, every now and then, appears to be in a perfect frenzy of cleanliness; and of a Saturday morning, early, the streets are really impassable, except to a good swimmer. "Cleanliness," says the old saw, "is near to godliness." Philadelphia must be very near heaven. The final result of our very unfortunate dealings with this gentleman is, that our earnings (and they are not lightly come by), to the amount of near three thousand dollars, are at this moment in the hands of a trustee, and Heaven and a New England court of justice will decide whether they are ever to come into ours. When we arrived in America, we brought letters of introduction to several persons in New York: many were civil enough to call upon us: we were invited out to sundry parties, and were introduced into what is there called the first society. I do not wish to enter into any description of it, but will only say that I was most disagreeably astonished; and had it been my fate to have passed through the country as rapidly as most travellers do, I should have carried away a very unfavourable impression of the _best_ society of New York. Fortunately, however, for me, my visits were repeated, and my stay prolonged; and, in the course of time, I became acquainted with many individuals whose manners and acquirements were of a high order, and from whose intercourse I derived the greatest gratification. But they generally did me the favour to visit me; and I still could not imagine how it happened that I never met them at the parties to which I was invited, and in the circles where I visited. I soon discovered that they formed a society among themselves, where all those qualities which I had looked for among the self-styled _best_ were to be found. When I name Miss Sedgwick, Halleck, Irving, Bryant, Paulding, and some of less fame, but whose acquirements rendered their companionship delightful indeed, amongst whom I felt proud and happy to find several of my own name, it will no longer appear singular that they should feel too well satisfied with the resources of their own society, either to mingle in that of the vulgar _fashionables_, or seek with avidity the acquaintance of every stranger that arrives in New York. It is not to be wondered at that foreigners have spoken as they have of what is termed fashionable society here, or have condemned, with unqualified censure, the manners and tone prevailing in it. Their condemnations are true and just as regards what they see; nor, perhaps, would they be much inclined to moderate them when they found that persons possessing every quality that can render intercourse between rational creatures desirable were held in light esteem, and neglected, as either bores, blues, or dowdies, by those so infinitely their inferiors in every worthy accomplishment. The same separation, or, if any thing, a still stronger one, subsists in Philadelphia between the self-styled fashionables and the really good society. The distinction there is really of a nature perfectly ludicrous. A friend of mine was describing to me a family whose manners were unexceptionable and whose mental accomplishments were of a high order: upon my expressing some surprise that I had never met with them, my informant replied, "Oh, no, they are not received by the Chestnut Street _set_." If I were called upon to define that society in New York and Philadelphia which ranks (by right of self-arrogation) as first and best, I should say it is a purely dancing society, where a fiddle is indispensable to keep its members awake; and where their brains and tongues seem, by common consent, to feel that they had much better give up the care of mutual entertainment to the feet of the parties assembled; and they judge well. Now, I beg leave clearly to be understood, there is another, and a far more desirable circle; but it is not the one into which strangers find their way generally. To an Englishman, this _fashionable_ society presents, indeed, a pitiful sample of lofty pretensions without adequate foundation. Here is a constant endeavour to imitate those states of European society which have for their basis the feudal spirit of the early ages, and which are rendered venerable by their rank, powerful by their wealth, and refined, and in some degree respectable, by great and general mental cultivation. Of Boston, I have not spoken. The society there is of an infinitely superior order. A very general degree of information, and a much greater simplicity of manners, render it infinitely more agreeable. But of that hereafter. The beautiful villas on the banks of the Schuylkill are all either utterly deserted and half ruinous, or let out by the proprietors to tavern-keepers. The reason assigned for this is, that during that season of the year when it would be most desirable to reside there, the fever and ague takes possession of the place, and effectually banishes all other occupants. This very extraordinary and capricious malady is as uncertain in its residence, as unwelcome where it does fix its abode. The courses of some of the rivers, and even whole tracts of country away from the vicinity of the water, have been desolated by it: from these it has passed away entirely, and removed itself to other districts, before remarkably healthy. Sometimes it visits particular places at intervals of one or two seasons; sometimes it attaches itself to one side of a river, and leaves the inhabitants of the other in the enjoyment of perfect health; in short, it is quite as unaccountable in its proceedings as a fine lady. Many causes have been assigned as its origin; which, however, have varied in credibility at almost every new appearance of the malady. The enormous quantity of decaying vegetation with which the autumn woods are strewn, year after year, till it absolutely forms a second soil; the dam lately erected by the water-works, and which, intercepting the tide, causes occasional stagnation; the unwholesome action of water lodging in hollows in the rocks; are all reasons which have been given to me when I have enquired about this terrible nuisance along the banks of the Schuylkill: but there is another, and one which appeared so obvious to me, that when first I saw it, I felt much inclined to attribute the fever and ague to that, and to that alone. I allude to a foul and stagnant ditch, lying between the tow-path and the grounds of these country houses, of nearly a mile in length, and of considerable width. When I saw the sun pouring its intense light down into this muddy pool, covered with thick and unwholesome incrustations, I could not help remarking that this alone was quite sufficient to breed a malaria in the whole neighbourhood; and that if the gentlemen proprietors of the lands along this part of the river would drain this very poisonous-looking repository for bull-frogs, their dwellings would, in all probability, be free from fever and ague. This beautiful younger world appears to me to have received the portion of the beloved younger son--the "coat of many colours." This country is in one respect blessed above all others, and above all others deserving of blessing. There are no poor--I say there are none, there _need_ be none; none here need lift up the despairing voice of hopeless and helpless want towards that Heaven which hears when men will not. No father here need work away his body's health, and his spirit's strength, in unavailing labour, from day to day, and from year to year, bowed down by the cruel curse his fellows lay upon him. No mother need wish, in the bitterness of her heart, that the children of her breast had died before they exhausted that nourishment which was the only one her misery could feel assured would not fail them. None need be born to vice, for none are condemned to abject poverty. Oh, it makes the heart sick to think of all the horrible anguish that has been suffered by thousands and thousands of those wretched creatures, whose want begets a host of moral evils fearful to contemplate; whose existence begins in poverty, struggles on through care and toil, and heart-grinding burdens, and ends in destitution, in sickness,--alas! too often in crime and infamy. Thrice blessed is this country, for no such crying evil exists in its bosom; no such moral reproach, no such political rottenness. Not only is the eye never offended with those piteous sights of human suffering, which make one's heart bleed, and whose number appals one's imagination in the thronged thoroughfares of the European cities; but the mind reposes with delight in the certainty that not one human creature is here doomed to suffer and to weep through life; not one immortal soul is thrown into jeopardy by the combined temptations of its own misery, and the heartless selfishness of those who pass it by without holding out so much as a finger to save it. If we have any faith in the excellence of mercy and benevolence, we must believe that this alone will secure the blessing of Providence on this country. Throughout all the northern states, and particularly those of New England, the Unitarian form of faith prevails very extensively. It appears to me admirably suited to the spiritual necessities of this portion of the Americans. They are a reasoning, not an imaginative, race; moreover, they are a hard-working, not an idle, one. It therefore suits their necessities, as well as their character, to have a religious creed divested at once of mysteries at which the rational mind excepts; and of long and laborious ceremonies, which too often engross the time without the attention of the worshipper. They are poor, too, comparatively speaking; and, were they so inclined, could little afford, either the splendid pageantry which the Romish priesthood require, or the less glaring but not less expensive revenues which the Episcopalian clergy enjoy. Their form of religion is a simple one, a short one, and a cheap one. Without attempting to discuss its excellence in the abstract, it certainly appears to me to be as much fitted for this people, as the marvellous legends and magnificent shows of the Romish church were to the early European nations. The church in America is not, as with us, made a mere means of living: there are no rich benefices, or over-swelled bishoprics, to be hoped for, by the man who devotes himself to the service of God's altar: the pecuniary remuneration of the clergy depends upon the generosity of their congregations; and, for the most part, a sincere love of his vocation must be the American minister's reward, as it was his original instigation to the work. Whatever progress phrenology may have made in the convictions of people in general, it is much to be hoped that the physiological principles to which, in the development of their system, its professors constantly advert, may find favour even with those who are not prepared to admit the truth of the new philosophy of the human intellect. While we have bodies as well as souls, we must take care of the health of our bodies, if we wish our souls to be healthy. I have heard many people mention the intimate union of spirit and matter, displayed in the existence of a human being, as highly degrading to the former; however that may be, it is certain that we by no means show our value for the one, by neglecting and maltreating the other: and that if, instead of lamenting over the unworthiness of the soul's fleshy partner, we were to improve and correct and endeavour to ennoble it, we should do the wiser thing. Upon a well-regulated digestion and circulation, and a healthful nervous system, many of our virtues depend, much of our happiness; and it is almost as impossible to possess a healthy and vigorous mind in a diseased and debilitated body, as it is unusual to see a strong and healthful body allied to an intemperate and ill-governed spirit. We have some value for the casket which contains our jewel: then should we not have some for that casket to which the jewel absolutely adheres, and which cannot suffer injury itself without communicating it to that which it contains? Exercise, regularity, and moderation in diet and sleep, well-proportioned and varied studies and recreations,--these are none of them subjects of trivial importance to the wise. Much of our ease and contentedness depends upon them; much of our well-being, much of our _well-doing_. I think it has not been my good fortune, in more than six instances, during my residence in this country, to find ladies "at home" in the morning. The first reason for this is, the total impossibility of having a housekeeper; the American servants steadfastly refusing to obey _two_ mistresses; the being subservient to any appears, indeed, a dreadful hardship to them. Of course this compels the lady of the house to enter into all those minute daily details, which with us devolve upon the superintendent servant, and she is thus condemned, at least for some part of the morning, to the store-room or the kitchen. In consequence of this, her toilet is seldom completed until about to take her morning promenade; and I have been a good deal surprised, more than once, at being told, when I called, that "the ladies were dressing, but would be down immediately." This is French; the disorderly slouching about half the morning in a careless undress being, unluckily, quite compatible with that exquisite niceness of appearance with which the Parisian ladies edify their streets so much, and their homes so little. Another very disagreeable result of this arrangement is, that when you are admitted into a house in the morning, the rooms appear as if they never were used: there are no books lying about, no work-tables covered with evidences of constant use, and if there is a piano, it is generally closed; the whole giving one an uninhabited feel that is extremely uncomfortable. As to a morning lounge in a lady's boudoir, or a gentleman's library, the thing's unheard of; to be sure there are no loungers, where every man is tied to a counting-house from morning till night; and therefore no occasion for those very pleasant sanctums devoted to gossiping, political, literary, and scandalous. I am sure there is no town in Europe where my father could fix his residence for a week, without being immediately found out by most of the residents of any literary acquirements, or knowledge of matters relating to art; I am sure that neither in France, Italy, or Germany, could he take up his abode in any city, without immediately being sought by those best worth knowing in it. I confess it surprised me, therefore, when I found that, during a month's residence in Philadelphia, scarcely a creature came near us, and but one house was hospitably opened to us; as regards myself, I have no inclination whatever to speak upon the subject but it gave me something like a feeling of contempt, not only for the charities, but for the good taste of the Philadelphians, when I found them careless and indifferent towards one whose name alone is a passport into every refined and cultivated society in Europe. Every where else, in America, our reception was very different; and I can only attribute the want of courtesy we met with in Philadelphia to the greater prevalence of that very small spirit of dignity which is always afraid of committing itself. The familiar appellation by which the democracy designate their favourite, General Jackson. The hickory wood is the tallest and the toughest possible, and by no means a bad type of some of the President's physical and moral attributes. Hickory poles, as they are called, are erected before most of the taverns frequented by the thorough-going Jacksonites; and they are sometimes surmounted by the glorious "Cap of Liberty," that much abused symbol, which has presided over so many scenes of political frenzy. In beholding this fine young giant of a world, with all its magnificent capabilities for greatness, I think every Englishman must feel unmingled regret at the unjust and unwise course of policy which alienated such a child from the parent government. But, at the same time, it is impossible to avoid seeing that some other course must, ere long, have led to the same result, even if England had pursued a more maternal course of conduct towards America. No one, beholding this enormous country, stretching from ocean to ocean, watered with ten thousand glorious rivers, combining every variety of climate and soil, therefore, every variety of produce and population; possessing within itself every resource that other nations are forced either to buy abroad, or to create substitutes for at home; no one, seeing the internal wealth of America, the abundant fertility of the earth's surface, the riches heaped below it, the unparalleled facilities for the intercourse of men, and the interchange of their possessions throughout its vast extent, can for an instant indulge the thought that such a country was ever destined to be an appendage to any other in the world, or that any chain of circumstances whatever could have long maintained in dependence a people furnished with every means of freedom and greatness. But far from regretting that America has thrown off her allegiance, and regarding her as a rebellious subject and irreverent child, England will surely, ere long, learn to look upon this country as the inheritor of her glory; the younger England, destined to perpetuate the language, the memory, the virtues, of the noble land from which she is descended. Loving and honouring my country as I do, I cannot look upon America with any feeling of hostility. I not only hear the voice of England in the language of this people, but I recognise in all their best qualities, their industry, their honesty, their sturdy independence of spirit, the very witnesses of their origin--they are English; no other people in the world would have licked us as they did; nor any other people in the world built up, upon the ground they won, so sound, and strong, and fair an edifice. With regard to what I have said in the beginning of this note, of the many reasons which combined to render this country independent of all others, I think they in some measure tell against the probability of its long remaining at unity with itself. Such numerous and clashing interests; such strong and opposite individuality of character between the northern and southern states; above all, such enormous extent of country; seem rationally to present many points of insecurity, many probabilities of separations and breakings asunder; but all this lies far on, and I leave it to those who have good eyes for a distance. I think the pretension to pre-eminence, in the various societies of North America, is founded on these grounds. In Boston, a greater degree of mental cultivation; in New York, the possession of wealth; and a lady, of whom I enquired the other day what constituted the superiority of the _aristocracy_ in Philadelphia, replied,--"Why, birth, to be sure." Virginia and Carolina, indeed, long prided themselves upon their old family names, which were once backed by large possessions; and for many years the southern gentlemen might not improperly be termed the aristocracy of America; but the estates of those who embraced the king's cause during the rebellion were confiscated; and the annulling the laws of entail and primogeniture, and the parcelling out of property under the republican form of government, have gradually destroyed the fortunes of most of the old southern families. Still, they hold fast to the spirit of their former superiority, and from this circumstance, and the possession of slaves, which exempts them from the drudgery of earning their livelihood, they are a much less mercantile race of men than those of the northern states; generally better informed, and infinitely more polished in their manners. The few southerners with whom I have become acquainted resemble Europeans both in their accomplishments, and the quiet and reserve of their manners. On my remarking, one day, to a Philadelphia gentleman, whose general cultivation keeps pace with his political and financial talents, how singular the contrast was between the levelling spirit of this government, and the separating and dividing spirit of American society, he replied, that, if his many vocations allowed him time, he should like to write a novel, illustrating the curious struggle which exists throughout this country between its political and its social institutions. The anomaly is, indeed, striking. Democracy governs the land; whilst, throughout society, a contrary tendency shows itself, wherever it can obtain the very smallest opportunity. It is unfortunate for America that its aristocracy must, of necessity, be always one of wealth. Of course the captain is undisputed master of the boat, and any disorders, quarrels, etc., which may arise, are settled by his authority. Any passenger, guilty of misbehaviour, is either confined or sent immediately on shore, no matter how far from his intended destination. I once saw very summary justice performed on a troublesome fellow who was disturbing the whole society on board one of the North River steamers. He was put into the small boat with the captain and a stout-looking sailor, and very comfortably deposited on some rafts which were floating along shore, about twenty miles below West Point, whither he was bound. The quantity of one's companions in these conveyances is not more objectionable than their quality sometimes. As they are the only vehicles, and the fares charged are extremely low, it follows, necessarily, that all classes and sorts of people congregate in them, from the ragged Irish emigrant and the boorish back-countryman, to the gentleman of the senate, the supreme court, and the president himself. The manners of the young girls of America appear singularly free to foreigners; and until they become better acquainted with the causes which produce so unrestrained a deportment, they are liable to take disadvantageous and mistaken impressions with regard to them. The term which I should say applied best to the tone and carriage of American girls from ten to eighteen, is hoydenish; laughing, giggling, romping, flirting, screaming at the top of their voices, running in and out of shops, and spending a very considerable portion of their time in lounging about in the streets. In Philadelphia and Boston, almost all the young ladies attend classes or day schools; and in the latter place I never went out, morning, noon, or evening, that I did not meet, in some of the streets round the Tremont House, a whole bevy of young school girls, who were my very particular friends, but who, under pretext of going to, or returning from, school, appeared to me to be always laughing, and talking, and running about in the public thoroughfares; a system of education which we should think by no means desirable. The entire liberty which the majority of young ladies are allowed to assume, at an age when in England they would be under strict nursery discipline, appears very extraordinary; they not only walk alone in the streets, but go out into society, where they take a determined and leading part, without either mother, aunt, or chaperon of any sort; custom, which renders such an appendage necessary with us, entirely dispenses with it here; and though the reason of this is obvious enough in the narrow circles of these small towns, where every body knows every body, the manners of the young ladies do not derive any additional charm from the perfect self-possession which they thus acquire. Shyness appears to me to be a quality utterly unknown to either man, woman, or child in America. The girls, from the reasons above stated, and the boys, from being absolutely thrown into the world, and made men of business before they are sixteen, are alike deficient in any thing like diffidence; and I really have been all but disconcerted at the perfect assurance with which I have been addressed, upon any and every subject, by little men and women just half way through their teens. That very common character amongst us, a shy man, is not to be met with in these latitudes. An American conversing on board one of their steam-boats is immediately surrounded, particularly if his conversation, though strictly directed to one individual, is of a political nature; in an instant a ring of spectators is formed round him, and whereas an Englishman would become silent at the very first appearance of a listener, an American, far from seeming abashed at this "audience," continues his discourse, which thus assumes the nature of an harangue, with perfect equanimity, and feels no annoyance whatever at having unfolded his private opinions of men and matters to a circle of forty or fifty people whom they could in no possible way concern. Speechifying is a very favourite species of exhibition with the men here, by the by; and, besides being self possessed, they are all remarkably fluent. Really eloquent men are just as rare in this country as in any other, but the "gift of the gab" appears to me more widely disseminated amongst Americans than any other people in the world. Many things go to make good speakers of them: great acuteness, and sound common sense, sufficient general knowledge, and great knowledge of the world, an intense interest in every political measure, no matter how trivial in itself, no sense of bashfulness, and a great readiness of expression. But to return to the manners of the young American girls:--It is Rousseau, I think, who says, "Dans un pays o les moeurs sont pures, les filles seront faciles, et les femmes svres." This applies particularly well to the carriage of the American women. When remarking to a gentleman once the difference between the manners of my own young countrywomen and his, I expressed my disapprobation of the education which led to such a result, he replied, "You forget the comparatively pure state of morals in our country, which admits of this degree of freedom in our young women, without its rendering them liable to insult or misconstruction." This is true, and it is also most true, for I have seen repeated instances of it, that those very girls, whose manners have been most displeasing to my European ways of feeling, whom I should have pointed out as romps and flirts pre-eminent, not only make excellent wives, but from the very moment of their marriage seem to forsake society, and devote themselves exclusively to household duties and retirement. But that I have seen and known of repeated instances of this, I could scarcely have believed it, but it is the case; and a young American lady, speaking upon this subject, said to me, "We enjoy ourselves before marriage; but in your country, girls marry to obtain a greater degree of freedom, and indulge in the pleasures and dissipations of society." She was not, I think, greatly mistaken. For the origin of this curious name, see that interesting and veracious work, the history of Knickerbocker. Famous as the scene of Ichabod Crane's exploits. If the results answer to the means employed, the pupils of West Point ought to turn out accomplished scholars in every branch of human learning, as well as ripe soldiers and skilful engineers. Their course of education consists of almost every study within the range of man's capacity; and as the school discipline is unusually strict, their hours of labour many, and of recreation very few, they should he able to boast of many "wise men" among their number. However it is here, I imagine, as elsewhere; where studies are pursued laboriously for a length of time, variety becomes a necessary relief to the mental powers, and so far the multiplicity of objects of acquirement may be excused; but surely, to combine in the education of one youth the elements of half a dozen sciences, each one of which would wear out a man's life in the full understanding of it, is not the best system of instruction. However, it is the one now universally adopted, and tends to give more smatterers in science than scientific men to the world. The military part of their education is, however, what the pupils of West Point are most exercised in, and, so far as one so ignorant of such matters as myself can judge, I should imagine the system adopted calculated to make expert artillerymen and engineers of them. Their deportment, and the way they went through their evolutions on the parade, did not appear to me very steady--there was a want of correctness of carriage, generally, and of absolute precision of movement, which one accustomed to the manoeuvring of regular troops detects immediately. There are several large pieces of ordnance kept in the gun-room, some of which were taken from the English; and I remarked a pretty little brass cannon, which almost looked plaything, which bore the broad arrow and the name of Saratoga. It might be a curious and interesting matter of research to determine under what combination of external circumstances the spirit of poetry flourishes most vigorously, and good poets have most abounded. The extremes of poverty and luxury seem alike inimical to its well-being; yet the latter far more so than the former, for most poets have been poor; some so poor, as to enrich the world, while they themselves received so little return from its favour as miserably to perish of want. Again, the level tenor of a life alike removed from want and superfluity should seem too devoid of interest or excitement to make a good poet. Long-lived competency is more favourable to the even temper of philosophy than the fiery nature of one who must know the storms of passion, and all the fiercer elements of which the acting and suffering soul of man is made. Again, it would be curious to know, if it might be ascertained, whether those men whose inspirations have been aided alone by the contemplation of the inanimate beauties of nature, and the phenomena of their own minds and the minds and lives of their fellows, have been as great poets as those who, besides these sources of inspiration, fed the power within them with the knowledge of great writers and poets of other countries and times. Another question, which it would be interesting to determine, would be, under what species of government poets have been most numerous, and most honoured. As our modern exploders of old fallacies have not yet made up their minds whether such a person as Homer ever lived, it is rather a vain labour of imagination to determine whether this great king of all poets flourished under a monarchy or in a republic; certain it is, he sang of kings and princes in right lordly style: be that as it may, we have rather better authority for believing that the Greek dramatists, those masters, and sometime models, of their peculiar branch of the art, flourished under republican governments; but with them, I think, ends the list of republican poets of great and universal fame. Rome had no poets till she had emperors. Italy was, it is true, divided into so called republics dining the golden age of her literature; but they were so in name alone; the spirit of equality had long departed from the soil, and they were merely prouder and more arbitrary aristocracies than have ever existed under any monarchy in the world. If ever France can be said to have had a poetical age, it was during the magnificent reign of Louis the Fourteenth, that pageant that prepared the bloodiest tragedy in the pages of history. England offers the only exception that I have advanced, namely, that the republican form of government is inimical to poetry. For it was during the short and shameful period of fanatical republicanism, which blots her annals, that the glory and the might of Milton rose upon the world; he is the only great poet who ever flourished under a republic; and he was rather the poet of heaven and hell, than of earth: his subjects are either biblical or mythological; and however his stern and just spirit might advocate the cause of equality and universal freedom in the more arid regions of political and theological controversies, in his noblest and greatest capacity he has sung of angels and archangels, the starry hierarchy of heaven, where some of the blessed wore a brighter glory than their fellows, where some were inferior to other celestial powers, and where God was King supreme over all. In heaven, Milton dreamt of no republics, nor in hell either. It is quite curious to observe how utterly unknown a thing a _really_ well-broken horse is in this country. I have just bought one who was highly approved and recommended by several gentlemen considered here as learned in all these matters; and of my own knowledge, I might hunt the Union over and not find a better. As far as the make, and beauty, and disposition of the animal goes, there is no fault to find; but this _lady's horse_ never had a woman on its back, had never been ridden but with a snaffle bit, and, until she came into my possession, did not know how to canter with her right foot. When the Americans say a horse is well broken, they mean it is not wild. The various censures which English travellers have bestowed upon various things in this country are constantly, both in private conversation and the public prints, attributed to _English jealousy_. I confess I have been amused at the charge, and can only sincerely hope I may not draw down so awful an accusation on myself, when I declare, that, during a three years' residence in America, almost every article, of every description, which I have had made, has been ill made, and obliged to undergo manifold alterations. I don't pretend to account for the fact, for fear the obvious reasons might appear to find their source in that very small jealousy of which England is guilty towards this country, in the person of her journal-scribbling travellers; but to the fact there is and can be no denial. When you carry your complaint of careless work, or want of punctuality, to the tradespeople whom you employ here, the unfortunate principals really excite your sympathy by their helpless situation with regard to the free republicans whom they employ, and who, with the utter contempt of subordination which the cheapness of living, and the spirit of license (not liberty) produce among the lower classes here, come when they please, depart when they like, work when they choose, and, if you remonstrate, take themselves off to new masters, secure of employment in your neighbour's house, if your mode of employing them displeases them. Manifold are the lamentations I have heard, of "Oh, ma'am, this is not like the old country; we can't get journeymen to work here, ma'am; we're obliged to do just as our workmen please, ma'am." One poor French dress-maker appeared to me on the verge of distraction, from the utter impossibility of keeping in any order a tribe of sewing girls, whom she seemed to pay on purpose that they might drive her crazy; and my shoemaker assured me the other day, with a most woful face, that it was election week, and that if I was as suffering for shoes as a lady could be, I could not have mine till the political cobblers in his employ had settled the "business of the nation" to their satisfaction. Patience is the only remedy. Whoever lives here, that has ever lived elsewhere, should come provided with it. This description may amaze sundry narrow-minded and prejudiced dwellers in those unhappy countries where standing armies are among the standing abuses, and the miserable stipendiaries of hoary tyrannies go about wearing the livery of their trade with a slavish unanimity becoming alone to hirelings and salaried butchers base. But whoever should imagine that the members of an enlightened and free republic must, because they condescend to become soldiers, for the pure love of their country, behave as soldiers also, would draw foolish conclusions. Discipline, order, a peculiar carriage, a particular dress, obedience to superiors, and observance of rules, these, indeed, may all be the attributes of such miserable creatures as are content to receive wages for their blood. But for free Americans! why should they not walk crooked, in the defence of their country, if they don't like to walk straight? why should they not carry their guns on their shoulders instead of upright, if they please? and why, since they chose to defend their lives and liberties by becoming volunteers, should they not stick any feathers, of any colours that they like in their caps--black, white, or green? Is the noble occupation of war incompatible with the still nobler possession of freedom? Heaven forbid! and long live the American militia, to prove their entire compatibility. The militia has fallen into disrepute of late in New York and Philadelphia. Trainings and parades take too much of the precious time, whose minutes are cents, and hours dollars. The only instance of humour, national or individual, which I have witnessed since my abode in this country, was a sham parade got up in mimicry of the real one here described. In this grotesque procession, every man was dressed in the most absurd costume he could devise: banners with the most ludicrous inscriptions, wooden swords of gigantic dimensions, and children's twopenny guns, were some of their paraphernalia; and, in the absurd and monstrous objects the men had made of themselves, with false whiskers, beards, and noses, I recognised some of the broad, coarse, powerful humour of the lower orders in the old country. But it is the _only_ symptom of such a spirit which I have met with. The absolute absence of imagination, of course, is also the absolute absence of humour. An American can no more understand a fanciful jest than a poetical idea; and in society and conversation the strictest matter of fact prevails: for any thing departing from it, though but an inch, either towards the sublime or the ridiculous, becomes immediately incomprehensible to your auditors, who will stare at your enthusiasm, and sincerely ask you the meaning of your jest. A place devoted to political meetings, chiefly, however, I believe, those termed here "democratic." It is the property of perfection alone to rivet the admiration of absolute ignorance; whence I conclude that the river craft, hovering from morning till night along the waters that surround New York, must be the most beautiful in the world. Their lightness, grace, swiftness, and strength, appear to me unequalled. Such beautiful vessels I never saw; more beautiful ones I cannot imagine. In Canova's group of Cupid and Psyche, the young god is smiling like a god; but the eager parted lips with which Psyche is seeking his, wear no such expression--you might fancy they trembled, but they certainly do not smile. The ladies of New York, and all lady-like people there, have agreed to call this eddy _Hurl_-gate. The superior propriety of this name is not to be questioned; for hell is a shocking bad word, no doubt: but, being infinitely more appropriate to the place and its qualities, I have ventured to mention it. The ladies here have an extreme aversion to being called _women_, I don't exactly understand why. Their idea is, that that term designates only the lower or less-refined classes of female human-kind. This is a mistake which I wonder they should fall into; for in all countries in the world, queens, duchesses, and countesses, are called women; but in this one alone, washerwomen, sempstresses, and housemaids are entitled _ladies_; so that, in fact, here woman is by far the more desirable appellation of the two. The established succession of figures which form the _one_ French quadrille, in executing which the ball-rooms of Paris and London have spent so many satisfactory hours ever since it was invented, by no means satisfies the Americans. At the close of almost every quadrille, a _fancy_ figure is danced, which, depending entirely upon the directions of the leader of the band, is a very curious medley of all the rest. The company not being gifted with second sight, and of course not knowing at every step what next they may be called upon to do, go fearfully sliding along, looking at each other, asking, "how does it go on?" some _en avant deux-ing_, while others are starting off _en promenade_, the whole being a complete confusion of purpose and execution. The common French figure, the Trnis, is very seldom danced at all,--they do not appear to know it. This terrible nuisance has often made me wish for that "still small voice," which has become the universal tone of good society in England, and which, however inconvenient sometimes from its utter inaudibility, at least did not send one to bed with one's ears ringing and one's head splitting. I was in a society of about twelve ladies, the other evening, and the _uproar_ was so excessive that I felt my eyebrows contracting from a sense of perfect bewilderment, occasioned by the noise all round me, and more than once was obliged to request the person with whom I was conversing to stop till the _noise_ had subsided a little, that I might be able to distinguish what he was saying to me. Were the women here large and masculine in their appearance, this defect would appear less strange, though not less disagreeable; but they are singularly delicate and feminine in their style of beauty; and the noise they make strikes one with surprise as something monstrous and unnatural--like mice roaring. They frequently talk four or five at a time, and directly across each other; neither of which proceedings is exactly according to my ideas of good breeding. Unromantic as these birds are in their external appearance, there is something poetical in their love of sunny skies. Many attempts have been made to rear them in England; but I am told that they will not sing there, or indeed any where but where the sun shines as it does here. In speaking of the bad and disagreeable results of the political institutions of this country, as exhibited in the feelings and manners of the lower orders, I have every where dwelt upon those which, from my own disposition, and the opinions and sentiments in which I have been educated, have struck me most, and most unfavourably. But I should be sorry to be so blind, or so prejudiced, as not to perceive the great moral goods which arise from the very same source, and display themselves strongly in the same class of people: _honesty_ and _truth_, excellences so great, that the most bigoted worshipper of the forms and divisions of societies in the old world would surely be ashamed to weigh them in the balance against the deference there paid to rank or riches, or even the real and very agreeable qualities of civility and courtesy. Americans (I speak now of the _people_, not the gentlemen and ladies, _they_ are neither so honest and true, nor quite so rude,) are indeed independent. Every man that will work a little can live extremely well. No portion of the country is yet overstocked with followers of trades, not even the Atlantic cities. Living is cheap--labour is dear. To conclude, as the Irish woman said, "It is a darling country for poor folks; for if I work three days in the week, can't I lie in my bed the other three if I plase?" This being so, all dealings between handicraftsmen and those who employ them; tradesmen and those who buy of them; servants and those who are served by them; are conducted upon the most entire system of reciprocity of advantage; indeed, if any thing, the obligation appears always to lie on that party which, with us, is generally supposed to confer it. Thus,--my shoemaker, a person with whom I have now dealt largely for two years, said to me the other day, upon my remonstrating about being obliged regularly to come to his shop and unboot, whenever I order a new pair of walking-boots--"Well, ma'am, we can keep your measure certainly, _to oblige you_, but, as a rule, we don't do it for any of our customers, it's so very troublesome." These people are, then, as I said before, most truly independent; they are therefore never servile, and but seldom civil, but for the very same reason they do not rob you; they do not need to do so; neither do they lie to you, for your favour or displeasure in no way affects their interest. If you entrust to their care materials of any sort to make up, you are sure, no matter how long you may leave them in their hands, or how entirely you may have forgotten the quantity originally given, to have every inch of them returned to you: and you are also generally sure that any question you ask, with regard to the quality of what you purchase, will be answered without any endeavour to impose upon you, or palm upon your ignorance that which is worse for that which is better. Two circumstances, which have come under my own knowledge, will serve to illustrate the spirit of the people; and they are good illustrations to quote, for similar circumstances are of daily and hourly occurrence. A farmer who is in the habit of calling at our house on his way to market, with eggs, poultry, etc., being questioned as to whether the eggs were new-laid, replied, without an instant's hesitation, "No, not the _very_ fresh ones, _we eat all those ourselves_." On returning home late from the play one night, I could not find my slippers any where, and, after some useless searching, performed my toilet for bed without them. The next morning, on enquiring of my maid if she knew any thing of them, she replied with perfect equanimity, that having walked home through the snow, and got her feet extremely wet, she had put them on, and forgotten to restore them to their place before my return. Nobody, I think, will doubt that an English farmer, and an English servant, might sell stale eggs, and use their mistress's slippers; but I think it highly doubtful, that either fact would have been acknowledged with such perfect honesty any where but here. As to the servants here, except the blacks, and the poor Irish bread-hunters who come over, there are scarcely any to be found: the very name seems repugnant to an American; and however high their wages, and easy their situation, they seem hardly to be able to endure the bitterness of subserviency and subordination. The bridges here are all made of wood, and for the most part covered. Those which are so are by no means unpicturesque objects. The one-arched bridge at Fair Mount is particularly light and graceful in its appearance: at a little distance, it looks like a scarf, rounded by the wind, flung over the river. The time of locking of doors at gentlemen's dinner parties, and drinking till the company dropped one by one under the table, has, with the equally disgusting habit of spitting about the floors, long vanished in England before a more rational hospitality, and a better understanding of the very first rule of good breeding, not to do that which is to offend others. Spirituous liquors are the fashion alone among the numerous frequenters of the gin-palaces of Holborn, and St. Giles's; even the old-fashioned favourites of our country gentlemen, port, madeira, and sherry, are found too heavy and strongly-flavoured for the palate of our modern exquisites,--and the fragrant and delicate wines of Burgundy, Bordeaux, the Rhine, and its tributary streams, are the wines now preferred before all others, by persons of refined taste and moderate indulgence. This in itself is a great improvement. The gross desire of excitement by a quantity of powerful stimulants has given place to a temperate enjoyment of things, in themselves certainly the most excellent in the world. Wine-drinking in England is become altogether a species of _dilettante_ taste, instead of the disgusting excess it used to be; it is indulged in with extreme moderation,--and so much have all coarse and thick-blooded drinks gone out of fashion, that even liqueurs are very seldom taken after coffee but by foreigners. Our gentlemen have learnt to consider hard and gross drinking ungentlemanly. I wish I could say the same of American gentlemen. The quantity and the quality of their potations are as destructive of every thing like refinement of palate, as detrimental to their health. Americans are, generally speaking, the very worst judges of wine in the world, always excepting madeira, which they have in great perfection, and is the only wine of which they are tolerable judges. One reason of their ignorance upon this subject is the extremely indifferent quality of the foreign wines imported here, and a still more powerful reason, is the total loss of all niceness of taste consequent upon their continual swallowing of mint julaps, gin slings, brandy cocktails, and a thousand strong messes which they take _even before breakfast_, and indifferently at all hours of the day,--a practice as gross in taste as injurious to health. Burgundy I have never seen at an American table: I believe it will not stand the sea voyage. Claret they have now in very great perfection, thanks to Mr. ----, who has introduced it among them, and deserves to be considered a public benefactor therefor. Hock is, generally speaking, utterly undrinkable, and champagne (the only foreign wine of which they seem generally fond), though some of a good quality is occasionally presented to you, is for the most part a very nauseous compound, in which sugar is the only perceptible flavour. Although the American gentlemen do not indeed lock the doors upon their guests, they have two habits equally fatal to their sobriety, of which I have heard several Englishmen complain bitterly. The one is mixing their wines in a most unorthodox manner, equally distressing to the palate and the stomach; _i. e._ giving you to drink by turns, after dinner, claret, madeira, sherry, hock, champagne, all and each of which you are pressed to take as specimens of excellence in their various ways, forming altogether a vinous hotch-potch, which confounds alike the taste and the brain. The second ordeal, to which the sobriety of Englishmen dining out here is exposed, is at the close of all these various libations,--which of course last some time,--an instantaneous removal from the dinner to the supper table, where strong _whisky punch_ effectually _finishes_ the wits of their guests, and sends them home to repent for two days the excess of a few hours. Perhaps, when the real meaning of the word _society_ becomes better understood in this country, absurd display and disgusting intemperance will no more be resorted to as its necessary accompaniments; but of course the _real_ material of which society should be formed must increase a little first. I have been told that the women in this country drink. I never saw but one circumstance which would lead me to believe the assertion. At the baths in New York, one day, I saw the girl who was waiting upon the rooms carry mint julaps (a preparation of mint, sugar, and brandy,) into three of them. I was much surprised, and asked her if this was a piece of service she often performed for the ladies who visited the baths? She said, "Yes, pretty often." Bar-rooms are annexed to every species of public building,--in the theatres, in the hotels, in the bath-houses, on board the steam-boats,--and there are even temporary buildings which serve this purpose erected at certain distances along the rail-roads. Though the gentlemen drink more than any other _gentlemen_, the lower orders here are more temperate than with us. The appearance of a drunken man in the streets is comparatively rare here; and certainly Sunday is not, as with us, the appointed day for this disgusting vice among the lower classes here. Fortunately, most fortunately, it is not with them as with us, the only day on which the poor have rest, or drunkenness the only substitute they can find for every other necessary or comfort of life. Our poor are indeed intemperate. Alas! that vice of theirs will surely be visited on others; for it is the offspring of their misery. The effects of habitual intemperance in this country are lamentably visible in many young men of respectable stations and easy circumstances; and it is by no means uncommon to hear of young gentlemen--persons who rank as such here--destroying their health, their faculties, and eventually their lives, at a most untimely age, by this debasing habit. There is a species of home religion, so to speak, which is kept alive by the gathering together of families at stated periods of joy and festivity, which has a far deeper moral than most people imagine. The merry-making at Christmas, the watching out the old year, and in the new, the royalty of Twelfth-night, the keeping of birth-days, and anniversaries of weddings, are things which, to the worldly-wise in these wise times, may savour of childishness or superstition; but they tend to promote and keep alive some of the sweetest charities and kindliest sympathies of our poor nature. While we are yet children, these days are set in golden letters in the calendar,--long looked forward to,--enjoyed with unmixed delight,--the peculiar seasons of new frocks, new books, new toys, drinking of healths, bestowing of blessings and wishes by kindred and parents, and being brought into the notice of our elders, and, as children used to think in the dark ages, therefore their betters. To the older portion of the community, such times were times of many mingled emotions, all, all of a softening if not of so exhilarating a nature. The cares, the toils, of the world had become their portion,--some little of its coldness, its selfishness, and sad guardedness had crept upon them,--distance and various interests, and the weary works of life had engrossed their thoughts, and turned their hearts and their feet from the dear household paths, and the early fellowship of home; but at these seasons the world was in its turn pushed aside for a moment,--the old thresholds were crossed by those who had ceased to dwell in the house of their birth,--kindred and friends met again, as in the early days of childhood and youth, under the same roof-tree,--the nursery revel, and the school-day jubilee, was recalled to their thoughts by the joyful voices and faces of a new generation,--the blessed and holy influences of home flowed back into their souls, at such a time, by a thousand channels,--the heart was warmed with the kind old love and fellowship,--face brightened to kindred face, and hand grasped the hand where the same blood was flowing, and all the evil deeds of time seemed for a while retrieved. These were holy and happy seasons. Oh, England! dear, dear England! this sweet sacred worship, next to that of God the highest and purest, was long cherished in your soil, where the word home was surely more hallowed than any other save heaven. Far, far off be the day when a cold and narrow spirit shall quench in you these dear and good human yearnings, and make the consecrated earth around our door-stones as barren as the wide wilderness of life in strange lands. In this country I have been mournfully struck with the absence of every thing like this home-clinging. Here are comparatively no observances of tides and times. Christmas-day is no religious day, and hardly a holiday with them. New-year's day is perhaps a little, but only a little, more so. For Twelfth-day, it is unknown; and the household private festivals of birth-days are almost universally passed by unsevered from the rest of the toilsome days devoted to the curse of labour. Indeed, the young American leaves so soon the shelter of his home, the world so early becomes to him a home, that the happy and powerful influences and associations of that word to him are hardly known. Sent forth to earn his existence at the very opening time of mind and heart, like a young green-house plant just budding that should be thrust out into the colder air, the blight of worldliness, of coldness, and of care, drive in the coming blossoms; and if the tree lives, half its loveliness and half its _usefulness_ are shorn from it. These are some of the consequences of the universal doom of Americans, to labour for their bread: there are others and better ones. This happened on board a _western_ steam-boat, I beg to observe, if it happened at all. The evanescent nature of his triumph, however an actor may deplore it, is in fact but an instance of the broad moral justice by which all things are so evenly balanced. If he can hope for no fame beyond mere mention, when once his own generation passes away, at least his power, and his glory, and his reign is in his own person, and during his own life. There is scarcely to be conceived a popularity for the moment more intoxicating than that of a great actor in his day, so much of it becomes mixed up with the individual himself. The poet, the painter, and the sculptor, enchant us through their works; and, with very very few exceptions, their works, and not their very persons, are the objects of admiration and applause: it is to their minds we are beholden; and though a certain degree of curiosity and popularity necessarily wait even upon their bodily presence, it is faint compared with that which is bestowed upon the actor; and for good reasons--he is himself his work. His voice, his eyes, his gesture, are his art, and admiration of it cannot be separated from admiration for him. This renders the ephemeral glory which he earns so vivid, and in some measure may be supposed to compensate for its short duration. The great of the earth, whose fame has arisen like the shining of the sun, have often toiled through their whole lives in comparative obscurity, through the narrow and dark paths of existence. Their reward was never given to their hands here,--it is but just glory should be lasting. Another house has been opened at Baltimore within the last year, which, though unfinished at the time of our lodging there, promised to be extremely comfortable. The building adjoined, and indeed formed, part of the Exchange; the vestibule of which is the only very beautiful piece of architecture I have seen here. It is very beautiful. This very romantic piece of gallantry (serenading) is very common in this country. How it comes to be so I can't quite make out; for it is not at all of a piece with the national manners or tone of feeling. It's very agreeable, though, and is an anomaly worth cultivating. I have heard it several times asserted, that Catholicism was gaining ground extremely in this country. Surely the Preacher sayeth well, "The thing which has been, it is that which shall be, and there is nothing new beneath the sun." Is it not a marvellous thing to think of, that that mighty tree which has overshadowed the whole of the Christian world, under whose branches all the European empires were cradled, and which we have with our own eyes beheld droop, and fade, and totter, as it does at this moment in the old soils,--is it not strange to think of the seed being carried, and the roots taking hold in this new earth, perhaps to send up another such giant shadow over this hemisphere? Its growth here appears to me almost impossible; for if ever there were two things more opposite in their nature than all other things, they are the spirit of the Roman Catholic religion and the spirit of the American people. It's true, that of the thousands who take refuge from poverty upon this plenteous land, the greater number bring with them that creed, but the very air they inhale here presently gives them a political faith, so utterly incompatible with the spirit of subjection, that I shall think the Catholic priesthood here workers of miracles, to retain any thing like the influence over their minds which they possessed in those countries, where all creeds, political and polemical, have but one watch-word--faith and submission. In most European countries, the seat of government and residence of the ruling powers and foreign ambassadors is the capital, and generally the largest, most populous, most wealthy, and most influential city of the kingdom--the place of all others to which travellers would resort to become acquainted with its political, literary, and social spirit. In this, however, as in most other respects, this country differs from all others; and the spirit of independence, which renders every state a republic within itself, gives to each its own capital, the superior merits of which are advocated with no little pride and jealousy by the natives of the state to which it belongs. Thus, New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, and New Orleans, are all capitals; each of them fulfilling in a much higher degree than Washington the foreigner's idea of that word. Indeed I cannot conceive any thing that would more amaze an European than to be transported into Washington, and told he was in the metropolis of the United States; nor, indeed, could any thing give him a less just idea of the curious political construction, and widely-scattered resources, of the country. Washington, in fact, is to America what Downing and Parliament Streets are to London--a congregation of government offices; where political characters, secretaries, clerks, place-holders, and place-seekers, most do congregate. As the winter resort of all the leading political men of the Union, Washington presents many attractions in point of society. Their wives and daughters, frequently the reigning beauties of their respective states and towns, generally accompany them thither during the session; and this congregating of people from all parts of the country, together with the foreign ministers residing there, and the travellers drawn thither from mere curiosity, combine to give more variety to the gaieties of Washington than those of any of the other cities in the Union can boast. The Capitol is a favourite lounge in the morning; and the American lady-politicians are just as zealous in their respective parties as our own. I don't know, however, that they would much relish listening to a long debate from that dismal hole, the lantern of the House of Commons, where one may listen, indeed and even just manage to see, but where to _be seen_ is an utter impossibility; neither do I think that many of them would stand for four long hours, as Miss ---- and poor Lady ---- did, during Brougham's famous reform bill speech. The love of the sublime and beautiful, those aspirations after something more refined, more exalted and perfect, than this world affords, in short, that spiritual propensity classed in its many and various manifestations by the phrenologists under the title of _ideality_, will have some vent, and, under circumstances most adverse to its existence, will creep out at some channel or another, and vindicate human nature by flourishing in some shape over the narrowest, homeliest, lowliest, and least favourable guise it may put on. Certainly America is nothe country of large idealities,--it is the very reverse; if I may create a bump, it is the country of large realities, _i. e._ large acquisitiveness, large causality, large caution, and small veneration and wonder. Nathless some ideality must needs be, and is, and it creeps out in Christian names. I have heard sempstresses called Amanda and Emmeline, and we had a housemaid in New England called Cynthia. Our village carpenter is named Rudolph; and if the spirit of the people appears to me unimaginative and unpoetical, I take great comfort in their fine names. I am neither sufficiently interested nor sufficiently well informed in the politics of this country to have conceived any opinion of General Jackson, beyond that which the floating discussions of the day might suggest. Of his merits as a statesman I am totally incapable of judging, or of the effect which his peculiar policy is calculated to have upon the country. When first I came here I heard and saw that he was the man of the people. In the dispute with South Carolina, his firmness and decision of character struck me a good deal; and when, in consequence of the temporary distress occasioned by his alteration of the currency, a universal howl was for a short time raised against him, which he withstood without a moment's flinching, I honoured him greatly. Of his measures I know nothing; but firmness, determination, decision, I respect above all things: and if the old General is, as they say, very obstinate, why obstinacy is so far more estimable than weakness, _especially_ in a ruler, that I think he sins on the right side of the question. The national vanity of the French, and pride and prejudice of the English are proverbial: it is, however, fortunate for both that they carry these qualities to such an excess, that it is a matter of extreme difficulty to shake the good opinion which they entertain of themselves. Thus, foreigners may visit England, as Frenchmen have done, and swear that the sun never shines there, and that the only ripe fruit the country affords is roasted apples. John Bull, nothing wroth, wraps himself still closer in his own dear self-approval, and, in the plenitude of self-content, drinks his brown stout, and basks by gas-light. On his part, he goes over to Paris, votes the whole _beau pays de France_ horrible, because he can't get port wine to drink, or boiled potatoes to eat; in spite of which, Monsieur does not attempt to turn him out of his country, but eats his ragouts, and drinks his chablis, and shrugs his shoulders at the savage islander, from the seventh heaven of self-satisfaction. It were much to be desired that Americans had a little _more_ national vanity, or national pride. Such an unhappily sensitive community surely never existed in this world; and the vengeance with which they visit people for saying they don't admire or like them, would be really terrible if the said people were but as mortally afraid of abuse as they seem to be. I would not advise either Mrs. Trollope, Basil Hall, or Captain Hamilton, ever to set their feet upon this ground again, unless they are ambitious of being stoned to death. I live myself in daily expectation of martyrdom; and as for any body attempting to earn a livelihood here who has but as much as said he prefers the country where he was born to this, he would stand a much better chance of thriving if he were to begin business after confinement in the penitentiary. This unhappy species of irritability is carried to such a degree here, that if you express an unfavourable opinion of any thing, the people are absolutely astonished at your temerity. I remember, to my no little amusement, a lady saying to me once, "I hear you are going to abuse us dreadfully; of course, you'll wait till you go back to England, and then shower it down upon us finely." I assured her I was not in the least afraid of staying where I was, and saying what I thought at the same time. I have been assured, I know not how truly, that the whole of this affair originated with an _Englishman_. This piece of information was given me by a person who said he knew such to be the fact, and also knew the man. It may not be amiss here to say one word with regard to the _gratitude_ which audiences in some parts of the world claim from actors, and about which I have lately heard a most alarming outcry. Do actors generally exercise their profession to please themselves and gratify their own especial delight in self-exhibition? Is that profession in its highest walks one of small physical exertion and fatigue (I say nothing of mental exertion), and in its lower paths is it one of much gain, glory, or ease? Do audiences, on the other hand, use to come in crowds to play-houses to see indifferent performers? and when there, do they, out of pure charity and good-will, bestow their applause as well as their money upon tiresome performances? I will answer these points as far as regards myself, and therein express the gratitude which I feel towards the frequenters of theatres. I individually disliked my profession, and had neither pride nor pleasure in the exercise of it. I exercised it as a matter of necessity, to earn my bread,--and verily it was in the sweat of my brow. The parts which fell to my lot were of a most laborious nature, and occasioned sometimes violent mental excitement, always immense physical exertion, and sometimes both. In those humbler walks of my profession, from whose wearisomeness I was exempted by my sudden favour with the public, I have seen, though not known, the most painful drudgery,--the most constant fatigue,--the most sad contrast between real cares and feigned merriments,--the most anxious, penurious, and laborious existence imaginable. For the part of my questions which regarded the audiences, I have only to say, that I never knew, saw, heard, or read of any set of people who went to a play-house to see what they did not like; this being the case, it never occurred to me that our houses were full but as a necessary consequence of our own attraction, or that we were applauded but as the result of our own exertions. I was glad the houses were full, because I was earning my livelihood, and wanted the money; and I was glad the people applauded us, because it is pleasant to please, and human vanity will find some sweetness in praise, even when reason weighs its worth most justly. Thus I cannot say that in general I had any great _gratitude_ towards my audiences. Once or twice, however, that feeling was excited between me and my witnesses, and the circumstance of which I have spoken in my journal was one of the instances. But this was a different matter altogether. I was no longer before an audience labouring for their approbation as an actress. I was dragged before so many judges in my own person, to answer for words spoken in private conversation. The same clapping of hands, with which they rewarded my exertions in my profession, was the only method by which they could intimate the "not guilty," which was their judgment upon the appeal that had been made to them against me; but with this difference, that I never felt _obliged_ to them, or _grateful_ for their applause before, and did feel obliged and grateful for their verdict then. Now, as regards the benefit-nights of actors, I do not observe that even on these occasions much _gratitude_ is owing to the people who attend them; for I know, and so does every member of the profession, that the oldest and best actor on any stage,--the one who for a series of years has appeared before audiences to whom his private respectability and worth were well known,--the longest-established _favourite_ of the public (as they are termed), will assuredly have empty houses on his benefit-nights, if, trusting to the feeling of that public, to whom he owes so much gratitude, he failed to secure the assistance of whatever star (tragedian, pantomimist, or dancing dog, it matters not which), happens to be the newest object of attraction. I speak all this more particularly as regards this country, for it is here that I have heard most of this species of cant. Gratitude is a good word and an excellent thing, and neither in speaking or acting should it be misapplied. In the aristocratical lands over the water, this nonsense about patronage might surprise one less; but in America it seems strange there should be any mistake about a simple matter of traffic--'tis nothing in life else. We give our health, our strength, our leisure, and our pleasure, for your money and your applause, neither of which do we beg or borrow from you. This being the case, where lies the obligation, and where the gratitude? As to the pretty speeches which actors make when called from behind the curtain, they always appeared to me very much of the same order as advertisements in newspapers--A. D. returns his grateful acknowledgments to the public for their liberal support, etc., etc. That calling performers on after a play is a foreign, not an English, custom, and, to my mind, one more honoured in the breach than in the observance. Extraordinary occasions might warrant extraordinary demonstrations; but it is a pity to make that a common ceremony, which, rarely granted, would be a gratifying testimony of feeling, and excite rational _gratitude_ in those on whom it was conferred. I would recommend Retsch's etchings of Macbeth to the study of all representatives of the witches: there is great sublimity and fearfulness in their figures and attitudes. By the by, in looking over those unique etchings (I mean _all_ those he has executed), the colossal genius of Shakspeare is brought more fully in its vastness to our conviction; for the genius of the artist,--which has fallen no whit behind the first work of one of the first men of this age,--sinks in utter impotence under the task of illustrating Shakspeare. The wonder, and the beauty, and the pity of Faust, are as strong and true in the outlines of Retsch, as in the words of Goethe--the drawings equal the poem; 'tis the highest praise they can receive: and it is only when we turn from these perfect works, to contemplate his outlines of Shakspeare, that we feel, by the force of comparison, how unutterably beyond all other conceptions are those of Shakspeare. Retsch's etchings, both of Hamlet and Macbeth, are, compared with his German illustrations, failures. Hamlet is the better of the two; but he seems to have quailed under the other in utter inability--Macbeth himself falls far short of all that he should be made to express; and as to Lady Macbeth, Retsch seems to have thought he had better not meddle with her. I wonder how long it will be before men begin to consider the rational education of the mothers of their children a matter of some little moment. How much longer are we to lead existences burdensome to ourselves and useless to others, under the influence of every species of ill training that can be imagined? How much longer are the physical evils under which our nature labours to be increased by effeminate, slothful, careless, unwholesome habits? How much longer are our minds, naturally weakened by the action of a highly sensitive nervous construction, to be abandoned, or rather devoted, to studies the least likely to strengthen and ennoble them, and render them independent, in some measure, of the infirmities of our bodies? How much longer are our imaginations and feelings to be the only portions of our spiritual nature on which culture is bestowed? Surely it were generous in those who are our earthly disposers to do something to raise us from the state of half-improvement in which we are suffered to linger. If our capacities are inferior to those of men,--which I believe, as much as I believe our bodies to be inferior to theirs in strength, swiftness, and endurance,--let us not be overwhelmed with all the additional shackles that foolish and vain bringing up can add; let us at least be made as strong in body and as wise in mind as we can, instead of being devoted to spiritual, mental, and physical weakness, far beyond that which we inherit from nature. Was it not Mme. de Svign who said, with such truth and bitter satire, "Mme de ---- s'est jete dans la dvotion, c'est--dire, elle a chang d'amant"? The cleanliness of the table furniture, and the neatness of the attendants, is one of the most essential comforts of these boats. The linen, and knives and forks, etc. at our meals, were remarkably clean and bright. On more than one occasion, too, being rather late for the public breakfast, we have been indulged with a small separate table in the quiet recess at the end of the great eating and sleeping cabin,--a favour only to be appreciated by people unaccustomed to any ordinaries, much less steam-boat dinner-tables with sometimes near two hundred guests. On board all the other boats, the only alternative is to have what you eat brought to you into the ladies' cabin. To those who have once breathed the atmosphere of a "ladies' cabin," it will be difficult to imagine how such an alternative should not be productive of an amazing saving of the boat's provisions. My astonishment was unfeigned, when, upon an after inspection, I found this very lofty gateway was constructed of _painted wood_. What! a cheat, a sham thing at the threshold of the grave!--surely, thereabouts pretences should have an end. Sham magnificence, too, is sad; an iron railing, or a wooden paling, would, to my mind, have been a thousand times better than this _mock granite_. Let us hope that this is merely a temporary entrance,--there is _real_ granite enough to be had at Quincy; and if the living can't afford it, why the dead will never miss it,--and any thing would be better than an imitation gateway. The spirit of man of its own dignity ennobles whatever it devotes itself to. The most trivial actions may become almost heroical from the motive which prompts them, and the most absurd ceremonies of superstition, sincerely practised, may excite pity, but neither contempt nor ridicule. If such a thing as an enthusiastic shoemaker were to be met with, there is no doubt but his feeling of his craft would elevate it into something approximating an art, and his work would bear witness to his veneration for it. At the time when the stage was in its highest perfection, its members had _all_ a great love and admiration for their profession; many of them were men of education and mental accomplishment, and brought to bear upon their labour all the intellectual stores which they possessed. They respected their own work, and it was respectable; they thought acting capable of elevation, of refinement, of utility, and their faith in it invested it with dignity. Of this class were all my father's family. _One_ reason why the stage and every thing belonging to it has fallen to so low an ebb now, is because actors have ceased to care for their profession themselves,--they are no longer artists,--acting is no longer an art. Besides the advantage of possessing the very prettiest collection of actresses I ever saw, the theatre at Boston has decidedly the best company I have played with _any where_ out of London. Some of the old leaven alluded to in the last note exists amongst the ladies and gentlemen of the Tremont theatre: they do not seem to despise their work, and it is, generally speaking, well done therefore. Our pieces were all remarkably well got up there; and the green-room is both respectable and agreeable. To the English traveller, around whose heart the love of country and the influences of early association may yet cling, New England appears to me, of all the portions of the United States which I have visited, most likely to afford gratification; and the _Yankees_,--properly so called,--the Americans with whom he will find, and towards whom he will feel, most sympathy. They do us the honour to call themselves _purely English_ in their origin; they alone, of the whole population of the United States, undoubtedly were so; and in the abundant witness which their whole character, country, and institutions bear to that fact, I feel an additional reason to be proud of England,--of Old England, for these are her children,--this race of men, as a race incomparably superior to the other inhabitants of this country. In conversing with New Englandmen, in spite of any passing temporary bitterness, any political difference, or painful reference to past times of enmity, I have always been struck with the admiring and, in some measure, tender feeling with which England, as the mother-country, was named. Nor is it possible to travel through the New England states, and not perceive, indeed, a spirit (however modified by different circumstances and institutions) yet most truly English in its origin. The exterior of the houses,--their extreme neatness and cleanliness,--the careful cultivation of the land,--the tasteful and ornamental arrangement of the ground immediately surrounding the dwellings, that most English of all manifestations,--above all, the church spires pointing towards heaven, from the bosom of every village,--recalled most forcibly to my mind my own England, and presented images of order, of industry, of taste, and religious feeling, nowhere so exhibited in any other part of the Union. I visited Boston several times, and mixed in society there, the tone of which appeared to me far higher than that of any I found elsewhere. A general degree of cultivation exists among its members, which renders their intercourse desirable and delightful. Nor is this superior degree of education confined to Boston: the zeal and the judgment with which it is being propagated throughout that part of the country is a noble national characteristic. A small circumstance is a good illustration of the advance which knowledge has made in these states. Travelling by land from New Haven to Boston, at one of the very smallest places where we stopped to change horses, I got out of the carriage to reconnoitre our surroundings. The town (if town it could be called) did not appear to contain much more than fifty houses: amongst the most prominent of these, however, was a bookseller's shop. The first volumes I took up on the counter were Spurzheim's volume on education, and Dr. Abercrombie's works on the intellectual and moral faculties, I saw more pictures, more sculptures, and more books in private houses in Boston than I have seen any where else. I could name more men of marked talent that I met with there than any where else. Its charitable and literary institutions are upon a liberal scale, and enlightened principles. Among the New Englanders I have seen more honour and reverence of parents, and more witnesses of a high religions faith, than among any other Americans with whom I have lived and conversed. There are, I believe, no primroses, no wild thyme, and no heather, that grow naturally in this country. I do not remember to have seen either wild honeysuckle or clematis, both of which are so abundant with us. The laurestinus, rosemary, southernwood, and monthly roses, all of which are so common in England, growing out of doors all the year round, are kept in hot-houses during the winter, even as far south as Philadelphia. The common garden flowers--roses, pinks--are far less abundant and less fragrant than with us. Sweet peas, and mignonette, are comparatively scarce; serynga, and laburnum, I have never seen at all: but so little care is bestowed upon ornamental gardening, that I do not know whether this dearth of flowers is the fault of the climate, or the consequence of the utter neglect in which flower-gardens are held here. Lacking the nightingale and the lark, I think they want the two perfect specimens of natural music. Among the many signs of the total decay of dramatic mind and spirit in this age, a frequent piece of criticism passed upon modern plays appears to me a very conclusive one--"Such a play is exceedingly full of dramatic effect, but there's no poetry in it." "Such a playwright understands situation and character, but really, reading his plays, you find no poetry in them." I have heard this bright comment passed repeatedly upon the best dramatic composition of modern times,--the Hunchback; a play whose immense popularity every where is the surest and truest warrant of its excellence,--a play containing the most dramatic situations, the most pathetic and comic effects, and by far the finest conception of a female character of any play since the old golden dramatic age. I do not hesitate to say that this is a most false piece of criticism, induced alone by a want of perception of what are the requisites in a dramatic poem, and a total absence of true dramatic feeling. First, in the ingredients of a fine play, comes the fiction,--the invention; to this belong those same much-sneered-at stage effects, and theatrical situations; next comes the skilful and powerful delineation of individual character; _lastly_ comes the item of a poetical diction. _One_ alone has united these in their utmost perfection; for such another the world may look in vain. But I think the play-goers of Shakspeare's time would have been tolerably satisfied with a most interesting fiction, and a true and vigorous delineation of character; and let me ask, is there no poetry besides that of words?--is there no poetry in the fable of a play--none in the faithful portraying of a human being's mind and passions? As for all pretty speeches, lengthy descriptions, abstract disquisitions,--unless things placed in the mouth of characters to whose identity such mental manifestations belong,--they are inadmissible in a right good play, and should by all means be confined to the pages of those anomalous modern growths, plays for the closet. In all our elder dramatists, Shakspeare alone excepted, the main quality of a play, the story, is often defective to an excess, not only in morality, but in probability and consistency; and the same defects exist in the delineation of character in many of their noblest plays. Of the mental process which the pupils at this highland school undergo, I can say nothing, being totally unacquainted with the system of education adopted there; but a more advantageous residence for the cultivation of health, strength (for physical education), or the development of all those pious and poetical tendings of the human soul and mind which are fostered and ripened by the sublime influence of natural beauty and grandeur, cannot be imagined. The gentlemen at the head of this establishment are New Englanders. The observations I made upon the superior intelligence and cultivation of the natives of that part of the United States have been borne out constantly by the fact, that there is hardly any establishment in the States I have visited, in any way connected with education, or the dissemination of information, which is not conducted partially or entirely by New Englanders. Troy! and that Troy has a Mount Ida! The names of places in this country are truly astonishing. Troy, Syracuse, and Rome are pretty well in this way; but the state of New York alone, I believe, boasts of a Manlius, a Homer, a Virgil, an Ovid, a Cicero, and a Socrates, whose second appearance in this world is in all the glories of flaming red bricks, new boards, and white paint. Did Pythagoras admit of men becoming towns as well as beasts? I forget. These beautiful little delicate wild flowers seem to love the dewy neighbourhood of waterfalls: it is only at Trenton, and the Chaudire in Canada, that I remember to have seen them at all in this country. Some poor Scotch peasants, about to emigrate to Canada, took away with them some roots of the "bonny blooming heather," in hopes of making this beloved adorner of their native mountains the cheerer of their exile in the wild lands to which they were going. The heather, however, refused to grow in the Canadian soil, and the poor emigrants had not the melancholy pleasure of seeing its sweet familiar bloom round their new dwellings. The person who told me this said that the circumstance had been related to him by Walter Scott, whose sympathy with the disappointment of these poor children of the romantic heatherland betrayed itself even in tears. When I visited the beautiful falls of the Chaudire, our party was enlivened, and the picturesque effect of the scene much heightened, by some of the Highland band belonging to the regiment quartered in Quebec. I could not help wondering, as I gathered the blue bells, which grew profusely round the cataract, whether these poor fellows looked upon the emblem of their distant country with any of the feelings which I lent them; and the whole brought back to my mind the heather that would not gladden the exile's eyes in a foreign soil, and the compassion of Scott for his countrymen's disappointment. I do not know that the sense of danger has ever been so vivid in my mind as while walking along this narrow edge of eternity. Nothing around Niagara appeared to me half so full of peril as the path along the Trenton Falls, although I have hung over the brink of the last rock that vibrates on the very verge of that great abyss, and explored, entirely alone, the path under the huge watery curtain that falls from Table Rock. I do not know whether the mention of the late accidents at Trenton affected my imagination, and caused me to exaggerate the danger; but it appeared to me almost miraculous that every body passing along those narrow, dripping, uneven ledges did not share the fate of the two unfortunate persons I have mentioned. Thank God! a firebrand, which shall throw all England into confusion and anarchy, is not, indeed, of easy make. Italy, crushed under the heel of her northern rulers; or France, blown about with every breath of opinion, may rush into revolutions for a ballad or an opera. The misery of the one, and the miserable excitability of the other nation, render it easy to rouse, in the former, the spirit of retribution; in the latter, the desire of change. But Englishmen, who are neither slaves nor weathercocks, are less easily stirred to wild excesses of political excitement. Let who will steer, the old ship is too well ballasted to sink. Whoever rules, whatever party may be at the head of her government, England is sound at heart: there is a broad foundation of moral good and intelligence in the nation, which will not be shaken or upturned, let factions erect or pull down what temporary trophies they please, to their own short-lived and selfish triumphs. The file of the mechanic may still gnaw angrily at the iron crown of the aristocracy; interests of classes may still jar, parties wrangle, and the eternal warfare between those who climb, and those who stand upon the topmost round of the ladder, may still be waged. And so be it: in none of these is there fear or danger; but rather a wholesome action of power against power; a checking, winnowing, purifying, and preserving influence. Moral evil, vice--and mental evil, ignorance--are the roots of decay: surely England is far from the day of her downfalling. I have had occasion to observe, in a former note, that foreigners travelling through this country see only the least desirable society of the various cities they visit. There is another class of Americans, whom they rarely, if ever, become acquainted with at all; by far the most interesting, in my opinion, which the country affords. I speak of those families thickly scattered through all the states, from whose original settlers many of them are immediately descended; who reside upon lands purchased by their grandfathers in the early days of the _British colonies_; and who, living remote from the Atlantic cities, and the more travelled routes between them, are free from all the peculiarities which displease a European in the societies of the towns, and possess traits of originality in their manners, minds, and mode of life, infinitely refreshing to the observer, wearied of the eternal sameness which pervades the human congregations of the Old World. In mixing with the commercial fashionables and exclusives of the American cities, the European is at once amused and annoyed with the assumption of a social tone and spirit at variance with the whole _make_ of the country. He is told that he is in the best society of the place, and with perfect justice condemns this best society as, probably, the worst he ever saw: a society assuming the airs of separate rank where no rank at all exists, attempting to copy the luxury and splendour of the residents of European capitals, without possessing one tithe of their wealth to excuse the extravagance, or enable them to succeed in the endeavour, and presenting the most incongruous and displeasing mixture possible of pretension, ignorance, affectation, and vulgarity. I have before said, that even in the cities there are circles of a very different order; but yet freer from all these drawbacks is the society formed by the class of people of whom I have spoken above, and whom I should designate as the gentry of this country; using that term in the best sense in which it was once used in England. Among this large but widely-scattered portion of the community, should the European traveller's good fortune lead him, he will find hospitality without ostentation, purity of morals independent of the dread of opinion, intellectual cultivation unmixed with the desire of display, great simplicity of life and ignorance of the world, originality of mind naturally arising from independence and solitude, and _the best_, because the most natural, manners. Of such, I know, from the lower shores of the Chesapeake, to the half savage territory around Michilimakinack. This spot is famous as the scene of the last exploit of a singular individual, known by the name of Sam Patch. An Irishman by birth, I believe, he came over to this country to earn his bread, and hit upon a very ingenious method of doing so, _i. e._ jumping for large wagers down cataracts; which daring feat he performed successfully more than once. But, like the Sicilian diver of old, poor Sam Patch took one plunge too many; and, after leaping with impunity from the rocks immediately below the Falls of Niagara, he found his death in the Genesee--attempting the leap, it is said, while in a state of intoxication. Although nobody, I believe, ever travelled a hundred miles by land in this country without being overturned, the drivers deserve infinite credit for the _rare occurrence_ of accidents. How they can carry a coach at all over some of their roads is miraculous; and high praise is due to them both for care and skill, that any body, in any part of this country, ever arrives at the end of a land journey at all. I do not ever remember to have seen six-in-hand driving except in New England, where it is common, and where the stage-drivers are great adepts in their mystery. +-------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ ******* This file should be named 51932-8.txt or 51932-8.zip ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: be renamed. 1.D. 1.E.2. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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The included with this eBook or online at Distributed Proofreaders COMPOSITION-RHETORIC BY STRATTON D. BROOKS _Superintendent of Schools, Boston, Mass._ AND MARIETTA HUBBARD _Formerly English Department, High School La Salle, Illinois_ * * * * * NEW YORK - CINCINNATI - CHICAGO AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 1905 STRATTON D. BROOKS. Entered at Stationers' Hall, London. * * * * * Brooks's Rhet. W.P. 10 To MARCIA STUART BROOKS Whose teaching first demonstrated to the authors that composition could become a delight and pleasure, this book is dedicated...... PREFACE The aim of this book is not to produce critical readers of literature, nor to prepare the pupil to answer questions about rhetorical theory, but to enable every pupil to express in writing, freely, clearly, and forcibly, whatever he may find within him worthy of expression. Three considerations of fundamental importance underlie the plan of the book:-- First, improvement in the performance of an act comes from the repetition of that act accompanied by a conscious effort to omit the imperfections of the former attempt. Therefore, the writing of a new theme in which, the pupil attempts to avoid the error which occurred in his former theme is of much greater educational value than is the copying of the old theme for the purpose of correcting the errors in it. To copy the old theme is to correct a result, to write a new theme correctly is to improve a process; and it is this improvement of process that is the real aim of composition teaching. Second, the logical arrangement of material should be subordinated to the needs of the pupils. A theoretical discussion of the four forms of discourse would require that each be completely treated in one place. Such a treatment would ignore the fact that a high school pupil has daily need to use each of the four forms of discourse, and that some assistance in each should be given him as early in his course as possible. The book, therefore, gives in Part 1 the elements of description, narration, exposition, and argument, and reserves for Part II a more complete treatment of each. In each part the effort has been made to adapt the material presented to the maturity and power of thought of the pupil. Third, expression cannot be compelled; it must be coaxed. Only under favorable conditions can we hope to secure that reaction of intellect and emotion which renders possible a full expression of self. One of the most important of these favorable conditions is that the pupil shall write something he wishes to write, for an audience which wishes to hear it. The authors have, therefore, suggested subjects for themes in which high school pupils are interested and about which they will wish to write. It is hoped that the work will be so conducted by the teacher that every theme will be read aloud before the class. It is essential that the criticism of a theme so read shall, in the main, be complimentary, pointing out and emphasizing those things which the pupil has done well; and that destructive criticism be largely impersonal and be directed toward a single definite point. Only thus may we avoid personal embarrassment to the pupil, give him confidence in himself, and assure him of a sympathetic audience--conditions essential to the effective teaching of composition. The plan of the book is as follows:-- 1. Part 1 provides a series of themes covering description, narration, exposition, and argument. The purpose is to give the pupil that inspiration and that confidence in himself which come from the frequent repetition of an act. 2. Each theme differs from the preceding usually by a single point, and the teaching effort should be confined to that point. Only a false standard of accuracy demands that every error be corrected every time it appears. Such a course loses sight of the main point in a multiplicity of details, renders instruction ineffective by scattering effort, produces hopeless confusion in the mind of the pupil, and robs composition of that inspiration without which it cannot succeed. In composition, as in other things, it is better to do but one thing at a time. 3. Accompanying the written themes is a series of exercises, each designed to emphasize the point presented in the text, but more especially intended to provide for frequent drills in oral composition. 4. Throughout the first four chapters the paragraph is the unit of composition, but for the sake of added interest some themes of greater length have been included. Chapter V, on the Whole Composition, serves as a review and summary of the methods of paragraph development, shows how to make the transition from one paragraph to another, and discusses the more important rhetorical principles underlying the union of paragraphs into a coherent and unified whole. 5. The training furnished by Part 1 should result in giving to the pupil some fluency of expression, some confidence in his ability to make known to others that which he thinks and feels, and some power to determine that the theme he writes, however rough-hewn and unshapely it may be, yet in its major outlines follows closely the thought that is within his mind. If the training has failed to give the pupil this power, it will be of little advantage to him to have mastered some of the minor matters of technique, or to have learned how to improve his phrasing, polish his sentences, and distribute his commas. 6. Part II provides a series of themes covering the same ground as Part I, but the treatment of these themes is more complete and the material is adapted to the increased maturity and thought power of the pupils. By means of references the pupils are directed to all former treatments of the topics they are studying. 7. Part II discusses some topics usually treated in college courses in rhetoric. These have been included for three reasons: first, because comparatively few high school pupils go to college; second, because the increased amount of time now given to composition enables the high school to cover a wider field than formerly; and third, because such topics can be studied with profit by pupils in the upper years of the high school course. 8. It is not intended that the text shall be recited. Its purpose is to furnish a basis for discussion between teacher and pupils before the pupils attempt to write. The real test of the pupils' mastery of a principle discussed in the text will be their ability to put it into practice. Any judgment of the success or failure of the book should be based upon the quality of the themes which the pupils write. Criticisms and suggestions will be welcomed from those who use the book. The authors wish to express their obligation for advice and assistance to Professor Edward Fulton, Department of Rhetoric, University of Illinois; Messrs. Gilbert S. Blakely and H. E. Foster, Instructors in English, Morris High School, New York; Miss Elizabeth Richardson, Girls' High School, Boston; Miss Katherine H. Shute, Boston Normal School; Miss E. Marguerite Strauchon, Kansas City High School. The selections from Hawthorne, Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes, Whittier, Warner, Burroughs, Howells, and Trowbridge are used by permission of and by special arrangement with Hoaghton, Mifflin, and Company, publishers of their works. Grateful acknowledgment is made to Harper and Brothers; The Century Company; Doubleday, Page, and Company; and Charles Scribner's Sons for permission to use the selections to which their names are attached: to the publishers of the _Forum, Century, Atlantic Monthly, McClure's, Harper's, Scribner's_, and the _Outlook_ for permission to use extracts: and to Scott, Foresman, and Company; D. Appleton and Company; Henry Holt and Company; G. P. Putnam's Sons; Thomas Y. Crowell and Company; and Benjamin H. Sanborn and Company for permission to use copyrighted material. CONTENTS PART I 1. Expression of Ideas arising from Experience II. Expression of Ideas furnished by Imagination III. Expression of Ideas acquired through Language IV. The Purpose of Expression V. The Whole Composition VI. Letter Writing VII. Poetry PART II VIII. Description IX. Narration X. Exposition XI. Argument Appendix I. Elements of Form II. Review of Grammar III. Figures of Speech IV. The Rhetorical Features of the Sentence V. List of Synonyms VI. List of Words for Exercise in Word Usage Index PART 1 1. EXPRESSION OF IDEAS ARISING FROM EXPERIENCE +1. Pleasure in Expressing Ideas.+--Though we all enjoy talking, we cannot write so easily as we talk, nor with the same pleasure. We seldom talk about topics in which we are not interested and concerning which we know little or nothing, but we often have such topics assigned to us as subjects for compositions. Under such conditions it is no wonder that there is little pleasure in writing. The ideas that we express orally are those with which we are familiar and in which we are interested, and we tell them because we wish to tell them to some one who is likewise interested and who desires to hear what we have to say. Such expression of ideas is enjoyed by all. If we but choose to express the same kinds of ideas and for the same reason, there is an equal or even greater pleasure to be derived from the expression of ideas in writing. The purpose of this book is to show you how to express ideas _clearly, effectively_, and _with pleasure_. +2. Sources of Ideas.+--We must have ideas before we can express them. There are three sources from which ideas arise. We may gain them from experience; we may recombine them into new forms by the imagination; and we may receive them from others through the medium of language, either by conversation or by reading. Every day we add to our knowledge through our senses. We see and hear and do, and thus, through experience, acquire ideas about things. By far the greater part of expression has to do with ideas that have originated in this way. The first chapter in this book is concerned with the expression of ideas gained through experience. We may, however, think about things that have not actually occurred. We may allow our minds to picture a football game that we have not seen, or to plan a story about a boy who never existed. Nearly every one takes pleasure in such an exercise of the imagination. The second chapter has to do with the expression of ideas of this kind. We also add to our knowledge through the medium of language. Through conversation and reading we learn what others think, and it is often of value to restate these ideas. The expression of ideas so acquired is treated in the third chapter. +3. Advantages of Expressing Ideas Gained from Experience.+--Young people sometimes find difficulty in writing because they "have nothing to say." Such a reason will not hold in regard to ideas gained from experience. Every one has a multitude of experiences every day, and wishes to tell about some of them. Many of the things which happen to you or to your friends, especially some which occur outside of the regular routine of school work, are interesting and worth telling about. Thus experience furnishes an abundance of material suitable for composition purposes, and this material is of the best because the ideas are _sure to be your own_. The first requisite of successful composition is to have thoughts of your own. The expressing of ideas that are not your own is mere copy work, and seldom worth doing. Ideas acquired through experience are not only interesting and your own, but they are likely to be _clear_ and _definite_. You know what you do and what you see; or, if you do not, the effort to express your ideas so that they will be clear to others will make you observe closely for yourself. Still another advantage comes from the fact that your experiences are not presented to you through the medium of language. When experience furnishes the ideas, you are left free to choose for yourself the words that best set forth what you wish to tell. The things of your experience are the things with which you are most familiar, and therefore the words that best apply to them are those which you most often use and whose meanings are best known to you. Because experience supplies an abundance of interesting, clear, and definite ideas, which are your own and which may be expressed in familiar language, it furnishes better material for training in expression than does either imagination or reading. +4. Essentials of Expression.+--The proper expression of ideas depends upon the observance of two essentials: first, you should say what you mean; and second, you should say it clearly. Without these, what you say may be not only valueless, but positively misleading. If you wish your hearer to understand what occurred at a certain time and place, you must first of all know yourself exactly what did occur. Then you must express it in language that shall make him understand it as clearly as you do. You will learn much about clearness, later; but even now you can tell whether you know what is meant by each sentence which you hear or read. It is not so easy to tell whether what you say will convey clearly to another the meaning you intend to convey, but you will be helped in this if you ask yourself the questions: "Do I know exactly what happened?" "Have I said what I intended to say?" "Have I said it so that it will be clear to the listener?" +Oral Composition 1.+--_Report orally on one of the following:_-- 1. Were you so interested in anything yesterday that you told it to your parents or friends? Tell the class about it. 2. Tell about something that you have done this week, so that the class may know exactly what you did. 3. Name some things in which you have been interested within the last two or three months. Tell the class about one of them. 4. Tell the class about something that happened during vacation. Have you told the event exactly as it occurred? +5. Interest.+--In order to enjoy listening to a story we must take an interest in it, and the story should be so told as to arouse and maintain this interest. As you have listened to the reports of your classmates you have been more pleased with some than with others. Even though the meaning of each was clear, yet the interest aroused was in each case different. Since the purpose of a story is to entertain, any story falls short of its purpose when it ceases to be interesting. We must at all times say what we mean and say it clearly; but in story telling especially we must also take care that what we say shall arouse and maintain interest. +6. The Introduction.+--The story of an event should be introduced in such a manner as to enable the hearer to understand the circumstances that are related. Such an introduction contributes to clearness and has an important bearing upon the interest of the entire composition. In order to render our account of an event clear and interesting it is usually desirable to tell the hearers _when_ and _where_ the event occurred and _who_ were present. Their understanding of it may be helped further by telling such of the attendant circumstances as will answer the question, _Why_? If I begin my story by saying, "Last summer John Anderson and I were on a camping trip in the Adirondacks," I have told when, where, and who; and the addition of the words "on a camping trip" tells why we were in the Adirondacks, and may serve to explain some of the events that are to follow. Even the statement of the place indicates in some degree the trend of the story, for many things that might occur "in the Adirondacks" could not occur in a country where there are no mountains. Certainly the story that would follow such an introduction would be expected to differ from one beginning with the words, "Last summer John Anderson and I went to visit a friend in New York." It is not always necessary to tell when, where, who, and why in the introduction, but it is desirable to do so in most cases of oral story telling. These four elements may not always be stated in incidents taken from books, for the reader may be already familiar with them from the preceding portions of the book. The title of a printed or written story may serve as an introduction and give us all needed information. In relating personal incidents the time element is seldom omitted, though it may be stated indirectly or indefinitely by such expressions as "once" or 'lately.' In many stories the interest depends upon the plot, and the time is not definitely stated. EXERCISE Notice what elements are included in each of the following introductions:-- 1. Saturday last at Mount Holly, about eight miles from this place, nearly three hundred people were gathered together to see an experiment or two tried on some persons accused of witchcraft. 2. On the morning of the 10th instant at sunrise, they were discovered from Put-in-Bay, where I lay at anchor with the squadron under my command. 3. It was on Sunday when I awoke to the realization that I had quitted civilization and was afloat on an unfamiliar body of water in an open boat. 4. Up and down the long corn rows Pap Overholt guided the old mule and the small, rickety, inefficient plow, whose low handles bowed his tall, broad shoulders beneath the mild heat of a mountain June sun. As he went--ever with a furtive eye upon the cabin--he muttered to himself, shaking his head. 5. After breakfast, I went down to the Saponey Indian town, which is about a musket shot from the fort. 6. The lonely stretch of uphill road, upon whose yellow clay the midsummer sun beat vertically down, would have represented a toilsome climb to a grown and unencumbered man. To the boy staggering under the burden of a brimful carpet bag, it seemed fairly unscalable; wherefore he stopped at its base and looked up in dismay to its far-off, red-hot summit. 7. One afternoon last summer, three or four people from New York, two from Boston, and a young man from the Middle West were lunching at one of the country clubs on the south shore of Long Island, and there came about a mild discussion of the American universities. 8. "But where is the station?" inquired the Judge. "Ain't none, boss. Dis heah is jes a crossing. Train's about due now, sah; you-all won't hab long fer to wait. Thanky, sah; good-by; sorry you-all didn't find no birds." The Judge picked up his gun case and grip and walked toward his two companions waiting on the platform a few yards away. Silhouetted against the moonlight they made him think of the figure 10, for Mr. Appleton was tall and erect, and the little Doctor short and circular. 9. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. --Browning. +Oral Composition II.+--_Relate orally to the class some incident in which you were personally concerned._ The following may suggest a subject:-- 1. How I made friends with the squirrels. 2. A trick of a tame crow. 3. Why I missed the train. 4. How a horse was rescued. 5. Lost and found. 6. My visit to a menagerie. (When preparing to relate this incident ask yourself first whether you know exactly what happened. Consider then how to begin the story so that your hearer will know when and where it happened and who were there. Include in the beginning any statement that will assist the reader in understanding the events which follow.) +7. The Point of a Story.+--It is not necessary that a story be concerned with a thrilling event in order to be interesting. Even a most commonplace occurrence may be so told that it is worth listening to. It is more important that a story have a point and be so told that this point will be readily appreciated than that it deal with important or thrilling events. The story should lead easily and rapidly to its point, and when this is reached the end of the story should not be far distant. The beginning of a story will contain statements that will assist us in appreciating the point when we come to it, but if the point is plainly stated near the beginning, or even if it is too strongly suggested, our story will drag. At what point in the following selection is the interest greatest? During the Civil War, I lived in that portion of Tennessee which was alternately held by the conflicting armies. My father and brothers were away, as were all the other men in the neighborhood, except a few very old ones and some half-grown boys. Mother and I were in constant fear of injury from stragglers from both armies. We had never been disturbed, for our farm was a mile or more back from the road along which such detachments usually moved. We had periods of comparative quiet in which we felt at ease, and then would come reports of depredation near at hand, or rumors of the presence of marauding bands in neighboring settlements. One evening such a rumor came to us, and we were consequently anxious. Early next morning, before the fog had lifted, I caught sight of two men crossing the road at the far end of the orchard. They jumped over the fence into the orchard and disappeared among the trees. I had but a brief glimpse of them, but it was sufficient to show me that one had a gun over his shoulder, while the other carried a saber. "Quick, Mother, quick!" I cried. "Come to the window. There are soldiers in the orchard." Keeping out of sight, we watched the progress of the men through the orchard. Our brief glimpses of them through the trees showed that they were not coming directly to the house, but were headed for the barn and sheds, and in order to keep out of sight, were following a slight ravine which ran across the orchard and led to the back of the barns. Mother and I were very much excited and hardly knew what to do. Finally it was determined to hide upstairs in hopes that the men were bent on stealing chickens or pigs, and might leave without disturbing the house. We locked the doors and went upstairs, taking with us the old musket and the butcher knife. We could hear the men about the barn, and after what seemed an interminable time we heard them coming towards the house. Though shaking all over, I summoned courage enough to go to the window and look out of a hole in the shade. As the men came into sight around the corner, I screamed outright, but from relief rather than fear, for the men were not soldiers, but Grandpa Smith and his fourteen-year-old grandson. They stopped at the well to get a drink, and when we opened the window, the old man said, "We're just on our way to mow the back lot and stopped to grind the scythe on your stone. We broke ours yesterday." Then he picked up the scythe which in the fog I had taken for a saber, while the grandson again shouldered his pitchfork musket. What effect would it have on the interest aroused by the preceding story to begin it as follows? "One morning during the Civil War, I saw two of my neighbors, Grandpa Smith and his grandson, crossing our orchard, one carrying a scythe and the other a pitchfork." Why is the expression, "before the fog had lifted," used near the beginning of the story? Would a description of the appearance of the house, the barn, or the persons add to the interest aroused by the story? Is it necessary to add anything to the story? EXERCISE In each of the following selections decide where the interest reaches its climax. Has anything been said in the beginning of any of them which suggests what the point will be, or which helps you to appreciate it when you come to it? 1. The next evening our travelers encamped on a sand bar, or rather a great bank of sand, that ran for miles along one side of the river. They kept watch as usual, Leon taking the first turn. He seated himself on a pile of sand and did his best to keep awake; but in about an hour after the rest were asleep, he felt very drowsy and fell into a nap that lasted nearly half an hour, and might have continued longer had he not slid down the sand hill and tumbled over on his side. This awoke him. Feeling vexed with himself, he rubbed his eyes and looked about to see if any creature had ventured near. He first looked towards the woods, for of course that was the direction from which the tigers would come; but he had scarcely turned himself when he perceived a pair of eyes glancing at him from the other side of the fire. Close to them another pair, then another and another, until, having looked on every side, he saw himself surrounded by a complete circle of glancing eyes. It is true they were small ones, and some of the heads which he could see by the blaze were small. They were not jaguars, but they had an ugly look. They looked like the heads of serpents. Was it possible that a hundred serpents could have surrounded the camp? Brought suddenly to his feet, Leon stood for some moments uncertain what to do. He believed that the eyes belonged to snakes which had just crept out of the river; and he feared that any movement on his part would lead them to attack him. Having risen to his feet, his eyes were above the level of the blaze, and he was able in a little while to see more clearly. He now saw that the snakelike heads belonged to creatures with large oval bodies, and that, besides the fifty or more which had come up to look at the fire, there were whole droves of them upon the sandy beach beyond. As far as he could see on all sides, the bank was covered with them. A strange sight it was, and most fearful. For his life he could not make out what it meant, or by what sort of wild animals he was surrounded. He could see that their bodies were not larger than those of small sheep; and, from the way in which they glistened in the moonlight, he was sure they had come out of the river. He called to the Indian guide, who awoke and started to his feet in alarm. The movement frightened the creatures round the fire; they rushed to the shore, and were heard plunging by hundreds into the water. The Indian's ear caught the sounds, and his eye took in the whole thing at a glance. "Turtles," he said. "Oh," said the lad; "turtles, are they?" "Yes, master," answered the guide. "I suppose this is one of their great hatching places. They are going to lay their eggs in the sand." --Captain Mayne Reid. Would the preceding incident be interesting if we were told at the beginning that the boy and the Indian had encamped near a hatching place of turtles? 2. Not every story that reads like fiction is fact, but the _Brooklyn Eagle_ assures its readers that the one here quoted is quite true. The man who told it was for many years an officer of the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad Company in Illinois, and had annual passes over all the important railroads in the country. His duties took him to Springfield, the state capital, and as he generally went by the Chicago, Alton & St. Louis road, the conductors on that line knew him so well that they never asked to see his pass. "One day I received a telegram summoning me to meet one of the officers of my company at Aurora the next morning. I had only a short time to catch my train to Chicago, and in my haste left my passbook behind. I did not find this out until I reached Chicago, and was about to take the last train for Aurora that night. Then I saw that the conductor, a man brought over from the Iowa division, was a stranger, and the fact that I would need my pass reminded me that I did not have it. "I told the conductor the situation, but he said he could not carry me on my mere representation that I had a pass. "Why, man," said I, "I am an officer of the company, going to Aurora on company business, and this is the last train that will get me there in time. You must take me." "He was polite, but firm. He said he was a new man on this division, and could not afford to make any mistakes. "When I saw that he was determined, I rushed off to the telegraph office; but it was too late to catch anybody authorized to issue passes, so I settled it in my mind that I must go by carriage, and the prospect of an all-night ride over bad roads through the dark was anything but inviting. Indeed, it was so forbidding that I resolved to make one more appeal to the conductor. "You simply must take me to Aurora!" I said, with intense earnestness. "I can't do it," he answered. "But I believe you are what you represent yourself to be, and I will lend you the money personally. It is only one dollar and twelve cents." "Well, sir, you could have knocked me down with the flat side of a palm-leaf fan. I had more than two thousand dollars in currency in my pocket, but it had never for an instant occurred to me that I could pay my fare and ride on that train. I showed the conductor a wad of money that made his eyes stick out. "I thought it was funny," said he, "that a man in your position couldn't raise one dollar and twelve cents. It was that that made me believe you were playing a trick to see if I would violate the rule." "The simple truth was, I had ridden everywhere on passes so many years, that it did not occur to me that I could ride in any other way." +Oral Composition III.+--_Relate to the class some personal incident suggested by one of the following subjects_:-- 1. A day with my cousin. 2. Caught in the act. 3. A joke on me. 4. My peculiar mistake. 5. My experience on a farm. 6. My experience in a strange Sunday school. 7. What I saw when I was coming to school. (In preparation for this exercise, consider the point of your story. What must you tell first in order to enable the hearers to understand the point? Can you say anything that will make them want to know what the point is without really telling them? Can you lead up to it without too long a delay? Can you stop when the point has been made?) +8. Theme Writing and Correcting.+--Any written exercise, whether long or short, is called a theme throughout this book. Just as one learns to skate by skating, so one learns to write by writing; therefore many themes will be required. Since the clear expression of thought is one of the essential characteristics of every theme, theme correction should be primarily directed to improvement in clearness. The teacher will need to assist in this correction, but the really valuable part is that which you do for yourself. After you leave school you will need to decide for yourself what is right and what is best, and it is essential that you now learn how to make such decisions. To aid you in acquiring a habit of self-correction, questions or suggestions follow the directions for writing each theme. In Theme I you are to express clearly to others something that is already clear to you. +Theme I.+-_Write a short theme on one of the subjects that you have used for an oral composition._ (After writing this theme, read it aloud to yourself. Does it read smoothly? Have you told what actually happened? Have you told it so that the hearers will understand you? Have you said what you meant to say? Consider the introduction. Has the story a point?) +9. The Conclusion.+--Since the point of a story marks the climax of interest, it is evident that the conclusion must not be long delayed after the point has been reached. If the story has been well told, the point marks the natural conclusion, and a sentence or two will serve to bring the story to a satisfactory end. If a suitable ending does not suggest itself, it is better to omit the conclusion altogether than to construct a forced or flowery one. Notice the conclusion of the incident of the Civil War related on page 18. +Theme II.+-_Write a short theme suggested by one of the following subjects:_-- 1. A school picnic. 2. A race. 3. The largest fire I have seen. 4. A skating accident. 5. A queer mistake. 6. An experience with a tramp. (Correct with reference to meaning and clearness. Consider the introduction; the point; the conclusion.) +10. Observation of Actions.+--Many of our most interesting experiences arise from observing the actions of others. A written description of what we have observed will gain in interest to the reader, if, in addition to telling what was done, we give some indication of the way in which it was done. A list of tools a carpenter uses and the operations he performs during the half hour we watch him, may be dull and uninteresting; but our description may have an added value if it shows his manner of working so that the reader can determine whether the carpenter is an orderly, methodical, and rapid worker or a mere putterer who is careless, haphazard, and slow. Two persons will perform similar actions in very different ways. Our description should be so worded as to show what the differences are. +Theme III.+--_Write a theme relating actions._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. A mason, blacksmith, painter, or other mechanic at work. 2. How my neighbor mows his lawn. 3. What a man does when his automobile breaks down. 4. Describe the actions of a cat, dog, rabbit, squirrel, or other animal. 5. Watch the push-cart man a half-hour and report what he did. (Have you told exactly what was done? Can you by the choice of suitable words show more plainly the way in which it was done? Does this theme need to have an introduction? A point? A conclusion?) +11. Selection of Details.+--You are at present concerned with telling events that actually happen; but this does not mean that you need to include everything that occurs. If you wish to tell a friend about some interesting or exciting incident at a picnic, he will not care to hear everything that took place during the day. He may listen politely to a statement of what train you took and what you had in your lunch basket, but he will be little interested in such details. In order to maintain interest, the point of your story must not be too long delayed. Brevity is desirable, and details that bear little relation to the main point, and that do not prepare the listener to understand and appreciate this point, are better omitted. +Theme IV.+--_Write about something that you have done. Use any of the following subjects, or one suggested by them:_-- 1. My first hunt. 2. Why I was tardy. 3. My first fishing trip. 4. My narrow escape. 5. A runaway. 6. What I did last Saturday. (Read the theme aloud to yourself. Have you expressed it clearly? Reject unnecessary details.) +12. Order of Events.+--The order in which events occur will assist in establishing the order in which to relate them. If you are telling about only one person, you can follow the time order of the events as they actually happened; but if you are telling about two or more persons who were doing different things at the same time, you will need to tell first what one did and then what another did. You must, however, make it clear to the reader that, though you have told one event after the other, they really happened at the same time. In the selection below notice how the italicized portions indicate the relation in time that the different events bear to one another. At the beach yesterday a fat woman and her three children caused a great commotion. They had rigged themselves out in hired suits which might be described as an average fit, for that of the mother was as much too small as those of the children were too large. They trotted gingerly out into the surf, wholly unconscious that the crowd of beach loungers had, for the time, turned their attention from each other to the quartet in the water. By degrees the four worked out farther and farther until a wave larger than usual washed the smallest child entirely off his feet, and caused the mother to scream lustily for help. The people on the beach started up, and two or three men hastened to the rescue, but their progress was impeded by the crowd of frightened girls and women _who were scrambling and splashing towards the shore_. The mother's frantic efforts to reach the little boy were rendered ineffectual by the two girls, _who at the moment of the first alarm had been strangled_ by the salt water and _were now clinging_ desperately to her arms and _attempting_ to climb up to her shoulders. _Meanwhile_, the lifeboat man was rowing rapidly towards the scene, but it seemed to the onlookers _who had rushed to the platform railing_ that he would never arrive. _At the same time_ a young man, _who had started from the diving raft some time before_, was swimming towards shore with powerful strokes. He _now_ reached the spot, caught hold of the boy, and lifted him into the lifeboat, which had _at last_ arrived. Such expressions as _meanwhile, in the meantime, during, at last, while_, etc., are regularly used to denote the kind of time relations now under discussion. They should be used when they avoid confusion, but often a direct transition from one set of actions to another can be made without their use. Notice also the use of the relative clause to indicate time relations. +Theme V.+-_Write a short theme, using some one of the subjects named under the preceding themes or one suggested by them. Select one which you have not already used._ (Have you told enough to enable the reader to follow easily the thread of the story and to understand what you meant to tell? If your theme is concerned with more than one set of activities, have you made the transition from one to another in such a way as to be clear to the reader? Have you expressed the transitions with the proper time relations? What other questions should you ask yourself while correcting this theme?) SUMMARY 1. There is a pleasure to be derived from the expression of ideas. 2. There are three sources of ideas: experience, imagination, language. 3. Ideas gained from experience may be advantageously used for composition purposes because-- _a._ They are interesting. _b._ They are your own. _c._ They are likely to be clear and definite. _d._ They offer free choice of language. 4. The two essentials of expression are-- _a._ To say what you mean. _b._ To say it clearly. 5. A story should be told so as to arouse and maintain interest. Therefore,-- _a._ The introduction usually tells when, where, who, and why. _b._ Every story worth telling has a point. _c._ Only such details are included as are essential to the development of the point. _d._ The conclusion is brief. The story comes to an end shortly after the point is told. 6. Care must be taken to indicate the time order, especially when two or more events occur at the same time. 7. The correction of one's own theme is the most valuable form of correction. II. EXPRESSION OF IDEAS FURNISHED BY IMAGINATION +13. Relation of Imagination to Experience.+--All ideas are based upon and spring from experience, and the imagination merely places them in new combinations. For the purpose of this book, however, it is convenient to distinguish those themes that relate real events as they actually occurred from those themes that relate events that did not happen. That body of writing which we call literature is largely composed of works of an imaginative character, and for this reason it has sometimes been carelessly assumed that in order to write one must be possessed of an excellent imagination. Such an assumption loses sight of the fact that imaginative writings cover but one small part of the whole field. The production of literature is the business of a few, while every one has occasion every day to express ideas. It is evident that by far the greater part of the ideas we are called upon to express do not require the use of the imagination, but exercises in writing themes of an imaginative character are given here because there is pleasure in writing such themes and because practice in writing them will aid us in stating clearly and effectively the many ideas arising from our daily experiences. +14. Advantages and Disadvantages of Imaginative Theme Writing.+--Ideas furnished by the imagination are no less your own than are those furnished by experience, and the same freedom in the choice of language prevails. Such ideas are, however, not likely to be so clear and definite. At the time of their occurrence they do not make so deep and vital an impression upon you. If not recorded as they occur, they can seldom be recalled in the original form. Even though you attempt to write these imaginary ideas as you think them, you can and do change and modify them as you go along. This lack of clearness and permanent form, while it seems to give greater freedom, carries with it disadvantages. In the first place the ideas are less likely to be worth recording, and in the second place it is more difficult to give them a unity and directness of statement that will hold the attention and interest of the reader until the chief point is reached. +15. Probability.+--Not everything that the imagination may furnish is equally worth expressing. If you choose to write about something for which imagination supplies the ideas, you may create for yourself such ideas as you wish. Their order of occurrence and their time and place are not determined by outward events, but solely by the mind itself. The events are no longer real and actual, but may be changed and rearranged without limit. An imaginative series of events may conform closely to the real and probable, or it may be manifestly improbable. Which will be of greater interest will depend upon the reader, but it will be found that the story which comes nearest to reality is most satisfactory. In relating fairy tales we confessedly attempt to tell events not possible in the real world, but in relating tales of real life, however imaginary, we should tell the events so that everything seems both possible and probable. An imaginative story, in which the persons seem to be real persons who do and say the things that real persons do and say, will be found much more satisfactory than a story that depends for its outcome on something manifestly impossible. He who really does the best in imaginative writing is the one who has most closely observed the real events of everyday life, and states his imaginary events so that they seem real. +Theme VI.+--_Write a short theme, using one of the subjects below. You need not tell something that actually happened, but what you tell should be so told that your readers will think it might have happened._ 1. A trip in a sailboat. 2. The travels of a penny. 3. How I was lost. 4. A cat's account of a mouse hunt. 5. The mouse's account of the same hunt. 6. My experience with a burglar. 7. The burglar's story. +16. Euphony.+--Besides clearness in a composition there are other desirable qualities. To one of these, various names have been applied, as "euphony," "ease," "elegance," "beauty," etc. Of two selections equally clear in meaning one may be more pleasing than the other. One may seem harsh and rough, while the other flows along with a satisfying ease and smoothness. If the thought that is in our mind fails to clothe itself in suitable language and appropriate figures, we can do little by conscious effort toward improving the beauty of the language; but by avoiding choppy sentences and inharmonious combinations of words and phrases, we may remove from our compositions much that is harsh and rough. That quality which we call ease or euphony is better detected by the ear than by the eye, and for this reason it has been suggested that you read each theme aloud to yourself before presenting it to the class. Such a reading will assist you to determine whether you have made your meaning clear and to eliminate some of the more disagreeable combinations. +17. Variety.+--Of the many elements which affect the euphony of a theme none is more essential than variety. The constant repetition of the same thing grows monotonous and distasteful, while a pleasing variety maintains interest and improves the story. For the sake of this variety we avoid the continual use of the same words and phrases, substituting synonyms and equivalent expressions if we have need to repeat the same idea many times. Most children begin every sentence of a story with "and," or perhaps it is better to say that they conclude many sentences with "and-uh," leaving the thought in suspense while they are trying to think of what to say next. High school pupils are not wholly free from this habit, and it is sometimes retained in their written work. This excessive use of _and_ needs to be corrected. An examination of our language habits will show that nearly every one has one or more words which he uses to excess. A professor of rhetoric, after years of correcting others, discovered by underscoring the word _that_ each time it occurred in his own writing that he was using it twice as often as necessary. _Got_ is one of the words used too frequently, and often incorrectly. EXERCISES 1. In the following selection notice how each sentence begins. Compare it with one of your own themes. I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my woodpile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, and the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with each other. Having once got hold, they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants; that it was not a _duellum_, but a _bellum_,--a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my woodyard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and the dying, both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed--the only battlefield I ever trod while the battle was raging.... On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely.--Thoreau. 2. Examine one of your own themes. If some word occurs frequently, underscore it each time, and then substitute words or expressions for it in as many places as you can. If necessary, reconstruct the sentences so as to avoid using the word in some cases. Notice how these substitutions give a variety to your expression and improve the euphony of your composition. Theme VII.--_Write a short story suggested by one of the following subjects:_-- 1. The trout's revenge. 2. A sparrow's mistake. 3. A fortunate shot. 4. The freshman and the professor. 5. What the bookcase thought about it. Cross out unnecessary _ands_. Consider the beginnings of the sentences. Can you improve the euphony by a different choice of words?) 18. Sentence Length.--Euphony is aided by securing a variety in the length of sentences. In endeavoring to avoid the excessive use of _and_, some pupils obtain results illustrated by the following example:-- Jean passed through the door of the church. He saw a child sitting on one of the stone steps. She was fast asleep in the midst of the snow. The child was thinly clad. Her feet, cold as it was, were bare. A theme composed wholly of such a succession of short sentences is tedious. Especially when read aloud does its monotony become apparent. Though the thought in each sentence is complete, the effect is not satisfactory to the reader, because the thought of the whole does not come to him as fast as his mind can act. Such an arrangement of sentences might be satisfactory to young children, because it would agree with their habits of thought; but as one grows in ability to think more rapidly, he finds that longer and more complicated sentences best express his thoughts and are best understood by those for whom he writes. We introduce sentences of different length and different structure, because they more clearly express the thought of the whole and state it in a form more in accordance with the mental activity of the hearer. When we have done this, we at the same time secure a variety that avoids monotony. In attempting to avoid a series of short sentences, care should be taken not to go to the other extreme. Sentences should not be overloaded. Too many adjectives or participles or subordinate clauses will render the meaning obscure. The number of phrases and clauses that may safely be introduced will be determined by the ability of the mind to grasp the meaning readily and accurately. It is sometimes quite as important to separate a long sentence into shorter ones as it is to combine short ones into those of greater length. Notice in the following selection the different ways in which several ideas have been brought into the same sentence without rendering the meaning obscure:-- Loki made his way across a vast desert moorland, and came, after three days, into the barren hill country and among the rugged mountains of the South. There an earthquake had split the rocks asunder, and opened dark and bottomless gorges, and hollowed out many a low-walled cavern, where the light of day was never seen. Along deep, winding ways, Loki went, squeezing through narrow crevices, creeping under huge rocks, and gliding through crooked clefts, until he came at last into a great underground hall, where his eyes were dazzled by a light that was stronger and brighter than the day; for on every side were glowing fires, roaring in wonderful little gorges, and blown by wonderful little bellows. +Theme VIII.+--_Write a story suggested by one of the following subjects:_-- 1. School in the year 2000. 2. The lost door key. 3. Our big bonfire. 4. Kidnapped. 5. A bear hunt. 6. A mistake in the telegram. 7. How Fido rescued his master. (Can you render the meaning more clear by uniting short sentences into longer ones, or by separating long sentences into shorter ones? Can you omit any _ands_? How many of the sentences begin with the same word? Can you change any of those words? Pick out the words which show the subordinate relation of some parts to others. Do all of the incidents in your story seem probable?) +19. Conversation.+--It must not be inferred from the preceding section that short sentences are never to be used. They are quite as necessary as long ones, and in some cases, such as the portraying of strong emotion, are more effective. Even a succession of short sentences may be used with good results to describe rapid action. In conversation, also, sentences are generally short, and often grammatically incomplete, though they may be understood by the hearer. Sometimes this incompleteness is justified by the idiom of the language, but more often it is the result of carelessness on the part of the speaker. The hearer understands what is said either because he knows about what to expect, or because the expression is a familiar one. Such carelessness not only causes the omission of words grammatically necessary, but brings about the incorrect pronunciation of words and their faulty combination into sentences. You speak much more often than you write. Your habits of speech are likely to become permanent and your errors of speech will creep into your written work. It is important therefore that you watch your spoken language. Occasions will arise when the slang expressions that you so freely use will seem inappropriate, and it will be unfortunate indeed if you find that you have used the slang so long that you have no other words to take their place. An abbreviated form of _gymnasium_ or of _mathematics_ may not attract attention among your schoolmates, but there are circles where such abbreviations are not used. By watching your own speech you will find that some incorrect forms are very common. Improvement can be made by giving your attention to one of them, such as the use of _guess_, or of _got_, or of _don't_ and _doesn't_. In making a written report of conversation you should remember that short sentences predominate. A conversation composed of long sentences would seem stilted and made to order. What each person says, however short, is put into a separate division and indented. Explanatory matter accompanying the conversation is placed with the spoken part to which it most closely relates. Notice the indentations and the use of quotation marks in several printed reports of conversation. +20. Ideas from Pictures.+--If you look at a picture and then attempt to tell some one else what you see, you will express ideas gained by experience. A picture may, however, cause a very different set of ideas to arise. Look at the picture on page 38. Can you imagine the circumstances that preceded the situation shown by the picture? Or again, can you not begin with that situation and imagine what would be done next? If you write out either of the series of events, the theme, though suggested by the picture, will be composed of ideas furnished by the imagination. In the writing of a story suggested by a picture, the situation given in the picture should be made the point of greatest interest, and should be accounted for by relating a series of events supposed to have preceded it. +Theme IX.+--_Write a story that will account for the condition shown in the picture on page 38._ (Correct with reference to clearness and meaning. Do you need to change the sentence length either for the sake of clearness or for the sake of variety? Underscore _got_ and _then_ each time you have used them. Can the reader follow the thread of your story to its chief point?) +21. Vocabulary.+--A word is the symbol of an idea, and the addition of a word to one's vocabulary usually means that a new idea has been acquired. The more we see and hear and read, the greater our stock of ideas becomes. As our life experiences increase, so should our supply of words increase. We may have ideas without having the words with which to express them, and we may meet with words whose meanings we do not know. In either case there is chance for improvement. When you have a new idea, find out how best to express it, and when you meet with a new word, add it to your vocabulary. It is necessary to distinguish between our reading vocabulary and our writing vocabulary. There are many words that belong only to the first. We know what they mean when we meet them in our reading, but we do not use them in our writing. Our speaking vocabulary also differs from that which we employ in writing. We use words and phrases on paper that seldom appear in our speech, and, on the other hand, many of the words that we speak do not appear in our writing. There is, however, a constant shifting of words from one to another of these three groups. When we meet an unknown word, it usually becomes a part of our reading vocabulary. Later it may appear in our written work, and finally we may use it in speaking. We add a word to our reading vocabulary when we determine its meaning, but _we must use it_ in order to add it to our writing and speaking vocabulary. A conscious effort to aid in this acquisition of words is highly desirable. A limited vocabulary indicates limited ideas. If one is limited to _awfully_ in order to express a superlative; if his use of adjectives is restricted to _nice, jolly, lovely_, and _elegant;_ if he must always _abominate_ and never _abhor_, _detest, dislike_, or _loathe;_ if he can only _adore_ and not _admire, respect, revere_, or _venerate_,--then he has failed, indeed, to know the possibilities and beauties of English. Such a language habit shows a mind that has failed to distinguish between ideas. The best way to study the shades of meaning and the choice of words is in the actual production of a theme wherein there is need to bring out these differences in meaning by the use of words; but some help may be gained from a formal study of synonyms and antonyms and of the distinction in use and meaning between words which are commonly confused with each other. For this purpose such exercises are given in the Appendix. +22. Choice of Words.+--Even though our words may express the proper meaning, the effect may not be a desirable one unless we use words suited to the occasion described and to the person writing. Pupils of high school age know the meaning of many words which are too "bookish" for daily use by them. Edward Everett Hale might use expressions which would not be suitable for a freshman's composition. Taste and good judgment will help you to avoid the unsuitable or grandiloquent. The proper selection of words not only implies that we shall avoid the wrong word, but also that we shall choose the right one. A suitable adjective may give a clearer image than is expressed by a whole sentence; a single verb may tell better how some one acted than can be told by a lengthy explanation. Since narration has to do with action, we need in story telling to be especially careful in our choice of verbs. What can you say of the suitability of the words in the following selection, taken from an old school reader? _Mrs. Lismore._ You are quite breathless, Charles; where have you been running so violently? _Charles._ From the poultry yard, mamma, where I have been diverting myself with the bravado of the old gander. I did not observe him till he came toward me very fiercely, when, to induce him to pursue me, I ran from him. He followed, till, supposing he had beaten me, he returned to the geese, who appeared to receive him with acclamations of joy, cackling very loud, and seeming actually to laugh, and to enjoy the triumph of their gallant chief. _Emma._ I wish I had been with you, Charles; I have often admired the gambols of these beautiful birds, and wondered how they came by the appellation of _silly_, which is generally bestowed on them. I remember Martha, our nursery maid, used often to call me a _silly goose_. How came they to deserve that term, mamma? they appear to me to have as much intelligence as any of the feathered tribe. _Mrs. Lismore._ I have often thought with you, Emma, and supposed that term, like many others, misapplied, for want of examining into the justice of so degrading an epithet. +23. Improbability.+--Up to this point we have been concerned with relating events that _could_ exist, though we knew that they _did_ not. We may, however, imagine a series of events that are manifestly impossible. There is a pleasure in inventing improbable stories, and if we know from the beginning that they are to be so, we enjoy listening to them. Such tales are more satisfactory to young persons than to older ones, as is shown by our declining interest in fairy stories as we grow older. By limiting the improbability to a part of the story, it is possible to give an air of reality to the whole. Though the conditions described in a story about a trip to the moon might be wholly impossible, yet the reader for the time being might feel that the events were actually happening if the characters in the story were acting as real men would act under similar circumstances. In stories such as those of Thompson-Seton, where the animals are personified, the impossibilities are forgotten, because the actions and situations are so real. In fairy stories and similar tales neither characters nor actions are in any way limited by probability. +Theme X.+--_Write a short story suggested by one of the subjects below. Make either the characters or their surroundings seem real._ 1. A week in Mars. 2. Exploring the lake bottom. 3. The cat's defense of her kittens. (_a_) As told by the cat. (_b_) As told by the dog. 4. How the fox fooled the hound. 5. Diary of a donkey. 6. A biography of Jack Frost. (Correct with reference to meaning and clearness and two other points to be assigned by the teacher.) +24. How to Increase One's Vocabulary.+--In your daily work do what you can to add words to your reading vocabulary, and especially to increase your writing vocabulary. In the conversation of others and in reading you will meet with many new words, and you should attempt to make them your own. To do this, four things must be attended to:-- 1. _Spelling._ Definite attention should be given to each new word until its form both as written and as printed is indelibly stamped upon the mind. In your general reading and in each of the subjects that you will study in the high school you will meet unfamiliar words. It is only by mastering the spelling of each new word _when you first meet it_ that you can insure yourself against future chagrin from bad spelling. A part of the time in each high school subject may well be devoted to the mastering of the words peculiar to that subject. 2. _Pronunciation._ The complete acquisition of a word includes its pronunciation. In reading aloud and in speaking, we have need to know it, and faulty pronunciation is considered an indication of lack of culture. 3. _Meaning._ This includes more than the ability to give the definition as found in the dictionary. It is possible to recite such definitions glibly without in reality knowing the meaning of the word defined. It is necessary to connect the word definitely and permanently in our mind with the idea for which it is the symbol and to be able to distinguish the idea clearly from others closely related to it. 4. _Use._ The actual use of a word is very important. If a word is to come into our speaking and writing vocabulary, we must use it. It is important that the spelling, pronunciation, and meaning be determined when you _first_ meet the word, and it is equally important that the word be _used_ soon and often. +Theme XI.+--_Write a short story suggested by one of the following subjects. It may be wholly improbable, if you choose._ 1. The good fairy. 2. Mary's luck. 3. The man in the moon. 4. The golden apple. 5. A wonderful fountain pen. 6. The goobergoo and the kantan. SUMMARY 1. The clear expression of the ideas connected with our daily experiences is of greater importance to most of us than is the production of literature. 2. Ideas furnished by imagination may be advantageously used for composition purposes, because-- _a._ They are your own. _b._ They offer free choice of language. They are less desirable than those gained from experience, because-- _a._ They generally lack clearness and permanency. _b._ They are less likely to be worth recording. _c._ It is more difficult to give them that unity and directness of statement that will keep the interest of the reader. 3. An imaginative series of events may seem probable or improbable. He who most closely observes real life and states his imaginary events so that they seem real will succeed best in imaginative writing. 4. Euphony is a desirable quality in a composition. 5. Variety aids euphony. It is gained by-- _a._ Avoiding the repetition of the same words and phrases. _b._ Beginning our sentences in various ways. _c._ Using sentences of different lengths. 6. Conversation is usually composed of short sentences. 7. Pictures may suggest ideas suitable for use in compositions. 8. Our reading, writing, and speaking vocabularies differ. Each should be increased. With each new word attention should be given to-- _a._ Spelling. _b._ Pronunciation. _c._ Meaning. _d._ Use. III. EXPRESSION OF IDEAS ACQUIRED THROUGH LANGUAGE +25. Language as a Medium through Which Ideas are Acquired.+--We have been considering language as a means of expression, an instrument by which we can convey to others the ideas which come to us from experience and imagination. We shall now consider it from a different point of view. Language is not merely a means of expressing ideas, but it is also a medium through which ideas are acquired. It has a double use: the writer must put thought into language; the reader must get it out. A large part of your schooling has been devoted to acquiring ideas from language, and these ideas may be used for purposes of composition. _Since it is absolutely necessary to have ideas before you can express them_, it will be worth while to consider for a time how to get them from language. +26. Image Making.+--Read the following selection from Hawthorne and form a clear mental image of each scene:-- At first, my fancy saw only the stern hills, lonely lakes, and venerable woods. Not a tree, since their seeds were first scattered over the infant soil, had felt the ax, but had grown up and flourished through its long generation, had fallen beneath the weight of years, been buried in green moss, and nourished the roots of others as gigantic. Hark! A light paddle dips into the lake, a birch canoe glides around the point, and an Indian chief has passed, painted and feather-crested, armed with a bow of hickory, a stone tomahawk, and flint-headed arrows. But the ripple had hardly vanished from the water, when a white flag caught the breeze, over a castle in the wilderness, with frowning ramparts and a hundred cannon.... A war party of French and Indians were issuing from the gate to lay waste some village of New England. Near the fortress there was a group of dancers. The merry soldiers footing it with the swart savage maids; deeper in the wood, some red men were growing frantic around a keg of the fire-water; and elsewhere a Jesuit preached the faith of high cathedrals beneath a canopy of forest boughs. Did you form clear mental images? Can you picture them all at the same time, or must you turn your attention from one image to another? The formation of the proper mental images will be aided by making a persistent effort to create them. Many words do not cause us to form images; for example, _goodness, innocence, position, insurance_; but when the purpose of a word is to set forth an image, we should take care to get the correct one. In this the dictionary will not always help us. We must distinguish between the ability to repeat a definition and the power to form an accurate image of the thing defined. The difficulty of forming correct images by the use of dictionary definitions is so great that the definitions are frequently accompanied by pictures. EXERCISES Notice the different mental images that come to you as you read each of the following selections. Distinguish words that cause images to arise from those that do not. 1. Before these fields were shorn and tilled, Full to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless wood; And torrents dashed, and rivulets played, And fountains spouted in the shade. --Bryant: _An Indian at the Burial Place of his Fathers_. 2. At that moment the woods were filled with another burst of cries, and at the signal four savages sprang from the cover of the driftwood. Heyward felt a burning desire to rush forward to meet them, so intense was the delirious anxiety of the moment; but he was restrained by the deliberate examples of the scout and Uncas. When their foes, who leaped over the black rocks that divided them, with long bounds, uttering the wildest yells, were within a few rods, the rifle of Hawkeye slowly rose among the shrubs and poured out its fatal contents. The foremost Indian bounded like a stricken deer and fell headlong among the clefts of the island. --Cooper: _Last of the Mohicans_. 3. The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the evening skies, one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the courtyard. The vanquished of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the neighboring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exaltation as if she reigned empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way and she perished in the flames which had consumed her tyrant. --Scott: _Ivanhoe_. 4. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. --Longfellow: _The Village Blacksmith_. 5. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door; "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more." --Edgar A. Poe: _The Raven_. 6. Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, He watch'd the wheeling eddies boil, Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes Beheld the River Demon rise; The mountain mist took form and limb Of noontide hag or goblin grim. --Scott: _Lady of the Lake_. 7. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick, bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion--a cloth jerkin strapped around the waist--several pairs of breeches, the outer ones of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with his load. --Washington Irving: _Rip Van Winkle_. +27. Complete and Incomplete Images.+--Some sentences have for their purpose the presentation of an image, but in order to form that image correctly and completely, we must be familiar with the words used. If an unfamiliar word is introduced, the mind may omit entirely the image represented, or may substitute some other for it. Notice the image presented by this sentence from Henry James: "Her dress was dark and rich; she had pearls around her neck and an old rococo fan in her hand." If the meaning of _rococo_ is unknown to you, the image which you form will not be exactly the one that Mr. James had in mind. The pearls and the dress may stand out clearly in your image, but the fan will be lacking or indistinct. The whole may be compared to a photograph of which a part is blurred. If your attention is directed to the fan, you may recall the word _rococo_, but not the image represented by it. If your attention is not called to the fan, the mind is satisfied with the indistinct image, or substitutes for it an image of some other fan. Such an image is therefore either incomplete or inaccurate. An oath in court provides that we shall "tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," but, in forming images, it is not always possible to hold our minds to such exactness. We are prone to picture more or less than the words convey. In fact, in some forms of prose, and often in poetry, the author purposely takes advantage of this habit of the mind and wishes us to enlarge with creations of our own imagination the bare image that his words convey. Such writing, however, aims to give pleasure or to arouse our emotions. It calls out something in the reader even more strongly than it sets forth something in the writer. This suggestiveness in writing will be considered later, but for the present it will be well for you to bear in mind that most language has for its purpose the exact expression of a definite idea. Much of the failure in school work arises from the careless substitution of one image for another, and from the formation of incomplete and inaccurate images. EXERCISES _A._ Make a list of the words in the following selections whose meanings you need to look up in order to make the images exact and complete. Do not attempt to memorize the language of the definition, but to form a correct image. 1. The sun stared brazenly down on a gray farmhouse, on ranges of whitewashed outbuildings, and on a goodly array of dark-thatched ricks. 2. In his shabby frieze jacket and mud-laden brogans, he was scarcely an attractive object. 3. In a sunlit corner of an old coquina fort they came suddenly face to face with a familiar figure. 4. Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw, And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all: "Forever--never! Never--forever!" --Longfellow: _The Old Clock on the Stairs_. 5. There was a room which bore the appearance of a vault. Four spandrels from the corners ran up to join a sharp cup-shaped roof. The architecture was rough, but very strong. It was evidently part of a great building. 6. The officer proceeded, without affecting to hear the words which escaped the sentinel in his surprise; nor did he again pause, until he had reached the low strand, and in a somewhat dangerous vicinity to the western water bastion of the fort. 7. She stood on the top step under the _porte-cochre_, on the extreme edge, so that the toes of her small slippers extended a little over it. She bent forward, and then tipped back on the high, exiguous heels again. 8. Before the caryatides of the fireplace, under the ancestral portraits, a valet moves noiselessly about, arranging the glistening silver service on the long table and putting in order the fruits, sweets, and ices. 9. No sooner is the heavy gate of the portal passed than one sees from afar among the leafage the court of honor, to which one comes along an alley decorated uniformly with upright square shafts like classic termae in stone and bronze. The impression of the antique lines is striking: it springs at once to the eyes, at first in this portico with columns and a heavy entablature, but lacking a pediment. _B._ Read again the selections beginning on page 46. Do you form complete images in every case? _C._ Notice in each of your lessons for to-day what images are incomplete. Bring to class a list of the words you would need to look up in order to form complete images. Do not include all the words whose meanings are not clear, but only those that assist in forming images. +Theme XII.+--_Form a clear mental image of some incident, person, or place. Write about it, using such words as will give your classmates complete and accurate images. The following may suggest a subject:_-- 1. A party dress I should like. 2. My room. 3. A cozy glen. 4. In the apple orchard. 5. Going to the fire. 6. The hand-organ man. 7. A hornets' nest. 8. The last inning. 9. An exciting race. (Consider what you have written with reference to the images which the _reader_ will form. Do you think that when the members of the class hear your theme, each will form the same images that you had in mind when writing? Notice how many of your sentences begin in the same way. Can you rewrite them so as to give variety?) +28. Reproduction of Images.+--If we were asked to tell about an accident which we had seen, we could recall the various incidents in the order of their occurrence. If the accident had occurred recently, or had made a vivid impression upon us, we could easily form mental images of each scene. If we had only read a description of the accident, it would be more difficult to recall the image; because that which we gain through language is less vitally a part of ourselves than is that which comes to us through experience. When called upon to reproduce the images suggested to us by language, our memory is apt to concern itself with the words that suggested the image, and our expression is hampered rather than aided by this remembrance. The author has made, or should have made, the best possible selection of words and phrases. If we repeat his language, we have but memory drill or copy work; and if we do not, we are limited to such second-class language as we may be able to find. Word memory has its uses, but it is less valuable than image memory. It is necessary to distinguish carefully between the images that a writer presents and the words that he uses. If a botany lesson should consist of a description of fifteen different leaves, a pupil deficient in image memory will attempt to memorize the language of the book. A better-trained pupil, on meeting such a term as _serrated_, will ask himself: "Have I ever seen such a leaf? Can I form an image of it?" If so, his only task will be to give the new name, _serrated_, to the idea that he already has. In a similar way he will form images for each of the fifteen leaves described in the lesson. The language of the book may help him form these images, but he will make no attempt to commit the language to memory. With him, "getting the lesson" means forming images and naming them, and reciting the lesson will be but talking about an image that he has clearly in mind. Try this in your own lessons. If we are called upon to reproduce the incidents and scenes of some story that has been read to us, our success will depend upon the clearness of the images that we have formed. Our efforts should be directed to making the images as definite and vivid as possible, and our memory will be concerned with the recalling of these images in their proper order, and not with the language that first caused them to appear. EXERCISES 1. Report orally some interesting incident taken from a book which you have recently read. Do not reread the story. Use such language as will cause the class to form clear mental images. 2. Report orally upon some chapter selected from Cooper's _Last of the Mohicans_ or Scott's _Ivanhoe_. 3. Read a portion of Scott's _Lady of the Lake_, and report orally what happened. 4. Report orally some incident that you have read about in a magazine. Select one that caused you to form images, and tell it so that the hearers will form like images. +Theme XIII.+--_Reproduce a story read to you by the teacher._ (Before writing, picture to yourself the scenes and recall the order of their occurrence. If it is necessary to condense, omit events of the least importance.) +29. Comparison.+--Writing which contains unfamiliar words fails to call up complete and definite images. It is often difficult to form the correct mental picture, even though the words in themselves are familiar. Definitions, explanations, and descriptions may cause us to understand correctly, but our understanding usually can be improved by means of a comparison. We can form an image of an object as soon as we know what it is like. If I wished you to form an image of an okapi, a lengthy description would give you a less vivid picture than the statement that it was a horselike animal, having stripes similar to those of a zebra. If an okapi were as well known to you as is a horse, the name alone would call up the proper image, and no comparison would be necessary. By means of it we are enabled to picture the unfamiliar. In this case the comparison is literal. If the comparison is imaginative rather than literal, our language becomes figurative, and usually takes the form of a simile or metaphor. Similes and metaphors are of great value in rendering thought clear. They make language forceful and effective, and they may add much to the beauty of expression. We may speak of an object as being like another, or as acting like another. If the comparison is imaginative rather than literal, and is directly stated, the expression is a simile. Similes are introduced by _like, as_, etc. He fought like a lion. The river wound like a serpent around the mountains. If two things are essentially different, but yet have a common quality, their _implied comparison_ is a metaphor. A metaphor takes the form of a statement that one is the other. "He was a lion in the fight." "The river wound its serpent course." Sometimes inanimate objects, abstract ideas, or the lower animals are given the attributes of human beings. Such a figure is called personification, and is in fact a modified metaphor, since it is based upon some resemblance of the lower to the higher. This music crept by me upon the waters. Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he is worth to season. Nay, he's a thief, too; have you not heard men say, That time comes stealing on by night and day? --Shakespeare. +30. Use of Figures of Speech.+--The three figures of speech, simile, metaphor, and personification, are more frequently used than are the others. Figures of speech are treated in a later chapter, but some suggestions as to their use will be of value to beginners. 1. Never write for the purpose of using figures of speech. Nearly everything that we need to say can be well expressed in plain, bare English, and the ability to express our thoughts in this way is the essential thing. If a figure that adds to the force and clearness of your expression occurs to you, use it without hesitation. A figure may also add to the beauty of our expression. The examples to be found in literature are largely of this character. If well used, they are effective, but the beginner should beware of a figure that is introduced for decorative purposes only. An attempt to find figures of speech in ordinary prose writing will show how rarely they are used. 2. The figures should fit the subject in hand. Some comparisons are appropriate and some are not. If the writer is familiar with his subject and deeply in earnest, the appropriate figures will rise spontaneously in his mind. If they do not, little is gained by seeking for them. 3. The effectiveness of a comparison, whether literal or figurative, depends upon the familiarity of the reader with one of the two things compared. To say that a petrel resembled a kite would be of no value to one who knew nothing of either bird. Similarly a figure is defective if neither element of the comparison is familiar to the readers. 4. Suitable figures give picturesqueness and vivacity to language, but hackneyed figures are worse than none. 5. Elaborate and long-drawn-out figures, or an overabundance of short ones, should be avoided. 6. A figure must be consistent throughout. A comparison once begun must be carried through without change; mixing figures often produces results which are ridiculous. The "mixed metaphor" is a common blunder of beginners. This fault may arise either from confusing different metaphors in the same sentence, or from blending literal language with metaphorical. The following will serve to illustrate:-- 1. Let us pin our faith to the rock of perseverance and honest toil, where it may sail on to success on the wings of hope. 2. Washington was the father of his country and a surveyor of ability. 3. When the last awful moment came, the star of liberty went down with all on board. 4. The glorious work will never be accomplished until the good ship "Temperance" shall sail from one end of the land to the other, and with a cry of "Victory!" at each step she takes, shall plant her banner in every city, town, and village in the United States. 5. All along the untrodden paths of the future we see the hidden footprints of an unseen hand. 6. The British lion, whether it is roaming the deserts of India, or climbing the forests of Canada, will never draw in its horns nor retire into its shell. 7. Young man, if you have the spark of genius in you, water it. EXERCISES Are the images which you form made more vivid by the use of the figures in the following selections? 1. She began to screech as wild as ocean birds. 2. And when its force expended, The harmless storm was ended; And as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea-- 3. As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere-- Heels over head and head over heels,-- Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- So fell Darius. --J.T. Trowbridge. 4. In this republican country, amid the fluctuating waves of our social life, somebody is always at the drowning point. --Hawthorne. 5. Poverty, treading close at her heels for a lifetime, has come up with her at last. --Hawthorne. 6. Friendships begin with liking or gratitude--roots that can be pulled up. --George Eliot. 7. Nearing the end of the narrative, Ben paced up and down the narrow limits of the tent in great excitement, running his fingers through his hair, and barking out a question now and then. 8. A sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. --Lowell. 9. In days of public commotion every faction, like an Oriental army, is attended by a crowd of camp followers, a useless and heartless rabble, who prowl round its line of march in the hope of picking up something under its protection, but desert it in the day of battle, and often join to exterminate it after a defeat. --Macaulay. 10. It is to be regretted that the prose writings of Milton should, in our time, be so little read. As compositions, they deserve the attention of every man who wishes to become acquainted with the full power of the English language. They abound with passages compared with which the finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance. They are a perfect field of cloth of gold. The style is stiff with gorgeous embroidery. --Macaulay. 11. And close behind her stood Eight daughters of the plow, stronger than men, Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and rain, And labor. Each was like a Druid rock, Or like a spire of land that stands apart Cleft from the main and wall'd about with mews. --Tennyson. 12. But bland the smile that, like a wrinkling wind On glassy water, drove his cheek in lines. --Tennyson. 13. The rush of affairs drifts words from their original meanings, as ships drag their anchors in a gale, but terms sheltered from common use hold to their moorings forever. --Mill. +Theme XIV.+--_Write a story suggested by the picture on page 59 or by one of the following subjects:_-- 1. A modern fable. 2. The willow whistle. 3. How I baked a cake. 4. The delayed picnic. 5. The missing slipper. 6. A misdirected letter. 7. A ride on a raft. 8. The rescue of Ezekiel. 9. A railway experience. 10. A soldier's soldier. (Do you think the reader will form the images you wish him to form? Consider what you have written with reference to climax. (See Section 7.) Have you needed to use figures? If so, have you used them in accordance with the suggestions on page 55? If you have used the word _only_, is it placed so as to give the correct meaning?) +31. Determination of Meaning Requires More than Image Making.+--The emphasis laid upon image making should not lead to the belief that this is all that is necessary in order to determine what is meant by the language we hear or read. Image making is important, but much of our language is concerned with presenting ideas of which no mental pictures can be formed. This very paragraph will serve as an illustration of such language. Our understanding of language of this kind depends upon our knowledge of the meanings of words, upon our understanding of the relations between word groups, or parts of sentences, and especially upon our appreciation of the relations in thought that sentences bear to one another. Each of these will be discussed in the following pages. Later it will be necessary to consider the relations in thought existing among paragraphs. +32. Word Relations.+--In order to get the thought of a sentence, we must understand the relations that exist between the words and word groups (phrases and clauses) that compose it. If the thought is simple, and expressed in straightforward terms, we grasp it readily and without any conscious effort to determine these relations. If the thought is complex, the relations become more complicated, and before we are sure that we know what the writer intends to say it may be necessary to note with care which is the main clause and which are the subordinate clauses. In either case our acquiring the thought depends upon our understanding the relations between words and word groups. We may understand them without any knowledge of the names that have been applied to them in grammar, but a knowledge of the names will assist somewhat. These relations are treated in the grammar review in the Appendix and need not be repeated here. +33. Incomplete Thoughts.+--We have learned (Section 27) that the introduction of unfamiliar words may cause us to form incomplete images. When the language is not designed to present images, we may, in a similar way, fail to get its real meaning if we are unfamiliar with the words used. If you do not know the meaning of _fluent_ and _viscous_, you will fail to understand correctly the statement, "Fluids range from the peculiarly fluent to the peculiarly viscous." If we wish to think precisely what the writer intended us to think, we must know the meanings of the words he uses. Many of us are inclined to substitute other ideas than those properly conveyed by the words of the writer, and so get confused or incomplete or inaccurate ideas. The ability to determine exactly what images the writer suggests, and what ideas his language expresses, is the first requisite of scholarship and an important element of success in life. EXERCISES _A._ The first step in acquiring knowledge is to determine what it is that we do not know. Just which word or words in each of the following sentences keep you from understanding the full meaning of the sentence? Notice that a dictionary definition will not always make the meaning clear. 1. It is really more scientific to repeat a quotation from a political speech correctly, or to pass on a story undistorted, than it is to know of the rings of Saturn or the striation of diatoms. 2. The process of testing a hypothesis requires great caution in order to prevent mistakes. 3. The arial foliage stem is the most favorable for studying stem structure. 4. Taken collectively, isotherms indicate the distribution of mean temperature over the region embraced in the map. 5. Vibrations of the membrane of the tympanum are "damped" by the ossicles of the middle ear, which also receive and pass on the auditory tremors to the membrane closing the oval window. 6. In the battle which followed, the mobile Roman legion, arranged in open order three ranks deep, proved its superiority over the massive Macedonian phalanx. 7. The narrow and dissected forms have been attributed to the scarcity of carbon dioxide and oxygen in the water. _B._ Make a list of words in your lessons in other subjects for to-day that you need to look up in order to understand the lessons. This should be done daily, whether assigned or not. 34. +Choice of Words Adapted to the Reader.+--Words familiar to the reader should be used. Since the reader's ability to understand the thought of a paragraph depends to some extent upon his understanding of the words employed, it is necessary for the writer to choose words that will be understood by those whom he addresses. Of course we cannot tell whether a particular word will be understood by our readers, but, in case there is doubt, it is well to substitute one that is more likely to be understood. When you have written anything, it is well to ask yourself the question, Have I used words with which _the reader_ is probably familiar? +Theme XV.+---_Write a theme about one of the following subjects, using words that you think will be understood by your readers:_-- 1. How we breathe. 2. How to make a kite. 3. The causes of the seasons. 4. Why wood floats on water. 5. The use of baking powder. 6. The difference between arithmetic and algebra. Have you used words that your reader will understand? Find your longest sentence. Is its meaning clear? Notice the short sentences. Should some of them be united into a longer one?) +35. Word Selection.+--There are many shades of meaning which differ but little, and a careful writer will select just the word that best conveys his thought. The reader needs to be no less careful in determining the exact meaning that the writer intends to convey. Exercises in synonyms are thus of double importance (Section 21). Another source of error, both in acquiring and expressing thought, arises from the confusion of similar words. Some similarity of spelling causes one word to be substituted for another. There are many words and expressions that are so often interchanged that some time may be spent with profit upon exercises in determining their correct usage. These usually consist of brief reports to the class that set forth the meanings of the words, show their uses, and illustrate their differences. In preparing such reports, determine the meaning of the words from as many sources as are available. The usual meaning can be determined from the dictionary. A fuller treatment is given in some dictionaries in a chapter on faulty diction. Additional material may be found in many of the text-books on rhetoric, and in special books treating of word usage. After you are sure that you know the correct use, prepare a report for the class that shall make that use clear to others. In the simplest form this will consist of definitions and sentences in which the words are correctly used. The following examples, handed in by pupils, will serve to illustrate such reports:-- 1. A _council_ is an assembly of persons convened for consultation or deliberation. _Counsel_ is used to indicate either (1) an opinion as the result of consultation or (2) a lawyer engaged to give advice or to act as advocate in court. Lewis furnishes the following example of the use of these two words: "The plaintiff's _counsel_ held a _council_ with his partners in law, and finally gave him as his best _counsel_ the advice that he should drop the suit; but, as Swift says, 'No man will take _counsel_, but every man will take money,' and the plaintiff refused to accept the advice unless the _counsel_ could persuade the defendant to settle the case out of court by paying a large sum." 2. The correct meaning of _transpire_ may perhaps be best understood by considering its derivations. It comes from _trans_, through, and _spiro_, to breathe, from which it gets its meaning, to escape gradually from secrecy. It is frequently used incorrectly in the sense of to happen, but both Webster and the Standard dictionary condemn this use of the word. The latter says that it is often so misused especially in carelessly edited newspapers, as in "Comments on the heart-rending disaster which transpired yesterday are unnecessary, but," etc. When _transpire_ is correctly used, it is not a synonym of _happen_. A thing that happened a year ago may transpire to-day, that is, it may "become known through unnoticed channels, exhale, as it were, through invisible pores like a vapor or a gas disengaging itself." Many things which happen in school, thus become known by being passed along in a semi-secret manner until nearly all know of them though few can tell just how the information was spread. _Transpire_ may properly be applied to such a diffusion of knowledge. +Theme XVI.+--_Report as suggested above on any one of the following groups of words:_-- 1. Allude, mention. 2. Beside, besides. 3. Character, reputation. 4. Degrade, demean, debase. 5. Last, latest, preceding. 6. Couple, pair. 7. Balance, rest, remainder. (Have you made clear the correct use of the words under discussion? Can you give examples which do not follow the dictionaries so closely as do the illustrative reports above?) NOTE.--Lists of words suitable for exercises similar to the above are given in the Appendix. The teacher will assign them to such an extent and at such times as seems desirable. One such lesson a week will be found profitable. +36. Sentence Relations.+--What we read or hear usually consists of several sentences written or spoken together. The meaning of any particular sentence may depend upon the sentence or sentences preceding. In order to determine accurately the meaning of the whole, we must understand the relation in thought that each sentence bears to the others. Notice the two sentences: "Guns are dangerous. Boys should not use them." Though the last sentence is independent, it gets its meaning from the first. In the following selection consider each sentence apart from the others. Notice that the meaning of the whole becomes intelligible only when the sentences are considered in their relations to each other. Once upon a time, a notion was started, that if all the people in the world would shout at once, it might be heard in the moon. So the projectors agreed it should be done in just ten years. Some thousand shiploads of chronometers were distributed to the selectmen and other great folks of all the different nations. For a year beforehand, nothing else was talked about but the awful noise that was to be made on the great occasion. When the time came, everybody had his ears so wide open, to hear the universal ejaculation of Boo,--the word agreed upon,--that nobody spoke except a deaf man in one of the Fiji Islands, and a woman in Pekin, so that the world was never so still since the creation.--Holmes. Gutenberg did a great deal of his work in secret, for he thought it was much better that his neighbors should know nothing of what he was doing. So he looked for a workshop where no one would be likely to find him. He was now living in Strasburg, and there was in that city a ruined old building where, long before his time, a number of monks had lived. There was one room in the building which needed only a little repairing to make it fit to be used. So he got the right to repair the room and use it as his workshop. In all good writing we find a similar dependence in thought. Each sentence takes a meaning because of its relation to some other. The personal pronouns and pronominal adjectives, adverbial phrases indicating time or place, conjunctions, and such expressions as _certainly, however, on the other hand_, etc., are used to indicate more or less directly a relation in thought between the phrase or sentence in which they occur and some preceding one. If the reader cannot readily determine to what they refer, the meaning becomes obscure or ambiguous. The pronominal adjectives and the personal pronouns are especially likely to be used in such a way as to cause ambiguity. Care must be taken to use them so as to keep the meaning clear, and your own good sense will help you in this more than rules. Notice in your reading how frequently expressions similar to those mentioned above are used. +Theme XVII.+--_Write a theme suggested by one of the following subjects:_-- 1. The last quarter. 2. An excursion with the physical geography class. 3. What I saw while riding to town. 4. The broken bicycle. 5. An hour in the study hall. 6. Seen from my study window. (Are your sentences so arranged that the relation in thought is clear? Are the personal pronouns and pronominal adjectives used so as to avoid ambiguity? Does your story relate real events or imaginary ones? If imaginary events are related, have you made them seem probable?) +37. Getting the Main Thought.+--In many cases the relation in thought is not directly indicated, and we are left to determine it from the context, just as we decide upon the meaning of a word because of what precedes or follows it. In this case the meaning of a particular sentence may be made clear if we have in mind the main topic under discussion. Many pupils fail in recitations because they do not distinguish that which is more important from that which is less so. If a dozen pages of history are assigned, they cannot master the lesson because it is too long to be memorized, and they are not able to select the three or four things of importance with which it is really concerned. Thirty or forty minor details are jumbled together without any clear knowledge of the relations that they bear either to one another or to the main thoughts of the lesson. In the following selection but three things are discussed. Determine what they are, but not what is said about them. In all the ages the extent and value of flood plains have been increased by artificial means. Dikes or levees are built to regulate the spread and flow of the water and to protect the land from destructive floods. Dams and reservoirs are constructed for the storage of water, which is led by a system of canals and ditches to irrigate large tracts of land which would be otherwise worthless. By means of irrigation, the farmer has control of his water supply and is able to get larger returns than are possible where he depends upon the irregular and uncertain rainfall. It is estimated that in the arid regions of western United States there are 150,000 square miles of land which may be made available for agriculture by irrigation. Perhaps in the future the valley of the lower Colorado may become as productive as that of the Nile. Streams are the easiest routes of travel and commerce. A river usually furnishes from its mouth well up toward its source a smooth, graded highway, upon which a cargo may be transported with much less effort than overland. If obstructions occur in the form of rapids or falls, boat and cargo are carried around them. It is often easy to pass by a short portage or "carry" from one stream system across the divide to another. In regions which are not very level the easiest grades in every direction are found along the streams, and the main routes of land travel follow the stream valleys. In traversing a mountainous region, a railroad follows the windings of some river up to the crest of the divide, which it crosses through a pass, or often by a tunnel, and descends the valley of some stream on the other side. Man is largely indebted to streams for the variety and beauty of scenery. Running water itself is attractive to young and old. A landscape without water lacks its chief charm. A child instinctively finds its way to the brook, and the man seeks beside the river the pleasure and recreation which no other place affords. Streams have carved the surface of the land into an endless variety of beautiful forms, and a land where stream valleys are few or shallow is monotonous and tiresome. The most common as well as the most celebrated beauty of scenery in the world, from the tiny meanders of a meadow brook to the unequaled grandeur of the Colorado canyons, is largely due to the presence and action of streams. --Dryer: _Lessons in Physical Geography_. In the above selection we find that each group of sentences is related to some main topic. A more extended observation of good writing will give the same result. Men naturally think in sentence groups. A group of sentences related to each other and to the central idea is called a +paragraph.+ +38. Topic Statement.+--In the three paragraphs of the selection on page 67, notice that the first sentence in each tells what the paragraph is about. In a well-written paragraph it is possible to select the phrase or sentence that states the main thought. If such a sentence does not occur in the paragraph itself, one can be framed that will express clearly and concisely the chief idea of the paragraph. This brief, comprehensive summary of the contents of a paragraph is called the topic statement. In order to master the thought of what we read we must be able to select or to make the successive topic statements, and in order to express our own thoughts clearly we must write our paragraphs so that our readers may easily grasp the topic statement of each. When expressed in the paragraph, the topic statement may be a part of a sentence, a whole sentence, or it may extend through two sentences. It is usual to place the topic statement first, but it may be preceded by one or more introductory sentences, or even withheld until the end of the paragraph. For emphasis it may be repeated, though usually in a slightly different form. EXERCISES Determine the topic statements of the following paragraphs. If one is not expressed, make one. 1. No less valuable is the mental stimulus of play. The child is trained by it to quick perception, rapid judgment, prompt decision. His imagination cunningly suggests a thousand things to be done, and then trains the will and every power of body and mind in the effort to do them. The sports of childhood are admirably adapted to quicken the senses and sharpen the wits. Nature has effective ways in her school of securing the exercise which is needed to develop every mental and every bodily power. She fills the activity brimful of enjoyment, and then gives her children freedom, assured that they will be their own best teachers. --Bradley 2. Our Common Law comes from England, and originated there in custom. It is often called the unwritten law, because unwritten in origin, though there are now many books describing it. Its principles originated as habits of the people, five hundred, eight hundred, years ago, perhaps some of them back in the time when the half-savage Saxons landed on the shores of England. When the time came that the government, through its courts, punished the breach of a custom, from that time the custom was a law. And so the English people acquired these laws, one after another, just as they were acquiring at the same time the habits of making roads, using forks at table, manufacturing, meeting in Parliament, using firearms, and all the other habits of civilization. When the colonists came to America, they brought the English Common Law with them, not in a book, but in their minds, a part of their life, like their religion. --Clark: _The Government_. 3. Accuracy is always to be striven for but it can never be attained. This fact is only fully realized by scientific workers. The banker can be accurate because he only counts or weighs masses of metal which he assumes to be exactly equal. The Master of the Mint knows that two coins are never exactly equal in weight, although he strives by improving machinery and processes to make the differences as small as possible. When the utmost care is taken, the finest balances which have been constructed can weigh 1 lb. of a metal with an uncertainty less than the hundredth part of a grain. In other words, the weight is not accurate, but the inaccuracy is very small. No person is so stupid as not to feel sure that the height of a man he sees is between 3 ft. and 9 ft.; some are able by the eye to estimate the height as between 5 ft. 6 in. and 5 ft. 8 in. ; measurement may show it to be between 5 ft. 6 in. and 5 ft. 7 in., but to go closer than that requires many precautions. Training in observation and the use of delicate instruments thus narrow the limits of approximation. Similarly with regard to space and time, there are instruments with which one millionth of an inch, or of a second, can be measured, but even this approximation, although far closer than is ever practically necessary, is not accuracy. In the statement of measurements there is no meaning in more than six significant figures, and only the most careful observations can be trusted so far. The height of Mount Everest is given as 29,002 feet; but here the fifth figure is meaningless, the height of that mountain not being known so accurately that two feet more or less would be detected. Similarly, the radius of the earth is sometimes given as 3963.295833 miles, whereas no observation can get nearer the truth than 3963.30 miles. --Mill: _The Realm of Nature_. (Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons.) 4. The chief cause which made the fusion of the different elements of society so imperfect was the extreme difficulty which our ancestors found in passing from place to place. Of all the inventions, the alphabet and the printing press alone excepted, those inventions which abridge distance have done most for the civilization of our species. Every improvement of the means of locomotion benefits mankind morally and intellectually as well as materially, and not only facilitates the interchange of the various productions of nature and art, but tends to remove national and provincial prejudices, and to bind together all the branches of the great human family. In the seventeenth century the inhabitants of London were for almost every practical purpose farther from Reading than they are now from Edinburgh, and farther from Edinburgh than they are now from Vienna. --Macaulay: _History of England_. 5. He touched New England at every point. He was born a frontiersman. He was bred a farmer. He was a fisherman in the mountain brooks and off the shore. He never forgot his origin, and he never was ashamed of it. Amid all the care and honor of his great place here he was homesick for the company of his old neighbors and friends. Whether he stood in Washington, the unchallenged prince and chief in the Senate, or in foreign lands, the kingliest man of his time in the presence of kings, his heart was in New England. When the spring came, he heard far off the fife bird and the bobolink calling him to his New Hampshire mountains, or of the waves on the shore at Marshfield alluring him with a sweeter than siren's voice to his home by the summer sea. --George F. Hoar: _Daniel Webster_. 6. Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the northern clime. There is no long and lingering spring, unfolding leaf and blossom one by one; no long and lingering autumn, pompous with many-colored leaves and the glow of Indian summer. But winter and summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn when winter, from the folds of trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly rises above the horizon, or does not rise at all. The moon and the stars shine through the day; only at noon they are pale and wan, and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of a sunset, burns along the horizon and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of bells. --Longfellow: _Rural Life in Sweden_. 7. Extreme _busyness_, whether at school or college, kirk or market, is a symptom of deficient vitality; and a faculty for idleness implies a catholic appetite and a strong sense of personal identity. There is a sort of dead-alive, hackneyed people about, who are scarcely conscious of living except in the exercise of some conventional occupation. Bring these fellows into the country, or set them aboard ship, and you will see how they pine for their desk or their study. They have no curiosity; they cannot give themselves over to random provocations; they do not take pleasure in the exercise of their faculties for its own sake; and unless Necessity lays about them with a stick, they will even stand still. It is no good speaking to such folk: they _cannot_ be idle, their nature is not generous enough; and they pass those hours in a sort of coma, which are not dedicated to furious moiling in the gold mill. When they do not require to go to the office, when they are not hungry and have no mind to drink, the whole breathing world is a blank to them. If they have to wait an hour or so for a train, they fall into a stupid trance, with their eyes open. To see them, you would suppose there was nothing to look at and no one to speak with; you would imagine they were paralyzed or alienated; and yet very possibly they are hard workers in their own way, and have good eyesight for a flaw in a deed or a turn of the market. They have been to school and college, but all the time they had their eye on the medal; they have gone about in the world and mixed with clever people, but all the time they were thinking of their own affairs. As if a man's soul were not too small to begin with, they have dwarfed and narrowed theirs by a life of all work and no play; until here they are at forty, with a listless attention, a mind vacant of all material amusement, and not one thought to rub against another while they wait for the train. Before he was breeched, he might have clambered on the boxes; when he was twenty, he would have stared at the girls; but now the pipe is smoked out, the snuffbox is empty, and my gentleman sits bolt upright on a bench, with lamentable eyes. This does not appeal to me as being Success in Life. --Robert Louis Stevenson. (Copyright, by Charles Scribner's Sons.) _B._ Examine the themes which you have written. Does each paragraph have a topic statement? Have you introduced sentences which do not bear upon this topic statement? Are the paragraphs real ones treating of a single topic, or are they merely groups of sentences written together without any close connection in thought? +Theme XVIII.+--_State two or three advantages of public high schools over private boarding schools. Use each as a topic statement and develop it into a short paragraph._ (Add to each topic statement such sentences as will prove to a pupil of your own age that the topic statement states a real advantage. Include in each paragraph only that which bears upon the topic statement. Consider the definition of a paragraph on page 68. Does this definition apply to your paragraphs?) +39. Reproduction of the Thought of a Paragraph.+--Our ability to reproduce the thought of what we read will depend largely upon our ability to select the topic statements. In preparing a lesson for recitation it is evident that we must first determine definitely the topic statement of each paragraph. These may bear upon one general subject or upon different subjects. The three paragraphs on page 67 are all concerned with one subject, the uses of rivers. A pupil preparing to recite them would have in mind, when he went to class, an outline about as follows:-- General subject: The uses of rivers. First topic statement: The fertility of flood plains is improved by irrigation. Second topic statement: Streams are the easiest routes of travel and commerce. Third topic statement: Man is indebted to streams for beauty of scenery. While such a clear statement is the first step toward a proper understanding of the lesson, it is not enough. In order to understand thoroughly a topic statement, we need explanation or illustration. The idea is not really our own until we have thought about it in its relations to other knowledge already in our possession. In order to know whether you understand the topic statements, the teacher will ask you to discuss them. This may be done by telling what the writer said about them, or by giving thoughts and illustrations of your own, but best of all, by doing both. It is necessary, then, to know in what way the writer develops each topic statement. Read the following paragraph:-- The most productive lands in the world are flood plains. At every period of high water, a stream brings down mantle rock from the higher grounds, and deposits it as a layer of fine sediment over its flood plain. A soil thus frequently enriched and renewed is literally inexhaustible. In a rough, hilly, or mountainous country the finest farms and the densest population are found on the "bottom lands" along the streams. The flood plain most famous in history is that of the river Nile in Egypt. For a distance of 1500 miles above its mouth this river flows through a rainless desert, and has no tributary. The heavy spring rains which fall upon the highlands about its sources produce in summer a rise of the water, which overflows the valley on either side. Thus the lower Nile valley became one of the earliest centers of civilization, and has supported a dense population for 7000 years. The conditions in Mesopotamia, along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, are similar to those along the lower Nile, and in ancient times this region was the seat of a civilization perhaps older than that of Egypt. The flood plains of the Ganges in India, and the Hoang in China, are the most extensive in the world, and in modern times the most populous. The alluvial valley of the Mississippi is extremely productive of corn, cotton, and sugar cane. Notice that the first sentence gives the topic statement, flood plains are productive. The second and third sentences tell why this is so, and the rest of the paragraph is given up to illustrations. In preparing this paragraph for recitation the pupil should have in mind an outline about as follows:-- Topic statement: Flood plains are the most productive lands in the world. 1. Reasons. 2. Examples: (_a_) Bottom lands. (_b_) Nile. (_c_) Tigris and Euphrates. (_d_) Ganges. (_e_) Hoang. (_f_) Mississippi. In order to make such an outline, the relative importance of the ideas in the paragraph must be mastered. A recitation that omitted the topic statement or the reasons would be defective, while one that omitted one or more of the examples might be perfect, especially if the pupil could furnish other examples from his own knowledge. The illustration about bottom lands is a general one, and should suggest specific cases that could be included in the recitation. The details in regard to the Nile might be included if they happened to be recalled at the time of the recitation, but even the omission of all mention of the Nile might not materially detract from the value of the recitation. The effort to remember minor details hinders real thought-getting power. It is better not to write this outline. The use of notes or written outlines at the time of the recitation soon establishes a habit of dependence that renders real scholarship an impossibility. With such an analysis of the thought clearly in mind, the pupil need not attempt to remember the language of the writer. EXERCISES _A._ Complete the partial outline given for the paragraph below. Which of the illustrations might be omitted from a recitation? For which can you furnish different illustrations? Mountain ranges have great influence upon climate, political geography, and commerce. Many of them form climatic boundaries. The Cordilleras of western America and the Scandinavian mountains arrest the warm, moist, western winds which rise along those great rock barriers to cooler altitudes, where their water vapor is condensed and falls as rain, so that the country on the windward side of the mountains is wet and that on the leeward side is dry. Mountain chains stretching east and west across central Asia protect the southern part of the continent from frigid arctic winds. The large winter tourist traffic of the Riviera is due to the mountains that shield this favored French-Italian coast from the north and northeast continental winds, giving it a considerably warmer winter's temperature than that of Rome, two and a half degrees farther south. As North America has no mountain barriers across the pathway of polar winds, they sweep southward even to the Gulf of Mexico and have twice destroyed Florida's orange groves within a decade. Mountain ranges are conspicuous in political geography because they are the natural boundary between many nations and languages, as the Pyrenees between France and Spain, the Alps between Austria and Italy, and the Himalayas between Tibet and India. Mountains sometimes guard nations from attack by the isolation they give, and therefore promote national unity. Thus the Swiss are among the few peoples in Europe who have maintained the integrity of their state. Commercially, mountains are of great importance as a source of water, which they store in snow, glaciers, and lakes. Snow and ice, melting slowly on the mountains, are an unfailing source of supply for perennial rivers, and thus promote navigation. Mountains are the largest source of water-power, which is more valuable than ever now that electricity is employed to transmit it to convenient centers for use in the industries. A large part of the mining machinery in the United States is run by water power. Switzerland, which has no coal, turns the wheels of its mills with water. Mountains supply most of the metals and minerals, and are therefore the scene of the largest mining industry. They are also among the greatest sources of forest wealth. Though the slopes are not favorable for agriculture they afford good pasturage, and the dbris of the rocks washed into the valleys and plains by mountain torrents supplies good soil. Thus the Appalachians have been worn down to a comparatively low level, and the soil formed from their rock particles is the basis of large husbandry. The scenic attractions of many mountain regions is a source of large revenue. The Alps attract crowds of tourists, who spend about twenty million dollars a year in Switzerland and Austria, and give to many thousands of persons. --Adams: _Commercial Geography_. OUTLINE (to be completed) Mountain ranges have great influence upon-- I. Climate. Why? Where? _a, b,_ etc. II. Political geography. Why? Where? _a, b,_ etc. III. Commerce. Why? Where? _a, b,_ etc. _B._ Make an outline of the following paragraph:-- 1. The armor of the different classes was also accurately ordered by the law. The first class was ordered to wear for the defense of the body, brazen helmets, shields, and coats of mail, and to bear spears and swords, excepting the mechanics, who were to carry the necessary military engines and to serve without arms. The members of the second class, excepting that they had bucklers instead of shields and wore no coats of mail, were permitted to bear the same armor and to carry the sword and spear. The third class had the same armor as the second, excepting that they could not wear greaves for the protection of their legs. The fourth had no arms excepting a spear and a long javelin. The fifth merely carried slings and stones for use in them. To this class belonged the trumpeters and horn blowers. --Gilman: _Story of Rome_. _C._ In preparing your other lessons for to-day, make outlines of the paragraphs. +Theme XIX.+--_Reproduce the thought of some paragraph read to you by the teacher._ (Do not attempt to remember the language. Try to get the main thought of what is read and then write a paragraph which sets forth that same idea. Use different illustrations if you can.) NOTE.--This theme may be repeated as many times as seems desirable. +40. Importance of the Paragraph.+--Emphasis needs to be laid upon the importance of the paragraph. Our ability to express our thoughts clearly depends, to a large extent, upon our skill in constructing paragraphs. The writing of correct sentences is not sufficient. Though each of a series of sentences may be correct, they may, as a whole, say but little, and that very poorly; while another set of sentences, which cluster around some central idea, may set it forth most effectively. It is only by giving our sentence groups that unity of thought which combines them into paragraphs that we make them most effective. A well-constructed paragraph will make clear some idea, and a series of such paragraphs, related to each other and properly arranged, will set forth the sum of our thoughts on any subject. +41. Paragraph Length.+--The proper length of a paragraph cannot be determined by rule. Sometimes the thought to be presented will require several sentences; sometimes two or three will be sufficient. A single illustration may make a topic statement clear, or several illustrations may be required. The writer must judge when he has included enough to make his meaning understood, and must avoid including so much that the reader will become weary. Usually a paragraph that exceeds three hundred words will be found too long, or else it will contain more than one main idea, each of which could have been presented more effectively in a separate paragraph. +42. Indentation.+--In written and printed matter the beginning of a paragraph is indicated by an indentation. Indentation does not make a paragraph, but we indent because we are beginning a new paragraph. Indentation thus serves the same purpose as punctuation. It helps the reader to determine when we have finished one main thought and are about to begin another. Beginners are apt to use indentations too frequently. There are some special uses of indentation in letter writing, printed conversation, and other forms, but for ordinary paragraph division the indentation is determined by the thought, and its correct use depends upon clear thinking. Can the following selection be improved by reparagraphing? Outside in the darkness, gray with whirling snowflakes, he saw the wet lamps of cabs shining, and he darted along the line of hansoms and coups in frantic search for his own. "Oh, there you are," he panted, flinging his suit case up to a snow-covered driver. "Do your best now; we're late!" And he leaped into the dark coup, slammed the door, and sank back on the cushions, turning up the collar of his heavy overcoat. There was a young lady in the farther corner of the cab, buried to her nose in a fur coat. At intervals she shivered and pressed a fluffy muff against her face. A glimmer from the sleet-smeared lamps fell across her knees. Down town flew the cab, swaying around icy corners, bumping over car tracks, lurching, rattling, jouncing, while its silent occupants, huddled in separate corners, brooded moodily at their respective windows. Snow blotted the glass, melting and running down; and over the watery panes yellow light from shop windows played fantastically, distorting vision. Presently the young man pulled out his watch, fumbled for a match box, struck a light, and groaned as he read the time. At the sound of the match striking, the young lady turned her head. Then, as the bright flame illuminated the young man's face, she sat bolt upright, dropping the muff to her lap with a cry of dismay. He looked up at her. The match burned his fingers; he dropped it and hurriedly lighted another; and the flickering radiance brightened upon the face of a girl whom he had never before laid eyes on. "Good heavens!" he said, "where's my sister?" The young lady was startled but resolute. "You have made a dreadful mistake," she said; "you are in the wrong cab--" +Theme XX.+--_Write a theme using one of the subjects below:_-- 1. A personal incident. 2. The advantages and disadvantages of recesses. 3. Complete the story commenced in the selection just preceding. (Make a note of the different ideas you may discuss. Which are important enough to become topic statements? Which may be grouped together in one paragraph? In what order shall they occur? After your theme is written, consider the paragraphs. Does the definition apply to them? Are any of them too short or too long?) +43. Reasons for Studying Paragraph Structure.+--A knowledge of the way in which a paragraph is constructed will aid us in determining the thought it contains. There are several methods of developing paragraphs, and usually one of these is better suited than another to the expression of our thought. Attention given to the methods used by others will enable us both to understand better what we read, and to employ more effectively in our own writing that kind of paragraph which best expresses our thought. Hence we shall give attention to the more common forms of paragraph development. +44. Development by Giving Specific Instances.+--If you hear a general statement, such as, "Dogs are useful animals," you naturally think at once of some of the ways in which they are useful, or of some particular occasion on which a dog was of use. If a friend should say, "My dog, Fido, knows many amusing tricks," you would expect the friend to tell you some of them. A large part of our thinking consists of furnishing specific instances to illustrate general ideas which arise. Since the language we use is but the expression of the thoughts we have, it happens that many of our paragraphs are made up of general statements and the specific instances used to illustrate these statements. When the topic sentence is a general statement, we naturally seek to supply specific instances, and the writer will most readily make his meaning clear by furnishing such illustrations. Either one or many instances may be used. The object is to explain the topic statement or to prove its truth, and a good writer will use that number of instances which best accomplishes his purpose. In the following selection notice how the topic statement, set forth and repeated in the first part of the paragraph, is illustrated in the last part by means of several specific instances:-- Nine tenths of all that goes wrong in this world is because some one does not mind his business. When a terrible accident occurs, the first cry is that the means of prevention were not sufficient. Everybody declares we must have a new patent fire escape, an automatic engine switch, or a high-proof non-combustible sort of lamp oil. But a little investigation will usually show that all the contrivances were on hand and in good working order; the real trouble was that somebody didn't mind his business; he didn't obey orders; he thought he knew a better way than the way he was told; he said, "Just this once I'll take the risk," and in so doing, he made other people take the risk too; and the risk was too great. At Toronto, Canada, not long ago, a conductor, against orders, ran his train on a certain siding, which resulted in the death of thirty or forty people. The engineer of a mill, at Rochester, N.Y., thought the engine would stand a higher pressure than the safety valve indicated, so he tied a few bricks to the valve to hold it down; result--four workmen killed, a number wounded, and a mill blown to pieces. The _City of Columbus_, an iron vessel fitted out with all the means of preservation and escape in use on shipboard, was wrecked on the best-known portion of the Atlantic coast, on a moonlight night, at the cost of one hundred lives, because the officer in command took it into his head to save a few ship-lengths in distance by hugging the shore, in direct disobedience to the captain's parting orders. The best-ventilated mine in Colorado was turned into a death trap for half a hundred miners because one of the number entered with a lighted lamp the gallery he had been warned against. Nobody survived to explain the explosion of the dynamite-cartridge factory in Pennsylvania, but as that type of disaster almost always is due to heedlessness, it is probable that this instance is not an exception to the rule. --Wolstan Dixey: _Mind Your Business_. EXERCISES _A._ Which sentences make the general statements, and which furnish specific instances, in the following paragraphs? My contemplations were often interrupted by strangers who came down from Forsyth's to take their first view of the falls. A short, ruddy, middle-aged gentleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, and evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His spouse, a very robust lady, afforded a sweet example of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the safety of her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. As for the child, he gave himself wholly to the enjoyment of a stick of candy. Another traveler, a native American, and no rare character among us, produced a volume of Captain Hall's tour, and labored earnestly to adjust Niagara to the captain's description, departing, at last, without one new idea or sensation of his own. The next comer was provided, not with a printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from top to bottom of which, by means of an ever pointed pencil, the cataract was made to thunder. In a little talk which we had together, he awarded his approbation to the general view, but censured the position of Goat Island, observing that it should have been thrown farther to the right, so as to widen the American falls, and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared two traders of Michigan, who declared that, upon the whole, the sight was worth looking at; there certainly was an immense water power here; but that, after all, they would go twice as far to see the noble stone works of Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a descent of sixty feet. They were succeeded by a young fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a staff in his hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced close to the edge of the rock, where his attention, at first wavering among the different components of the scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the Horseshoe falls, which is, indeed, the central point of interest. His whole soul seemed to go forth and be transported thither, till the staff slipped from his relaxed grasp, and falling down--down-- down--struck upon the fragment of the Table Rock. --Hawthorne: _My Visit to Niagara_. No wonder he learned English quickly, for he was ever on the alert--no strange word escaped him, no unusual term. He would say it over and over till he met a friend, and then demand its meaning. One day he came to me with a very troubled face. "Madame," he said, "please tell me why shall a man, like me, like any man, be a 'bluenose'?" "A what?" I asked. "A 'bluenose.' So he was called in the restaurant, but he seemed not offended about it. I have looked in my books; I can't find any disease of that name." With ill-suppressed laughter I asked, "Do you know Nova Scotia and Newfoundland?" "I hear the laugh in your voice," he said; then added, "Yes, I know both these places." "They are very cold and foggy and wet," I explained. But with brightening eyes he caught up the sentence and continued: "And the people have blue noses, eh? Ha! ha! Excuse me, then, but is a milksop a man from some state, or some country, too?" At tea some one used the word "claptrap." "What's that?" quickly demanded the student in our midst. "'Claptrap'--'clap' is so (he struck his hands together); 'trap' is for rats--what is, then, 'claptrap'?" "It is a vulgar or unworthy bid for applause," I explained. "Bah!" he contemptuously exclaimed. "I know him,--that cheap actor who plays at the gallery. He is, then, in English a 'clap-trapper,' is he not?" It was hardly possible to meet him without having a word or a term offered thus for explanation. --Clara Morris: _Alessandro Salvini_ ("McClure's"). _B._ Write six sentences which might be developed into paragraphs by giving specific instances. +Theme XXI.+--_Write a paragraph by furnishing specific instances for one of the following topic statements:_-- 1. Nine tenths of all that goes wrong in this world is because some one does not mind his business. 2. It requires a man of courage and perseverance to become a pioneer. 3. Even the wisest teacher does not always punish the boy who is most at fault. 4. It is impossible to teach a dog many amusing tricks. 5. Even so stupid a creature as a chicken may sometimes exhibit much intelligence. 6. Carelessness often leads into difficulty. 7. Our school clock must see many interesting things. 8. Our first impressions are not always our best ones. 9. I am a very busy lead pencil, for my duties are numerous. 10. Dickens's characters are taken from the lower classes of people. 11. Some portions of the book I am reading are very interesting. (Do your specific instances really illustrate the topic statement? Have you said what you intended to say? Can you omit any words or sentences? Have you used _and_ or _got_ unnecessarily?). +45. Development by Giving Details.+--Many general statements lead to a desire to know the details, and the writer may make his idea clearer by giving them. The statement, "The wedding ceremony was impressive," at once arouses a desire to know the details. If a friend should say, "I enjoyed my trip to the city," we wish him to relate that which pleased him. These details assist us in understanding the topic statement, and increase our interest in it. Notice in the paragraphs below how much is added to our understanding of the topic statement by the sentences that give the details:-- 1. I left my garden for a week, just at the close of a dry spell. A season of rain immediately set in, and when I returned the transformation was wonderful. In one week every vegetable had fairly jumped forward. The tomatoes, which I left slender plants, eaten of bugs and debating whether they would go backward or forward, had become stout and lusty, with thick stems and dark leaves, and some of them had blossomed. The corn waved like that which grows so rank out of the French-English mixture at Waterloo. The squashes--I will not speak of the squashes. The most remarkable growth was the asparagus. There was not a spear above ground when I went away; and now it had sprung up, and gone to seed, and there were stalks higher than my head. --Warner: _My Summer in a Garden_. 2. The wedding ceremony was solemn and beautiful, in the church on the estate. At the door of the palace stood the mother of the bride, to greet her return from the ceremony with the blessing, "May you always have bread and salt," as she served her from a loaf of black bread, with a salt cellar in the center, as is the Russian custom for prince and peasant. Just at this dramatic moment a courier dashed up with a telegram from the Czar and Czarina, and their gifts for the bride,--a magnificent tiara and necklace of diamonds. The other presents were already displayed in a magnificent room; but we saw their splendor through the glass of locked cases,--a precaution surprising to an Englishwoman. The large swan of forcemeat was the only reminder of boyar customs at the rather Parisian feast. Wine was served between the courses, with a toast; while guests in turn left their seats to express their sentiments to bride and groom, who stood to receive them. --Mary Louise Dunbar: _The Household of a Russian Prince_ ("Atlantic Monthly "). +Theme XXII.+--_Write a paragraph by giving details for one of the following topic statements:_-- 1. There were many interesting things on the farm where I spent my summer vacation. 2. The sounds heard in the forest at night are somewhat alarming to one who is not used to the language of the woods. 3. I am always much amused when the Sewing Circle meets at my mother's house. 4. Good roads are of advantage to farmers in many ways. 5. A baseball game furnishes abundant opportunity to exercise good judgment. 6. I remember well the first time that I visited a large city. 7. I shall never forget my first attempt at milking a cow. 8. The haunted house is a square, old-fashioned one of the colonial type. 9. A mouse suddenly entering the class room caused much disturbance. 10. A freshman's trials are numerous. (Do the details bear upon the main idea? If the paragraph is long and rambling, condense by omitting the least important parts. By changing the order of the sentences, can you improve the paragraph?) +46. Details Related in Time-Order.+--The experiences of daily life follow each other in time, and when we read of a series of events we at once think of them as having occurred in a certain time-order. To assist in establishing the correct time-order, the writer should generally state the details of his story in the order in which they occurred. The method of showing time relations for simultaneous events has been discussed in Section 11. If the narrative is of considerable length, it may be divided into paragraphs, each dealing with some particular stage of its progress. The time relations among the sentences within the paragraph and among the paragraphs themselves should be such that the reader may readily follow the thread of the story to its main point. Narrative paragraphs often do not have topic sentences. In the following selection from _Black Beauty_ notice how the time relations give unity of thought both to the paragraphs and to the whole selection:-- He hung my rein on one of the iron spikes, and was soon hidden among the trees. Lizzie was standing quietly by the side of the road, a few paces off, with her back to me. My young mistress was sitting easily, with a loose rein, humming a little song. I listened to my rider's footsteps until he reached the house, and heard him knock at the door. There was a meadow on the opposite side of the road, the gate of which stood open. As I looked, some cart horses and several young colts came trotting out in a very disorderly manner, while a boy behind was cracking a great whip. The colts were wild and frolicsome. One of them bolted across the road and blundered up against Lizzie. Whether it was the stupid colt or the loud cracking of the whip, or both together, I cannot say, but she gave a violent kick and dashed off into a headlong gallop. It was so sudden that Lady Anne was nearly unseated, but she soon recovered herself. I gave a long, shrill neigh for help. Again and again I neighed, pawing the ground impatiently, and tossing my head to get the rein loose. I had not long to wait. Blantyre came running to the gate. He looked anxiously about, and just caught sight of the flying figure now far away on the road. In an instant he sprang to the saddle. I needed no whip, no spur, for I was as eager as my rider. He saw it; and giving me a free rein, and leaning a little forward, we dashed after them. For about a mile and a half the road ran straight, then bent to the right; after this it divided into two roads. Long before we came to the bend my mistress was out of sight. Which way had she turned? A woman was standing at her garden gate, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking eagerly up the road. Scarcely drawing rein, Lord Blantyre shouted, "Which way?" "To the right!" cried the woman, pointing with her hand, and away we went up the right-hand road. For a moment we caught sight of Lady Anne; another bend, and she was hidden again. Several times we caught glimpses of the flying rider, only to lose her again. We scarcely seemed to gain ground upon her at all. An old road mender was standing near a heap of stones, his shovel dropped and his hands raised. As we came near he made a sign to speak. Lord Blantyre drew the rein a little. "To the common, to the common, sir! She has turned off there." I knew this common very well. It was, for the most part, very uneven ground, covered with heather and dark-green bushes, with here and there a scrubby thorn tree. There were also open spaces of fine, short grass, with ant-hills and mole turns everywhere--the worst place I ever knew for a headlong gallop. We had just turned on to the common, when we caught sight again of the green habit flying on before us. My mistress's hat was gone, and her long brown hair was streaming behind her. Her head and body were thrown back, as if she were pulling with all her remaining strength, and as if that strength were nearly exhausted. It was clear that the roughness of the ground had very much lessened Lizzie's speed, and there seemed a chance that we might overtake her. While we were on the highroad, Lord Blantyre had given me my head; but now, with a light hand and a practiced eye, he guided me over the ground in such a masterly manner that my pace was scarcely slackened, and we gained on them every moment. About halfway across the common a wide dike had recently been cut and the earth from the cutting cast up roughly on the other side. Surely this would stop them! But no; scarcely pausing, Lizzie took the leap, stumbled among the rough clods, and fell. --Anne Sewell: _Black Beauty_. +Theme XXIII.+--_Write a brief narrative giving unity to the paragraphs by means of the time relations._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. An adventure on horseback. 2. A trip with the engineer. 3. A day on the river. 4. Fido's mishaps. 5. An inquisitive crow. 6. The unfortunate letter carrier. 7. Teaching a calf to drink. 8. The story of a silver dollar. 9. A narrow escape. 10.An afternoon at the circus. 11.A story accounting for the situation shown in the picture on page 90. (Do you need more than one paragraph? If so, is each a group of sentences treating of a single topic? Can the reader follow the thread of your story? Leave out details not essential to the main point.) +47. Order of Details Determined by Position in Space.+--The order of presentation of details may be determined by the position that the details themselves occupy in space. In description we wish both to give a correct general impression of the thing described, and to make certain details clear. The general impression should be given in the first sentence or two and the details should follow. The effectiveness of the details will depend upon their order of presentation. When one looks at a scene the eye passes from one object to another near it; similarly when one is recalling the scene the image of one thing naturally recalls that of an adjoining one. A skillful writer takes advantage of this habit of thinking, and states the details in his description in the order in which we would naturally see them if we were actually looking at them. By so doing he most easily presents to our minds the image he wishes to convey. In the following paragraphs notice that we get first an impression of the general appearance, to which we are enabled to add new details as the description proceeds. The companion of the church dignitary was a man past forty, thin, strong, tall, and muscular; an athletic figure, which long fatigue and constant exercise seemed to have left none of the softer part of the human form, having reduced the whole to brawn, bones, and sinews, which had sustained a thousand toils, and were ready to dare a thousand more. His head was covered with a scarlet cap, faced with fur, of that kind which the French call _mortier_, from its resemblance to the shape of an inverted mortar. His countenance was therefore fully displayed, and its expression was calculated to impress a degree of awe, if not of fear, upon strangers. High features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt almost into negro blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun, and might, in their ordinary state, be said to slumber after the storm of passion had passed away; but the projection of the veins of the forehead, the readiness with which the upper lip and its thick black mustache quivered upon the slightest emotion, plainly intimated that the tempest might be again and easily awakened. His keen, piercing, dark eyes told in every glance a history of difficulties subdued and dangers dared, and seemed to challenge opposition to his wishes, for the pleasure of sweeping it from his road by a determined exertion of courage and of will; a deep scar on his brow gave additional sternness to his countenance and a sinister expression to one of his eyes, which had been slightly injured on the same occasion, and of which the vision, though perfect, was in a slight and partial degree distorted. The upper dress of this personage resembled that of his companion in shape, being a long monastic mantle; but the color, being scarlet, showed that he did not belong to any of the four regular orders of monks. On the right shoulder of the mantle there was cut, in white cloth, a cross of a peculiar form. This upper robe concealed what at first view seemed rather inconsistent with its form, a shirt, namely, of linked mail, with sleeves and gloves of the same, curiously plaited and interwoven, as flexible to the body as those which are now wrought in the stocking loom out of less obdurate materials. The fore part of his thighs, where the folds of his mantle permitted them to be seen, were also covered with linked mail; the knees and feet were defended by splints, or thin plates of steel, ingeniously jointed upon each other; and mail hose, reaching from the ankle to the knee, effectually protected the legs, and completed the rider's defensive armor. In his girdle he wore a long and double-edged dagger, which was the only offensive weapon about his person. He rode, not a mule, like his companion, but a strong hackney for the road, to save his gallant war horse, which a squire led behind, fully accoutered for battle, with a chamfron or plaited headpiece upon his head, having a short spike projecting from the front. On one side of the saddle hung a short battle-ax, richly inlaid with Damascene carving; on the other the rider's plumed headpiece and hood of mail, with a long two-handed sword, used by the chivalry of the period. A second squire held aloft his master's lance, from the extremity of which fluttered a small banderole, or streamer, bearing a cross of the same form with that embroidered upon his cloak. He also carried his small triangular shield, broad enough at the top to protect the breast, and from thence diminishing to a point. It was covered with a scarlet cloth, which prevented the device from being seen. --Scott: _Ivanhoe_. Notice also how the description proceeds in an orderly way from one thing to another, placing together in the description those which occur together in the person described. Just as we turn our eyes naturally from one thing to another near it in space, so in a paragraph should our attention be called from one thing to that which naturally accompanies it. If the first sentence describes a man's eyes, the second his feet, and a third his forehead, our mental image is likely to become confused. If a description covers several paragraphs, each may be given a unity by placing in it those things which are associated in space. EXERCISES _A._ If you were to write three paragraphs describing a man, which of the following details should be included in each paragraph? (_a_) eyes, (_b_) shoes, (_c_) size, (_d_) complexion, (_e_) general appearance, (_f_) hair, (_g_) carriage, (_h_) trousers,(_i_) mouth, (_j_) coat, (_k_) nose. _B._ Make a list of the details which might be mentioned in describing the outside of a church. Arrange them in appropriate groups. _C._ In the following paragraphs which sentences give the general outline and which give details? Are the details arranged with reference to their position in space? Can the paragraph be improved by rearranging them? 1. We came finally to a brook more wild and mysterious than the others. There were a half dozen stepping-stones between the path we were on and the place where it began again on the opposite side. After a few missteps and much laughter we were landed at last, but several of the party had wet feet to remember the experience by. We found ourselves in a space that had once been a clearing. A tumbledown chimney overgrown with brambles and vines told of an abandoned hearthstone. The blackened remnants of many a picnic camp fire strewed the ground. A slight turn brought us to the spot where the Indian Spring welled out of the hillside. The setting was all that we could have hoped for,--great moss-grown rocks wet and slippery, deep shade which almost made us doubt the existence of the hot August sunshine at the edge of the forest, cool water dripping and tinkling. A half-dozen great trees had been so undermined by the action of the water long ago that they had tumbled headlong into the stream bed. There they lay, heads down, crisscross--one completely spanning the brook just below the spring--their tangled roots like great dragons twisting and thrusting at the shadows. The water trickled slowly over the smooth rocky bottom as if reluctant to leave a spot enchanted. A few yards below, the overflow from Indian Spring joined the main stream, and their waters mingled in a pretty little cataract. We went below and looked back at it. How it wrinkled and paused over the level spaces, played with the bubbles in the eddies, and ran laughing and turning somersaults wherever the ledges were abrupt. --Mary Rodgers Miller: _The Brook Book_. (Copyright, 1902, by Doubleday, Page & Co.) 2. Rowena was tall in stature, yet not so much so as to attract observation on account of superior height. Her complexion was exquisitely fair, but the noble cast of her head and features prevented the insipidity which sometimes attaches to fair beauties. Her clear blue eyes, which sat enshrined beneath a graceful eyebrow of brown, sufficiently marked to give expression to the forehead, seemed capable to kindle as well as to melt, to command as well as to beseech. Her profuse hair, of a color betwixt brown and flaxen, was arranged in a fanciful and graceful manner in numerous ringlets, to form which art had probably been aided by nature. These locks were braided with gems, and being worn at full length, intimated the noble birth and free-born condition of the maiden. A golden chain, to which was attached a small reliquary of the same metal, hung around her neck. She wore bracelets on her arms, which were bare. Her dress was an under gown and kirtle of pale sea-green silk, over which hung a long loose robe, which reached to the ground, having very wide sleeves, which came down, however, very little below the elbow. This robe was crimson, and manufactured out of the very finest wool. A veil of silk, interwoven with gold, was attached to the upper part of it, which could be, at the wearer's pleasure, either drawn over the face and bosom after the Spanish fashion, or disposed as a sort of drapery round the shoulders. --Scott: _Ivanhoe_. +Theme XXIV.+--_Write a paragraph and arrange the details with reference to their association in space._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Ichabod Crane. 2. Rip Van Winkle. 3. The man who lives near us. 4. A minister I met yesterday. 5. Our family doctor. 6. The gymnasium. 7. A fire engine. 8. The old church. 9. The shoe factory. 10. Some character in the book you are reading. (Which sentence gives the general impression and which sentences give the details? Are the details arranged with reference to their real space order? Should others be added? Can any be omitted? Will the reader form the mental image you wish him to form?) +48. Development by Comparison.+--In Section 29 we found that comparison, whether literal or figurative, aided us in forming mental images of objects. In a similar way events and general principles may be explained by making suitable comparisons. We are continually comparing one thing with another. Every idea tends to recall other ideas that are similar to it or in contrast with it. When an unfamiliar idea is presented to us we at once seek to associate it with similar ideas already known to us. A writer, therefore, will make his meaning clear by furnishing, the desired comparisons. If these are familiar to us, they enable us to understand the new ideas presented. Even when both ideas in the comparison are unfamiliar, each may gain in clearness by comparison with the other. In comparing two objects, events, or principles we may point out that they are _not_ alike in certain respects. A comparison that thus emphasizes differences, rather than likenesses, becomes a contrast. The contrast may be given in a single sentence or in a single paragraph, but often a paragraph or more may be required for each of the two ideas contrasted. EXERCISE Notice how comparisons and contrasts are used in the following paragraphs:-- 1. Niagara is the largest cataract in the world, while Yosemite is the highest; it is the volume that impresses you at Niagara, and it is the height of Yosemite and the grand surroundings that make its beauty. Niagara is as wide as Yosemite is high, and if it had no more water than Yosemite has, it would not be of much consequence. The sound of the two falls is quite different: Niagara makes a steady roar, deep and strong, though not oppressive, while Yosemite is a crash and rattle, owing to the force of the water as it strikes the solid rock after its immense leap. 2. It is not only in appearance that London and New York differ widely. They also speak with different accents, for cities have distinctive accents as well as people. Tennyson wrote about "streaming London's central roar"; the roar is a gentle hum compared with the din which tingles the ears of visitors to New York. The accent of New York is harsh, grating, jarring. The rattle of the elevated railroad, the whir of the cable cars, the ringing of electric-car bells, the rumble of vehicles over the hard stones, the roar of the traffic as it rechoes through the narrow canyons of down-town streets, produce an appalling combination of discords. The streets of New York are not more crowded than those of London, but the noise in London is subdued. It is more regular, less jarring and piercing. The muffled sounds in London are due partly to the wooden and asphalt pavements, which deaden the sounds. London must be soothing to the New Yorker, as the noise of New York is at first disconcerting to the Londoner.--_Outlook._ 3. Now their separate characters are briefly these. The man's power is active, progressive, defensive. He is eminently the doer, the creator, the discoverer, the defender. His intellect is for speculation and invention; his energy for adventure, for war, and for conquest wherever war is just, wherever conquest necessary. But the woman's power is for rule, not for battle, and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet ordering, arrangement, and decision. She sees the qualities of things, their claims, and their places. --Ruskin: _Sesame and Lilies_. +Theme XXV.+--_Write a paragraph using comparison or contrast._ Suggested topics:-- 1. The school, a beehive. 2. The body, a steam engine. 3. Two generals about whom you have read. 4. Girls, boys. 5. Two of your studies. 6. Graded school work, high school work. 7. Animal life, plant life. 8. Two of your classmates. (Have you used comparison or contrast? Have you introduced any of the other methods of development? Have you developed the paragraph so that the reader will understand fully your topic statement? Omit sentences not really needed.) +49. Development by Stating Cause and Effect.+--We are better satisfied with our understanding of a thing if we know the causes which have produced it or the effects which follow it. Likewise we feel that another has mastered the topic statement of a paragraph if he can answer the question, Why is this so? or, What will result from this? When either is stated, we naturally begin to think about the other. The idea of a topic statement may, therefore, be satisfactorily developed by stating its causes or its effects. A cause may be stated and the effects given or the effects may be made the topic statement for which we account by giving its causes. The importance of the relation of cause and effect to scientific study is discussed in the following paragraph from Mill:-- The relation of cause and effect is the fundamental law of nature. There is no recorded instance of an effect appearing without a previous cause, or of a cause acting without producing its full effect. Every change in nature is the effect of some previous change and the cause of some change to follow; just as the movement of each carriage near the middle of a long train is a result of the movement of the one in front and a precursor of the movement of the one behind. Facts or effects are to be seen everywhere, but causes have usually to be sought for. It is the function of science or organized knowledge to observe all effects, or phenomena, and to seek for their causes. This twofold purpose gives richness and dignity to science. The observation and classifying of facts soon become wearisome to all but the specialist actually engaged in the work. But when reasons are assigned, and classification explained, when the number of causes is reduced and the effects begin to crystallize into essential and clearly related parts of one whole, every intelligent student finds interest, and many, more fortunate, even fascination in the study. EXERCISES _A._ In your reading, notice how often the effects are indicated by the use of some one of the following expressions: _as a result, accordingly, consequently, for, hence, so, so that, thus._ _B._ Which sentences state causes and which state effects in the following paragraphs? 1. The power of water to dissolve most minerals increases with its temperature and the amount of gases it contains. Percolating water at great depths, therefore, generally dissolves more mineral matter than it can hold in solution when it reaches the surface, where it cools, and, being relieved of pressure, much of its carbonic acid gas escapes to the atmosphere or is absorbed by aquatic plants or mosses. Hence, deep-seated springs are usually surrounded by a deposit of the minerals with which the water is impregnated. Sometimes this deposit may even form large hills; sometimes it forms a mound around the spring, over the sides of which the water falls, while the spray, evaporating from surrounding objects, leaves them also incrusted with a mineral deposit. Percolating water evaporating on the sides and roof of limestone caverns, leaves the walls incrusted with carbonate of lime in beautiful masses of crystals. Water slowly evaporating as it drips from the roof of caverns to the floor beneath leaves a deposit on both places, which gradually grows downward from the roof as a _stalactite_, and upward from the floor as a _stalagmite_, until these meet and form one continuous column of stone. --Hinman: _Eclectic Physical Geography_. 2. The frequent use of cigars or cigarettes by the young seriously affects the quality of the blood. The red blood corpuscles are not fully developed and charged with their normal supply of life-giving oxygen. This causes paleness of the skin, often noticed in the face of the young smoker. Palpitation of the heart is also a common result, followed by permanent weakness, so that the whole system is enfeebled, and mental vigor is impaired as well as physical strength. Observant teachers can usually tell which of the boys under their care are addicted to smoking, simply by the comparative inferiority of their appearance, and by their intellectual and bodily indolence and feebleness. After full maturity is attained the evil effects of commencing the use of tobacco are less apparent; but competent physicians assert that it cannot be safely used by those under the age of forty. --Macy-Norris: _Physiology for High Schools_. 3. In many other ways, too, the Norman Conquest affected England. For example, before long all the best places in the Church were filled with foreigners. But most of the new bishops and abbots were far superior in morals and education to the Englishmen whom they succeeded. They were also devoted to the Pope of Rome, and soon made the English National Church a part of the Roman Catholic Church. But William, while willing to bow to the Pope as his chief in religious matters, refused to give way to him in things which concerned only this world. No former English king had done that, he knew, and no more would he. This union with the Roman Catholic Church was of the greatest benefit to England, as it brought her once more into connection with the educated men of Europe. Indeed, Lanfranc, the Conqueror's Archbishop of Canterbury, was one of the best and wisest men of his day. --Higginson and Channing: _English History for American Readers_. +Theme XXVI.+--_Develop one of the following topic statements into paragraphs by stating causes or effects:_-- 1. A government which had no soldiers to call upon in an emergency would not last long. 2. One of the first needs of a new country is roads. 3. The number of people receiving public support is smaller in this country than in Europe. 4. An efficient postal system is a great aid to civilization. 5. A straight stream is an impossibility in nature. 6. Mountain ranges have great influence upon climate. 7. The United States holds first place as a manufacturing nation. 8. There are many swift rivers in New England. 9. Towns or cities are located at the mouths of navigable rivers. (Which sentences state causes and which state effects? Would the effects which you have stated really follow the given causes?) +50. Development by Repetition.+--The repetition of a thought in different form will often make plain that which we do not at first understand. This is especially true if the repetitions are accompanied by new comparisons. In every school the teacher makes daily use of repetition in her efforts to explain to the pupils that which they do not understand. In a similar way a writer makes use of this tendency of ours, and develops the idea of the topic sentence by repetition. Each sentence should, however, do more than merely repeat. It should add something to the central idea, making this idea clearer, more definite, or more emphatic. If repetition is excessive and purposeless, it becomes a fault. Repetition may extend through the whole paragraph, or it may be used to explain any sentence or any part of a sentence. It may tell what the thing is or what it is not, and in effect becomes a definition setting limits to the original idea. EXERCISE Notice how the idea in the topic statement of each of the following paragraphs is repeated in those which follow:-- 1. No man ever made a complete new system of law and gave it to a people. No monarch, however absolute or powerful, ever had the power to change the habits of a people to that extent. Revolution generally means, not a change of law, but merely a change of government officials; even when it is a change from monarchy to democracy. Our Revolution made practically no changes in the criminal and civil laws of the colonies. 2. People talk of liberty as if it meant the liberty to do just what a man likes. I call that man free who fears doing wrong, but fears nothing else. I call that man free who has learned the most blessed of all truths,--that liberty consists in obedience to the power, and to the will, and to the law that his higher soul reverences and approves. He is not free because he does what he likes; but he is free because he does what he ought, and there is no protest in his soul against the doing. --Frederick William Robertson. 3. This dense forest was to the Indians a home in which they had lived from childhood, and where they were as much at ease as a farmer on his own acres. To their keen eyes, trained for generations to more than a wild beast's watchfulness, the wilderness was an open book. Nothing at rest or in motion escaped them. They had begun to track game as soon as they could walk; a scrape on a tree trunk, a bruised leaf, a faint indentation of the soil, which no white man could see, all told them a tale as plainly as if it had been shouted in their ears. --Theodore Roosevelt: _The Winning of the West_. 4. Public enterprises, whether conducted by the municipality or committed to the public service corporation, exist to render public services. Streets are public highways. They exist for the people's use. Nothing should be placed in them unless required to facilitate their use by or for the people. Only the general need of water, gas, electricity, and transportation justifies the placing of pipes and wires and tracks in the streets. The public need is the sole test and measure of such occupation. To look upon the streets as a source of private gain, or even municipal revenue, except as incidents of their public use, is to disregard their public character. Adequate service at the lowest practicable rates, not gain or revenue, is the test. The question is, not how much the public service corporation may gain, but what can be saved to the people by its employment. --Edwin Burrett Smith: _The Next Step in Municipal Reform_ ("Atlantic Monthly"). +Theme XXVII.+--_Develop one of the following topic statements into a paragraph, using the method, of repetition as far as possible:_-- 1. It is difficult to become angry with one who is always good-natured. 2. It is gloomy in the woods on a rainy day. 3. The government is always in need of honest men. 4. Rural free delivery of mail will have a great effect on country life. 5. Not every boy in school uses his time to the best advantage. 6. Haste is waste. 7. Regular exercise is one of the essentials of good health. (Have the repetitions really made the idea of the topic sentence clearer or more emphatic or more definite? What other methods of development have you used?) +51. Development by a Combination of Methods.+--A paragraph should have unity of thought, and, so long as this unity of thought is kept, it does not matter what methods of development are used. A dozen paragraphs taken at random will show that combinations are very frequent. Often it will be difficult to determine just how a paragraph has been developed. In general, however, it may be said that an indiscriminate mixture of methods is confusing and interferes with unity of thought. If more than one is used, it requires skillful handling to maintain such a relation between them that both contribute to the clear and emphatic statement of the main thought. The paragraph from Dryer, page 74, shows a combination of cause and effect with specific illustrations; that from Wolstan Dixey, page 81, shows a combination of repetition with specific instances. EXERCISES What methods of paragraph development, or what combinations of methods, are used in the following selections? 1. I believe the first test of a truly great man is his humility. I do not mean, by humility, doubt of his power, or hesitation in speaking of his opinions; but a right understanding of the relation between what he can do and say and the rest of the world's sayings and doings. All great men not only know their business, but usually know that they know it; and are not only right in their main opinions, but they usually know that they are right in them; only they do not think much of themselves on that account. Arnolfo knows he can build a good dome at Florence; Albert Drer writes calmly to one who had found fault with his work, "It cannot be better done"; Sir Isaac Newton knows that he has worked out a problem or two that would have puzzled anybody else; only they do not expect their fellow-men therefore to fall down and worship them; they have a curious undersense of powerlessness, feeling that the greatness is not _in_ them, but _through_ them; that they could not do or be anything else than God made them. And they see something divine and God-made in every other man they meet, and are endlessly, foolishly, and incredibly merciful. --Ruskin. 2. The first thing to be noted about the dress of the Romans is that its prevalent material was always woolen. Sheep raising for wool was practiced among them on an extensive scale, from the earliest historic times, and the choice breeds of that animal, originally imported from Greece or Asia Minor, took so kindly to the soil and climate of Italy that home-grown wool came even to be preferred to the foreign for fineness and softness of quality. Foreign wools were, however, always imported more or less, partly because the supply of native wools seems never to have been quite sufficient, partly because the natural colors of wools from different parts varied so considerably as to render the art of the dyer to some extent unnecessary. Thus, the wools of Canusium were brown or reddish, those of Pollentia in Liguria were black, those from the Spanish Baetica, which comprised Andalusia and a part of Granada, had either a golden brown or a grayish hue; the wools of Asia were almost red; and there was a Grecian fleece, called the crow colored, of which the natural tint was a peculiarly deep and brilliant black. --Preston and Dodge: _'The Private Life of the Romans_. 3. Art has done everything for Munich. It lies on a large flat plain sixteen hundred feet above the sea and continually exposed to the cold winds from the Alps. At the beginning of the present century it was but a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners; since that time its population and limits have been doubled, and magnificent edifices in every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in this respect to any capital in Europe. Every art that wealth or taste could devise seems to have been spent in its decoration. Broad, spacious streets and squares have been laid out; churches, halls, and colleges erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established which drew artists from all parts of the world. --Taylor: _Views Afoot_. 4. In all excursions to the woods or to the shore the student of ornithology has an advantage over his companions. He has one more, avenue of delight. He, indeed, kills two birds with one stone and sometimes three. If others wander, he can never get out of his way. His game is everywhere. The cawing of a crow makes him feel at home, while a new note or a new song drowns all care. Audubon, on the desolate coast of Labrador, is happier than any king ever was; and on shipboard is nearly cured of his seasickness when a new gull appears in sight. --Burroughs: _Wake Robin_. +Theme XXVIII.+--_Write a paragraph, using any method or combination of methods which best suits your thought. Use any of the subjects hitherto suggested that you have not already used._ (Is every sentence related to the topic statement so that your paragraph possesses unity? What methods of development have you used?) +52. The Topical Recitation.+--In conducting a recitation the teacher may ask direct questions about each part of a paragraph or she may ask a pupil to discuss some topic. Such a topical recitation should be an exercise in clear thinking rather than in word memory, and in order to prepare for it, the pupil should have made a careful analysis of the thought in each paragraph similar to that discussed on page 74. When this analysis has been made he will have clearly in mind the topic statement and the way it has been developed, and will be able to distinguish the essential from the non-essential elements. A topical recitation demands that the pupil know the main idea and be able to develop it in one of the following methods, or by a combination of them: (1) by giving specific instances, (2) by giving details, (3) by giving comparisons or contrasts, (4) by giving causes or effects, and (5) by repetition. Thoughts so mastered are our own. We understand them and believe them; and consequently we can explain them, or describe them, or prove them to others. We can furnish details or instances, originate comparisons, or state causes and effects. _When ideas gained from language have thus become our own, we do not need to remember the language in which they were expressed, and not until then do they become proper material for composition purposes._ +53. Outlining Paragraphs.+--Making an outline of a paragraph that we have read brings the thought clearly before our mind. In a similar way we may make our own thoughts clear and definite by attempting to prepare in advance an outline of a paragraph that we are about to write. Arranging the material that we have in mind and deciding upon the order in which we shall present it, will both help us to understand the thought ourselves, and enable us to present it more effectively to others. EXERCISES _A._ Prepare for recitation the following selection from Newcomer's introduction to Macaulay's _Milton and Addison:_-- There were two faculties of Macaulay's mind that set his work far apart from other work in the same field,--the faculties of organization and illustration. He saw things in their right relation and he knew how to make others see them thus. If he was describing, he never thrust minor details into the foreground. If he was narrating, he never "got ahead of his story." The importance of this is not sufficiently recognized. Many writers do not know what organization means. They do not know that in all great and successful literary work it is nine tenths of the labor. Yet consider a moment. History is a very complex thing: divers events may be simultaneous in their occurrence; or one crisis may be slowly evolving from many causes in many places. It is no light task to tell these things one after another and yet leave a unified impression, to take up a dozen new threads in succession without tangling them and without losing the old ones, and to lay them all down at the right moment and without confusion. Such is the narrator's task, and it was at this task that Macaulay proved himself a past master. He could dispose of a number of trivial events in a single sentence. Thus, for example, runs his account of the dramatist Wycherley's naval career: "He embarked, was present at a battle, and celebrated it, on his return, in a copy of verses too bad for the bellman." On the other hand, when it is a question of a great crisis, like the impeachment of Warren Hastings, he knew how to prepare for it with elaborate ceremony and to portray it in a scene of the highest dramatic power. This faculty of organization shows itself in what we technically name structure; and logical and rhetorical structure may be studied at their very best in his work. His essays are perfect units, made up of many parts, systems within systems, that play together without clog or friction. You can take them apart like a watch and put them together again. But try to rearrange the parts and the mechanism is spoiled. Each essay has its subdivisions, which in turn are groups of paragraphs. And each paragraph is a unit. Take the first paragraph of the essay on Milton: the word _manuscript_ appears in the first sentence, and it reappears in the last; clearly the paragraph deals with a single very definite topic. And so with all. Of course the unity manifests itself in a hundred ways, but it is rarely wanting. Most frequently it takes the form of an expansion of a topic given in the first sentence, or a preparation for a topic to be announced only in the last. These initial and final sentences-- often in themselves both aphoristic and memorable--serve to mark with the utmost clearness the different stages in the progress of the essay. Illustration is of more incidental service, but as used by Macaulay becomes highly organic. For his illustrations are not farfetched or laboriously worked out. They seem to be of one piece with his story or his argument. His mind was quick to detect resemblances and analogies. He was ready with a comparison for everything, sometimes with half a dozen. For example, Addison's essays, he has occasion to say, were different every day of the week, and yet, to his mind, each day like something--like Horace, like Lucian, like the "Tales of Scheherezade." He draws long comparisons between Walpole and Townshend, between Congreve and Wycherley, between Essex and Villiers, between the fall of the Carlovingians and the fall of the Moguls. He follows up a general statement with swarms of instances. Have historians been given to exaggerating the villainy of Machiavelli? Macaulay can name you half a dozen who did so. Did the writers of Charles's faction delight in making their opponents appear contemptible? "They have told us that Pym broke down in a speech, that Ireton had his nose pulled by Hollis, that the Earl of Northumberland cudgeled Henry Marten, that St. John's manners were sullen, that Vane had an ugly face, that Cromwell had a red nose." Do men fail when they quit their own province for another? Newton failed thus; Bentley failed; Inigo Jones failed; Wilkie failed. In the same way he was ready with quotations. He writes in one of his letters: "It is a dangerous thing for a man with a very strong memory to read very much. I could give you three or four quotations this moment in support of that proposition; but I will bring the vicious propensity under subjection, if I can." Thus we see his mind doing instantly and involuntarily what other minds do with infinite pains, bringing together all things that have a likeness or a common bearing. It is precisely these talents that set Macaulay among the simplest and clearest of writers, and that accounts for much of his popularity. People found that in taking up one of his articles they simply read on and on, never puzzling over the meaning of a sentence, getting the exact force of every statement, and following the trend of thought with scarcely a mental effort. And his natural gift of making things plain he took pains to support by various devices. He constructed his sentences after the simplest normal fashion, subject and verb and object, sometimes inverting for emphasis, but rarely complicating, and always reducing expression to the barest terms. He could write, for example, "One advantage the chaplain had," but it is impossible to conceive of his writing, "Now, amid all the discomforts and disadvantages with which the unfortunate chaplain was surrounded, there was one thing which served to offset them, and which, if he chose to take the opportunity of enjoying it, might well be regarded as a positive advantage." One will search his pages in vain for loose, trailing clauses and involved constructions. His vocabulary was of the same simple nature. He had a complete command of ordinary English and contented himself with that. He rarely ventured beyond the most abridged dictionary. An occasional technical term might be required, but he was shy of the unfamiliar. He would coin no words and he would use no archaisms. Foreign words, when fairly naturalized, he employed sparingly. "We shall have no disputes about diction," he wrote to Napier, Jeffrey's successor; "the English language is not so poor but that I may very well find in it the means of contenting both you and myself." _B._ Recite upon some topic taken from your other lessons for the day. Let the class tell what method of development you have used. _C._ Make a collection of well-written paragraphs illustrating each of the methods of development. +Theme XXIX.+--_Write two paragraphs using the same topic statement, but developing each by a different method._ Suggested topic statements:-- 1. The principal tools of government are buildings, guns, and money. 2. The civilized world was never so orderly as now. 3. Law suits take time, especially in cities; sometimes they take years. 4. There is a difference between law and justice. 5. We cry for a multitude of reasons of surprising variety. 6. In the growth of a child nothing is more surprising than his ceaseless activity. 7. Education for the children of a nation is a benefit to the whole nation. Is the main thought of the two paragraphs the same even though they begin with the same sentence?) SUMMARY 1. Language is (1) a means of expressing ideas, and (2) a medium through which ideas are acquired. 2. The acquisition of ideas by means of language requires:-- _a._ That we know the meanings of words, and so avoid forming incomplete images (Section 27) and incomplete thoughts (Section 33). _b._ That we understand the relations in thought existing among words, phrases, clauses, sentences, and paragraphs (Section 32). 3. Ideas acquired through language may be used for composition purposes-- _a._ Provided we form complete and accurate images and do not confuse the image with the language that suggested it (Section 28). _b._ Provided we make the main thoughts so thoroughly our own that we can furnish details and instances, originate comparisons, or state causes and effects, and thus become able to describe them or explain them, or prove them to others (Section 52). Until both _a_ and _b_ as stated above are done, ideas acquired through language are undesirable for composition purposes. 4. Comparisons aid in the forming of correct images. They may be literal or imaginative. If imaginative, they become figures of speech. 5. Figures of speech. (Complete list in the Appendix.) _a._ A simile is a direct comparison. _b._ A metaphor is an implied comparison. _c._ Personification is a modified metaphor, assigning human attributes to objects, abstract ideas, or the lower animals. 6. Suggestions as to the use of figures of speech. _a._ Never write for the purpose of using them. _b._ They should be appropriate to the subject. _c._ One of the two things compared must be familiar to the reader. _d._ Avoid hackneyed figures. _e._ Avoid long figures. _f._ Avoid mixed metaphors. 7. Choice of words. _a._ Use words presumably familiar to the reader. _b._ Use words that express your exact meaning. Do not confuse similar words. _e._ Avoid the frequent use of the same word (Section 17). 8. Ambiguity of thought must be avoided. Care must be exercised in the use of the forms which show relations in thought between sentences, especially with pronouns and pronominal adjectives (Section 36). 9. A paragraph is a group of sentences related to each other and to one central idea. 10. The topic statement of a paragraph is a brief comprehensive summary of the contents of the paragraph. 11. Methods of paragraph development. A paragraph may be developed-- _a._ By giving specific instances (Section 44). _b._ By giving details (Section 45). The order in which the details are told may be determined by-- (1) The order of their occurrence in time (Section 46). (2) Their position in space (Section 47). _c._ By comparison or contrast (Section 48). _d._ By stating cause and effect (Section 49). _e._ By repetition (Section 50). _f._ By any suitable combination of the methods stated above. 12. The topical recitation demands-- _a._ That the pupil get the central idea of the paragraph and be able to make the topic statement. _b._ That he be able to determine the relative importance of the remaining ideas in the paragraph. _c._ That he know by which of the five methods named above the paragraph has been developed. _d._ That he be able to furnish details, instances, and comparisons of his own. (See Sections 37, 38, 39, 52, 53.) IV. THE PURPOSE OF EXPRESSION +54. Kinds of Composition.+--When considered with reference to the purpose in the mind of the writer, there are two general classes of writing,--that which informs, and that which entertains. The language that we use should make our meaning clear, arouse interest, and give vividness. Writing that informs will lay greatest emphasis on clearness, though it may at the same time be interesting and vivid. We do not add to the value of an explanation by making it dull. On the other hand, writing that entertains, though it must be clear, will lay greater emphasis on interest and vividness. That language is best which combines all three of these characteristics. The writer's purpose will determine to which the emphasis shall be given. Composition is also divided into description, narration, exposition, and argument (including persuasion). These are called forms of discourse. It will be found that this division is also based upon the purpose for which the composition is written. You have occasion to use each of these forms of discourse daily; you describe, you narrate, you explain, you argue, you persuade. You have used language for these purposes from your infancy, and you are now studying composition in order to acquire facility and effectiveness in that use. When this chapter is completed, you will have considered each of the four forms of discourse in an elementary way. A more extended treatment is given in later chapters. EXERCISES _A._ To which of the two general classes of composition would each of the following belong? 1. A business letter. 2. The story of a runaway. 3. A description of a lake written by a geologist. 4. A description of a lake written by a boy who was camping near it. 5. A letter to a friend describing a trip. 6. A text-book on algebra. 7. An application for a position as stenographer. 8. A recipe for making cake. 9. How I made a cake. 10. How to make a kite. 11. A political speech. 12. A debate. _B._ Could a description be written for the purpose of entertaining? Could the same object be described for the purpose of giving information? _C._ To which general class do narratives belong? Explanations? Arguments? +55. Discourse Presupposes an Audience.+--The object of composition is communication, and communication is not concerned with one's self alone. It always involves two,--the one who gives and the one who receives. If its purpose is to inform, it must inform _somebody_; if to entertain, it must entertain _somebody_. To be sure, discourse may be a pleasure to us, because it is a means of self-expression, but it is _useful_ to us because it conveys ideas to that other somebody who hears or reads it. We describe in order that another may picture that which we have experienced; we narrate, events for the entertainment of others; we explain to others that which we understand; and we argue in order to prove to some one the truth of a proposition or to persuade him to action. Thus all discourse, to be useful, demands an audience. Its effective use requires that the writer shall give quite as much attention to the way in which that reader will receive his ideas as he gives to the ideas themselves. "Speaking or writing is, therefore, a double-ended process. It springs from me, it penetrates him; and both of these ends need watching. Is what I say precisely what I mean? That is an important question. Is what I say so shaped that it can readily be assimilated by him who hears? This is a question of quite as great consequence and much more likely to be forgotten.... As I write I must unceasingly study what is the line of least intellectual resistance along which my thought may enter the differently constituted mind; and to that line I must subtly adjust, without enfeebling my meaning. Will this combination of words or that make the meaning clear? Will this order of presentation facilitate swiftness of apprehension or will it clog the movement?" In the preceding chapters emphasis has been laid upon the care that a writer must give to saying exactly what he means. This must never be neglected, but we need to add to it a consideration of how best to adapt what we say to the interest and intelligence of our readers. It will become clear in writing the following theme that the discussion of paragraph development in Chapter III was in reality a discussion of methods of adapting our discourse to the mental habits of our readers. +Theme XXX.+--_Write a theme showing which one of the five methods of paragraph development proceeds most nearly in accordance with the way the mind usually acts._ (This theme will furnish a review of the methods of paragraph development treated in Chapter III. If possible, write your theme without consulting the chapter. "Think it out" for yourself. After the theme has been written, review paragraph development treated in Chapter III. Can you improve your theme? +56. Selecting a Subject.+--Sometimes our theme subjects are chosen for us, but usually we shall need to choose our own subjects. What we should choose depends both upon ourselves and upon those for whom we write. The elements which make a subject suitable for the reader will be considered later. In so far as the writer is concerned, two things determine the suitableness of a subject:-- First, the writer's knowledge of the subject. We cannot make ideas clear to others unless they are clear to us. Our information must be clearly and definitely our own before we can hope to present it effectively. This is one of the advantages possessed by subjects arising from experience. Any subject about which we know little or nothing, should be rejected. We must not, however, reject a subject too soon. When it is first thought of we may find that we have but few ideas about it, but by thinking we may discover that our information is greater than it at first seemed. We may be able to assign reasons or to give instances or to originate comparisons or to add details, and by these processes to amplify our knowledge. Even if we find that we know but little about the subject from our own experience, we may still be able to use it for a composition subject by getting our information from others. We may from conversation or from reading gain ideas that we can make our own and consequently be able to write intelligently. Care must be taken that this "reading up" on a subject does not fill our minds with smatterings of ideas that we think we understand because we can remember the language in which they were expressed; but reading, _supplemented by thinking_, may enable us to write well about a subject concerning which on first thought we seem to know but little. Second, the writer's interest in the subject. It will be found difficult for the writer to present vividly a subject in which he himself has no special interest. Enthusiasm is contagious, and if the writer has a real interest in his subject, he is likely to present his material in such a manner as to arouse interest in others. In our earlier years we are more interested in the material presented by experience and imagination than in that presented by reading, but as we grow older our interest in thoughts conveyed to us by language increases. As we enlarge our knowledge of a subject by reading and by conversation, so we are likely to increase our interest in that subject. A boy may know but little about Napoleon, but the effort to inform himself may cause him to become greatly interested. This interest will lead him to a further search for information about Napoleon, and will at the same time aid in making what he writes entertaining to others. EXERCISES _A._ About which of the following subjects do you now possess a sufficient knowledge to enable you to write a paragraph? In which of them are you interested? Which would you need to "read up" about? 1. Golf. 2. Examinations. 3. Warships. 4. Wireless telegraphy. 5. Radium. 6. Tennis. 7. Automobiles. 8. Picnics. 9. Printing. 10. Bees. 11. Birds. 12. Pyrography. 13. Photography. 14. Beavers. 15. Making calls. 16. Stamp collecting. 17. The manufacture of tacks. 18. The manufacture of cotton. 19. The smelting of zinc. 20. The silver-plating process. _B._ Make a list of thirty things about which you know something. _C._ Bring to class a list of five subjects in which you are interested. _D._ Make a list of five subjects about which you now possess a sufficient knowledge to enable you to write a paragraph. +Theme XXXI.+--_Write a short theme: Select a suitable subject from the lists in the preceding exercise._ (What method or methods of paragraph development have you used? Have your paragraphs unity of thought?) +57. Subject Adapted to Reader.+--We may be interested in a subject and possess sufficient knowledge to enable us to treat it successfully, but it may still be unsuitable because it is not adapted to the reader. Some knowledge of a subject and some interest in it are quite as necessary on the part of the reader as on that of the writer, though in the beginning this knowledge and interest may be meager. The possibility of developing both knowledge and interest must exist, however, or the writing will be a failure. It would be difficult to make "Imperialism" interesting to third grade pupils, or "Kant's Philosophy" to high school pupils. Even if you know enough to write a valuable "Criticism" of _Silas Marner_, or a real "Review" of the _Vicar of Wakefield_, the work is time wasted if your readers do not have a breadth of knowledge sufficient to insure a vital and appreciative interest in the subject. You must take care to select a subject that is of present, vital interest to your readers. +58. Sources of Subjects.+--Thought goes everywhere, and human interest touches everything. The sources of subjects are therefore unlimited; for anything about which we think and in which we are interested may become a suitable subject for a paragraph, an essay, or a book. Such subjects are everywhere--in what we see and do, in what we think and feel, in what we hear and read. We relate to our parents what a neighbor said; we discuss for the teacher an event in history, or a character in literature; we show a companion how to make a kite or work a problem in algebra; we consider the advantages of a commercial course or relate the pleasures of a day's outing,--in each case we are interested, we think, we express our thoughts, and so are practicing oral composition with _subjects that may be used for written exercises_. +59. Subjects should be Definite.+--Both the writer and the reader are more interested in definite and concrete subjects than in the general and abstract ones, and we shall make our writing more interesting by recognizing this fact. One might write about "Birds," or "The Intelligence of Birds," or "How Birds Protect their Young," or "A Family of Robins." The last is a specific subject, while the other three are general subjects. Of these, the first includes more than the second; and the second, more than the third. A person with sufficient knowledge might write about any one of these general subjects, but it would be difficult to give such a subject adequate treatment in a short theme. Though a general subject may suggest more lines of thought, our knowledge about a specific subject is less vague, and consequently more usable. We really know more about the specific subject, and we have a greater interest in it. The subject, "A Family of Robins," indicates that the writer knows something interesting that he intends to tell. Such a subject compels expectant attention from the reader and aids in arousing an appreciative interest on his part. On first thought, it would seem easier to write about a general subject than about a specific one, but this is not the case. A general subject presents so many lines of thought that the writer is confused, rather than aided, by the abundance of material. A skilled and experienced writer possessing a large fund of information may treat general subjects successfully, but for the beginner safety lies only in selecting definite subjects and in keeping within the limits prescribed. The "Women of Shakespeare" might be an interesting subject for a book by a Shakespearean scholar, but it is scarcely suitable for a high school pupil's theme. +60. Narrowing the Subject.+--It is often necessary to narrow a subject in order to bring it within the range of the knowledge and interest of ourselves and of our readers. A description of the transportation of milk on the electric roads around Toledo would probably be more interesting than an essay on "Freight Transportation by Electricity," or on "Transportation." The purpose that the writer has in mind, and the length of the article he intends to write, will affect the selection of a subject. "Transportation" might be the subject of a book in which a chapter was given to each important subdivision of it; but it would be quite as difficult to treat such a subject in three hundred words as it would be to make use of three hundred pages for "The Transportation of Milk at Toledo." A general subject may suggest many lines of thought. It is the task of the writer to select one about which he knows something or can learn something, in which both he and his readers are interested, or can become interested, and for which the time and space at his disposal are adequate. EXERCISES _A._ Arrange the subjects in each of the following groups so that the most general ones shall come first:-- 1. The intelligence of wild animals. How a fox escaped from the hounds. How animals escape destruction by their enemies. Animals. 2. The benefits that arise from war. The defeat of the Cimbri and Teutons by Marius. War. The value of military strength to the Romans. 3. Pleasure. A summer outing in the Adirondacks. Value of vacations. Catching bass. _B._ Narrow ten of the following subjects until the resulting subject may be treated in a single paragraph:-- 1. Fishing. 2. Engines. 3. Literature. 4. Heroes of fiction. 5. Cooking. 6. Houses. 7. Games. 8. Basketball. 9. Cats. 10. Canaries. 11. Sympathy. 12. Sailboats. 13. Baseball. 14. Rivers. 15. Trees. C. A general subject may suggest several narrower subjects, each of which would be of interest to a different class of persons; for example-- General subject,--Education. Specific subjects,-- 1. Methods of conducting recitations. (Teachers.) 2. School taxes. (Farmers.) 3. Ventilation of school buildings. (Architects.) In a similar way, narrow each of the following subjects so that the resulting subjects will be of interest to two or more classes of persons:-- Subjects Classes 1. Vacations. 1. Farmers. 2. Mathematics. 2. High School Pupils. 3. Picnics. 3. Ministers. 4. Civil service. 4. Merchants. 5. Elections. 5. Sailors. 6. Botany. 6. Girls. 7. Fish. 7. Boys. +Theme XXXII.+--_Write a paragraph about one of narrowed subjects._ (Does your paragraph have unity of thought? Have you selected a subject which will be of interest to your readers?) +61. Selecting a Title.+--The subject and the title may be the same, but not necessarily so. The statement of the subject may require a sentence of considerable length, while a title is best if short. In selecting this brief title, it is well to get one which will attract the attention and arouse the curiosity of a reader without appearing obviously to do so. A peculiar or unusual title is not at all necessary, though if properly selected such a title may be of value. Care must be taken not to have the title make a promise that the theme cannot fulfill. If it does, the effect is unsatisfactory. EXERCISES _A._ Discuss the appropriateness of the titles for the subjects in the following:-- 1. Subject: An account of a breakdown of an automobile at an inconvenient time. 2. Subject: Description of a coaching parade. 3. Subject: An account of how a pair of birds drove a snake away from their nest. 4. Subject: Quotations designed for general reference, and also as an aid in the preparation of the toast list, the after-dinner speech, and the occasional address. 5. Subject: An account of extinct flying reptiles. 6. Subject: A comparison of the rich and the poor, from a socialistic point of view. 7. Subject: A true account of the doings of five quadrupeds and three birds. 8. Subject: A discussion of colonies and the problems of colonization. _B._ Supply an appropriate title for a story read by the teacher. _C._ Suggest a title, other than the one given it, for each magazine article you have read this month. +62. Language Adapted to the Reader.+--A writer may select a subject with reference to the knowledge and interest of his readers; he may develop his paragraphs in accordance with the methods studied in Chapter III, and yet he may fail to make his meaning clear, because he has not used language suited to the reader. Fortunately, the language that we understand and use is that which is most easily understood by those of equal attainments with ourselves. It therefore happens that when writing for those of our own age and attainments, or for those of higher attainments, we usually best express for them that which we make most clear and pleasing to ourselves. But if we write for younger people, or for those of different interests in life, we must give much attention to adapting what we write to our readers. Before writing it is well to ask, For whom am I writing? Then, if necessary, you should modify your language so that it will be adapted to your readers. Can you tell for what kind of an audience each of the following is intended? In the field both teams played faultless ball, not the semblance of an error being made. Besides backing up their pitchers in this fashion, both local and visiting athletes turned sensational plays. The element of luck figured largely in the result. In the first inning Dougherty walked and Collins singled. Dougherty had third base sure on the drive, but stumbled and fell down between second and third, and he was an easy out. Boston got its only run in the second. Parent sent the ball to extreme left for two bases. He stole third nattily when catcher Sugden tried to catch him napping at the middle station. Ferris scored him with a drive to left. St. Louis promptly tied the score in its half. Wallace opened with a screeching triple to the bulletin board. At that he would not have scored if J. Stahl had not contributed a passed ball, Heidrick, Friel, and Sugden, the next three batters, expiring on weak infield taps. The Browns got the winning run in the sixth on Martin's triple and Hill's swift cut back of first. Lachance knocked the ball down and got his man at the initial sack, but could not prevent the tally. --_Boston Herald._ His name was Riley, and although his parents had called him Thomas, to the boys he had always been "Dennis," and by the time he had reached his senior year in college he was quite ready to admit that his "name was Dennis," with all that slang implied. He had tried for several things, athletics particularly, and had been substitute on the ball nine, one of the immortal second eleven backs of the football squad, and at one time had been looked upon as promising material for a mile runner on the track team. But it was always his luck not quite to make anything. He couldn't bat up to 'varsity standard, he wasn't quite heavy enough for a Varsity back, and in the mile run he always came in fresh enough but could not seem to get his speed up so as to run himself out, and the result was that, although he finished strong and with lots of running in him, the other fellows always reached the tape first, even though just barely getting over and thoroughly exhausted. Now "Dennis" had made up his mind at Christmas time that he actually would have one more trial on the track, and that his family, consisting of his mother and a younger brother, both of them great believers in and very proud of Thomas, should yet see him possessed of a long-coveted "Y." So he went out with the first candidates in the spring, and the addition of the two-mile event to the programme of track contests gave him a distance better suited to his endurance. There were a half-dozen other men running in his squad, and Dennis, from his former failures, was not looked upon with much favor, or as a very likely man. But he kept at it. When the first reduction of the squad was made, some one said, "Denny's kept on just to pound the track." With the middle of March came some class games, and Dennis was among the "also rans," getting no better than fourth place in the two-mile. The worst of it was that he knew he could have run it faster, for he felt strong at the finish, but had no burst of speed when the others went up on the last lap. But in April he did better, and it soon developed that he was improving. The week before the Yale-Harvard games he was notified that he was to run in the two-mile as pace maker to Lang and Early, the two best distance men on the squad. Nobody believed that Yale would win this event, although it was understood that Lang stood a fair chance if Dennis and Early could carry the Harvard crack, Richards, along at a fast gait for the first mile. So it was all arranged that Early should set the pace for the first half mile, and Dennis should then go up and carry the field along for a fast second half. Then, after the first mile was over, Early and Dennis should go out as fast as they could, and stay as long as they could in the attempt to force the Harvard man and exhaust him so that Lang could come up, and, having run the race more to his liking, be strong enough to finish first. The day of the games came, and with it a drenching rain, making the track heavy and everybody uncomfortable. But as the inter-collegiates were the next week, it was almost impossible to postpone the games, and consequently it was decided to run them off. As the contest progressed, it developed that the issue would hang on the two-mile event, and interest grew intense. When the call for starters came, Dennis felt the usual trepidation of a man who is before the public for the first time in a really important position. But the feeling did not last long, and by the time he went to his mark he had made up his mind that that Harvard runner should go the mile and a half fast at any rate, or else be a long way behind. At the crack of the pistol the six men went off, and, according to orders, during the first mile Early and Dennis set the pace well up. Richards, the Harvard man, let them open up a gap on him in the first half-mile, and, being more or less bothered by the conditions of the wet track, he seemed uncertain whether the Yale runners were setting the pace too high or not, and in the second half commenced to move up. In doing this his team mates gradually fell back until they were out of it, and the order was Dennis, Early, Richards, and Lang. At the beginning of the second mile, Early, whose duty it was to have gone up and helped Dennis make the pace at the third half-mile, had manifestly had enough of it, and, after two or three desperate struggles to keep up, was passed by Richards. When, therefore, they came to the mile and a half, Dennis was leading Richards by some fifteen yards, and those who knew the game expected to see the Harvard man try to overtake Dennis, and in so doing exhaust himself, so that Lang, who was running easily in the rear, could come up and in the last quarter finish out strong. Dennis, too, was expecting to hear the Harvard man come up with him pretty soon, and knew that this would be the signal for him to make his dying effort in behalf of his comrade, Lang. As they straightened out into the back stretch Richards did quicken up somewhat, and Dennis let himself out. In fact, he did this so well that as they entered upon the last quarter Richards had not decreased the distance, and indeed it had opened up a little wider. But where was Lang? Dennis was beginning to expect one or the other of these two men to come up, and, as he turned into the back stretch for the last time, it began to dawn upon him, as it was dawning upon the crowd, that the pace had been too hot for Lang, and, moreover, that Yale's chance depended on the despised Dennis, and that the Harvard runner was finding it a big contract to overhaul the sturdy pounder on the wet track. But Richards was game, and commenced to cut the gap down. As they turned into the straight, he was within eight yards of Dennis. But Dennis knew it, and he ran as he had never run before. He could fairly feel the springing tread of Richards behind him, and knew it was coming nearer every second. But into the straight they came, and the crowd sprang to its feet with wild yells for Dennis. Twenty yards from home Richards, who had picked up all but two yards of the lead, began to stagger and waver, while Dennis hung to it true and steady, and breasted the tape three yards in advance, winning his "Y" at last! --Walter Camp: _Winning a "Y"_ ("Outlook") In which of the preceding accounts were you more interested? Which made the more vivid impression? Which would be better suited for a school class composed of boys and girls? Which for a newspaper report? In attempting to relate a contest it is essential that the writer know what really happened, and in what order it happened, but his successful presentation will depend to some extent upon the consideration given to adapting the story to the audience. A person thoroughly conversant with the game will understand the technical terms, and may prefer the first account to the second, but those to whom the game is not familiar would need to have so much explanation of the terms used that the narration would become tedious to those already familiar with the terms. In order to make an account of a game interesting to persons unfamiliar with that game, we must introduce enough of explanation to make clear the meaning of the terms we use. +Theme XXXIII.+--_Write a theme telling some one who does not understand the game about some contest which you have seen_. Suggested subjects:-- 1. A basket ball game. 2. A football game. 3. A tennis match. 4. A baseball game. 5. A croquet match. 6. A golf tournament. 7. A yacht race. 8. A relay race. (Have you introduced technical terms without making the necessary explanations? Have you explained so many terms that your narrative is rendered tedious? Have you related what really happened, and in the proper time order? Have your paragraphs unity? Can you shorten the theme without affecting the clearness or interest? Does _then_ occur too frequently?) +Theme XXXIV.+--_Write a theme, using the same subject that you used for Theme XXXIII. Assume that the reader understands the game._ (Will the reader get the whole contest clearly in mind? Can you shorten the account? Compare this theme with Theme XXXIII.) +63. Explanation of Terms.+--Any word that alone or with its modifiers calls to mind a single idea, is a term. When applied to a particular object, quality, or action, it is a specific term; but when applied to any one of a class of objects, qualities, or actions, it is a general term. For example: _The Lake_, referring to a lake near at hand, is a specific term; but _a lake_, referring to any lake, is a general term. In Theme XXXIII you had occasion to explain some of the terms used. If, in telling about a baseball game, you mentioned a particular "fly," your statement was description or narration; but if some one should ask what you meant by "a fly," your answer would be general in character; that is, it would apply to all "flies," and would belong to that division of composition called exposition. Exposition is but another name for explanation. It is always concerned with that which is general, while description and narration deal with particular cases. We may describe a particular lake; but if we answer the question, What is a lake? the answer would apply to any lake, and would be exposition. Explanation of the meaning of general terms is one form of exposition. +64. Definition by Synonyms.+--If we are asked to explain the meaning of a general term, our reply in many cases will be a brief definition. Often it is sufficient to give a synonym. For example, in answer to the question, What is exposition? we make its meaning clearer by saying, Exposition is explanation. Definition by synonym is frequently used because of its brevity. In the smaller dictionaries the definitions are largely of this kind. For example: to desert, _to abandon_; despot, _tyrant_; contemptible, _mean or vile_; to fuse, _to blend_; inviolable, _sacred_. Synonyms are, however, seldom exact, but a fair understanding of a term may be gained by comparing it with its synonyms and discussing the different shades of meaning. Such a discussion, especially if supplemented by examples showing the correct use of each term, is a profitable exercise in exposition. For example:-- Both _discovery_ and _invention_ denote generally something new that is found out in the arts and sciences. But the term _discovery_ involves in the thing discovered not merely novelty, but curiosity, utility, difficulty, and consequently some degree of importance. All this is less strongly involved in invention. But there are yet wider differences. One can only discover what has in its integrity existed before the discovery, while invention brings a thing into existence. America was discovered. Printing was invented. Fresh discoveries in science often lead to new inventions in the industrial arts. Indeed, discovery belongs more to science; invention, to art. Invention increases the store of our practical resources, and is the fruit of search. Discovery extends the sphere of our knowledge, and has often been made by accident. --Smith: _Synonyms Discriminated_. If exactness is desired, this is obtained by means of the logical definition, which will be discussed in a later chapter. +Theme XXXV.+--Explain the meaning of the words in one of the following groups:_-- 1. Caustic, satirical, biting. 2. Imply, signify, involve. 3. Martial, warlike, military, soldierlike. 4. Wander, deviate, err, stray, swerve, diverge. 5. Abate, decrease, diminish, lessen, moderate. 6. Emancipation, freedom, independence, liberty. 7. Old, ancient, antique, antiquated, obsolete. 8. Adorn, beautify, bedeck, decorate, ornament, 9. Active, alert, brisk, lively, spry. +65. Use of Simpler Words.+--In defining terms by giving a synonym we must be careful to choose a synonym which will be most likely to be understood by our listeners, or our explanation will be of no avail. For instance, in explaining the term _abate_ to a child, if we say it means _to diminish_, and he is unfamiliar with that word, he is made none the wiser by our explanation. If we tell him that it means _to grow less_, he will, in all probability, understand our explanation. Very many words in our language have equivalents that may be substituted, the one for the other. Much of our explanation to children and to those whose attainments are less than our own consists in substituting common, everyday words for less familiar ones. EXERCISE Give familiar equivalents for the following words:-- 1. emancipate. 2. procure. 3. opportunity. 4. peruse. 5. elapsed. 6. approximately. 7. abbreviate. 8. constitute. 9. simultaneous. 10. familiar. 11. deceased. 12. oral. 13. adhere. 14. edifice. 15. collide. 16. suburban. 17. repugnance. 18. grotesque. 19. equipage. 20. exaggerate. 21. ascend. 22. financial. 23. nocturnal. 24. maternal. 25. vision. 26. affinity. 27. cohere. 28. athwart. 29. clavicle. 30. omnipotent. 31. enumerate. 32. eradicate. 33. application. 34. constitute. 35. employer. 36. rendezvous. 37. obscure. 38. indicate. 39. prevaricate. +66. Definitions Need to be Supplemented.+--The purpose of exposition is to make clear to others that which we understand ourselves. If the mere statement of a definition does not accomplish this result, we may often make our meaning clear by supplementing the definition with suitable comparisons and examples. In making use of comparisons and examples we must choose those with which our readers are familiar, and we must be sure that they fairly represent the term that we wish to illustrate. +Theme XXXVI.+--_Explain any one of the following terms. Begin with as exact a definition as you can frame._ 1. A "fly" in baseball. 2. A "foul" in basket ball. 3. A "sneak." 4. A hero. 5. A "spitfire." 6. A laborer. 7. A capitalist. 8. A coward. 9. A freshman. 10. A "header." (Is your definition exact, or only approximately so? How have you made its meaning clear? Can you think of a better comparison or a better example? Can your meaning be made clearer, or be more effectively presented, by arranging your material in a different order?) +67. General Description.+--We may often make clear the meaning of a term by giving details. In describing a New England village we might enumerate the streets, the houses, the town pump, the church, and other features. This would be specific description if the purpose was to have the reader picture some particular village; but if the purpose was to give the reader a clear conception of the general characteristics of all New England villages, the paragraph would become a general description. Such a general description would include all the characteristics common to all the members of the class under discussion, but would omit any characteristic peculiar to some of them. For example, a general description of a windmill includes the things common to all windmills. If an object is described more for the purpose of giving a clear conception of the class of which it is a type than for the purpose of picturing the object described, we have a general description. Such a description is in effect an enlarged definition, and is exposition rather than description. It is sometimes called scientific description because it is so commonly employed by writers of scientific books. Notice the following examples of general description:-- 1. Around every house in Broeck are buckets, benches, rakes, hoes, and stakes, all colored red, blue, white, or yellow. The brilliancy and variety of colors and the cleanliness, brightness, and miniature pomp of the place are wonderful. At the windows there are embroidered curtains with rose-colored ribbons. The blades, bands, and nails of the gayly painted windmills shine like silver. The houses are brightly varnished and surrounded with red and white railings and fences. The panes of glass in the windows are bordered by many lines of different hues. The trunks of all the trees are painted gray from root to branch. Across the streams are many little wooden bridges, each painted as white as snow. The gutters are ornamented with a sort of wooden festoon perforated like lace. The pointed faades are surmounted with a small weathercock, a little lance, or something resembling a bunch of flowers. Nearly every house has two doors, one in front and one behind, the last for everyday entrance and exit, the former opened only on great occasions, such as births, deaths, and marriages. The gardens are as peculiar as the houses. The paths are hardly wide enough to walk in. One could put his arms around the flower beds. The dainty arbors would barely hold two persons sitting close together. The little myrtle hedges would scarcely reach to the knees of a four-year-old child. 2. Ginseng has a thick, soft, whitish, bulbous root, from one to three inches long,--generally two or three roots to a stalk,--with wrinkles running around it, and a few small fibers attached. It has a peculiar, pleasant, sweetish, slightly bitter, and aromatic taste. The stem or stalk grows about a foot high, is smooth, round, of a reddish green color, divided at the top into three short branches, with three to five leaves to each branch, and a flower stem in the center of the branches. The flower is small and white, followed by a large, red berry. It is found growing in most of the states in rich, shady soils. 3. As a general proposition, the Scottish hotel is kept by a benevolent-looking old lady, who knows absolutely nothing about the trains, nothing about the town, nothing about anything outside of the hotel, and is non-committal regarding matters even within her jurisdiction. Upon arrival you do not register, but stand up at the desk and submit to a cross-examination, much as if you were being sentenced in an American police court. Your hostess always wants twelve hours' notice of your departure, so that she can make out your bill--a very arduous, formidable undertaking. The bill is of prodigious dimensions, about the size of a sheet of foolscap paper, lined and cross-lined for a multitude of entries. When the account finally reaches you, it closely resembles a design for a cobweb factory. Any attempt to decipher the various hieroglyphics is useless--it can't be done. The only thing that can be done is to read the total at the foot of the page and pay it. --_Hotels in Scotland_ ("Kansas City Star"). +Theme XXXVII.+--_Write a general description of one of the following:_-- 1. A bicycle. 2. A country hay barn. 3. A dog. 4. A summer cottage. 5. An Indian wigwam. 6. A Dutch windmill. 7. A muskrat's house. 8. A robin's nest. 9. A blacksmith's shop. 10. A chipmunk. 11. A threshing machine. 12. A sewing circle. (The purpose is not to picture a particular object, but to give a general notion of a class of objects. Cross out everything in your theme that applies only to some particular object. Have you included enough to make your meaning clear?) +Theme XXXVIII.+--_Using the same title as for Theme XXXVII, write a specific description of some particular object._ (How does it differ from the general description? What elements have you introduced which you did not have in the other? Which sentence gives the general outline? Are your details arranged with regard to their proper position in space? Will the reader form a vivid picture--just the one you mean him to have?) +68. General Narration.+--Explanations of a process of manufacture, methods of playing a game, and the like, often take the form of generalized narration. Just as we gain a notion of the appearance of a sod house from a general description, so may we gain a notion of a series of events from a general narration. Such a narration will not tell what some one actually did, but will relate the things that are characteristic of the process or action under discussion whenever it happens. Such general narration is really exposition. EXERCISES _A._ Notice that the selection below is a generalized narration, showing what a hare does when hunted. In it no incident peculiar to some special occasion is introduced. She generally returns to the beat from which she was put up, running, as all the worlds knows, in a circle, or sometimes something like it, we had better say, that we may keep on good terms with the mathematical. At starting, she tears away at her utmost speed for a mile or more, and distances the dogs halfway; she then turns, diverging a little to the right or left, that she may not run into the mouths of her enemies--a necessity which accounts for what we call the circularity of her course. Her flight from home is direct and precipitate; but on her way back, when she has gained a little time for consideration and stratagem, she describes a curious labyrinth of short turnings and windings as if to perplex the dogs by the intricacy of her track. --Richard Atton. _B_. The selection below narrates an actual hunt. Notice in what respects it differs from the preceding selection. Sir Roger is so keen at this sport that he has been out almost every day since I came down; and upon the chaplain's offering to lend me his easy pad, I was prevailed on yesterday morning to make one of the company. I was extremely pleased, as we rid along, to observe the general benevolence of all the neighborhood towards my friend. The farmers' sons thought themselves happy if they could open a gate for the good old knight as he passed by; which he generally requited with a nod or a smile, and a kind inquiry after their fathers and uncles. After we had rid about a mile from home, we came upon a large heath, and the sportsmen began to beat. They had done so for some time, when, as I was at a little distance from the rest of the company, I saw a hare pop out from a small furze brake almost under my horse's feet. I marked the way she took, which I endeavored to make the company sensible of by extending my arm; but to no purpose, till Sir Roger, who knows that none of my extraordinary motions are insignificant, rode up to me and asked me if puss was gone that way? Upon my answering "Yes," he immediately called in the dogs, and put them upon the scent. As they were going off, I heard one of the country fellows muttering to his companion, that 'twas a wonder they had not lost all their sport, for want of the silent gentleman's crying, "Stole away." This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me withdraw to a rising ground, from whence I could have the pleasure of the whole chase, without the fatigue of keeping in with the hounds. The hare immediately threw them above a mile behind her; but I was pleased to find, that instead of running straight forwards, or, in hunter's language, "flying the country," as I was afraid she might have done, she wheeled about, and described a sort of circle round the hill, where I had taken my station, in such manner as gave me a very distinct view of the sport. I could see her first pass by, and the dogs some time afterwards, unraveling the whole track she had made, and following her through all her doubles. I was at the same time delighted in observing that deference which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound, according to the character he had acquired among them: if they were at a fault, and an old hound of reputation opened but once, he was immediately followed by the whole cry; while a raw dog, or one who was a noted liar, might have yelped his heart out without being taken notice of. The hare now, after having squatted two or three times, and been put up again as often, came still nearer to the place where she was at first started. The dogs pursued her, and these were followed by the jolly knight, who rode upon a white gelding, encompassed by his tenants and servants, and cheering his hounds with all the gayety of five and twenty. One of the sportsmen rode up to me, and told me that he was sure the chase was almost at an end, because the old dogs, which had hitherto lain behind, now headed the pack. The fellow was in the right. Our hare took a large field just under us, followed by the full cry in view. I must confess the brightness of the weather, the cheerfulness of everything around me, the chiding of the hounds, which was returned upon us in a double echo from two neighboring hills, with the hallooing of the sportsmen, and the sounding of the horn, lifted my spirits into a most lively pleasure, which I freely indulged because I was sure it was innocent. If I was under any concern, it was on account of the poor hare, that was now quite spent, and almost within the reach of her enemies; when the huntsman getting forward, threw down his pole before the dogs. They were now within eight yards of that game which they had been pursuing for almost as many hours; yet on the signal before mentioned they all made a sudden stand, and though they continued opening as much as before, durst not once attempt to pass beyond the pole. At the same time Sir Roger rode forward, and alighting, took up the hare in his arms; which he soon after delivered up to one of his servants with an order, if she could be kept alive, to let her go in his great orchard; where it seems he has several of these prisoners of war, who live together in a very comfortable captivity. I was highly pleased to see the discipline of the pack, and the good nature of the knight, who could not find in his heart to murder a creature that had given him so much diversion. --Budgell: _Sir Roger de Coverley Papers_. +Theme XXXIX.+--_Explain one of the following by the use of general narration:_-- 1. Baking bread. 2. How paper is made. 3. How to play tennis (or some other game). 4. Catching trout. 5. Life at school. 6. How to pitch curves. (Have you arranged your details with reference to their proper time-order? Have you introduced unnecessary details? Underscore _then_ each time you have used it.) +69. Argument.+--Especially in argument is it evident that language presupposes an audience. The fact that we argue implies that some one does not agree with us. The purpose of our argument is to convince some one else of the truth of a proposition which we ourselves believe, and he who wishes to succeed in this must give careful attention to his audience. The question which must always be in the mind of the writer is, What facts shall I select and in what order shall I present them in order to convince my reader? The various ways of arguing are more fully treated in a later chapter, but a few of them are given here. +70. The Use of Explanation in Argument.+--In preparing an argument we must consider first the amount of explanation that it will be necessary to make. We cannot expect one to believe a proposition the meaning of which he does not understand. Often the explanation alone is sufficient to convince the hearer. Suppose you are trying to gain your parents' consent to take some course of study. They ask for an explanation of the different courses, and when they know what each contains they are already convinced as to which is best for you. If you are trying to convince a member of your school board that it would be well to introduce domestic science into the high school, and he already understands what is meant by the term "domestic science," you not only waste time in explaining it, but you make him appear ignorant of what he already understands. With him you should proceed at once to give your reasons for the advisability of the introduction of this branch into your school. On the other hand, if you are talking with a member who does not understand the term, an explanation will be the first thing necessary. It is evident, therefore, that the amount of explanation that we shall make depends upon the previous knowledge of the audience addressed. If we explain too much, we prejudice our case; and if we explain too little, the reader may fail to appreciate the arguments that follow. The point of the whole matter, then, is that explanation is the first step in argument, and that in order to determine the amount necessary we must consider carefully the audience for which our argument is intended. +71. Statement of Advantages and Disadvantages.+ An argument is often concerned with determining whether it is expedient to do one thing or another. Such an argument frequently takes the form of a statement of the advantages that will follow the adoption of the course we recommend, or of the disadvantages that the following of the opposite course will cause. If a corporation should ask for a franchise for a street railway, the city officials might hold the opinion that a double track should be laid. In support of this opinion they would name the advantageous results that would follow from the use of a double track, such as the avoidance of delays on turnouts, the lessening of the liability of accidents, the greater rapidity in transportation, etc. On the other hand, the persons seeking the franchise might reply that a double track would occupy too much of the street and become a hindrance to teams, or that the advantages were not sufficient to warrant the extra expense. Concerning such a question there can be no absolute decision. We are not discussing what is right, but what is expedient, and the determination of what is expedient is based upon a consideration of advantages or disadvantages. In deciding, we must balance the advantages against the disadvantages and determine which has the greater weight. If called upon to take one side or the other, we must consider carefully the value of the facts counting both for and against the proposition before we can make up our mind which side we favor. You must bear in mind that a thing may not be an advantage because you believe it to be. That which seems to you to be the reason why you should take some high school subject, may seem to your father or your teacher to be the very reason why you should not. In writing arguments of this kind you must take care to select facts that will appeal to your readers as advantages. Notice the following editorial which appeared in the _Boston Latin School Register_ shortly after a change was made whereby the pupils instead of the teachers moved from room to room for their various recitations:-- The new system of having the classes move about from room to room to their recitations has been in use for nearly a month, and there has been sufficient opportunity for testing its practicability and its advantages. There is no doubt that the new system alters the old form of recesses, shortening the two regular ones, but giving three minutes between recitations as a compensation for this loss. Although theoretically we have more recess time than formerly, in the practical working out of the system we find that the three minutes between recitations is occupied in gathering up one's books, and reaching the next recitation room; besides this, that there is often some confusion in reaching the various classrooms, and that there are many little inconveniences which would not occur were we sitting at our own desks. On the other hand, as an offset to these disadvantages, there is the advantage of a change of position, and a respite from close attention, with a breathing spell in which to get the mind as well as the books ready for another lesson. The masters have in every recitation their own maps and reference books, with which they can often make their instruction much more forceful and interesting. Besides that, they have entire control of their own blackboards, and can leave work there without fear of its being erased to make room for that of some other master. The confusion will doubtless be lessened as time goes on and we become more used to the system. Even the first disadvantage is more or less offset by the fact that the short three-minute periods, although they cannot be used like ordinary recesses, yet serve to give us breathing space between recitations and to lessen the strain of continuous application; so that, on the whole, the advantages seem to counterbalance the disadvantages. EXERCISES What advantages and disadvantages can you think of for each of the following propositions? State them orally. 1. All telephone and telegraph wires in cities should be put under ground. 2. The speed of bicycles and automobiles should be limited to eight miles per hour. 3. High school football teams should not play match games on regular school days. 4. High school pupils should not attend evening parties excepting on Fridays and Saturdays. 5. Monday would be a better day than Saturday for a school holiday. 6. The school session should be lengthened. +Theme XL.+--_Write two paragraphs, one of which shall give the advantages and the other the disadvantages that would arise from the adoption of any one of the following:_ 1. This school should have a longer recess. 2. This school should have two hours for the noon recess. 3. This school should be in session from eight o'clock until one o'clock. 4. All the pupils in this school should be seated in one room. 5. The public library should be in the high school building. 6. The football team should be excused early in order to practice. 7. This school should have a greater number of public entertainments. +72. Explanation and Argument by Specific Instances.+--Often we may make the meaning of a general proposition clear by citing specific instances. If these instances are given for the purpose of explanation merely, the paragraph is exposition. If, however, the aim is not merely to cause the reader to understand the proposition, but also to believe that it is true, we have argument. In either case we have a paragraph developed by specific instances as discussed in Section 44. Notice how in the following paragraph the author brings forward specific cases in order to prove the proposition:-- Nearly everything that an animal does is the result of an inborn instinct acted upon by an outward stimulus. The margin wherein intelligent choice plays a part is very small.... Instinct is undoubtedly often modified by intelligence, and intelligence is as often guided or prompted by instinct, but one need not hesitate long as to which side of the line any given act of man or beast belongs. When the fox resorts to various tricks to outwit and delay the hound (if he ever consciously does so), he exercises a kind of intelligence--the lower form of which we call cunning--and he is prompted to this by an instinct of self-preservation. When the birds set up a hue and cry about a hawk, or an owl, or boldly attack him, they show intelligence in its simpler form, the intelligence that recognizes its enemies, prompted again by the instinct of self-preservation. When a hawk does not know a man on horseback from a horse, it shows a want of intelligence. When a crow is kept away from a corn-field by a string stretched around it, the fact shows how masterful is its fear and how shallow its wit. When a cat or a dog or a horse or a cow learns to open a gate or a door, it shows a degree of intelligence--power to imitate, to profit by experience. A machine could not learn to do it. If the animal were to close the door or gate behind it, that would be another step in intelligence. But its direct wants have no relation to the closing of the door, only to the opening of it. To close the door involves an afterthought that an animal is not capable of. A horse will hesitate to go upon thin ice or frail bridges. This, no doubt, is an inherited instinct which has arisen in its ancestors from their fund of general experience with the world. How much with them has depended upon a secure footing! A pair of house-wrens had a nest in my well-curb; when the young were partly grown and heard any one enter the curb, they would set up a clamorous calling for food. When I scratched against the sides of the curb beneath them like some animal trying to climb up, their voices instantly hushed; the instinct of fear promptly overcame the instinct of hunger! Instinct is intelligence, but it is not the same as acquired individual intelligence; it is untaught. John Burroughs: _Some Natural History Doubts_ ("Harper's"). EXERCISES What facts or instances do you know which would lead you to believe either the following propositions or their opposites? 1. Dogs are intelligent. 2. Only excellent pupils can pass the seventh grade examination. 3. Some teachers do not ask fair questions on examination. 4. Oak trees grow to be larger than maples. 5. Strikes increase the cost to the consumer. 6. A college education pays. 7. Department stores injure the trade of smaller stores. 8. Advertising pays. +Theme XLI.+--_Write a paragraph, proving by one or more examples one of the propositions in the preceding exercise:_ (Do your examples really illustrate what you are trying to prove? Do they show that the proposition is always true or merely that it is true for certain cases? Would your argument cause another to believe the proposition?) +73. The Value of Debate.+--Participation in oral debate furnishes excellent practice in accurate and rapid thinking. We may choose one side of a question and may write out an argument which, considered alone, and from our point of view, seems convincing, but when this is submitted to the criticism of some one of opposite views, or when the arguments in favor of the other side of the question are brought forward, we are not so sure that we have chosen the side which represents the truth. The ability to think "on one's feet," to present arguments concisely and effectively, and to reply to opposing arguments, giving due weight to those that are true, and detecting and pointing out those that are false, is an accomplishment of great practical value. Such ability comes only from practice, and the best preparation for it is the careful writing out of arguments. +74. Statement of the Question.+--The subject of debate may be stated in the form of a resolution, a declarative sentence, or a question; as, "Resolved that the recess should be lengthened," or "The recess should be lengthened," or, "Should the recess be lengthened?" In any case, the affirmative must show why the recess should be lengthened, and the negative why it should not be lengthened. In a formal debate the statement of the question and its meaning should be definitely determined in advance. Care must be taken to state it so that no mere quibbling over the meanings of terms can take the place of real arguments. Even if the subject of debate is so stated that this is possible, any self-respecting debater will meet the question at issue fairly and squarely, preferring defeat to a victory won by juggling with the meanings of terms. +75. Is Belief Necessary in Debate?+--If we are really arguing for a purpose, we should believe in the truth of the proposition which we support. If the members of the school board were discussing the desirability of building a new schoolhouse, each would speak in accordance with his belief. But if a class in school should debate such a question, having in mind not the determination of the question, but merely the selection and arrangement of the arguments for and against the proposition in the most effective way, each pupil might present the side in which he did not really believe. EXERCISES Consider each of the following propositions. Do you believe the affirmative or the negative? 1. This city needs a new high school building. 2. All the pupils in the high school should be members of the athletic association. 3. The school board should purchase an inclosed athletic field. 4. The street railway should carry pupils to and from school for half fare. 5. There should be a lunch room in this school. 6. Fairy stories should not be told to children. +Theme XLII.+--_Write a paragraph telling why you believe one of the propositions in the preceding exercise:_ (What questions should you ask yourself while correcting your theme?) +76. Order of Presentation.+--If you were preparing to debate one of the propositions in the preceding exercise, you would need to have in mind both the reasons for and against it. Next you would consider the order in which these reasons should be discussed. This will be determined by the circumstances of each debate, but generally the emphatic positions, that is, the first and the last, will be given to those arguments that seem to you to have the greatest weight, while those of less importance will occupy the central portion of your theme. +77. The Brief.+--If, after making a note of the various advantages, examples, and other arguments that you wish to use in support of one of the propositions in Section 75, you arrange these in the order in which you think they can be most effectively presented, the outline so formed is called a brief. Its preparation requires clear thinking, but when it is made, the task of writing out the argument is not difficult. When the debate is to be spoken, not read, the brief, if kept in mind, will serve to suggest the arguments we wish to make in the order in which we wish to present them. The brief differs from the ordinary outline in that it is composed of complete sentences. Notice the following brief:-- Manual Training should be substituted for school athletics. _Affirmative_ 1. The exercise furnished by manual training is better adapted to the developing of the whole being both physical and mental; for-- _a._ It requires the mind to act in order to determine what to do and how to do it. _b._ It trains the muscles to carry out the ideal of the mind. 2. The effect of manual training on health is better; for-- _a._ Excessive exercise, harmful to growing children, is avoided. _b._ Dangerous contests are avoided. 3. The final results of manual training are more valuable; for-- _a._ The objects made are valuable. _b._ The skill of hand and eye may become of great practical value in after life. 4. The moral effect of manual training is better; for-- _a._ Athletics develops the "anything to win" spirit, while manual training creates a wholesome desire to excel in the creation of something useful or beautiful. _b._ Dishonesty in games may escape notice, but dishonesty in workmanship cannot be concealed. _c._ Athletics fosters slovenliness of dress and manners, while manual training cultivates the love of the beautiful. 5. The beneficial results of manual training have a wider effect upon the school; for-- _a._ But comparatively few pupils "make the team" and receive the maximum athletic drill, while all pupils can take manual training. +78. Refutation or Indirect Argument.+--In debate we need to consider not only the arguments in favor of our own side, but also those presented by our opponents. That part of our theme which states our own arguments is called direct argument, and that part in which we reply to our opponents is called indirect argument or refutation. It is often very important to show that the opposing argument is false or, if true, has been given an exaggerated importance that it does not really possess. If, however, the argument is true and of weight, the fact should be frankly acknowledged. Our desire for victory should not cause us to disregard the truth. If the argument of our opponent has been so strong that it seems to have taken possession of the audience, we must reply to it in the beginning. If it is of less weight, each separate point may be discussed as we take up related points in our own argument. Often it will be found best to give the refutation a place just preceding our own last and strongest argument. From the foregoing it will be seen that each case cannot be determined by rule, but must be determined for itself, and it is because of the exercise of judgment required, that practice in debating is so valuable. A dozen boys or girls may, with much pleasure and profit, spend an evening a week as a debating club. +Theme XLIII.+--_Prepare a written argument for or against one of the propositions in Section 75._ (Make a brief. Re-arrange the arguments that you intend to use until they have what seems to you the best order. Consider the probable arguments on the other side and what reply can be made. Answer one or two of the strongest ones. If you have any trivial arguments for your own side, either omit them or make their discussion very brief.) +79. Cautions in Debating.+--When we have made a further study of argument we shall need to consider again the subject of debating. In the meantime a few cautions will be helpful. 1. Be fair. A debate is in the nature of a contest, and is quite as interesting as any other contest. The desire to win should never lead you to take any unfair advantage or to descend to mere quibbling over the statement of the proposition or the meanings of the terms. Win fairly or not at all. 2. Be honest with yourself. Do not present arguments which you know to be false, in the hope that your opponent cannot prove their falsity. This does not mean that you cannot present arguments in favor of a proposition unless you believe it to be true, but that those you do present should be real arguments for the side that you uphold, even though you believe that there are weightier ones on the other side. Do not use an example that seems to apply if you know that it does not. You are to "tell the truth and nothing but the truth," but in debate you may tell only that part of the "whole truth" which favors your side of the proposition. 3. Do not allow your desire for victory to overcome your desire for truth. Do not argue for the sake of winning, nor develop the habit of arguing in season and out. In the school and outside there are persons who, like Will Carleton's Uncle Sammy, "were born for arguing." They use their own time in an unprofitable way, and what is worse, they waste the time of others. They are not seeking for truth, but for controversy. It is quite as bad to doubt everything you hear as it is to believe everything. 4. Remember that mere statement is not argument. The fact that you believe a proposition does not make it true. In order to carry weight, a statement must be based on principles and theories that _the audience_ believes. 5. Remember that exhortation is not argument. Entreaty may persuade one to action, but in debate you should aim to convince the intellect. Clear, accurate thinking on your own part, so that you may present sound, logical arguments, is the first essential. +Theme XLIV.+--_Prepare a written argument for or against one of the following propositions:_-- 1. Boys who cannot go to college should take a commercial course in the high school. 2. Novel reading is a waste of time. 3. Asphalt paving is more satisfactory than brick. 4. Foreign skilled labor should be kept out of the United States. 5. Our own town should be lighted by electricity. 6. Athletic contests between high schools should be prohibited. (Consider your argument with reference to the cautions given in Section 79.) SUMMARY 1. The purpose of discourse may be to inform or to entertain. 2. The forms of discourse are-- _a._ Description. _b._ Narration. _c._ Exposition. _d._ Argument (Persuasion). 3. Discourse presupposes an audience, and we must select a subject and use language adapted to that audience. 4. The suitableness of a subject is determined-- _a._ By the writer's knowledge of the subject. (1) This may be based on experience, or (2) It may be gained from others through conversation and reading. _b._ By the writer's interest in the subject. (1) This may exist from the first, or (2) It may be aroused by our search for information. _c._ By adaptability of the subject to the reader. It should be of present, vital interest to him. 5. Subjects. _a._ The sources of subjects are unlimited. _b._ Subjects should be definite. They often need to be narrowed in order to be made definite. _c._ The title should be brief and should be worded so as to arouse a desire to hear the theme. 6. Exposition is explanation. 7. We may make clear the meaning of a term-- _a._ By using synonyms. _b._ By using simpler words. _c._ By supplementing our definitions with examples or comparisons. 8. General description includes the characteristics common to all members of a class of objects. 9. General narration is one form of exposition. It relates the things that characterize a process or action whenever it occurs. 10. Argument. _a._ Explanation is the first step in argument. _b._ A statement of advantages and disadvantages may assist us to determine which side of a question we believe. _c._ Specific instances may be used either for explanation or argument. 11. Debate. _a._ The subject of the debate may be stated in the form of a resolution, a declarative sentence, or a question. _b._ The most important arguments should be given the first and last positions. _c._ A brief will assist us in arranging our arguments in the most effective order. _d._ The refutation of opposing arguments should usually be placed just before our own last and strongest argument. _e._ Cautions in debating. (1) Be fair. (2) Be honest with yourself. (3) Do not allow your desire for victory to overcome your desire for truth. (4) Remember that mere statement is not argument. (5) Remember that exhortation is not argument. V. THE WHOLE COMPOSITION +80. General Principles of Composition.+--There are three important principles to be considered in every composition: unity, coherence, and emphasis. Though not always named, each of these has been considered and used in our writing of paragraphs. The consideration of methods of securing unity, coherence, and emphasis in the composition as a whole is the purpose of this chapter. It will serve also as a review and especially as an enlarged view of paragraph development as treated in Chapter III, for the methods discussed with regard to the whole composition are the same that are used in applying the three principles to single paragraphs. +81. Unity.+--A composition possesses unity if all that it contains bears directly upon the subject. It is evident that the title of the theme determines in a large degree the matter that should be included. Much that is appropriate to a theme on "Bass Fishing" will be found unnecessary in a theme entitled "How I caught a Bass." It is easier to secure unity in a theme treating of a narrow, limited subject than in one treating of a broad, general subject. The first step toward unity is, therefore, the selection of a limited subject and a suitable title (see Sections 58-61); the second is the collection of all facts, illustrations, and other material which may appropriately be used in a theme having the chosen title. +82. Coherence.+--A composition is given coherence by placing the ideas in such an order that each naturally suggests the one which follows. If the last paragraph is more closely related in thought to the first paragraph than it is to the intervening ones, the composition lacks coherence. Similarly, that paragraph is coherent in which the thought moves forward in an orderly way with each sentence growing out of the preceding one. In describing the capture of a large trout a boy might state that he broke his pole. Then he might tell what kind of pole he had, why he did not have a better one, what poles are best adapted to trout fishing, etc. Though each of these ideas is suggested by the preceding, the story still lacks coherence because the boy will need later to go back and tell us what happened to him or to the trout when the pole broke. If a description of the kind of pole is necessary in order to make the point of the story clear, it should have been introduced earlier. Stopping at the moment of vital interest to discuss fishing poles, spoils the effect of the story. Good writers are very skillful in the early introducing of details that will enable the reader to appreciate the events as they happen, and they are equally skillful in omitting unnecessary details. The proper selection of these details gives unity, and their introduction at the proper place gives coherence to a narrative. By saying, "I am getting ahead of my story," the narrator confesses that coherence is lacking. Read again the selection on page 106. +83. Emphasis.+--If we desire to make one part of a theme more emphatic than another, we may do so by giving a prominent position to that part. In debating we give the first place and the last to the strongest arguments. In simple narration the order in which incidents must be related is fixed by the time-order of their occurrence, but even in a story the point gains in force if it is near the close. Because these two positions are the ones of greatest emphasis, a poor beginning or a bad ending will ruin an otherwise good story. Emphasis may also be affected by the proportional amount of attention and space given to the different parts of a theme. The extent to which any division of a theme should be developed depends upon the purpose and the total length of the theme. A biography of Grant might appropriately devote two or three chapters to his boyhood, while a short sketch of his life would treat his boyhood in a single paragraph. In determining the amount of space to be given to the different parts of a composition, care must be taken that the space assigned to each shall be proportional to its importance, the largest amount of space being devoted to the part which is of greatest worth. Emphasis is sometimes given by making a single sentence into a paragraph. This method should be used with care, for such a paragraph may be too short for unity because it does not include all that should be said about the topic statement, and though it makes that statement emphatic, fails to make its meaning clear. Clearness, unity, and coherence are of more importance than emphasis, and usually, if a theme possesses the first three qualities, it will possess the fourth in sufficient measure. +84. The Outline.+--An outline will assist us in securing unity, coherence, and emphasis. 1. The first step in making an outline has relation to unity. Unity requires that a theme include only that which pertains to the subject. There are always many more ideas that seem to bear upon a subject than can be included in the theme. We may therefore jot down brief notes that will suggest our ideas on the subject, and then we should reject from this list all that seem irrelevant or trivial. We should also reject the less important ideas which pertain directly to the subject if without them we have all that are needed in order to fulfill the purpose of the theme. Which items in the following should be omitted as not necessary to the complete treatment of the subject indicated by the title? Should anything be added? _My First Partridge_ Where I lived ten years ago. Kinds of game: partridge, quail, squirrels. Partridge drumming. My father went hunting often. How he was injured. Birch brush near hemlock; partridge often found in such localities. Loading the gun. Going to the woods. Why partridge live near birch brush. Fall season. Hunting for partridge allowed from September to December. Tramping through the woods. Something moving. Creeping up. How I felt; excited; hand shook. Partridge on log. Gun failed to go off; cocking it properly. The shot; the recoil. The flurry of the bird. How partridges fly. How they taste when cooked. Getting the bird. Going home. Partridges are found in the woods; quail in the fields. What my sister said. My brother's interest. My father's story about shooting three partridges with one shot. What mother did. 2. The second step in outline making has relation to coherence. After we have rejected from our notes all items which would interfere with the unity of our theme, we next arrange the remaining items in a coherent order. One method of securing coherence is illustrated by a simple narrative which follows the time-order. We naturally group together in our memory those events which occurred at a given time, and in recalling a series of events we pass in order from one such group to another. These groups form natural paragraph units, and the placing of them in their actual time-order gives coherence to the composition. After rejecting the unnecessary items in the preceding list, re-arrange the remaining ones in a coherent order. How many paragraphs would you make and what would you include in each? 3. The third step in making an outline has relation to emphasis. In some outlines emphasis is secured by placing the more important points first, in others by placing them last. In this particular outline we have a natural time-order to follow, and emphasis will be determined mainly by the relative proportion to be given to different paragraphs. Do not give unimportant paragraphs too much space. Be sure that the introduction and the conclusion are short. +Theme XLV.+--_Write a personal narrative at least three paragraphs in length._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. How I was saved from drowning. 2. The largest string of fish I ever caught. 3. An incident of the skating season. 4. What I did on Christmas day. 5. A Saturday with my grandmother. 6. To the city and back. (Make an outline. Keep in mind unity, coherence, and emphasis. Consider each paragraph with reference to unity, coherence, and emphasis.) +85. Development of a Composition with Reference to the Time-Order.+-- Of the several methods of developing a composition let us consider first that of giving details in the natural time-order. (See Section 46.) If a composition composed of a series of paragraphs possesses coherence, each paragraph is so related to the preceding ones that the thought goes steadily forward from one to another. Often the connection in thought is so evident that no special indication needs to be made, but if the paragraphs are arranged with reference to a time-order, this time-order is usually indicated. Notice how the relation in time of each paragraph to the preceding is shown by the following sentences of parts of sentences taken in order from a magazine article entitled "Yachting at Kiel," by James B. Connolly:-- 1. It was slow waiting in Travemunde. The long-enduring twilight of a summer's day at fifty-four north began to settle down... 2. The dusk comes on, and on the ships of war they seem to be getting nervous... 3. The dusk deepens... 4. It is getting chilly in the night air, with the rations running low, and the charterers of some of the fishing boats decide to go home... 5. It is eleven o'clock--dark night--and the breeze is freshening, when the first of the fleet heaves in sight... 6. After that they arrive rapidly... 7. At midnight there is still no _Meteor_... 8. Through the entire night they keep coming... 9. Next morning... +Theme XLVI.+--_Write a narrative, four or more paragraphs in length, showing the time-order._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The race up the river. 2. The life of some well-known man. 3. The cake that fell. 4. Retell some incident that you have recently read. 5. Relate some personal experience. 6. A story suggested by the picture on page 160. (Make an outline. Consider the unity, coherence, and emphasis of each paragraph separately. Then consider the unity, coherence, and emphasis of the whole composition. Notice what expressions you have used to indicate the relations in time. Have you used the same expression too often?) +86. Development of a Composition with Reference to Position in Space.+-- A second method of development is to relate details with reference to their position in space. Just as we may give either a paragraph or a whole theme coherence by following a given time-order, so may we make a paragraph or a whole theme coherent by arranging the parts in an order determined by their position in space. In developing a theme by this method we simply apply to the whole theme the principles discussed for the development of a paragraph (Section 47). In a description composed of several paragraphs, each paragraph should contain a group of details closely related to one another in space. The paragraphs should be constructed so that each shall possess unity and coherence within itself, and they should be so arranged that we may pass most easily from the group of images presented by one paragraph to the images presented by the next. In narration, the space arrangement may supplement time-order in giving coherence. If the most attractive features of an art room are its wall decorations, five paragraphs describing the room may be as follows:-- 1. Point of view: general impression. 2. The north wall: general impression; details. 3. The east wall: general impression; details. 4. The south wall: general impression; details. 5. The west wall: general impression; details. It is easy to imagine a room in the description of which the following paragraphs would be appropriate:-- 1. Point of view. 2. The fireplace. 3. The easy-chair. 4. The table. 5. The bookcase. 6. The cozy nook. Such an arrangement of paragraphs would give coherence. Unity would be secured by including in each only that which properly belonged to it. There are many words and expressions which indicate the relative position of objects. The paragraph below is an illustration of the method of development described in Section 47. Notice the words which indicate the location of the different details in the scene. If each of these details should be developed into a paragraph the italicized expressions would serve to introduce these paragraphs and would show the relative positions of the objects described. The beauty of the sea and shore was almost indescribable: _on one side_ rose Point Loma, grim, gloomy as a fortress wall; _before_ me stretched away to the horizon the ocean with its miles of breakers curling into foam; _between_ the surf and the city, wrapped in its dark blue mantle, lay the sleeping bay; _eastward_ the mingled yellow, red, and white of San Diego's buildings glistened in the sunlight like a bed of coleus; _beyond_ the city heaved the rolling plains rich in their garb of golden brown, _from which_ rose the distant mountains, tier on tier, wearing the purple veil which Nature here loves oftenest to weave for them; while _in the foreground_, like a jewel in a brilliant setting, stood the Coronado. --Stoddard: _California_. +Theme XLVII.+--_Write a description three or more paragraphs in length._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Some well-known building (exterior). 2. A prominent person. 3. An attractive room. 4. The interior of a church. (Consider your outline with reference to unity, coherence, and proportion of parts. When the theme is completed, consider the unity, coherence, and emphasis of each paragraph and of the composition as a whole.) +87. Paragraph Relations.+--Relations in thought other than those of time and space may be indicated by the use of certain words and phrases. Such expressions as, _however, nevertheless, consequently, indeed, moreover, at all events_, etc., are often used to indicate a relation in thought between paragraphs. Notice how _nevertheless_, at the beginning of the selection below, serves to connect it in thought with a preceding paragraph not printed here. Notice also the relations in thought shown by the italicized words. These and similar words are used to make the transition from one paragraph to the next. _Nevertheless_, Howe was at last in possession of Philadelphia, the object of his campaign, and with his communications by water open. He had consumed four months in this business since he left New York, three months since he landed near the Elk River. His prize, now that he had got it, was worth less than nothing in a military point of view, and he had been made to pay a high price for it, not merely in men, but in precious time, for while he was struggling sluggishly for Philadelphia, Burgoyne, who really meant something very serious, had gone to wreck and sunk out of sight in the northern forests. _Indeed_, Howe did not even hold his dearly bought town in peace. After the fall of the forts, Greene, aided by Lafayette, who had joined the army on its way to the Brandywine, made a sharp dash and broke up an outlying party of Hessians. _Such things_ were intolerable, they interfered with personal comfort, and they emanated from the American army which Washington had now established in strong lines at Whitemarsh. _So_ Howe announced that in order to have a quiet winter, he would drive Washington beyond the mountains. Howe did not often display military intelligence, but that he was profoundly right in this particular intention must be admitted. In pursuit of his plan, _therefore_, he marched out of Philadelphia on December 4th, drove off some Pennsylvania militia on the 5th, considered the American position for four days, did not dare to attack, could not draw his opponent out, returned to the city, and left Washington to go into winter quarters at Valley Forge, whence he could easily strike if any move was made by the British army. --Henry Cabot Lodge. +88. The Transition Paragraph.+--Just as a word or phrase may serve to denote the relation in thought between paragraphs, so may a whole paragraph be used to carry over the thought from one group of paragraphs to another in the same theme. Such a paragraph makes a transition from one general topic or method of treating the subject of the theme to some other general topic or to the consideration of the subject from a different point of view. This transitional paragraph may summarize the thought of the preceding paragraph in addition to announcing a change of topic; or it may mark the transition to the new topic and set it forth in general terms. +89. The Summarizing Paragraph.+--Frequently we give emphasis to our thought by a final paragraph summarizing the main points of the theme. Such a summary is in effect a restatement of the topic sentences of our paragraphs. If our theme has been coherent, these sentences stated in order will need but little changing to make a coherent paragraph. In a similar way, it is of advantage to close a long paragraph with a sentence which repeats the topic statement or summarizes the thought of the paragraph. See the last sentence in Section 57. +90. Development of a Composition by Comparison or Contrast.+--The third method of development is that of comparison or contrast. Nearly every idea which we have suggests one that is similar to it or in contrast with it. We are thus led to make comparisons or to state contrasts. When these are few and brief, they may make a single paragraph (Section 48). If our comparisons or contrasts are extended, they may make several paragraphs, and thus a whole theme may be developed by this method. In such a theme no fixed order of presentation is determined by the actual occurrence in time or space of that which we present. Consequently, in outlining a theme of this kind, we must devote special attention to arranging our paragraphs in an order that shall give coherence and emphasis. +Theme XLVIII.+--_Write a theme of three or more paragraphs developed by comparison._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Compare men with verbs (active, passive, transitive, intransitive, defective, redundant, auxiliary, copulative, etc.). 2. Show that the body resembles a machine. 3. In what way is the school like a factory? 4. How do two books that you have read differ? 5. Compare Lincoln and McKinley. How alike? How different? 6. How can you tell an oak tree from an elm tree? 7. Without naming them, compare two of your friends with each other. 8. Compare the advantages and disadvantages of public high schools with those of private academies. +91. Development of a Composition by Use of Generalization and Facts.+-- Using the fourth method of development, we may give an entire composition to the explanation of the meaning of a general proposition or to the demonstration of the truth of such a proposition. To accomplish this purpose we state facts or instances that illustrate the meaning of the proposition or that show it to be true. In such a composition each important fact or instance may be given a separate paragraph, while several minor facts or illustrations may be properly combined in the same paragraph. (See Section 44.) Greater emphasis may also be given the more important facts by assigning them to the emphatic positions. Notice how by specific instances the following selection illustrates the truth of the generalization set forth in the second sentence and restated in the last sentence. DEGENERATION THROUGH QUIESCENCE While parasitism is the principal cause of degeneration among animals, yet it is not the sole cause. It is evident that if for any other reason animals should become fixed, and live inactive lives, they would degenerate. There are not a few instances of degeneration due simply to a quiescent life, unaccompanied by parasitism. The Tunicata, or sea squirts, are animals which have become simple through degeneration, due to the adoption of a sedentary life, the withdrawal from the crowd of animals and from the struggle which it necessitates. The young tunicate is a free-swimming, active, tadpolelike, or fishlike creature, which possesses organs very like those of the adult of the simplest fishes or fishlike forms. That is, the sea squirt begins life as a primitively simple vertebrate. It possesses in its larval stage a notochord, the delicate structure which precedes the formation of a backbone, extending along the upper part of the body below the spinal cord. The other organs of the young tunicate are all of vertebral type. But the young sea squirt passes a period of active and free life as a little fish, after which it settles down and attaches itself to a shell or wooden pier by means of suckers, and remains for the rest of its life fixed. Instead of going on and developing into a fishlike creature, it loses its notochord, its special sense organs, and other organs; it loses its complexity and high organization, and becomes a "mere rooted bag with a double neck," a thoroughly degenerate animal. A barnacle is another example of degeneration through quiescence. The barnacles are crustaceans related most nearly to the crabs and shrimps. The young barnacle just from the egg is a six-legged, free-swimming nauplius, very like a young prawn or crab, with a single eye. In its next larval stage it has six pairs of swimming feet, two compound eyes, and two antennae or feelers, and still lives an independent free-swimming life. When it makes its final change to the adult condition, it attaches itself to some stone, or shell, or pile, or ship's bottom, loses its compound eyes and feelers, develops a protecting shell, and gives up all power of locomotion. Its swimming feet become changed into grasping organs, and it loses most of its outward resemblance to the other members of its class. Certain insects live sedentary or fixed lives. All the members of the family of scale insects (Coccidae), in one sex at least, show degeneration that has been caused by quiescence. One of these coccids, called the red orange scale, is very abundant in Florida and California and in other fruit-growing regions. The male is a beautiful, tiny, two-winged midge, but the female is a wingless, footless, little sack, without eyes or other organs of special sense, which lies motionless under a flat, thin, circular, reddish scale composed of wax and two or three cast skins of the insect itself. The insect has a long, slender, flexible, sucking beak, which is thrust into the leaf or stem or fruit of the orange on which the "scale bug" lives, and through which the insect sucks the orange sap, which is its only food. It lays eggs under its body, and thus also under the protecting wax scale, and dies. From the eggs hatch active little larval "scale bugs," with eyes and feelers, and six legs. They crawl from under the wax scale and roam about over the orange tree. Finally, they settle down, thrusting their sucking beak into the plant tissue, and cast their skin. The females lose at this molt their legs and eyes and feelers. Each becomes a mere motionless sack capable only of sucking up sap and laying eggs. The young males, however, lose their sucking beak and can no longer take food, but they gain a pair of wings and an additional pair of eyes. They fly about and fertilize the sacklike females, which then molt again and secrete the thin wax scale over them. Throughout the animal kingdom loss of the need of movement is followed by the loss of the power to move and of all structures related to it. --Jordon and Kellogg: _Animal Life_. Has the principle of unity been observed in the above selection; that is, of the many things that might be told about a sea squirt, a barnacle, or a scale bug, have the authors selected only those which serve to illustrate degeneration through quiescence? Instead of one generalization supported by a series of facts to each of which a paragraph is given, we may have several subordinate generalizations relating to the subject of the theme. Each of these subordinate generalizations may become the topic statement of a paragraph which is further developed by giving specific instances or by some other method of paragraph development. Such an order, that is, generalization followed by the facts which illustrate it, is coherent; but care must be taken to give each fact under the generalization to which it is most closely related. On the other hand, our theme may be made coherent by giving the facts first, and then the generalization that they establish. +Theme XLIX.+--_Write a theme of three or more paragraphs illustrating or proving some general statement by means of facts or specific instances._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Young persons should not drink coffee. 2. Reasons for the curfew bell. 3. Girls wear their hair in a variety of ways. 4. There are several kinds of boys in this school. 5. Civilization increases as the facilities for transportation increase. 6. Trolley roads are of great benefit to the country. 7. Presence of mind often averts danger. +92. Development of a Composition by Stating Cause and Effect.+--The statement of the causes of an event or condition may be used as a fifth method of development. The principle, however, is not different from that applied to the development of a paragraph by stating cause and effect (Section 49). If several causes contribute to the same effect, each may be given a separate paragraph, or several minor ones may be combined in one paragraph. For the sake of unity we must include each fact, principle, or statement in the paragraph to which it really belongs. The coherent order is usually that which proceeds from causes to effects rather than that which traces events backward from effects to causes. +Theme L.+--_Write a theme of three or more paragraphs, stating causes and effects._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Why hospitals are necessary. 2. Why cigarette smoking is dangerous. 3. Why girls should take music lessons. 4. The effect of climate upon health. 5. The effect of rainfall upon the productivity and industries of a country. 6. The effect of mountains, lakes, or rivers upon exploration and travel. 7. What connection is there between occupation and height above the sea level, and why? 8. Why our city is located where it is. 9. Why I came late to school. +93. Combination of Methods of Development.+--Frequently the presentation of our thought is made most effective by using some combination of the methods of development discussed in this chapter. Time and place are often interwoven, comparisons and contrasts flash into mind, general statements need specific illustration, or results demand immediate explanation--all in the same theme. Sometimes the order of coherence will be in doubt, for cause and effect demand a different order of statement from that which would be given were we to follow either time-order or position in space. In such cases we must choose whether it is most important to tell first _why_ or _when_ or _where_. The only rule that can be suggested is to do that which will make our meaning most clear, because it is for the sake of the clear presentation of our thought that we seek unity, coherence, and emphasis. +Theme LI.+--_Write a theme of several paragraphs. Use any method of development or any combination of methods._ (Choose your own subject. After the theme is written make a list of all the questions you should ask yourself about it. Correct the theme with reference to each point in your list of questions.) SUMMARY 1. General principles of composition. _a._ Unity. _b._ Coherence. _c._ Emphasis. (1) By position. (2) By proportion of parts. 2. An outline assists in securing unity, coherence, and emphasis. 3. Methods of composition development: A composition may be developed-- _a._ With reference to time-order. _b._ With reference to position in space. _c._ By use of comparison and contrast. _d._ By stating generalization and facts. _e._ By stating cause and effect. _f._ By any suitable combination of the above methods. 4. Transition and summary paragraphs may occur in compositions. VI. LETTER WRITING +94. Importance of Good Letter Writing.+--Letter writing is the form of written language used by most of us more frequently than any other form. The importance of good letter writing is therefore obvious. Business, personal, and social relations necessitate the writing of letters. We are judged by those letters; and in order that we may be considered businesslike, educated, and cultured, it is necessary that we should be able to write good letters, not only as regards the form but also as regards the subject-matter. The writing of good letters is often the means of securing desirable positions and of keeping up pleasant and helpful friendships. Since this form of composition plays so important a part in our lives and the lives of those about us, it is worthy of careful study. The subject-matter is the most important part of the letter, but adherence to usages generally adopted is essential to successful letter writing. Some of these usages may seem trivial in themselves, but a lack of attention to them shows either ignorance or carelessness on the part of the writer, and the consequences resulting from this inattention are often anything but trivial. Applicants for good positions have been rejected either because they did not know the correct usages of letter writing, or because they did not heed them. In no other form of composition are the rules concerning form so rigid; hence the need of knowledge and carefulness concerning them. +95. Paper.+--The nature of the letter determines to some extent our choice of paper. Business letters are usually written on large paper, about ten by eight inches in size, while letters of friendship and notes of various kinds are written on paper of smaller size. White or delicately tinted paper is always in good taste for all kinds of letters. The use of highly tinted paper is occasionally in vogue with some people, but failure to use it is never an offense against the laws of good taste. It is customary now to use unruled paper for all kinds of letters as well as for other forms of compositions. For letters of friendship four-page paper is preferred to that in tablet form. The order in which the pages are used may vary; but whatever the order is, it should not be confusing to the reader. Black ink should always be used. The writing should be neat and legible. Attention should be paid to margin, paragraphs, and indentation. In fact, all the rules of theme writing apply to letter writing, and to these are added several others. +96. The Beginning of a Letter.+--Certain forms for the beginning of letters have been agreed upon, and these forms should be followed. The beginning of a letter usually includes the heading, the address of the person or persons to whom the letter is sent, and the salutation. Notice the following examples:-- (1) ______________________________________________________ | | | 171 Miles Ave., | | Cleveland, Ohio. | | Oct. 21, 1905. | | Marshall Field & Co., | | State St., Chicago, Ill. | | | | Gentlemen: | | | (2) ______________________________________________________ | | | Ottawa, Ill. | | Nov. 9, 1905. | | Dear Harold, | | | (3) ______________________________________________________ | | | 1028 Jackson Boulevard, | | Chicago Ill. | | Nov. 10, 1905. | | Messrs. Johnson & Foote, | | 120 Main St., | | Pittsfield, Mass. | | | | Dear Sirs, | | | (4) ______________________________________________________ | | | 120 P Street, | | Lincoln, Neb. | | Oct. 17, 1905. | | My dear Mrs. Scott, | | | (5) ______________________________________________________ | | | Boston, Mass., Nov. 23, 1905. | | | | Dear Mother, | | | (6) ______________________________________________________ | | | 33 Front St., | | Adrian, Mich. | | Nov. 30, 1905. | | Miss Gertrude Brown, | | 228 Warren Ave., Chicago, Ill. | | | | Dear Madam: | | | (7) ______________________________________________________ | | | New Hartford, Conn. | | Nov. 3, 1905. | | My dear Henry, | | | The heading of a letter includes the address of the writer and the date of the writing. When numerous letters are sent from one place to another, the street and number may after a time be omitted from the heading. Example (5) illustrates this. A son living in Boston has written to his mother frequently and no longer considers it necessary to write the street and number in every letter. If there is any doubt in the writer's mind as to whether his address will be remembered or not, he should include it in the letter. If the writer lives in a small place where the street and number will not be needed in a reply sent to him, it is unnecessary for him to make use of it in his letter. When the street and number are omitted, the heading may be written on one line, as in example (5), but the use of two lines is preferable. Custom has decreed that the proper place for the heading is in the right-hand upper corner of the first page. Sometimes, especially in business letters, we find the writer's address at the close of the letter, but for the sake of convenience it is preferably placed at the beginning. The first line should be about one inch and a half from the top of the page. The second line should begin a little to the right of the first line, and the third line, a little to the right of the second line. Attention should be paid to proper punctuation in each line. In a comparatively few cases we may find that the omission of the date of the letter will make no difference to the recipient, but in most cases it will cause annoyance at least, and in many cases result in serious trouble both to ourselves and to those who receive our letters. We should not allow ourselves to neglect the date even in letters of apparently no great importance. If we allow the careless habit of omitting dates to develop, we may some day omit a date when the omission will affect affairs of great importance. This date should include the day, month, and year. It is better to write out the entire year, as 1905, not '05. In business letters it is customary to write the address of the person or persons addressed at the left side of the page. Either two or three lines may be used. The first line of this address should be one line lower than the last line of the heading. Notice examples (1), (3), and (6). When the address is thus written, the salutation is commonly written one line below it. Sometimes the salutation is commenced at the margin, and sometimes a little to the right of the address. Where there is no address, the salutation is written a line below the date and begins with the margin, as in examples (2), (4), (5), and (7). The form of salutation naturally depends upon the relations existing between the correspondents. The forms _Dear Sir, My dear Sir, Madam, My dear Madam, Dear Sirs, Gentlemen_, are used in formal business letters. The forms _Dear Miss Robinson, My dear Mrs. Hobart, Dear Mr. Fraser, My dear Mr. Scott_, are used in business letters when the correspondents are acquainted with each other. The same forms are also used in letters of friendship when the correspondents are not well enough acquainted with each other to warrant the use of the more familiar forms, _My dear Mary, Dear Edmund, My dear Friend, Dear Cousin, My dear little Niece_. There is no set rule concerning the punctuation of the salutation. The comma, the colon, or the semicolon may be used either alone or in connection with the dash. The comma alone seems to be the least formal of all, and the colon the most so. Hence the former is used more frequently in letters of friendship, and the latter more frequently in business letters. +97. Body of the Letter.+--The body of the letter is the important part; in fact, it is the letter itself, since it contains the subject-matter. It will be discussed under another head later, and is only mentioned here in order to show its place in connection with the beginning of a letter. As a rule, it is best to begin the body of our letters one line below, and either directly underneath or to the right of the salutation. It is not improper, however, especially in business letters, to begin it on the same line with the salutation. A few examples will be sufficient to show the variations of the place for beginning the main part of the letter. (1) ______________________________________________________ | | | 1694 Cedar Ave., | | Cleveland, Ohio. | | June 23, 1905. | | Messrs. Hanna, Scott & Co., | | Aurora, Ill. | | | | Gentlemen:--I inclose a money order for $10.00, | | etc. | | | (2) ______________________________________________________ | | | Everett, Washington. | | Oct. 20, 1905. | | My dear Robert, | | We are very glad that you have decided to make | | us a visit, etc. | | | (3) ______________________________________________________ | | | Greenwich, N.Y. | | Sept. 19, 1905. | | My dear Miss Russ, | | Since I have been Miss Clark's assistant, etc. | | | (4) ______________________________________________________ | | | 2 University Ave., | | Nashville, Tenn. | | April 19, 1905. | | The American Book Company, | | 300 Pike St., | | Cinncinnati, O. | | | | Dear Sirs:--Please send me by express two copies | | of Halleck's English Literature, etc. | | | +98. Conclusion of a Letter.+--The conclusion of a letter includes what is termed the complimentary close and the signature. Certain forms have been agreed upon, which should be closely followed. Our choice of a complimentary close, like that of a salutation, depends upon the relations existing between us and those to whom we are writing. Such forms as _Your loving daughter, With love, Ever your friend, Your affectionate mother_, should be used only when intimate relations exist between correspondents. In letters where existing relations are not so intimate and in some kinds of business letters the forms _Sincerely yours, Yours very sincerely,_ may be used appropriately. The most common forms in business letters are _Yours truly_ and _Very truly yours_. The forms _Respectfully yours,_ or _Yours very respectfully,_ should be used only when there is occasion for some special respect, as in writing to a person of high rank or position. The complimentary close should be written one line below the last line of the main part of the letter, and toward the right-hand side of the page. Its first word should commence with a capital, and a comma should be placed at its close. The signature properly belongs below and a little to the right of the complimentary close. Except in cases of familiar relationship, the name should be signed in full. It is difficult to determine the spelling of unfamiliar proper names if they are carelessly written. It is therefore important in writing to strangers that the signature should be made plainly legible in order that they may know how to address the writer in their reply. A lady should make it plain whether she is to be addressed as _Miss_ or _Mrs._ This can be done either by placing the title _Miss_ or _Mrs._ in parentheses before the name, or by writing the whole address below and to the left of the signature. Boys and men may often avoid confusion by signing their first name instead of using only initials. Notice the following examples of the complimentary close and signature:-- (1) ______________________________________________________ | | | Appleton, Wisconsin. | | Sept. 3, 1905. | | | | My dear Cousin, | | | | | | (Body of letter.) | | | | | | Yours with love, | | Gertrude Edmonds. | | | (2) ______________________________________________________ | | | 192 Lincoln Ave., | | Worcester, Mass. | | Nov. 25, 1905. | | | | L.B. Bliss & Co., | | 109 Summer St., | | Boston, Mass. | | | | | | Dear Sirs; | | | | (Body of letter.) | | | | | | | | Very truly yours, | | Walter A. Cutler. | | | (3) ______________________________________________________ | | | Paxton, Ill. | | July 3, 1905. | | | | American Typewriter Co., | | 263 Broadway, New York. | | | | | | Gentlemen: | | | | | | (Body of letter.) | | | | | | | | Very truly yours, | | (Miss) Jennie R. McAllister. | | | (4) ______________________________________________________ | | | May 5, 1905. | | | | Daniel Low & Co., | | 232 Essex St., Salem, Mass. | | | | | | | | Mary E. Ball | | | | Mrs. George W. Ball, | | 415 Fourth St., | | La Salle, Ill. | | | (5) ______________________________________________________ | | | Marshalltown, Iowa. | | Oct. 3, 1905. | | | | My dear Miss Meyer, | | | | | | (Body of letter.) | | | | | | Sincerely yours, | | Dorothy Doddridge. | | | EXERCISE Write suitable headings, salutations, complimentary endings, and signatures for the following letters:-- 1. To Spaulding & Co., Wabash Ave., Chicago, Ill., ordering their rules for basket ball. 2. To your older brother. 3. To the school board, asking for a gymnasium. 4. To some business house, making application for a position. 5. To the governor of your state. 6. From one stranger to another. 7. From an older brother to his little sister. 8. From a boy living in New Orleans to the father of his most intimate friend. +99. The Envelope.+--The direction on the envelope, commonly called the superscription, consists of the name and address of the person or persons to whom the letter is sent. This direction should be written in a careful and _courteous manner_, and should include all that is necessary to insure the prompt delivery of the letter to the proper destination. The superscription may be arranged in three or four lines, each line beginning a little to the right of the preceding line. The name should be written about midway between the upper and lower edges of the envelope, and there should be nearly an equal amount of space left at each side. If there is any difference, there should be less space at the right than at the left. The street and number may be written below the name, and the city or town and state below. The street and number may be properly written in the lower left-hand corner. This is also the place for any special direction that may be necessary for the speedy transmission of the letter; for example, "In care of Mr. Charles R. Brown." Women should be addressed as _Miss_ or _Mrs._ In case the woman is married, her husband's first name and middle initial are commonly used, unless it is known that she prefers to have her own first name used. Men should be addressed as _Mr._, and a firm may in many cases be addressed as _Messrs._ It is considered proper to use the titles _Dr._, _Rev._, etc., in directing an envelope to a man bearing such a title, but it would be entirely out of place to address the wife of a physician or clergyman as _Mrs. Dr._ or _Mrs. Rev._ The names of states may be abbreviated, but care should be taken that these abbreviations be plainly written, especially when there are other similar abbreviations. In compound names, as North Dakota and West Virginia, do not abbreviate one part of the compound and write out the other. Either abbreviate both or write out both. If any punctuation besides the period after abbreviations is used, it consists of a comma after each line. It is the custom now to omit such punctuation. Either form is in good taste, but whichever form is adopted, it should be employed throughout the entire superscription. The comma should not be used in one line and omitted in another. Notice the following forms of correct superscriptions:-- (1) ______________________________________________________ | | | | | Mr. Milo R. Maltbie | 85 West 118th St. | New York. |______________________________________________________ (2) ______________________________________________________ | | | | | Mr. John D. Clark | New York | N.Y. | | Teachers College | Columbia University. |______________________________________________________ (3) ______________________________________________________ | | | | | Mrs. Edgar N. Foster | South Haven | Mich. | | Avery Beach Hotel. | ______________________________________________________ (4) ______________________________________________________ | | | | | Miss Louise M. Baker | Nottingham | Ohio. | | Box 129. |______________________________________________________ (5) ______________________________________________________ | | | | | Dr. James M. Postle | De Kalb | Ill. | |______________________________________________________ (6) ______________________________________________________ | | | | | Miss Ida Morrison | Chicago | Ill. | | | 1048 Warren Ave. |______________________________________________________ EXERCISE Write proper superscriptions to letters written to the following:-- 1. Thaddeus Bolton, living at 524 Q Street, Lincoln, Nebraska. 2. The wife of a physician of your acquaintance. 3. James B. Angell, President of the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Michigan. 4. Your mother, visiting some relative or friend. 5. The publishers Allyn and Bacon, 878 Wabash Avenue, Chicago, Ill. 6. Edward Harrington, living at 1962 Seventh Avenue, New York. 7. To a friend at a seaside resort. 8. To a friend visiting your uncle in Oakland, California. +100. The Great Rule of Letter Writing.+--The great rule of letter writing is, Never write a letter which you would not be willing to see in print over your own signature. That which you _say_ in anger may be discourteous and of little credit to you, but it may in time be forgotten; that which you _write_, however, may be in existence an untold number of years. Thousands of letters are now on exhibition whose authors never had such a use of them in mind. If you ever feel like writing at the end of a letter, "Burn this as soon as you read it," do not send it, but burn the letter yourself. Before you sign your name to any letter read it over and ask yourself, "Is this letter in form and contents one which would do me credit if it should be published?" +101. Business Letters.+--Since the purpose of business letters is to inform, they should, first of all, be characterized by clearness. In asking for information, be sure that you state your questions so that there shall be no doubt in the mind of the recipient concerning the information that you desire. In giving information, be equally sure to state facts so clearly that there can be no possibility of a mistake. Brevity is the soul of business letters as well as of wit. Business men are busy men. They have no time to waste in reading long letters, but wish to gain their information quickly. Hence we should aim to state the desired facts in as concise a manner as possible, and we should give only pertinent facts. Short explanations may sometimes be necessary, but nothing foreign to the subject-matter should ever be introduced. While we should aim to make our letters short, they should not be so brief as to appear abrupt and discourteous. It shows lack of courtesy to omit important words or to make too frequent use of abbreviations. We should answer a business letter as soon as possible. This answer, besides giving the desired information, should include a reference to the letter received and an acknowledgment of inclosures, if there were any. All questions should receive courteous replies. The facts should be arranged in a form that will be convenient for the recipient. As a rule it is best to follow the order which the writer has used in his letter, but in some cases we may be able to state our facts more definitely and concisely if we follow some other order. What has been said in general about attention to forms in letter writing might well be emphasized here, for business men are keen critics concerning letters received. Be careful to use the correct forms already suggested. Also pay attention to punctuation, spelling, and grammar. Write only on one side of the paper and fold the letter correctly. In fact, be businesslike in everything connected with the writing of business letters. A few examples are here given for your notice:-- (1) ______________________________________________________ | | | Ypsilanti, Mich. | | April 4, 1905. | | | | Mr. William Wylie, | | 807 Linn St., Peoria, Ill. | | | | Dear Mr. Wylie; | | Inclosed is a letter from Superintendent Rogers | | of Rockford, Ill. The position of teacher of | | mathematics is vacant. The salary may not be so | | much as you now receive, but in many respects the | | position is a desirable one. I advise you to apply | | for it. | | Sincerely yours, | | Charles M. Gates. | | | (2) ______________________________________________________ | | | 586 State St., | | Chicago, Ill. | | July 20,1905. | | | | Mrs. Charles H. McNett, | | 2345 Franklin St., | | Denver, Colorado. | | | | Dear Madam:--Your card of July 9th is at hand. We | | beg to say that we sent you the books by express, | | prepaid, July 9th, and they have probably reached | | you by this time. If you have not received them, | | please notify us, and we will send a tracer after | | them. | | Very truly yours, | | Brown and Sherman. | | | | | (3) ______________________________________________________ | | | Elgin High School, | | Elgin, Ill. | | Sept. 4, 1905. | | | | | | Miss Ella B. Walker, | | Herkimer, New York. | | | | My dear Miss Walker: | | I am very sorry to have to trouble you, | | but I am desirous of obtaining some information | | concerning the High School Library. Will you kindly | | let me know whether the card catalogue was kept up | | to date prior to your departure and also whether the | | accession book was in use up to that time? | | I shall be greatly indebted to you if you will | | give me this information. | | Very sincerely yours, | | Edward J. Taylor. | | | EXERCISE Write at least three of the following suggested letters, paying attention to the rules for writing business letters:-- 1. Write to a dry goods firm, asking them to send you one of their catalogues. 2. Write to the manager of a football team of some town near yours, proposing a game. 3. Write the reply. 4. In reply to an advertisement, write an application for the position of clerk or bookkeeper. 5. Write to the publishers of some magazine, asking them to change your address from 27 K Street, Toledo, Ohio, to 2011 Prospect Avenue, Beatrice, Nebraska. 6. Suppose yourself doing postgraduate work in your high school. Write to the president of some college, asking him concerning advanced credit. +102. Letters of Friendship.+--While a great deal of information may be obtained from some letters of friendship, the real purpose of such letters is, usually, not to give information, but to entertain. You will notice that the information derived from letters of friendship differs from that found in business letters. Its nature is such that of itself it gives pleasure. Our letters to our relatives, friends, and acquaintances are but visits on paper, and it should be our purpose to make these visits as enjoyable as possible. So much depends upon the circumstances attendant upon the writing of letters of friendship, that it is impossible to make any definite statement as to what they should contain. We may say in general that they should contain matter interesting to the recipient, and that they should be characterized by vividness and naturalness. Interesting material is a requisite, but that of itself is not sufficient to make an entertaining letter. Interesting material may be presented in so unattractive and lifeless a manner that much of its power to please is lost. Let your letters be full of life and spirit. In your descriptions, narrations, and explanations, express yourself so clearly and so vividly that those who read your letters will be able to understand exactly what you mean. EXERCISES 1. Write a letter to a classmate who has moved to another town, telling him of the school of which he was once a member. 2. Write to a friend, describing your visit to the World's Fair at St. Louis. 3. Suppose yourself away from home. Write a letter to your little brother or sister at home. 4. If you have ever been abroad, describe in a letter some place of interest that you have visited. 5. Write to a friend who is fond of camping, about your camping experience. 6. Suppose your mother is away from home on a visit. Write her about the home life. 7. Write to a friend, describing a party that you recently attended. 8. Suppose you have moved from one town to another. In a letter compare the two towns. +103. Adaptation to the Reader.+--The golden rule of letter writing is, Adapt the letter to the reader. Although the letter is an expression of yourself, yet it should be that kind of expression which shall most interest and please your correspondent. In business letters the necessity of brevity and clearness forces attention to the selection and arrangement of details. In letters to members of the family or to intimate friends we must include many very minor things, because we know that our correspondent will be interested in them, but a rambling, disjointed jumble of poorly selected and ill-arranged details becomes tedious. What we should mention is determined by the interests of the readers, and the successful letter writer will endeavor to know what they wish to have mentioned. In writing letters to our friends we ought to show that sympathetic interest in them and their affairs which we should have if we were visiting with them. On occasion, our congratulations should be prompt and sincere. In reading letters we must not be hasty to take offense. Many good friendships have been broken because some statement in a letter was misconstrued. The written words convey a meaning very different from that which would have been given by the spoken word, the tone of voice, the smile, and the personal presence. So in our writing we must avoid all that which even borders on complaint, or which may seem critical or fault-finding to the most sensitive. +104. Notes.+--Notes may be divided in a general way into two classes, formal and informal. Formal notes include formal invitations, replies, requests, and announcements. Informal notes include informal invitations and replies, and also other short communications of a personal nature on almost every possible subject. +105. Formal Notes.+--A formal invitation is always written in the third person. The lines may be of the same length, or they may be so arranged that the lines shall be of different lengths, thus giving the page a somewhat more pleasing appearance. The heading, salutation, complimentary close, and signature are all omitted. The address of the sender may be written below the body of the letter. Many prefer it a little to the left, and the date is sometimes written below it. Others, however, prefer it directly below or a little to the right. Replies to formal invitations should always be written in the third person, and should in general follow the style of the invitation. The date and the hour of the invitation should be repeated in the reply, and this reply should be sent immediately after receiving the invitation. A few examples are here given to show the correct forms of both invitations and replies:-- (1) ______________________________________________________ | | | Mr. and Mrs. Frederick William Thompson | | request the pleasure of your company | | on Monday evening, December thirtieth, | | at half-past eight o'clock. | | | (2) ______________________________________________________ | | | Miss Barrows accepts with pleasure Mr. and | | Mrs. Thompson's invitation for Monday evening, | | December thirtieth, at half-past eight o'clock. | | | (3) ______________________________________________________ | | | Mr. Morris regrets that a previous engagement | | prevents his accepting Mr. and Mrs. Thompson's | | kind invitation for Monday evening, December | | the thirtieth. | | | (4) ______________________________________________________ | | | Mr. and Mrs. Albert W. Elliott request the | | pleasure of Mr. John Barker's company at dinner | | on Wednesday, December sixth, at seven o'clock. | | | | 1068 Euclid Ave. | | | (5) ______________________________________________________ | | | Mr. Barker regrets his inability to accept | | Mr. and Mrs. Albert W. Elliott's invitation to | | dinner at seven o'clock, Wednesday, December | | sixth. | | | EXERCISE 1. Write an invitation to a golden wedding. 2. Mrs. Homer A. Payne invites Miss Eva Milton to dine with her next week Thursday at eight o'clock. Write out a formal invitation. 3. Write regrets to Mrs. Payne's invitation. 4. Write an acceptance of the same invitation. 5. Write a formal invitation to a party to be given in honor of your guest, Miss Grace Mason. +106. Informal Notes.+--Informal invitations and replies may contain the same subject-matter as formal invitations and replies. The only difference is in the form in which they are written. The informal invitation is in form similar to a letter except that the same exactness about the heading is not required. Sometimes the heading is written and sometimes it is omitted entirely. The address of the one sending the invitation and the date may be written below the body of the note to the left of the signature. The reply to an informal invitation should always be informal, but the date and hour should be repeated as in replies to formal invitations. A great many informal notes not included in invitations and replies are constantly written. These are simply brief letters of friendship, and the purposes for which they are written are exceedingly varied. When we write congratulations or words of condolence, when we introduce one friend to another, when we thank some one for a gift, and when we give words of advice, and in many other instances, we make use of informal notes. They should be simple, personal, and as a rule confined to but one subject. Notice the following examples of informal notes:-- (1) _________________________________________________________________ | | | My dear Mrs. Lathrop, | | | | Will you not give us the pleasure of your company | | at dinner, on next Friday evening at seven o'clock? Miss Todd | | of Philadelphia is visiting us, and we wish our friends to meet | | her. | | | | Very sincerely yours, | | Ethel M. Trainor. | | 840 Forest Avenue, | | Dec. 5, 1905. | | | (2) _________________________________________________________________ | | | Dec. 6, 1905. | | | | My dear Mrs. Trainor, | | | | I sincerely regret that I cannot accept your invitation | | to dinner next Friday evening, for I have made a previous | | engagement which it will be impossible for me to break. | | | | Yours most sincerely, | | Emma Lathrop. | | | (3) _________________________________________________________________ | | | My dear Blanche, | | | | Mr. Gilmore and I are planning for a little party | | Thursday evening of this week. I hope you have no other | | engagement for that evening, as we shall be pleased to have | | you with us. | | Very cordially yours, | | Margaret Gilmore. | | | (4) ______________________________________________________________ | | | My dear Margaret, | | | | Fortunately I have no other engagement for this | | week Thursday evening, and I shall be delighted to spend an | | evening with you and your friends. | | | | Very sincerely yours, | | Blanche A. Church. | | | EXERCISE Write the following informal notes:-- 1. Write to a friend, asking him or her to lend you a book. 2. Write an invitation to an informal trolley, tennis, or golf party. 3. Write the reply. 4. Invite one of your friends to spend his or her vacation with you. 5. Write a note to your sister, asking her to send you your theme that you left at home this morning. 6. Mrs. Edgar A. Snow invites Miss Mabel Minard to dine with her. Write out the invitation. 7. Write the acceptance. VII. POETRY +107. Purpose of Poetry.+--All writing aims to give information or to furnish entertainment (Section 54). Often the same theme may both inform and entertain, though one of these purposes may be more prominent than the other. Prose may merely entertain, or it may so distinctly attempt to set forth ideas clearly that the giving of pleasure is entirely neglected. In poetry the entertainment side is never thus subordinated. Poetry always aims to please by the presentation of that which is beautiful. All real poetry produces an aesthetic effect by appealing to our aesthetic sense; that is, to our love of the beautiful. In making this appeal to our love of the beautiful, poetry depends both upon the ideas it contains and upon the forms it uses. Like prose, it may increase its aesthetic effect by appropriate phrasing, effective arrangement, and subtle suggestiveness, but it also makes use of certain devices of language such as rhythm, rhyme, etc., which, though they may occur in writings that would be classed as prose, are characteristic of poetry. Much depends upon the ideas that poetry contains; for mere nonsense, though in perfect rhyme and rhythm, is not poetry. But it is not the idea alone which makes a poem beautiful; it is the form as well. The merely trivial cannot be made beautiful by giving it poetical form, but there are many poems containing ideas of small importance which please us because of the perfection of form. We enjoy them as we do the singing of the birds or the murmuring of the brooks. In fact, poetry is inseparable from its characteristic forms. To sort out, re-arrange, and paraphrase into second-class prose the ideas which a poem contains is a profitless and harmful exercise, because it emphasizes the intellectual side of a work which was created for the purpose of appealing to our aesthetic sense. +108. Rhythm.+--There are several forms characteristic of poetry, by the use of which its beauty and effectiveness are enhanced. Of these, rhythm is the most prominent one, without which no poetry is possible. In its widest sense, rhythm indicates a regular succession of motions, impulses, sounds, accents, etc., producing an agreeable effect. Rhythm in poetry consists of the recurrence of accented and unaccented syllables in regular succession. In poetry, care must be taken to make the accented syllable of a word come at the place where the rhythm demands an accent. The regular recurrence of accented and unaccented syllables produces a harmony which appeals to our aesthetic sense and thus enhances for us the beauty of poetry. Read the following selections so as to show the rhythm:-- 1. We were crowded in the cabin; Not a soul would dare to speak; It was midnight on the waters And a storm was on the deep. --James T. Fields. 2. Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. --Tennyson. 3. Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor --Poe. 4. Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. --Tennyson. 5. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage. --Lovelace. 6. Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. --Bryant. 7. --Browning. +109. Feet.+--The metrical effect of the preceding selections is produced by the regular recurrence of accented and unaccented syllables. A group of accented and unaccented syllables is called a foot. There are four regular feet in English verse, the iambus, the anapest, the trochee, and the dactyl. Three irregular feet, the pyrrhic, the spondee, the amphibrach, are occasionally found in lines, but not in entire poems, and are often considered merely as substitutes for regular feet. For the sake of convenience the accented syllables are indicated thus: _, and the unaccented syllables thus: U. _An iambus_ is a foot consisting of two syllables with the accent on the last. U _| U _| U _| U _| U _| Let not ambition mock their useful toil. --Gray. U _|U _| U _|U _| He prayeth best who loveth best U _| U _| U _| All things both great and small; _ U | U _| U _|U _| For the dear God who loveth us, U _| U _|U _| He made and loveth all. --Coleridge. _An anapest_ is a foot consisting of three syllables with the accent on the last. U U _| U U _|U U _| I am monarch of all I survey. U U _ | U U _ | U U _ | I would hide with the beasts of the chase. _A trochee_ is a foot consisting of two syllables with the accent on the first. _ U | _ U | _ U | _ U| Double, double, toil and trouble. --Shakespeare. _ U | _ U |_ U |_ U | Let us then be up and doing, _ U| _ U | _U | _ | With a heart for any fate, _ U |_ U | _ U|_ U | Still achieving, still pursuing, _ U | _ U |_ U | _ | Learn to labor and to wait. --Longfellow. _A dactyl_ is a foot consisting of three syllables with the accent on the first. _ U U | _ U U | Cannon to right of them, _ U U | _ U U | Cannon to left of them, _ U U | _ U U | Cannon in front of them, _ U U |_ U | Volleyed and thundered. --Tennyson. It will be convenient to remember that two of these, the iambus and the anapest, have the accent on the last syllable, and that two, the trochee and the dactyl, have the accent on the first syllable. _A spondee_ is a foot consisting of two syllables, both of which are accented about equally. It is an unusual foot in English poetry. U _ | _ _ | U _| U _ | Come now, blow, Wind, and waft us o'er. _A pyrrhic_ is a foot consisting of two syllables both of which are unaccented. It is frequently found at the end of a line. U _ | U _ | U _|U U Life is so full of misery. _An amphibrach_ is a foot consisting of three syllables, with the accent on the second. U _ U U _ U| U _ U| U _ | Creator, Preserver, Redeemer and friend. +110. Names of Verse.+--A single line of poetry is called a verse. A stanza is composed of several verses. When a verse consists of one foot, it is called a monometer; of two feet, a dimeter; of three feet, a trimeter; of four feet, a tetrameter; of five feet, a pentameter; and of six feet, a hexameter. _ U Monometer. Slowly. _ U U| _ U U | Dimeter. Emblem of happiness. _ U| _U| _ U | Trimeter. Like a poet hidden. _ U| _ U| _ U | _ U | Tetrameter. Tell me not in mournful numbers. U _ |U _ |U _| U _ | U _ | Pentameter. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath. _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U Hexameter. This is the forest primeval; the murmuring pines and U | _ U | the hemlocks. When we say that a verse is of any particular kind, we do not mean that every foot in that line is necessarily of the same kind. Verse is named by stating first the prevailing foot which composes it, and second the number of feet in a line. A verse having four iambic feet is called iambic tetrameter. So we have dactylic hexameter, trochaic pentameter, iambic trimeter, anapestic dimeter, etc. EXERCISES _A._ Mark the accented and unaccented syllables in the following selections, and name the kind of verse:-- 1. Build me straight, O worthy Master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel That shall laugh at all disaster And with wave and whirlwind wrestle. --Longfellow. 2. I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air, I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care. --Whittier. 3. For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. --Tennyson. 4. Chanting of labor and craft, and of Wealth in the pot and the garner; Chanting of valor and fame, and the man who can, fall with the foremost, Fighting for children and wife, and the field which his father bequeathed him, Sweetly and solemnly sang she, and planned new lessons for mortals. --Kingsley. 5. Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told, Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it,--the marvelous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? --Longfellow. _B._ 1. Find three poems written in iambic verse, and three written in trochaic verse. 2. Write at least one stanza, using iambic verse. 3. Write at least one stanza, using the same kind of verse that you find in Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade." 4. Write two anapestic lines. +111. Variation in Rhythm.+--The name given to a verse is determined by the foot which prevails, but not every foot in the line needs to be of the same kind. Just as in music we may substitute a quarter for two eighth notes, so may we in poetry substitute one foot for another, provided it is given the same amount of time. Notice in the following that the rhythm is perfect and the beat regular, although a three-syllable anapest has been substituted in the second line for a two-syllable iambus:-- U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ | Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, U _ | U _ | U _| U U _ | U _ | Where heaves the turf in many a moldring heap, _ U | U _ | U _ | U _ |U _ | Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ | The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The following from _Evangeline_ illustrates the substitution of trochees for dactyls:-- _ U U | _ U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U | Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed. _ U U | _ U | _ U U | _ U | _ U U|_ U Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October _ U U | _ U U |_ U | _ U U | _ U U |_ U | Seize them and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ U Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. It is evident that one foot can be substituted for another if the accent is not changed. Since both the iambus and the anapest are accented on the last syllable, they may be interchanged. The trochee and the dactyl are both accented on the first syllable and may, therefore, be interchanged. There are some exceptions to the general rule that in substituting one foot for another the accented syllable must be kept in the same part of the foot. Occasionally a poem in which the prevailing foot is iambic has a trochee for the first foot of a line in order that it may begin with an accented syllable. At the beginning of a line the change of accent is scarcely noticeable. _ U | U _ | U _ |U _ | Over the rail my hand I trail. _ U | U _ | U _ | U _ | Silent the crumbling bridge we cross! But if the reader has once fallen into the swing of iambic verse, the substitution of a trochee will bring the accent at an unexpected place, interrupt the smooth flow of the rhythm, and produce a harsh and jarring effect. Such a change of accent is justified only when the sense of the verse leads the reader to expect the changed accent, or when the emphasis thus given to the sense of the poem more than compensates for the break in the rhythm produced by the change of accent. Another form of metrical variation is that in which there are too few or too many syllables in a foot. This generally occurs at the end of a line, but may occur at the beginning. If a syllable is added or omitted skillfully, the rhythm will be unbroken. When the feet are accented on the last syllable,--that is, when the verse is iambic or anapestic,--an extra syllable may be added at the end of a line. U _ |U U _ |U _ | U I stood on the bridge at midnight, U U _ | U _ |U U _ | As the clocks were striking the hour; U U _ | U _ | U _|U And the Moon rose o'er the city, U _ | U _ | U _ | Behind the dark church tower. --Longfellow. U _ | U _ |U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ | Girt round with rugged moun, the fair Lake Constance lies, U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ |U _ | In her blue heart reflect shine back the starry skies; U _ | U _ | U _ | U _ |U _ | U _ | And watching each white cloud float silently and slow, U _ | U _ | U _ | U _| U _ | U _| You think a piece of heav lies on our earth below. --Adelaide A. Procter. In the second illustration the extra syllables have the same relative position in the metrical scheme as in the first, though they appear to be in the middle of the line. The pauses fill in the time and preserve the rhythm unbroken. When the feet are accented on the first syllable--as in trochaic or dactylic verse--a syllable may be omitted from the end of a line as in the second and fourth below. _ U U | _ U U | _ U U| _ U | Up with the lark in the first flush of morning, _ U U | _ U U | _ U U | _ | Ere the world wakes to its work or its play; _ U U| _ U U | _ U U | _ U | Off for a spin to the wide-stretching country, _ U U | _ U U | _ U U|_ | Far from the close, stifling city away. Sometimes we find it necessary to suppress a syllable in order to make the rhythm more nearly perfect. Syllables may be suppressed in two ways: by suppressing a vowel at the end of a word when the next word commences with a vowel; by suppressing a vowel within a word. The former method is termed elision, and the latter, slurring. U _ | U _ |U _ | U _ | U _ | Thou glorious mirror where the Almighty's form U U _ U |U _| U _ | U Glasses itself in tempests. --Byron. An accented syllable often takes the place of an entire foot. This occurs most frequently at the end of a line, but it is sometimes found at the beginning. Occasionally whole lines are formed in this way. If a pause or rest is made, the rhythm will be unbroken. u _ | u _ | u _ | Break, break, break, U U _ | U _ | U _ | On thy cold gray stones, O sea! U U _ | U U _ | U _|U And I would that my tongue could utter U _ | U U _ |U _| The thoughts that arise in me. --Tennyson. We frequently find verses in which a syllable is lacking at the close of the line; we also find many verses in which an extra syllable is added. Verse that contains the number of syllables required by its meter is said to be acatalectic; if it contains more than the required number of syllables, it is said to be hypercatalectic; and if it lacks a syllable, it is termed catalectic. It is difficult to tell whether a line has the required number of syllables or not when it is taken by itself; but by comparing it with the line prevailing in the rest of the stanza we are enabled to tell whether it is complete or not. Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_ is written in iambic pentameter verse. Knowing this, we can detect the hypercatalectic and catalectic lines. U _| U _ | U _| U _| U _ | You all did see that on the Lupercal U _ | U _| U _ |U _| U _| I thrice presented him a kingly crown U _| U _ |U _ | U _ | U _| U Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? U _| U _ | U _ | U _ | U Yet Brutus says he was ambitious. --Shakespeare. +112. Cesura.+--Besides the pauses caused by rests or silences there is the cesural pause which needs to be considered in reading verse. A cesura is a pause determined by the sense. It coincides with some break in the sense. It is found in different parts of the verse and may be entirely lacking. Its observance does not noticeably interfere with the rhythm. In the following selection it is marked thus: ||. U _ | U _ | U _| U _ | The sun came up || upon the left, _ U| U _ | U _ | Out of the sea || came he; U _| U _ | U _| U _| And he shone bright, || and on the right U _ | U_ | U _ | Went down || into the sea --Coleridge. Lives of great men || all remind us We can make our lives || sublime, And, departing, || leave behind us, Footprints || on the sands of time. --Longfellow. Read the selections on page 197 so as to indicate the position of the cesural pauses. +113. Scansion.+--Scansion is the separation of a line into the feet which compose it. In order to scan a line we must determine the rhythmic movement of it. The rhythmic movement determines the accented syllables. Sometimes in scanning, merely the accented syllables are marked. Usually the whole metrical scheme is indicated, as in the examples on page 199. EXERCISE Scan the following selections. Note substitutions and elusions. 1. The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is gone. --Francis W. Bourdillon. 2. Laugh, and the world laughs with you, Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. --Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 3. Hear the robin in the rain, Not a note does he complain. But he fills the storm refrain With music of his own. --Charles Coke Woode. 4. The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old back wall And the baron's retainers are blithe and gay, And keeping their Christmas holiday. --Thomas Haynes Bagley. +114. Rhyme.+--Rhyme is a regular recurrence of similar sounds. In a broad sense, it may include sounds either terminal or not, but as here used it refers to terminal sounds. Just as we expect a recurrence of accent in a line, so may we expect a recurrence of similar sounds at the end of certain lines of poetry. The interval between the rhymes may be of different lengths in different poems, but when the interval is once established, it should be followed throughout the poem. A rhyme out of place jars upon the rhythmic perfection of a stanza just as an accent out of place interferes with the rhythm of the verse. Not only should the rhymes occur at expected places, but they should be the expected rhymes; that is, real rhymes. If we are expecting a word which will rhyme with _blossom_ and find _bosom_, or if we are expecting a rhyme for _breath_ and find _beneath_, the effect is unpleasant. The rhymes named above are based on spelling, while a real rhyme is based on sound. A correct rhyme should have precisely the same vowel sounds and the final consonants should be the same, but the initial consonant should be different. For example: _death, breath; home, roam; tongue, young; debating, relating_. Notice the arrangement of the rhymes in the following selections:-- 1. My soul to-day is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, a bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote. --T. Buchanan Read. 2. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down the valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. --Tennyson. 3. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! --Holmes. 4. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. --Tennyson. 5. Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering in a foreign strand! If such there be, go mark him well: For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim: Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. --Scott. +115. Blank Verse.+--When rhyme is omitted, we have blank verse. This is the most dignified of all kinds of verse, and is, therefore, appropriate for epic and dramatic poetry, where it is chiefly found. Most blank verse makes use of the iambic pentameter measure, but we find many exceptions. Read the following examples of blank verse so as to show the rhythm:-- 1. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry slave at night Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach the grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. --Bryant. 2. I stood upon the steps-- The last who left the door--and there I found The lady and her friend. The elder turned And with a cordial greeting took my hand, And rallied me on my forgetfulness. Her eyes, her smile, her manner, and her voice. Touched the quick springs of memory, and I spoke Her name. She was my mother's early friend Whose face I had not seen in all the years That had flown over us, since, from her door, I chased her lamb to where I found--myself. --Holland. +116. The Stanza.+--Some of our verse is continuous like Milton's _Paradise Lost_ or Shakespeare's plays, but much of it is divided into groups called stanzas. The lines or verses composing a stanza are bound together by definite principles of rhythm and rhyme. Usually stanzas of the same poem have the same structure, but stanzas of different poems show a variety of structure. Two of the most simple forms are the couplet and the triplet. They often form a part of a continuous poem, but they are occasionally found in divided poems. 1. The western waves of ebbing day Roll'd o'er the glen their level way. --Scott. 2. A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid, Her golden brooch such birth betray'd. --Scott. A stanza of four lines is called a quatrain. The lines of quatrains show a variety in the arrangement of their rhymes. The first two lines may rhyme with each other and the last two with each other; the first and fourth may rhyme and the second and third; or the rhymes may alternate. Notice the example on page 208, and also the following:-- 1. I ask not wealth, but power to take And use the things I have aright. Not years, but wisdom that shall make My life a profit and delight. --Phoebe Cary. 2. I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God,-- Lifting the soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view. --Holland. A quatrain consisting of iambic pentameter verse with alternate rhymes is called an elegiac stanza. --Gray. The Tennysonian stanza consists of four iambic tetrameter lines in which the first line rhymes with the fourth, and the second with the third. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before. --Tennyson. Five and six line stanzas are found in a great variety. The following are examples:-- 1. --Shelley. 2. And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring. Let them smile as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. --Holmes. 3. The upper air burst into life; And a hundred fire flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. --Coleridge. The Spenserian stanza consists of nine lines: the first eight are iambic pentameters, and the last line is an iambic hexameter or Alexandrine. Burns makes use of this stanza in _The Cotter's Saturday Night._ The following stanza from that poem shows the plan of the rhymes:-- O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much beloved isle. EXERCISES _A._ Scan the following:-- Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home. --Wordsworth. Into the sunshine, Full of light, Leaping and flashing From morn to night! --Lowell. _B._ Name each verse in the following stanza:-- Hear the sledges with the bells-- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight-- Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. --Poe. +117. Kinds of Poetry.+-There are three general classes of poetry: narrative, lyric, and dramatic. _A. Narrative poetry_, as may be inferred from its name, relates events which may be either real or imaginary. Its chief varieties are the epic, the metrical romance or lesser epic, the tale, and the ballad. _An epic_ poem is an extended narrative of an elevated character that deals with heroic exploits which are frequently under supernatural control. This kind of poetry is characterized by the intricacy of plot, by the delineation of noble types of character, by its descriptive effects, by its elevated language, and by its seriousness of tone. The epic is considered as the highest effort of man's poetic genius. It is so difficult to produce an epic that but few literatures contain more than one. Homer's _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_, Virgil's _Aeneid_, the German _Nibelungenlied_, the Spanish _Cid_, Dante's _Divine Comedy_, and Milton's _Paradise Lost_ are important epics found in different literatures. A _metrical romance_ or lesser epic is a narrative poem, shorter and less dignified than the epic. Longfellow's _Evangeline_ and Scott's _Marmion_ and _Lady of the Lake_ are examples of this kind of poetry. _A metrical tale is_ a narrative poem somewhat simpler and shorter than the metrical romance, but more complex than the ballad. Longfellow's _Tales of a Wayside Inn_, Tennyson's _Enoch Arden_, and Lowell's _Vision of Sir Launfal_ are examples of the tale. _A ballad_ is the shortest and most simple of all narrative poems. It relates but a single incident and has a very simple structure. In this kind of poetry the interest centers upon the incident rather than upon any beauty or elegance of language. Many of the Robin Hood Ballads are well known. Macaulay's _Lays of Ancient Rome_ and Longfellow's _Wreck of the Hesperus_ are other examples of the ballad. It may be well to note here that it is not always possible to draw definite lines between two different kinds of narrative poetry. In fact, there will sometimes be a difference of opinion as regards the classification. _B. Lyric poetry_ was the name originally applied to poetry that was to be sung to the accompaniment of the lyre, but now the name is often applied to poems that are not intended to be sung at all. Lyric poetry deals primarily with the feelings and emotions. Love, hate, jealousy, grief, hope, and praise are emotions that may be expressed in lyric poetry. Its chief varieties are the song, the ode, the elegy, and the sonnet. A _song_ is a short poem intended to be sung. Songs may be divided into sacred and secular. _Jerusalem, the Golden_, and _Lead, Kindly Light_, are examples of sacred songs. Secular songs may be patriotic, convivial, or sentimental. An _ode_ expresses exalted emotion and is more complex in structure than the song. Some of the best odes in our language are Dryden's _Ode to St. Cecilia_, Wordsworth's _Ode on Intimations of Immortality_, Keats's _Ode on a Grecian Urn_, Shelley's _Ode to a Skylark_, and Lowell's _Commemoration Ode_. An _elegy_ is a lyric pervaded by the feeling of grief or melancholy. Milton's _Lycidas_, Tennyson's _In Memoriam_, and Gray's _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_ are all noted elegies. A _sonnet_ is a lyric poem of fourteen lines which deals with a single idea or sentiment. It is not a stanza taken from a poem, but is a complete poem itself. In the Italian sonnet and those modeled after it, the emotional feeling rises through the first two quatrains, reaching its climax at or near the end of the eighth line, and then subsides through the two tercets which make up the remaining six lines. If the sentiment expressed does not adjust itself to this ebb and flow, it is not suitable for a sonnet. Milton's sonnet on his blindness is one of the best. Notice the emotional transition in the middle of the eighth line. This sonnet will also illustrate the fixed rhyme scheme:-- When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide; Doth God exact day labor, light denied? I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need, Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait. There is a form of sonnet called the Shakespearean which differs in its arrangement from the Italian sonnet. _C. Dramatic poetry_ relates the occurrence of human events, and is designed to be spoken on the stage. If the drama has an unhappy ending, it is _a tragedy_. As is becoming in such a theme, the language is dignified and impressive, and the whole appeals to our deeper emotions. If the drama has a happy conclusion, it is _a comedy_. Here the movement is quicker, the language less dignified, and the effort is to make the whole light and amusing. PART II Description, Narration, Exposition, and Argument have been treated in an elementary way in Part I. A more extensive treatment of each is given in Part II. It has been deemed undesirable to repeat in Part II many things which have been previously treated. The treatment of any one of the forms of discourse as given in Part II is not complete. By reference to the index all the sections treating of any phase of any one subject may be found. VIII. DESCRIPTION +118. Description Defined.+--By means of our senses we gain a knowledge of the world. We see, hear, taste, smell, and feel; and the ideas so acquired are the fundamental elements of our knowledge, without which thinking would be impossible. It, therefore, happens that much of the language that we use has for its purpose the transmission to others of such ideas. Such writing is called description. We may, therefore, define description as that form of discourse which has for its purpose the formation of an image. As here used, the term _image_ applies to any idea presented by the senses. In a more limited sense it means the mental picture which is formed by aid of sight. It is for the purpose of presenting images of this kind that description is most often employed. It is most frequently concerned with images of objects seen, less frequently with sounds, and seldom with ideas arising through touch, taste, and smell. In this chapter, therefore, we shall consider chiefly the methods of using language for the purpose of arousing images of objects seen. +119. Order of Observation.+--In description we shall find it of advantage to use such language that the reader will form the image in the same way as he would form an image from actual observation. There is a customary and natural order of observation, and if we present our material in that same order, the mind more easily forms the desired image. Our first need in the study of description is to determine what this natural order of observation is. Look at the building across the street. Your _first_ impression is that of size, shape, and color. Almost instantly, but nevertheless _secondly_, you add certain details as to roof, door, windows, and surroundings. Further observation adds to the number of details, such as the size of the window panes or the pattern of the lattice work. Our first glance may assure us that we see a train, our second will tell us how many cars, our third will show us that each car is marked Michigan Central. The oftener we look or the longer we look, the greater is the number of details of which we become conscious. Any number of illustrations will show that we first see the general outline, and after that the details. We do not observe the details one by one and then combine them into an object, but we first see the object as a whole, and our first impression becomes more vivid as we add detail after detail. Following this natural order of observation a description should begin with a sentence that will give the reader a general impression of the whole. Notice the beginnings of the following selections. After reading the italicized sentence in each, consider the image that it has caused you to form. The door opened upon the main or living room. _It was a long apartment with low ceiling and walls of hewn logs chinked and plastered and all beautifully whitewashed and clean._ The tables, chairs, and benches were all homemade. On the floor were magnificent skins of wolf, bear, musk ox, and mountain goat. The walls were decorated with heads and horns of deer and mountain sheep, eagle's wings, and a beautiful breast of a loon, which Gwen had shot and of which she was very proud. At one end of the room a huge stone fireplace stood radiant in its summer decorations of ferns and grasses and wildflowers. At the other end a door opened into another room, smaller, and richly furnished with relics of former grandeur. --Connor: _The Sky Pilot_. _The stranger was of middle height, loosely knit and thin, with a cunning, brutal face._ He had a bullet-shaped head, with fine, soft, reddish brown hair; a round, stubbly beard shot with gray; and small, beady eyes set close together. He was clothed in an old, black, grotesquely fitting cutaway coat, with coarse trousers tucked into his boot tops. A worn visored cloth cap was on his head. In his right hand he carried an old muzzle-loading shotgun. --George Kibbe Turner: _Across the State_ ("McClure's"). +120. The Fundamental Image.+--The first impression of the object as a whole is called the fundamental image. The beginning of a description should cause the reader to form a correct general outline, which will include the main characteristics of the object described. While the fundamental image lacks definiteness and exactness, yet it must be such that it shall not need to be revised as we add the details. If one should begin a description by saying, "Opposite the church there is a large two-story, brick house with a conservatory on the left," the reader would form at once a mental picture including the essential features of the house. Further statements about the roof, the windows, the doors, the porch, the yard, and the fence, would each add something to the picture until it was complete. The impression with which the reader started would be added to, but not otherwise changed. But if we should conclude the description with the statement, "This house was distinguished from its neighbors by the fact that it was not of the usual rectangular form, but was octagonal in shape," the reader would find that the image which he had formed would need to be entirely changed. It is evident that if the word _octagonal_ is to appear at all, it must be at the beginning. Care must be taken to place all the words that affect the fundamental image in the sentence that gives the general characteristics of that which we are describing. Hawthorne begins _The House of the Seven Gables_ as follows:-- Halfway down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables, facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst. The street is Pyncheon street; the house is the old Pyncheon house; and an elm tree, of wide circumference, rooted before the door, is familiar to every town-born child by the title of the Pyncheon elm. On my occasional visits to the town aforesaid, I seldom failed to turn down Pyncheon street, for the sake of passing through the shadow of these two antiquities,--the great elm tree and the weather-beaten edifice. Later he gives a detailed description of the house on the morning of its completion as follows:-- Maule's lane, or Pyncheon street, as it were now more decorous to call it, was thronged, at the appointed hour, as with a congregation on its way to church. All, as they approached, looked upward at the imposing edifice, which was henceforth to assume its rank among the habitations of mankind. There it rose, a little withdrawn from the line of the street, but in pride, not modesty. Its whole visible exterior was ornamented with quaint figures, conceived in the grotesqueness of a Gothic fancy, and drawn or stamped in the glittering plaster, composed of lime, pebbles, and bits of glass, with which the woodwork of the walls was overspread. On every side the seven gables pointed sharply towards the sky, and presented the aspect of a whole sisterhood of edifices, breathing through the spiracles of one great chimney. The many lattices, with their small, diamond-shaped panes, admitted the sunlight into hall and chamber, while, nevertheless, the second story, projecting far over the base, and itself retiring beneath the third, threw a shadowy and thoughtful gloom into the lower rooms. Carved globes of wood were affixed under the jutting stories. Little spiral rods of iron beautified each of the seven peaks. On the triangular portion of the gable, that fronted next the street, was a dial, put up that very morning, and on which the sun was still marking the passage of the first bright hour in a history that was not destined to be all so bright. All around were scattered shavings, chips, shingles, and broken halves of bricks; these, together with the lately turned earth, on which the grass had not begun to grow, contributed to the impression of strangeness and novelty proper to a house that had yet its place to make among men's daily interests. EXERCISES _A._ Select the sentence or part of a sentence which gives the fundamental image in each of the following selections:-- 1. It was a big, smooth-stone-faced house, product of the 'Seventies, frowning under an outrageously insistent Mansard, capped by a cupola, and staring out of long windows overtopped with "ornamental" slabs. Two cast-iron deer, painted death-gray, twins of the same mold, stood on opposite sides of the front walk, their backs toward it and each other, their bodies in profile to the street, their necks bent, however, so that they gazed upon the passer-by--yet gazed without emotion. Two large, calm dogs guarded the top of the steps leading to the front door; they also were twins and of the same interesting metal, though honored beyond the deer by coats of black paint and shellac. --Booth Tarkington: _The Conquest of Canaan_ ("Harper's"). 2. At the first glance, Phoebe saw an elderly personage, in an old-fashioned dressing gown of faded damask, and wearing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. It quite overshadowed his forehead, except when he thrust it back, and stared vaguely about the room. After a very brief inspection of his face, it was easy to conceive that his footstep must necessarily be such an one as that which, slowly, and with as indefinite an aim as a child's first journey across a floor, had just brought him hitherward. Yet there were no tokens that his physical strength might not have sufficed for a free and determined gait. It was the spirit of a man that could not walk. The expression of his countenance--while, notwithstanding, it had the light of reason in it-- seemed to waver, and glimmer, and nearly to die away, and feebly to recover itself again. It was like a flame which we see twinkling among half-extinguished embers; we gaze at it more intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly upward--more intently, but with a certain impatience, as if it ought either to kindle itself into satisfactory splendor, or be at once extinguished. --Hawthorne: _The House of the Seven Gables_. 3. One of the best known of the flycatchers all over the country is the kingbird. He is a little smaller than a robin, and all in brownish black, with white breast. He has also white tips to his tail feathers, which look very fine when he spreads it out wide in flying. Among the head feathers of the kingbird is a small spot of orange color. This is called in the books a "concealed patch," because it is seldom seen, it is so hidden by the dark feathers. --Mary Rogers Miller: _The Brook Book_. (Copyright, 1902, by Doubleday, Page and Co.) Notice the use of a comparison in establishing a correct fundamental image in example 3. _B._ Select five buildings with which the members of the class are familiar. Write a single sentence for each, giving the fundamental image. Read these sentences to the class. Let them determine for which building each is written. _C._ Notice the pictures on page 218. +Theme LII.+--_Write a paragraph, describing something with which you are familiar._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The county court house. 2. The new church. 3. My neighbor's house. 4. Where we go fishing. 5. A neighboring lake. 6. A cozy nook. (Underscore the sentence that gives the fundamental image. Will the reader get from it at once a correct general outline of the object to be described? Will he need to change the fundamental image as your description proceeds?) +121. Point of View.+--What we shall see first depends upon the point of view. Seen from one position, an object or a landscape will present a different appearance from that which it will present when viewed from another position. A careful writer will give that fundamental image that would come from actual observation if the reader were looking at the scene described from the point of view chosen by the writer. He will not include details that cannot be seen from that position even though he knows that they exist. Notice that the following descriptions include only that which can be seen from the place indicated in the italicized phrases:-- _Forward from the bridge_ he beheld a landscape of wide valleys and irregular heights, with groves and lakes and fanciful houses linked together by white paths and shining streams. The valleys were spread below, that the river might be poured upon them for refreshment in day of drought, and they were as green carpets figured with beds and fields of flowers and flecked with flocks of sheep white as balls of snow; and the voices of shepherds following the flocks were heard afar. As if to tell him of the pious inscription of all he beheld, the altars out under the open sky seemed countless, each with a white-gowned figure attending it, while processions in white went slowly hither and thither between them; and the smoke of the altars half risen hung collected in pale clouds over the devoted places. Wallace: _Ben-Hur_. (Copyright, 1880. Harper and Bros.) The house stood unusually near the river, facing eastward, and standing four-square, with an immense veranda about its sides, and a flight of steps in front, spreading broadly downward, as we open our arms to a child. _From the veranda_ nine miles of river were seen; and in their compass near at hand, the shady garden full of rare and beautiful flowers; farther away broad fields of cane and rice, and the distant quarters of the slaves, and on the horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest. --Cable: _Old Creole Days_. +122. Selection of Details Affected by Point of View.+--A skillful writer will not ask his reader to perform impossible feats. We cannot see the leaves upon a tree a mile away, and so should not describe them. The finer effects and more minute details should be included only when our chosen point of view brings us near enough to appreciate them. In the selection below, Stevenson tells only as much about Swanston cottage as can be seen at a distance of six miles. So saying she carried me around the battlements _towards the opposite or southern side of the fortress and indeed to a bastion_ almost immediately overlooking the place of our projected flight. Thence we had a view of some foreshortened suburbs at our feet, and beyond of a green, open, and irregular country rising towards the Pentland Hills. The face of one of these summits (say two leagues from where we stood) is marked with a procession of white scars. And to this she directed my attention. "You see those marks?" she said. "We call them the Seven Sisters. Follow a little lower with your eye, and you will see a fold of the hill, the tops of some trees, and a tail of smoke out of the midst of them. That is Swanston cottage, where my brother and I are living." --Stevenson: _St. Ives_. (Copyright, 1897. Charles Scribner's Sons.) Notice in the selection below that for objects _near at hand_ details so small as the lizard's eye are given, but that these details are not given, when we are asked to observe things far away. Slow though their march had been, by this time _they had come to the end of the avenue, and were in the wide circular sweep before the castle._ They stopped here and stood looking off over the garden, with its somber cypresses and bright beds of geranium, down upon the valley, dim and luminous in a mist of gold. Great, heavy, fantastic-shaped clouds, pearl-white with pearl-gray shadows, piled themselves up against the scintillant dark blue of the sky. In and out among the rose trees _near at hand_, where the sun was hottest, heavily flew, with a loud bourdonnement, the cockchafers promised by Annunziata,--big, blundering, clumsy, the scorn of their light-winged and businesslike competitors, the bees. Lizards lay immobile as lizards cast in bronze, only their little glittering, watchful pin heads of eyes giving sign of life. And of course the blackcaps never for a moment left off singing. --Henry Habland: _My Friend Prospero_ ("McClure's"). _We round a corner of the valley, and beyond, far below us, looms the town of Sorata. From this distance_ the red tile roofs, the soft blue, green, and yellow of its stuccoed walls, look indescribably fresh and grateful. A closer inspection will probably dissipate this impression; it will be squalid and dirty, the river-stone paving of its street will be deep in the accumulation of filth, dirty Indian children will swarm in them with mangy dogs and bedraggled ducks, the gay frescoes of its walls will peel in ragged patches, revealing the 'dobe of their base, and the tile roofs will be cracked and broken. But from the heights at this distance and in the warm glow of the afternoon sun it looks like a dainty fairy village glistening in a magic splendor against the Titanic setting of the Andes. --Charles Johnson Post: _Across the Highlands of the World_ ("Harper's"). Come on, sir; here's the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down Hangs one that gathers sampire, dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge That on the unnumber'd idle pebble chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. --Shakespear: _King Lear_ +123. Implied Point of View.+--Often the point of view is not specifically stated, but the language of the description shows where the observer is located. Often such an implied point of view gives a delicate touch to a description that could not be obtained by direct statements. In which of the following selections is the point of view merely implied? 1. Thus pondering and dreaming, he came by the road down a gentle hill with close woods on either hand; and so into the valley with a swift river flowing through it; and on the river a mill. So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred the wheel as the water turned it, and so bright blossomed the flowers in the garden, that Martimor had joy of the sight, for it reminded him of his own country. --Henry Van Dyke: _The Blue Flower_. (Copyright, 1902. 2. There is an island off a certain part of the coast of Maine,--a little rocky island, heaped and tumbled together as if Dame Nature had shaken down a heap of stones at random from her apron, when she had finished making the larger islands, which lie between it and the mainland. At one end, the shoreward end, there is a tiny cove, and a bit of silver sand beach, with a green meadow beyond it, and a single great pine; but all the rest is rocks, rocks. At the farther end the rocks are piled high, like a castle wall, making a brave barrier against the Atlantic waves; and on top of this cairn rises the lighthouse, rugged and sturdy as the rocks themselves; but painted white, and with its windows shining like great, smooth diamonds. This is Light Island. --Laura E. Richards: _Captain January_. +124. Changing Point of View.+--We cannot see the four sides of a house from the same place, though we may wish to have our reader know how each side looks. It is, therefore, necessary to change our point of view. It is immaterial whether the successive points of view are named or merely implied, providing the reader has due notice that we have changed from one to the other, and that for each we describe only what can be seen from that position. A description of a cottage that by its wording leads us to think ourselves inside of the building and then tells about the yard would be defective. Notice the changing point of view in the following:-- At long distance, looking over the blue waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence in clear weather, you might think that you saw a lonely sea gull, snow-white, perching motionless on a cobble of gray rock. Then, as your boat drifted in, following the languid tide and the soft southern breeze, you would perceive that the cobble of rock was a rugged hill with a few bushes and stunted trees growing in the crevices, and that the gleaming speck near the summit must be some kind of a building,--if you were on the coast of Italy or Spain you would say a villa or a farmhouse. Then as you floated still farther north and drew nearer to the coast, the desolate hill would detach itself from the mainland and become a little mountain isle, with a flock of smaller islets clustering around it as a brood of wild ducks keep close to their mother, and with deep water, nearly two miles wide, flowing between it and the shore; while the shining speck on the seaward side stood clearly as a low, whitewashed dwelling with a sturdy, round tower at one end, crowned with a big eight-sided lantern--a solitary lighthouse. --Henry Van Dyke: _The Keeper of the Light_. (Copyright, 1905. +125. Place of Point of View in Paragraph.+--The point of view may be expressed or only implied or wholly omitted, but in any case the reader must assume one in order to form a clear and accurate image. Beginners will find that they can best cause their readers to form the desired images by stating a point of view. When the point of view is stated it must of necessity come early in the paragraph. We have already learned that the beginning of a description should present the fundamental image. For this reason the first sentence of a description frequently includes both the point of view and the fundamental image. EXERCISES _A._ Consider the following selections with reference to-- (_a_) The point of view. (_b_) The fundamental image. (_c_) The completeness of the images which you have formed (see Sections 26, 27). 1. The Lunardi , mounting through a stagnant calm in a line almost vertical, had pierced the morning mists, and now swam emancipated in a heaven of exquisite blue. Below us by some trick of eyesight, the country had grown concave, its horizon curving up like the rim of a shallow bowl--a bowl heaped, in point of fact, with sea fog, but to our eyes with a froth delicate and dazzling as a whipped syllabub of snow. Upon it the traveling shadow of the balloon became no shadow, but a stain; an amethyst (you might call it) purged of all grosser properties than color and lucency. At times thrilled by no perceptible wind, rather by the pulse of the sun's rays, the froth shook and parted; and then behold, deep in the crevasses vignetted and shining, an acre or two of the earth of man's business and fret--tilled slopes of the Lothians, ships dotted on the Firth, the capital like a hive that some child had smoked--the ear of fancy could almost hear it buzzing. --Stevenson: _St. Ives_. (Copyright, 1897. 2. When Aswald and Corinne had gained the top of the Capitol, she showed him the Seven Hills and the city, bound first by Mount Palatinus, then by the walls of Servius Tullius, which inclose the hills, and by those of Aurelian, which still surround the greatest part of Rome. Mount Palatinus once contained all Rome, but soon did the imperial palace fill the space that had sufficed for a nation. The Seven Hills are far less lofty now than when they deserted the title of steep mountains, modern Rome being forty feet higher than its predecessor, and the valleys which separated them almost filled up by ruins; but what is still more strange, two heaps of shattered vases have formed new hills, Cestario and Testacio. Thus, in time, the very refuse of civilization levels the rock with the plain, effacing in the moral, as in the material world, all the pleasing inequalities of nature. --Madame De Stal: _Corinne: Italy_. _B._--Select five descriptions from the following books and note whether each has a point of view expressed or implied:-- Cooper: Last of the Mohicans. Scott: Ivanhoe. Scott: Lady of the Lake. Irving: Sketch Book. Burroughs: Wake Robin. Van Dyke: The Blue Flower. Howells: The Rise of Silas Lapham. Muir: Our National Parks. Kate Douglas Wiggin: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. +Theme LIII.+--_Write a descriptive paragraph beginning with a point of view and a fundamental image._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The crossroads inn. 2. A historical building. 3. The shoe factory. 4. The gristmill. 5. The largest store in town. 6. The union station. (In your description underscore the sentence giving the point of view. Can you improve the description by using a different point of view? Will the reader form at once a correct general outline? Will the entire description enable the reader to form a clear and accurate image?) +126. Clear Seeing.+-Clear statement depends upon clear seeing. Not only must we choose an advantageous point of view, but we must be able to reproduce what can be seen from that location. We may write a description while we are looking at the object, but it is frequently convenient to do the writing when the object is not visible. Oral descriptions are nearly always made without having the object at hand. When we attempt to describe we examine not the object itself, but our mental image of it. It is evident that at least the essential features of this mental picture must stand out clearly and definitely, or we shall be unable to make our description accurate. The habit of accurate observation is a desirable acquisition, and our ability in this direction can be improved by effort. It is not the province of this book to provide a series of exercises which shall strengthen habits of accurate observation. Many of your studies, particularly the sciences, devote much attention to training the observing powers, and will furnish many suitable exercises. A few have been suggested below merely to emphasize the point that every successful effort in description must be preceded by a definite exercise in clear seeing. EXERCISE 1. Walk rapidly past a building. Form a mental picture of it. Write down as many of the details as you can. Now look at the building again and determine what you have left out. 2. Call to mind some building with which you are familiar. Write a list of the details that you recall. Now visit the building and see what important ones you have omitted. 3. While looking at some scene make a note of the important details. Lay this list away for a day. Then recall the scene. After picturing the scene as vividly as you can, read your notes. Do they add anything to your picture? 4. Make a list of the things on some desk that you cannot see but with which you are familiar; for example, the teacher's desk. At the first opportunity notice how accurate your list is. 5. Look for some time at the stained glass windows of a church or at the wall paper of the room. What patterns do you notice that you did not see at first? What colors? 6. Make a list of the objects visible from your bedroom window. When you go home notice what you have omitted. 7. Practice observation contests similar to the following: Let two or more persons pass a store window. Each shall then make a list of what the window contains. Compare lists with one another. +Theme LIV.+--_Write a description of some dwelling._ (Select a house that you can see on the way home. Choose a point of view and notice carefully what can be seen from it. When you are ready to write, form as vivid a mental picture of the house as you can. Write the sentence that gives the fundamental image. Add such of the details as will enable the reader to form an accurate image.) +127. Selection of Essential Details.+--After deciding upon a point of view and such general characteristics as are essential to the forming of a correct outline of the object to be described, we must next give our attention to the selection of the details. If our description has been properly begun, this general outline will not be changed, but each succeeding phrase or sentence will add to the clearness and distinctness of the picture. Our first impression of a house may include windows, but the mention of them later will bring them out clearly on our mental picture much as the details appear when one is developing a negative in photography. If the peculiarities of an object are such as to effect its general form, they need to be stated in the opening sentence; but when the peculiar or distinguishing characteristic does not affect the form, it may be introduced later. If we say, "On the corner across the street from the post office there is a large, two-story, red brick store," the reader can form at once a general picture of such a store. Only those things which give a general outline have been included. As yet nothing has been mentioned to distinguish the store from any other similar one. If some following sentence should be, "Though not wider, it yet presents a more imposing appearance than its neighbors, because the door is placed at one side, thus making room for a single wide display window instead of two stuffy, narrow ones," a detail has been added which, though not changing the general outline, makes the picture clearer and at the same time emphasizes the distinguishing feature of this particular store. EXERCISES 1. Observe your neighbor's barn. What would you select as its characteristic feature? 2. Take a rapid glance at some stranger whom you meet. What did you notice most vividly? 3. In what respect does the Methodist church in your city differ from the other church buildings? 4. Does your pet dog differ from others of the same breed in appearance? In actions? +Theme LV.+--_Write a descriptive paragraph, using one of the following subjects:_-- 1. A mountain view. 2. An omnibus. 3. A fort. 4. A lighthouse. 5. A Dutch windmill. 6. A bend in the river. 7. A peculiar structure. 8. The picture on this page. (Underscore the sentence that pictures the details most essential to the description. Consider the unity of your paragraph. Section 81.) +128. Selection and Subordination of Minor Details.+--In many descriptions the minor details are wholly omitted, and in all descriptions many that might have been included have been omitted. A proper number of such details adds interest and clearness to the images; too many but serve to render the whole obscure. If properly selected and effectively presented, minor details add much to the beauty or usefulness of a description, but if strung together in short sentences, the effect may be both tiresome and confusing. A mere catalogue of facts is not a good description. They must be arranged so that those which are the more important shall have the greater prominence, while those of less importance shall be properly subordinated. Often minor details may be stated in a word or phrase inserted in the sentence which gives the general view. Notice the italicized portion of the following: "Opposite the church, _and partly screened by the scraggly evergreens of a broad, unkempt lawn_, there is a large, octagonal, brick house, with a conservatory on the left." This arrangement adds to the general view and gives a better result than would be obtained by describing the lawn in a separate sentence. Often a single adjective adds some element to a description more effectively than can be done with a whole sentence. Notice how much is added by the use of _scraggly_ and _unkempt_. EXERCISES Make a careful study of the following selections with reference to the way in which the minor details are presented. Can any of them be improved by re-arranging them? 1. At night, as I look from my windows over Kassim Pasha, I never tire of that dull, soft coloring, green and brown, in which the brown of roofs and walls is hardly more than a shading of the green of the trees. There is the lonely curve of the hollow, with its small, square, flat houses of wood; and above, a sharp line of blue-black cypresses on the spine of the hill; then the long desert plain, with its sandy road, shutting in the horizon. Mists thicken over the valley, and wipe out its colors before the lights begin to glimmer out of it. Below, under my windows, are the cypresses of the Little Field of the Dead, vast, motionless, different every night. Last night each stood clear, tall, apart; to-night they huddle together in the mist, and seem to shudder. The sunset was brief, and the water has grown dull, like slate. Stamboul fades to a level mass of smoky purple, out of which a few minarets rise black against a gray sky with bands of orange fire. Last night, after a golden sunset, a fog of rusty iron came down, and hung poised over the jagged level of the hill. The whole mass of Stamboul was like black smoke; the water dim gray, a little flushed, and then like pure light, lucid, transparent, every ship and every boat sharply outlined in black on its surface; the boats seemed to crawl like flies on a lighted pane. --Arthur Symons: _Constantinople: An Impression_ ("Harper's"). 2. The boy was advancing up the road, carrying a half-filled pail of milk. He was a child of perhaps ten years, exceedingly frail and thin, with a drawn, waxen face, and sick, colorless lips and ears. On his head he wore a thick plush cap, and coarse, heavy shoes upon his feet. A faded coat, too long in the arms, drooped from his shoulders, and long, loose overalls of gray jeans broke and wrinkled about his slender ankles. 3. They met few people abroad, even on passing from the retired neighborhood of the House of the Seven Gables into what was ordinarily the more thronged and busier portion of the town. Glistening sidewalks, with little pools of rain, here and there, along their unequal surface; umbrellas displayed ostentatiously in the shop windows, as if the life of trade had concentered itself in that one article; wet leaves of the horse-chestnut or elm trees, torn off untimely by the blast, and scattered along the public way; an unsightly accumulation of mud in the middle of the street, which perversely grew the more unclean for its long and laborious washing;--these were the more definable points of a very somber picture. In the way of movement, and human life, there was the hasty rattle of a cab or coach, its driver protected by a water-proof cap over his head and shoulders; the forlorn figure of an old man, who seemed to have crept out of some subterranean sewer, and was stooping along the kennel, and poking the wet rubbish with a stick, in quest of rusty nails; a merchant or two, at the door of the post office, together with an editor, and a miscellaneous politician, awaiting a dilatory mail; a few visages of retired sea captains at the window of an insurance office, looking out vacantly at the vacant street, blaspheming at the weather, and fretting at the dearth as well of public news as local gossip. What a treasure trove to these venerable quidnuncs, could they have guessed the secret which Hepzibah and Clifford were carrying along with them! +Theme LVI.+--_Write a description of one of the following:_-- 1. A steamboat. 2. An orchard. 3. A colonial mansion. 4. A wharf. 5. A stone quarry. 6. A shop. (Consider what you have written with reference to the point of view, fundamental image, and essential details. After these have been arranged to suit you, notice the way in which the minor details have been introduced. Have you given undue prominence to any? Can a single adjective or phrase be substituted for a whole sentence? Think of the image which your words will produce in the mind of the reader. Consider your theme with reference to unity. Section 81.) +129. Arrangement of Details.+--The quality of a description depends as much upon the arrangement of the material as upon the selection. Under paragraph development we have discussed the necessity of arranging the details with reference to their natural position in space (see Sections 47 and 86). Such an arrangement is the most desirable one and should be departed from only with good reason. Such departures may, however, be made, as shown in the following selection:-- A pretty picture the lad made as he lay there dreaming over his earthly possessions--a pretty picture in the shade of the great elm, that sultry morning of August, three quarters of a century ago. The presence of the crutch showed there was something sad about it; and so there was; for if you had glanced at the little bare brown foot, set toes upward on the curbstone, you would have discovered that the fellow to it was missing-- cut off about two inches above the ankle. And if this had caused you to throw a look of sympathy at his face, something yet sadder must long have held your attention. Set jauntily on the back of his head was a weather-beaten dark blue cloth cap, the patent leather frontlet of which was gone; and beneath the ragged edge of this there fell down over his forehead and temples and ears a tangled mass of soft yellow hair, slightly curling. His eyes were large and of a blue to match the depths of a calm sky above the treetops: the long lashes which curtained them were brown; his lips were red, his nose delicate and fine, and his cheek tanned to the color of ripe peaches. It was a singularly winning face, intelligent, frank, not describable. On it now rested a smile, half joyous, half sad, as though his mind was full of bright hopes, the realization of which was far away. From the neck fell the wide collar of a white cotton shirt, clean but frayed at the elbows, and open and buttonless down to his bosom. Over this he wore an old-fashioned satin waistcoat of a man, also frayed and buttonless. His dress was completed by a pair of baggy tow breeches, held up by a single tow suspender fastened to big brown horn buttons. --James Lane Allen: _Flute and Violin_. (Copyright, 1892, Harper and Brothers.) The details are not stated with reference to their natural position in space, but they are given in the probable order of observation. If we were to look upon such a boy, the crutch would attract our attention and would lead us to look at once for the reason why a crutch was needed. The writer skillfully uses the sympathy thus aroused as a means of transition to the face. In the remainder of the description the natural position in space is closely followed. +Theme LVII.+-_Write a description of one of the following:_-- 1. The bayou. 2. Looking down the mountain. 3. Looking up the mountain. 4. The floorwalker. 5. An old-fashioned rig. 6. A house said to be haunted. 7. The deacon. (Consider the arrangement of details with reference to their position in space. Consider your paragraphs with reference to coherence and emphasis. Sections 82 and 83.) +130. Effectiveness in Description.+--Every part of a description should aid in rendering it effective, and this effectiveness is as much the purpose of the principles previously discussed as it is of those which follow. This paragraph is inserted here to separate more or less definitely those things which can be done under direction from those which cannot be determined by rule. Up to this point emphasis has been laid upon the clear presentation of a mental image as the object of description. But the clear presentation of mental images is not all there is to description. A point of view, a fundamental image, a judicious selection of essential and minor details and the relating of them with reference to their natural position in space, may set forth an image clearly and yet fail to be satisfactory as a description. For the practical affairs of life it may be sufficient to limit ourselves to clear images set forth barely and sparely, but there is a pleasure and a profit in using the subtler arts of language, in placing a word here or a phrase there that shall give a touch of beauty or a flash of suggestiveness and so save our descriptions from the commonplace. It is to these less easily demonstrated methods of giving strength and beauty that we wish now to turn our attention. +131. Word Selection.+--The effectiveness of our description will depend largely upon our right choice of words. If our range of vocabulary is limited, the possibility of effective description is correspondingly limited. Only when our working vocabulary contains many words may we hope to choose with ease the one most suitable for the effective expression of the idea we wish to convey. To prepare a list of words that may apply and then attempt to write a theme that shall make use of them is a mechanical process of little value. The idea we wish to express should call up the word that exactly expresses it. If our ideas are not clear or our vocabulary is limited, we may be satisfied with the trite and commonplace; but if our experience has been broad or our reading extended, we may have at command the word which, because it is just the right one, gives individuality and force to our phrasing. Every one is familiar with dogs, and has in his vocabulary many words which he applies to them, but a reading of one or two good dog stories, such as _Bob, Son of Battle_, or _The Call of the Wild_, will show how wide is the range of such words and how much the description is enhanced by their careful use. EXERCISE Consider the following selections with reference to the choice of words which add to the effectiveness of the descriptions:-- 1. She was a little, brown, thin, almost skinny woman with big, rolling, violet-blue eyes and the sweetest manners in the world. 2. The sounds and the straits and the sea with its plump, sleepy islands lay north and east and south. 3. The mists of the Cuchullins are not fat, dull, and still, like lowland and inland mists, but haggard, and streaming from the black peaks, and full of gusty lines. We saw them first from the top of Beimna-Caillach, a red, round-headed mountain hard by Bradford, in the isle of Skye. Shortly after noon the rain came up from the sea and drew long delicate gray lines against the cliffs. It came up licking and lisping over the surface of Cornisk, and drove us to the lee of rocks and the shelter of our ponchos, to watch the mists drifting, to listen to the swell and lull of the wind and the patter of the cold rain. There were glimpses now and then of the inner Cuchullins, a fragment of ragged sky line, the sudden jab of a black pinnacle through the mist, the open mouth of a gorge steaming with mist. We climbed the great ridge, at length, of rock and wet heath that separates Cornisk from Glen Sligachan, slowly through the fitful rain and driving cloud, and saw Sgurr-nan-Gillian, sharp, black, and pitiless, the northernmost peak and sentinel of the Cuchullins. The yellow trail could be seen twisting along the flat, empty glen. Seven miles away was a white spot, the Sligachan Hotel. I think it must be the dreariest glen in Scotland. The trail twists in a futile manner, and, after all, is mainly bog holes and rolling rocks. The Red Hills are on the right, rusty, reddish, of the color of dried blood, and gashed with sliding bowlders. Their heads seem beaten down, a Helot population, and the Cuchullins stand back like an army of iron conquerors. The Red Hills will be a vanished race one day, and the Cuchullins remain. Arthur Colton: _The Mists o' Skye_ ("Harper's"). +132. Additional Aids to Effectiveness.+--Comparison and figures of speech not only aid in making our picture clear and vivid, but they may add a spice and flavor to our language, which counts for much in the effectiveness and beauty of our description. Notice the following descriptions:-- He was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in his fur and his tail, but quite like a weasel in his head and his habits. His eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink; he could scratch himself anywhere he pleased, with any leg, front or back, that he chose to use; he could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle brush, and his war cry as he scuttled through the long grass was Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tikk. --Kipling: _Jungle Book_. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of his saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' legs; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. --Irving: _Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. +Theme LVIII.+--_Write a description of one of the following:_-- 1. My cat. 2. The pony at the farm. 3. The glen. 4. The prairie. 5. The milldam. 6. The motorman. 7. (Consider the effectiveness of your description. Can you improve your choice of words? Have you used comparisons or figures, and if so, do they improve your description? Consider your theme with reference to euphony. Section 16.) +133. Classes of Objects Frequently Described.+--There is no limit to the things that we may wish to describe, but there are certain general classes of objects that are described more frequently than others. We have greater occasion to describe men or places than we have to describe pictures or trees. A person may be an accurate observer having a large vocabulary applicable to one class of objects, and thus be able to describe objects of that class clearly and effectively; though at the same time, on account of limited experience and small vocabulary, he cannot well describe objects belonging to some other class. The ability to observe accurately the classes of objects named below, and to appreciate descriptions of such objects when made by others, is a desirable acquisition. Every effort should be made to master as many as possible of the words applicable to each class of objects. A slight investigation will show how great is the number of such words with which we are unfamiliar. 1. _Descriptions of buildings or portions of buildings._ In most buildings the basement story is heaviest, and each succeeding story increases in lightness; in the Ducal palace this is reversed, making it unique amongst buildings. The outer walls rest upon the pillars of open colonnades, which have a more stumpy appearance than was intended, owing to the raising of the pavement in the piazza. They had, however, no base, but were supported by a continuous stylobate. The chief decorations of the palace were employed upon the capitals of these thirty-six pillars, and it was felt that the peculiar prominence and importance given to its angles rendered it necessary that they should be enriched and softened by sculpture, which is interesting and often most beautiful. The throned figure of Venice above bears a scroll inscribed: _Fortis, justa, trono furias, mare sub pede, pono_. (Strong and just, I put the furies beneath my throne, and the sea beneath my foot.) One of the corners of the palace joined the irregular buildings connected with St. Mark's, and is not generally seen. There remained, therefore, only three angles to be decorated. The first main sculpture may be called the "Fig-tree angle," and its subject is the "Fall of Man." The second is "the Vine angle," and represents the "Drunkenness of Noah." The third sculpture is "the Judgment angle," and portrays the "Judgment of Solomon." --Hare: _Venice_. +Theme LIX.+--_Write a description of the exterior of some building._ +Theme LX.+--_Write a description of some room._ +Theme LXI.+--_Write a description of some portion of a building, such as an entrance, spire, window, or stairway._ (Consider each description with reference to-- _a._ Point of view. _b._ Fundamental image. _c._ Selection of essential details. _d._ Selection and subordination of minor details. _e._ Arrangement of details with reference to their natural positions in space. _f._ Effective choice of words and comparisons.) 2. _Natural features: valleys, rivers, mountains, etc._ Beyond the great prairies and in the shadow of the Rockies lie the Foothills. For nine hundred miles the prairies spread themselves out in vast level reaches, and then begin to climb over softly rounded mounds that ever grow higher and sharper, till here and there, they break into jagged points and at last rest upon the great bases of the mighty mountains. These rounded hills that join the prairies to the mountains form the Foothill Country. They extend for about a hundred miles only, but no other hundred miles of the great West are so full of interest and romance. The natural features of the country combine the beauties of prairie and of mountain scenery. There are valleys so wide that the farther side melts into the horizon, and uplands so vast as to suggest the unbroken prairie. Nearer the mountains the valleys dip deep and ever deeper till they narrow into canyons through which mountain torrents pour their blue-gray waters from glaciers that lie glistening between the white peaks far away. Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a molder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows, and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. --Tennyson: _Enoch Arden_. +Theme LXII.+--_Write a description of some valley, mountain, field, woods, or prairie._ +Theme LXIII.+--_Write a description of some stream, pond, lake, dam, or waterfall._ (Consider especially your choice of words.) 3. _Sounds or the use of sounds._ And the noise of Niagara? Alarming things have been said about it, but they are not true. It is a great and mighty noise, but it is not, as Hennepin thought, an "outrageous noise." It is not a roar. It does not drown the voice or stun the ear. Even at the actual foot of the falls it is not oppressive. It is much less rough than the sound of heavy surf-- steadier, more homogeneous, less metallic, very deep and strong, yet mellow and soft; soft, I mean, in its quality. As to the noise of the rapids, there is none more musical. It is neither rumbling nor sharp. It is clear, plangent, silvery. It is so like the voice of a steep brook-- much magnified, but not made coarser or more harsh--that, after we have known it, each liquid call from a forest hillside will seem, like the odor of grapevines, a greeting from Niagara. It is an inspiriting, an exhilarating sound, like freshness, coolness, vitality itself made audible. And yet it is a lulling sound. When we have looked out upon the American rapids for many days, it is hard to remember contented life amid motionless surroundings; and so, when we have slept beside them for many nights, it is hard to think of happy sleep in an empty silence. --Mrs. Van Rensselaer: _Niagara_ ("Century"). Yell'd on the view the opening pack; Rock, glen, and cavern, paid them back; To many a mingled sound at once The awaken'd mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, Clatter'd a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rung out, A hundred voices join'd the shout; With hark, and whoop, and wild halloo, No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in her covert cower'd the doe; The falcon, from her cairn on high, Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint, and more faint, its failing din Return'd from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled, wide and still, On the lone wood and mighty hill. +Theme LXIV.+--_Describe some sound or combination of sounds, or write a description introducing sounds._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Alone in the house. 2. In the woods at night. 3. Beside the brook. 4. In the factory. 5. A day at the beach. 6. Before the Fourth. 7. On the seashore. (Notice especially the words that indicate sound.) 4. _Color or the use of color._ A gray day! soft gray sky, like the breast of a dove; sheeny gray sea with gleams of steel running across; trailing skirts of mist shutting off the mainland, leaving Light Island alone with the ocean; the white tower gleaming spectral among the folding mists; the dark pine tree pointing a somber finger to heaven; the wet, black rocks, from which the tide had gone down, huddling together in fantastic groups as if to hide their nakedness. The large branch of the Po we crossed came down from the mountains which we were approaching. As we reached the post road again they were glowing in the last rays of the sun, and the evening vapors that settled over the plain concealed the distant Alps, although the snowy top of the Jungfrau and her companions the Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn rose above it like the hills of another world. A castle or church of brilliant white marble glittered on the summit of one of the mountains near us, and, as the sun went down without a cloud, the distant summits changed in hue to a glowing purple, mounting almost to crimson, which afterwards darkened into a deep violet. The western half of the sky was of a pale orange and the eastern a dark red, which blended together in the blue of the zenith, that deepened as twilight came on. +Theme LXV.+--_Write a description in which the color element enters largely._ 5. _Animals, birds, fishes, etc._ The Tailless Tyke had now grown into an immense dog, heavy of muscle and huge of bone. A great bull head; undershot jaw, square and lengthy and terrible; vicious yellow gleaming eyes; cropped ears; and an expression incomparably savage. His coat was a tawny lionlike yellow, short, harsh, dense; and his back running up from shoulder to loins ended abruptly in a knoblike tail. He looked like the devil of a dog's hell, and his reputation was as bad as his looks. He never attacked unprovoked; but a challenge was never ignored and he was greedy of insults. --Alfred Ollivant: _Bob, Son of Battle_. (Copyright, Doubleday and McClure.) Read the description of the kingbird (page 224), and of the mongoose (page 242). +Theme LXVI.+--_Write a description of some animal, bird, or fish._ (What questions should you ask yourself about each description you write?) 6. _Trees and plants._ How shall kinnikinnick be told to them who know it not? To a New Englander it might be said that a whortleberry bush changed its mind one day and decided to be a vine, with leaves as glossy as laurel, bells pink-striped and sweet like the arbutus, and berries in clusters and of scarlet instead of black. The Indians call it kinnikinnick, and smoke it in their pipes. White men call it bearberry, I believe; and there is a Latin name for it, no doubt, in the books. But kinnikinnick is the best,--dainty, sturdy, indefatigable kinnikinnick, green and glossy all the year round, lovely at Christmas and lovely among flowers at midsummer, as content and thrifty on bare, rocky hillsides as in grassy nooks, growing in long, trailing wreaths, five feet long, or in tangled mats, five feet across, as the rock or the valley may need, and living bravely many weeks without water, to make a house beautiful. I doubt if there be in the world a vine I should hold so precious, indoors and out. --Helen Hunt Jackson: _Bits of Travel at Home_. A mango tree is beautiful and attractive. It grows as large as the oak, and has a rich and glossy foliage. The fruit is shaped something like a short, thick cucumber, and is as large as a large pear. It has a thick, tough skin, and a delicious, juicy pulp. When ripe it is a golden color. A tree often bears a hundred bushels of mangoes. --Marian M. George. +Theme LXVII.+--_Write a description of some tree that you have seen._ (Consider your theme with reference to the general principles of composition treated in Chapter V.) +134. Description of Persons: Character Sketches.+--The general principles of description are applicable to the description of a person, and should be followed for the purpose of presenting a clear and vivid image. Our interest, however, so naturally runs beyond the appearance and is concerned with the character, that most descriptions of persons become character sketches. Even the commonest terms of description, such as _keen gray eyes, square chin, rugged countenance_, are interpreted as showing character, and depart to some degree from pure description. Often the sole purpose of description is to show character, and only those details are introduced which accomplish this purpose. In life we judge a man's character by his actions, and so in the character sketch we are led to infer his character from what he does. The character indicated by his appearance is corroborated by a statement of his actions and especially by showing how he acts. (See Section 10.) Sometimes no descriptive matter is given, but we are left to make our own picture to fit the character indicated by the actions. In many books the descriptive elements which would enable us to form an image of some person are distributed over several pages, each being introduced where it supplements and emphasizes the character shown by the actions. Notice the following examples:-- The Rev. Daniel True stood beside the holy table. For such a scene, perhaps for any scene, he was a memorable figure. He had the dignity of early middle life, but none of its signs of advancing age. His hair was quite black, and curled on his temples boyishly; his mustache, not without a worldly cut, was as dark as his hair, and concealed a mouth so clean and fine that it was an ethical mistake to cover it. He had sturdy shoulders, although not quite straight; they had the scholar's stoop; his hands were thin, with long fingers; his gestures were sparing and significant; his expression was so sincere that its evident devoutness commanded respect; so did his voice, which was authoritative enough to be a little priestly and lacking somewhat in elocutionary finish as the voices of ministers are apt to be, but genuine, musical, persuasive, at moments vibrant with oratorical power. He had a warm eye and a lovable smile. He was every inch a minister, but he was every nerve a man. --Elizabeth Stuart Phelps: _A Sacrament_ ("Harper's"). She was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice, and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness, and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes; and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more--an indefinable air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then midst his slow utterance, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on. --Lew Wallace: _Ben-Hur_. (Copyright, 1880, Harper and Bros.) When Washington was elected general of the army he was forty-three years of age. In stature he a little exceeded six feet; his limbs were sinewy and well proportioned; his chest broad, his figure stately, blending dignity of presence with ease of manner. His robust constitution had been tried and invigorated by his early life in the wilderness, his habit of occupation out of doors, and his rigid temperance, so that few equalled him in strength of arm or power of endurance. His complexion was florid, his hair dark brown, his head in shape perfectly round. His broad nostrils seemed formed to give expression and escape to scornful anger. His dark blue eyes, which were deeply set, had an expression of resignation and an earnestness that was almost sad. --Bancroft. There were many Englishmen of great distinction there, and Tennyson was the most conspicuous among the guests. Tennyson's appearance was very striking and his figure might have been taken as a living illustration of romantic poetry. He was tall and stately, wore a great mass of thick, long hair--long hair was then still worn even by men who did not affect originality; his frame was slightly stooping, his shoulders were bent as if with the weight of thought; there was something entirely out of the common and very commanding in his whole presence, and a stranger meeting him in whatever crowd would probably have assumed at once that he must be a literary king. --Justin McCarthy: _Literary Portraits from the Sixties_ ("Harper's"). The door opened and there appeared to these two a visitor. He was a young man, and tall,--so tall that, even with his hat off, his head barely cleared the ceiling of the low-studded room. He was slim and fair-haired and round-shouldered. He had the pink and white complexion of a girl; soft, fair hair; dark, serious eyes; the high, white brow of a thinker; the nose of an aristocrat; and he was in clerical garb. --Sewall Ford: _The Renunciation of Petruo_ ("Harper's"). EXERCISE Notice the pictures on page 253. Can you determine from the picture anything about the character of the person? Just what feature in each helps you in this? +Theme LXVIII.+--_Describe some person known to most of the class._ (Do not name the person, but combine description and character sketching so that the class may be able to tell whom you mean.) +135. Impression of a Description.+--Often the effectiveness of a description is determined more by the impression which it makes upon our feelings than by the vividness of the picture which it presents. Read the following description of the Battery in New York by Howells. Notice how the details which have been selected emphasize the "impression of forlornness." The sickly trees, the decrepit shade, the mangy grass plots, hungry-eyed and hollow children, the jaded women, silent and hopeless, the shameless houses, the hard-looking men, unite to give the one impression. Even the fresh blue water of the bay, which laughs and dances beyond, by its very contrast gives greater emphasis to the melancholy and forlorn appearance of the Battery. All places that fashion has once loved and abandoned are very melancholy; but of all such places, I think the Battery is the most forlorn. Are there some sickly locust trees there that cast a tremulous and decrepit shade upon the mangy grass plots? I believe so, but I do not make sure; I am certain only of the mangy grass plots, or rather the spaces between the paths, thinly overgrown with some kind of refuse and opprobrious weed, a stunted and pauper vegetation proper solely to the New York Battery. At that hour of the summer morning when our friends, with the aimlessness of strangers who are waiting to do something else, saw the ancient promenade, a few scant and hungry-eyed little boys and girls were wandering over this weedy growth, not playing, but moving listlessly to and fro, fantastic in the wild inaptness of their costumes. One of these little creatures wore, with an odd, involuntary jauntiness, the cast-off best dress of some happier child, a gay little garment cut low in the neck and short in the sleeves, which gave her the grotesque effect of having been at a party the night before. Presently came two jaded women, a mother and a grandmother, that appeared, when they crawled out of their beds, to have put on only so much clothing as the law compelled. They abandoned themselves upon the green stuff, whatever it was, and, with their lean hands clasped outside their knees, sat and stared, silent and hopeless, at the eastern sky, at the heart of the terrible furnace, into which in those days the world seemed cast to be burnt up, while the child which the younger woman had brought with her feebly wailed unheeded at her side. On one side of the women were the shameless houses out of which they might have crept, and which somehow suggested riotous maritime dissipation; on the other side were those houses in which had once dwelt rich and famous folk, but which were now dropping down to the boarding-house scale through various unhomelike occupations to final dishonor and despair. Down nearer the water, and not far from the castle that was once a playhouse and is now the depot of emigration, stood certain express wagons, and about these lounged a few hard-looking men. Beyond laughed and danced the fresh blue water of the bay, dotted with sails and smokestacks. --Howells: _Their Wedding Journey_. The successive images of the preceding selection are clear enough, but they are bound together by a common purpose, which is the creation of a single impression. Often, however, a description may present, not a single impression, but a series of such impressions, to which a unity is given by the fact that they are all connected with one event, or occur at the same time, or in the same place. Such a series of impressions is illustrated in the following:-- It is a phenomenon whose commonness alone prevents it from being most impressive, that departure of the night-express. The two hundred miles it is to travel stretch before it, traced by those slender clews, to lose which is ruin, and about which hang so many dangers. The drawbridges that gape upon the way, the trains that stand smoking and steaming on the track, the rail that has borne the wear so long that it must soon snap under it, the deep cut where the overhanging mass of rocks trembles to its fall, the obstruction that a pitiless malice may have placed in your path, you think of these after the journey is done, but they seldom haunt your fancy while it lasts. The knowledge of your helplessness in any circumstances is so perfect that it begets a sense of irresponsibility, almost of security; and as you drowse upon the pallet of the sleeping car and feel yourself hurled forward through the obscurity, you are almost thankful that you can do nothing, for it is upon this condition only that you can endure it; and some such condition as this, I suppose, accounts for many heroic acts in the world. To the fantastic mood which possesses you equally, sleeping or waking, the stoppages of the train have a weird character, and Worcester, Springfield, New Haven, and Stamford are rather points in dreamland than well-known towns of New England. As the train stops you drowse if you have been waking, and wake if you have been in a doze; but in any case you are aware of the locomotive hissing and coughing beyond the station, of flaring gas-jets, of clattering feet of passengers getting on and off; then of some one, conductor or station master, walking the whole length of the train; and then you are aware of an insane satisfaction in renewed flight through the darkness. You think hazily of the folk in their beds in the town left behind, who stir uneasily at the sound of your train's departing whistle; and so all is blank vigil or a blank slumber. +136. Impression as the Purpose of Description.+--The impression that it gives may become the central purpose of a description. It is evident in Howells's description of the Battery that the purpose was the creating of an impression of forlornness, and that the author kept this purpose in mind when choosing the details. If his aim had been to enable us to form a clear picture of the Battery in its physical outlines, he would have chosen different details and would have presented them in different language. The same scene or object may present a different appearance to two different observers because each may discover a different set of likenesses or resemblances and so select different essential characteristics. An artist will paint a picture that centers around some one feature. Each added detail seems but to set forth and increase the effect of this central element of the picture. Similarly the observer will in his description lay emphasis on the central point and will select details that bear a helpful relation to it. If he wishes to present the picture of a valley, he will lay emphasis on its fundamental image and essential details with reference to its appearance; but if his desire is to present the impression of fertility or of rural simplicity and quiet, the elements that are important for the producing of the desired impression may not be at all the ones essential to his former picture. When the presentation of a picture is our central purpose, we attempt to present it as it appears to us, and select details that will enable others to form the desired image; but if we desire to set forth how a scene affected us, we must choose details that will make our reader feel as we felt. +137. Necessity of Observing our Impressions.+--In order to write a description which shall give our impression of an object or scene, we must know definitely what that impression is. Just as clear seeing is necessary for the reproduction of definite images, so is the clear perception of our impressions necessary to their reproduction. Furthermore, we may know what our impressions are without being able to select those elements in a scene that have produced them; but in order to write a description that shall affect others as the scene itself affected us, we must know what these elements are and emphasize them in the description. Thus it becomes necessary to pay attention both to our impression and to the selection of those details which create that impression. One glance at a room may cause us to believe that the housekeeper is untidy. If we wish to convey this impression to our reader, our description must include the details that give that impression of untidiness to us. Nor are we limited to sight alone, for our impressions may be made stronger by the aid of the other senses. Sound and smell and taste may supplement the sight, and though they add little to the clearness, yet they add much to the impression which we get. Within the cabin, through which Basil and Isabel now slowly moved, there were numbers of people lounging about on the sofas, in various attitudes of talk or vacancy; and at the tables there were others reading _Lothair_, a new book in the remote epoch of which I write, and a very fashionable book indeed. There was in the air that odor of paint and carpet which prevails on steamboats; the glass drops of the chandeliers ticked softly against each other, as the vessel shook with her respiration, like a comfortable sleeper, and imparted a delicious feeling of coziness and security to our travelers. +138. Impression Limited to Experience.+--If we attempt to write a description for the sake of giving an impression, it must be an impression that we have ourselves experienced. If the sight of the gorge of Niagara has filled us with a feeling of sublimity and awe, we shall find it hard to write a humorous account of it. If we see the humorous elements of a situation, we cannot easily make our description give the impression of grief. Neither can we successfully imitate the impressions of others. No two persons are affected in the same way by the same thing. Our age, our temperament, our emotional attitude, and all of our past experiences affect our way of looking at things and modify the impressions which we get. The successful presentation of our impression will depend largely upon the definite perception of our feelings. +139. Impression Affected by Mood.+--Not only is our impression affected by details in the scene observed, but it is even more largely influenced by our mood at the time of the observation. The same landscape may cheer at one time and dishearten at another. To-day we see the ridiculous; to-morrow, the sad and sorrowful. A thousand things may change our mood, but under certain general conditions, certain impressions are likely to arise. There is something in the air of spring, or the heat of summer, which affects us all. The weather, too, has its effect. Sunshine and shadow find answering attitudes in our feelings, and the skillful writer takes advantage of these emotional tendencies. Not far we fared-- The river left behind--when, looking back, I saw the mountain in the searching light Of the low sun. Surcharged with youthful pride In my adventure, I can ne'er forget The disappointment and chagrin which fell Upon me; for a change had passed. The steep Which in the morning sprang to kiss the sun, Had left the scene; and in its place I saw A shrunken pile, whose paths my steps had climbed, Whose proudest height my humble feet had trod. Its grand impossibilities and all Its store of marvels and of mysteries Were flown away, and would not be recalled. --Holland: _Katrina_. +140. Union of Image and Impression.+--Because we have discussed image making and impression giving separately, it must not be judged that they necessarily occur separately. They are in fact always united. No image, however clear, can fail to make some impression, and no description, however strong the impression it gives, fails to create some image. It is rather the placing of the emphasis that counts. Some descriptions have for their purpose the giving of an image, and the impression is of little moment. Other descriptions aim at producing impressions, and the images are of less importance. In the description of the Battery (page 254) the images are clear enough, but they are subordinate to the impression. This subordination may even go farther. Often the impression is made prominent and we are led by suggestion to form images which fit it, while in reality few definite images have been set. Notice in the following selection that the impression of desolation is given without attempting to picture exactly what was seen:-- The country at the foot of Vesuvius is the most fertile and best cultivated of the kingdom, most favored by Heaven in all Europe. The celebrated _Lacrym Christi_ vine flourishes beside land totally devastated by lava, as if nature here made a last effort, and resolved to perish in her richest array. As you ascend, you turn to gaze on Naples, and on the fair laud around it--the sea sparkles in the sun as if strewn with jewels; but all the splendors of creation are extinguished by degrees, as you enter the region of ashes and smoke, that announces your approach to the volcano. The iron waves of other years have traced their large black furrows in the soil. At a certain height birds are no longer seen; further on, plants become very scarce; then even insects find no nourishment. At last all life disappears. You enter the realm of death and the slain earth's dust alone sleeps beneath your unassured feet. EXERCISES Discuss the following selections with reference to the impression given by each:-- The third of the flower vines is Wood-Magic. It bears neither flowers nor fruit. Its leaves are hardly to be distinguished from the leaves of the other vines. Perhaps they are a little rounder than the Snowberry's, a little more pointed than the Partridge-berry's; sometimes you might mistake them for the one, sometimes for the other. No marks of warning have been written upon them. If you find them, it is your fortune; if you taste them, it is your fate. For as you browse your way through the forest, nipping here and there a rosy leaf of young wintergreen, a fragrant emerald tip of balsam fir, a twig of spicy birch, if by chance you pluck the leaves of Wood-Magic and eat them, you will not know what you have done, but the enchantment of the treeland will enter your heart and the charm of the wildwood will flow through your veins. You will never get away from it. The sighing of the wind through the pine trees and the laughter of the stream in its rapids will sound through all your dreams. On beds of silken softness you will long for the sleep-song of whispering leaves above your head, and the smell of a couch of balsam boughs. At tables spread with dainty fare you will be hungry for the joy of the hunt, and for the angler's sylvan feast. In proud cities you will weary for the sight of a mountain trail; in great cathedrals you will think of the long, arching aisles of the woodland: and in the noisy solitude of crowded streets you will hone after the friendly forest. (Copyright, 1902, Charles Scribner's Sons.) Running your eye across the map of the State, you see two slowly converging lines of railroad writhing out between the hills to the sea-coast. Three other lines come down from north to south by the river valleys and the jagged shore. Along these, huddled in the corners of the hills and the sea line, lie the cities and the larger towns. A great majority of mankind, swarming in these little spots, or scuttling to and fro along the valleys on those slender lines, fondly dream they are acquainted with the land in which they live. But beyond and around all this rises the wide, bare face of the country, which they will never know-- the great patches of second-growth woods, the mountain pastures sown thick with stones, the barren acres of the hillside farmer--a desolate land, latticed with gray New England roads, dotted with commonplace or neglected houses, and pitted with the staring cellars of the abandoned homes of disheartened and defeated men. Out here in this semi-obscurity, where the regulating forces of society grow tardy and weak, strange and dangerous beings move to and fro, avoiding the apprehension of the law. Occasionally we hear of them--of some shrewd and desperate city fugitives brought to bay in a corner of the woods, or some brutal farmhouse murderer still lurking uncaptured among the hills. Often they pass through the country and out beyond, where they are never seen again. In the extreme southwestern corner of the State the railroads do not come; the vacant spaces grow between the country roads, and the cities dwindle down to half-deserted crossroads hamlets. Here the surface of the map is covered up with the tortuous wrinkles of the hills. It is a beautiful but useless place. As far as you can see, low, unformed lumps of mountains lie jumbled aimlessly together between the ragged sky lines, or little silent cups of valleys stare up between them at their solitary patch of sky. It seems a sort of waste yard of creation, flung full of the remnants of the making of the earth. When once the shrinking dizzy spell was gone, I saw below me, like a jeweled cup, The valley hollowed to its heaven-kissed lip-- The serrate green against the serrate blue-- Brimming with beauty's essence; palpitant With a divine elixir--lucent floods Poured from the golden chalice of the sun, At which my spirit drank with conscious growth, And drank again with still expanding scope Of comprehension and of faculty. I felt the bud of being in me burst With full, unfolding petals to a rose, And fragrant breath that flooded all the scene. By sudden insight of myself I knew That I was greater than the scene,--that deep Within my nature was a wondrous world, Broader than that I gazed on, and informed With a diviner beauty,--that the things I saw were but the types of those I held, And that above them both, High Priest and King, I stood supreme, to choose and to combine, And build from that within me and without New forms of life, with meaning of my own, And then alone upon the mountain top, Kneeling beside the lamb, I bowed my head Beneath the chrismal light and felt my soul Baptized and set apart for poetry. +Theme LXIX.+--_Write a description the purpose of which is to give an impression that you have experienced._ SUMMARY 1. Description is that form of discourse which has for its purpose the creation of an image. 2. The essential characteristics of a description are:-- _a._ A point of view, (1) It may be fixed or changing. (2) It may be expressed or implied. (3) Only those details should be included that can be seen from the point of view chosen. _b._ A correct fundamental image. _c._ A few characteristic and essential details (1) Close observation on the part of the writer is necessary in order to select the essential details. _d._ A proper selection and subordination of minor details. _e._ A suitable arrangement of details with reference to their natural position in space. _f._ That additional effectiveness which comes from (1) Proper choice of words. (2) Suitable comparisons and figures. (3) Variety of sentence structures. 3. The foregoing principles of description apply in the describing of many classes of objects. A description of a person usually gives some indication of his character and so becomes to some extent a character sketch. 4. A description may also have for its purpose the giving of an impression. _a._ The writer must select details which will aid in conveying the impression he desires his readers to receive. _b._ The writer must observe his own impressions accurately, because he cannot convey to others that which he has not himself experienced. _c._ The impression received is affected by the mood of the person. _d._ Impression and image are never entirely separated. IX. NARRATION +141. Kinds of Narration.+--Narration consists of an account of happenings, and, for this reason, it is, without doubt, the most interesting of all forms of discourse. It is natural for us all to be interested in life, movement, action; hence we enjoy reading and talking about them. To be convinced that there is everywhere a great interest in narration we need only to listen to conversations, notice what constitutes the subject-matter of letters of friendship, read newspapers and magazines, and observe what classes of books are most frequently drawn from our libraries. Narration assumes a variety of forms. Since it relates happenings, it must include anecdotes, incidents, short stories, letters, novels, dramas, histories, biographies, and stories of travel and exploration. It also includes many newspaper articles such as those that give accounts of accidents and games and reports of various kinds of meetings. Evidently the field of narration is a broad one, for wherever life or action may be found or imagined, a subject for a narrative exists. EXERCISES 1. Name four different events that have actually taken place in your school in which you think your classmates are interested. 2. Name three events that have taken place in other schools that may be of interest to members of your school. 3. Name four events of general interest that have occurred in your city during the last two or three years. 4. From a daily paper, pick out a narrative that is interesting to you. 5. Select one that you think ought to interest the most of your classmates. 6. Name three national events of recent occurrence. 7. Name three or four strange or mysterious events of which you have heard. 8. Name an actual occurrence that interested you because you wanted to see how it turned out. 9. Would an ordinary account of a bicycle or automobile trip be interesting? If not, why not? +Theme LXX.+--._Write a letter to a pupil in a neighboring high school, telling about something interesting that has happened in your own school_. (Review forms of letter writing. Consider your use of paragraphs.) +142. Plot.+--By plot we mean the outline of the story told in a few words. All narratives consist of accounts of connected happenings, in which action on the part of the characters is naturally implied. The principal action briefly told constitutes the plot. The simple plot of Tennyson's _Princess_ is as follows:-- A prince of the North, after being affianced as a child to a princess of the South, has fallen in love with her portrait and a lock of her hair. When, however, the embassy appears to fetch home the bride, she sends back the message that she is not disposed to be married. Upon receipt of this word the Prince and two friends, Florian and Cyril, steal away to seek the Princess, and learn on reaching her father's court that she has established a Woman's College on a distant estate. Having got letters authorizing them to visit the Princess, they ride into her domain, where they determine to go dressed like girls and apply for admission as students in the College. They arrive in disguise, and are admitted. On the first day the young men enroll themselves as students of Lady Psyche, who recognizes Florian as her brother and agrees not to expose them, since--by a law of the College inscribed above the gates, which darkness has kept them from seeing--the penalty of their discovery would be death. Melissa, a student, overhears them, and is bound over to keep the secret. Lady Blanche, mother of Melissa and rival to Lady Psyche, also learns of the alarming invasion, and remains silent for sinister reasons of her own. On the second day the principal personages picnic in a wood. At dinner Cyril sings a song that is better fit for the smoking room than for the ears of ladies; the Prince, in his anger, betrays his sex by a too masculine reproof; and dire confusion is the result. The Princess in her flight falls into the river, from which she is rescued by the Prince. Cyril and Lady Psyche escape together, but the Prince and Florian are brought before the Princess. At this important moment despatches are brought from her father saying that the Prince's father has surrounded her palace with soldiers, taken him prisoner, and holds him as a hostage. The Prince, after pleading to deaf ears, is sent away at dawn with Florian, and goes with him to the camp. Meantime during the night, the Princess's three brothers have come to her aid with an army. An agreement is reached to decide the case and end the war by a tournament between the brothers, with fifty men, on one side; the Prince and his two friends, with fifty men, on the other. This happens on the third day. The Prince and his men are vanquished, and he himself is badly wounded. But the Princess is now gradually to discover that she has "overthrown more than her enemy,"--that she has defeated yet saved herself. She has said of Lady Psyche's little child:-- "I took it for an hour in mine own bed This morning: there the tender orphan hands Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm from thence The wrath I nursed against the world." When Cyril pleads with her to give the child back to its mother, she kisses it and feels that "her heart is barren." When she passes near the wounded Prince, and is shown by his father--his beard wet with his son's blood--her hair and picture on her lover's heart, Her iron will was broken in her mind, Her noble heart was broken in her breast. From the Princess's cry then, "Grant me your son to nurse," it is but a natural result that she should bring the Prince's wounded men with him into the College, now a hospital. Through ministering to her lover, she comes to love him; and theories yield to "the lord of all." --Copeland-Rideout: _Introduction to Tennyson's Princess_. +Theme LXXI.+--_Write the plot of one of the following_:-- 1. _Lochinvar_, Scott. 2. _Rip Van Winkle_, Irving. 3. One story from _A Tale of Two Cities_, Dickens. 4. _Silas Marner_, George Eliot. 5. The last magazine story you have read. 6. Some story assigned by the teacher. +Theme LXXII.+--_Write three brief plots. Have the class choose the one that will make the most interesting story._ +Theme LXXIII.+--_Write a story, using the plot selected by the class in the preceding theme._ (Are the events related in your story probable or improbable?) +143. The Introduction.+--Our pleasure in a story depends upon our clear understanding of the various situations, and this understanding may often be best given by an introduction that states something of the time, place, characters, and circumstances as shown in Section 6. The purpose of the introduction is to make the story more effective, and what it shall contain is determined by the needs of the story itself. The last half of a well-written story will not be interesting to one who has not read the first half, because the first half will contain much that is essential to the complete understanding of the main point of the story. A story begun with conversation at once arouses interest, but care must be taken to see that the reader gets sufficient descriptive and explanatory matter to enable him to understand the story as the plot develops, or the interest will begin to lag. +Theme LXXIV.+--_Write a narrative._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The Christmas surprise. 2. How the mortgage was paid. 3. The race between the steam roller and the traction engine. 4. The new girl in the boarding school. 5. The Boss, and how he won his title. (Be sure that your introduction is such that the entire situation is understood. Name different points in the story that led you to say what you have in the introduction. Have you mentioned any unnecessary points?) +144. The Incentive Moment.+--The chief business of a story-teller is to arouse the interest of his readers, and the sooner he succeeds, the better. Usually he tries to arouse interest from the very beginning of his story. He therefore places in the introduction or near it a statement designed to stimulate the curiosity of his readers. The point at which interest begins has been termed the incentive moment. In the following selection notice that the first sentence tells who, when, and where. (Section 6.) The second sentence causes us to ask, what was it? and by the time that is answered we are curious to know what happened and how the adventure ended. On a mellow moonlight evening a cyclist was riding along a lonely road in the northern part of Mashonaland. As he rode, enjoying the somber beauty of the African evening, he suddenly became conscious of a soft, stealthy, heavy tread on the road behind him. It seemed like the jog trot of some heavy, cushion-footed animal following him. Turning round, he was scared very badly to find himself looking into the glaring eyes of a large lion. The puzzled animal acted very strangely, now raising his head, now lowering it, and all the time sniffling the air in a most perplexed manner. Here was a surprise for the lion. He could not make out what kind of animal it was that could roll, walk, and sit still all at the same time; an animal with a red eye on each side, and a brighter one in front. He hesitated to pounce upon such an outlandish being--a being whose blood smelled so oily. I believe no cyclist ever "scorched" with more honesty and single-mindedness of purpose. But although he pedaled and pedaled, although he perspired and panted, his effort to get away did not seem to place any more space between him and the lion; the animal kept up his annoyingly calm jog trot, and never seemed to tire. The poor rider was finally so exhausted from terror and exertion that he decided to have the matter settled right away. Suddenly slowing down, he jumped from his wheel, and, facing abruptly about, thrust the brilliant headlight full into the face of the lion. This was too much for the beast. The sudden glare destroyed the lion's nerve, for at this fresh evidence of mystery on the part of the strange rider-animal, who broke himself into halves and then cast his big eye in any direction he pleased, the monarch of the forest turned tail, and with a wild rush retreated in a very hyena-like manner into the jungle, evidently thanking his stars for his miraculous escape from that awful being. Thereupon the bicyclist, with new strength returning and devoutly blessing his acetylene lamp, pedaled his way back to civilization. --P.L. Wessels. +Theme LXXV.+--_Write a short imaginative story._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. A bicycle race with an unfriendly dog. 2. An unpleasant experience. 3. A story told by the school clock. 4. Disturbing a hornet's nest. 5. The fate of an Easter bonnet. 6. Chased by a wolf. (Where is the incentive moment? Is it introduced naturally?) +145. Climax.+--You have already noticed in your reading that usually somewhere near the close of the story, there is a turning point. That turning point is called the climax. At this point, the suspense of mind is greatest, for the fate of the principal character is being decided. If the story is well written as regards the plot, our interest will continually increase from the incentive moment to the climax. In the novel and the drama, both of which may have a complicated plot, several minor climaxes or crises may be found. There may be a crisis to each single event or episode, yet they should all be a part of and lead up to the principal or final climax. Instead of detracting from, they add to the interest of a carefully woven plot. For example, in the _Merchant of Venice_, we have a crisis in both the casket story and the Lorenzo and Jessica episode; but so skillfully are the stories interwoven that the minor climaxes do not lessen our interest in the principal one. In short stories, the turning point should come near the close. There should be but little said after that point is reached. In novels, and especially in dramas, we find that the climax is not right at the close, and considerable action sometimes takes place after the climax has been reached. EXERCISES _A._ Point out the climax in each of five stories that you have read. _B._ Where is the climax in the following selection? We spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees--such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in heaven, and darked the sun Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; For both the onlooking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And laboring breath; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin, And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now denied, sank to the dust; And Rustum bowed his head; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry;-- No horse's cry was that, most like the roar Of some pained desert lion, who all day Hath trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quailed not, but rushed on, And struck again; and again Rustum bowed His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in the hand the hilt remained alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted: "Rustum!" --Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed: back he recoiled one step, And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reeled, and, staggering back, sank to the ground, And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair-- Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand. --Matthew Arnold: _Sohrab and Rustum_. +Theme LXXVI.+--_Write a story and give special attention to the climax._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The immigrant's error. 2. A critical moment. 3. An intelligent dog. 4. The lost key. 5. Catching a burglar. 6. A hard test. 7. Won by the last hit. 8. A story suggested by a picture you have seen. (Name the incidents leading up to the climax. Is the mind held in suspense until the climax is reached? Are any unnecessary details introduced?) +146. Conversation in Narration.+--When introduced into narration, a conversation is briefer than when actually spoken. It is necessary to have the conversation move quickly, for we read with less patience than we listen. The sentences must be for the most part short, and the changes from one speaker to another frequent, or the dialogue will have a "made to order" effect. Notice the conversation in as many different stories as possible. Observe how variation is secured in indicating the speaker. How many substitutes for "He said" can you name? In relating conversation orally, we are less likely to secure such variety. Notice in your own speech and that of others how often "I said" and "He said" occur. EXERCISES _A_. Notice the indentation and sentence length in the following selection:-- Louden looked up calmly at the big figure towering above him. "It won't do, Judge," he said; that was all, but there was a significance in his manner and a certainty in his voice which caused the uplifted hand to drop limply. "Have you any business to set foot upon my property?" he demanded. "Yes," answered Joe. "That's why I came. "What business have you got with me?" "Enough to satisfy you, I think. But there's one thing I don't want to do"--Joe glanced at the open door--"and that is to talk about it here--for your own sake and because I think Miss Tabor should be present. I called to ask you to come to her house at eight o'clock to-night." "You did!" Martin Pike spoke angrily, but not in the bull bass of yore. "My accounts with her estate are closed," he said harshly. "If she wants anything let her come here." Joe shook his head. "No. You must be there at eight o'clock." _B_. Notice the conversation in the following narrative. Consider also the incentive moment and the climax. Suggest improvements. When Widow Perkins saw Widower Parsons coming down the road she looked as mad as a hornet and stepped to the back door. "William Henry," she called to the lank youth chopping wood, "you've worked hard enough for one day. Come in and rest." "Guess that's the first time you ever thought I needed a rest since I was born. I'll keep right on chopping till you get through acceptin' old Hull," he replied, whereupon the widow slammed the door and looked twice as mad as before. "Mornin', widdy," remarked the widower, stalking into the room, taking a chair without an invitation, and hanging his hat on his knee. "Cold day," he added cheerfully. The widow nodded shortly, at the same time inwardly prophesying a still colder day for him before he struck the weather again. "Been buyin' a new cow," resumed the caller, impressively. "Have, eh?" returned the widow, with a jerk, bringing out the ironing board and slamming it down on the table. "An' two hogs," went on the widower, wishing the widow would glance at him just once and see how affectionate he looked. "They'll make pork enough for all next winter and spring." "Will, eh?" responded the widow, with a bang of the iron that nearly wrecked the table. "An' a--a--lot o' odd things 'round the house; an' the fact is, widdy, you see--that is, you know--was going to say if you'll agree"--the widower lost his words, and in his desperation hung his hat on the other knee and hitched a trifle nearer the ironing board. "No, Hull Parsons, I don't see a single mite, nor I don't know a particle, an' I ain't agreein' the least bit," snapped the widow, pounding the creases out of the tablecloth. "But say, widdy, don't get riled so soon," again ventured Parsons. "I was jest goin' to tell you that I've been proposing to Carpenter Brown to build a new--" By this time the widow was glancing at him in a way he wished she wouldn't. "Is that all the proposin' you've done in the last five mouths, Hull Parsons?" she demanded stormily. "You ain't asked every old maid for miles around to marry you, have you, Hull Parsons? An' you didn't tell the last one you proposed to that if she didn't take you there would be only one more chance left--that old pepper-box of a Widow Perkins? You didn't say that, now, did you, Hull Parsons?" and the widow's eyes and voice snapped fire all at once. The caller turned several different shades of red and realized that he had struck the biggest snag he'd ever struck in any courting career, past or present. He laughed violently for a second or two, tried to hang his hat on both knees at the same time, and finally sank his voice to a confidential undertone:-- "Now, widdy, that's the woman's way o' puttin' it. They've been jealous o' you all 'long, fur they knew where my mind was sot. I wouldn't married one o' them women for nothing," added the widower, with another hitch toward the ironing board. "Huh!" responded the widow, losing a trifle of her warlike cast of countenance. "S'pose all them women hadn't refused you, Hull Parsons, what then?" "They didn't refuse me, widdy," returned the widower, trying to look sheepish, and dropping his voice an octave lower. "S'pose I hadn't oughter tell on 'em, but--er--can you keep a secret, widdy?" "I ain't like the woman who can't," remarked the widow, shortly. "Well, then, I was the one who did the refusin'--the hull gang went fer me right heavy, guess 'cause 'twas leap year, or they was tryin' on some o' them new women's ways, or somethin' like that. But my mind was sot all along, d'ye see, widdy?" And the Widow Perkins invited Widower Parsons to stay to dinner, because she thought she saw. +Theme LXXVII.+--_Complete the story on pages 79-80, or one of the following:_-- THE AUDACIOUS REPORTER Soon after Fenimore Dayton became a reporter his city editor sent him to interview James Mountain. That famous financier was then approaching the zenith of his power over Wall Street and Lombard Street. It had just been announced that he had "absorbed" the Great Eastern and Western Railway System--of course, by the methods which have made some men and some newspapers habitually speak of him as "the Royal Bandit." The city editor had two reasons for sending Dayton--first because he did not like him; second, because any other man on the staff would walk about for an hour and come back with the report that Mountain had refused to receive him, while Dayton would make an honest effort. Seeing Dayton saunter down Nassau Street--tall, slender, calm, and cheerful--you would never have thought that he was on his way to interview one of the worst-tempered men in New York, for a newspaper which that man peculiarly detested, and on a subject which he did not care to discuss with the public. Dayton turned in at the Equitable Building and went up to the floor occupied by Mountain, Ranger, & Blakehill. He nodded to the attendant at the door of Mountain's own suite of offices, strolled tranquilly down the aisle between the several rows of desks at which sat Mountain's personal clerks, and knocked at the glass door on which was printed "Mr. Mountain" in small gilt letters. "Come!" It was an angry voice--Mountain's at its worst. Dayton opened the door. Mountain glanced up from a mass of papers before him. His red forehead became a network of wrinkles and his scant white eyebrows bristled. "And who are you?" he snarled. "My name is Dayton--Fenimore Dayton," replied the reporter, with a gracefully polite bow. "Mr. Mountain, I believe?" It was impossible for Mr. Mountain altogether to resist the impulse to bow in return. Dayton's manner was compelling. "And what the dev--what can I do for you?" "I'm a reporter from the ----" "What!" roared Mountain, leaping to his feet in a purple, swollen veined fury.... --David Graham Philips ("McClure's"). CAUGHT MASQUERADING When I took my aunt and sister to the Pequot hotel, the night before the Yale-Harvard boat race, I found a gang of Harvard boys there. They celebrated a good deal that night, in the usual Harvard way. Some of the Harvard men had a room next to mine. About three a.m. things quieted down. When I woke up next morning, it was broad daylight, and I was utterly alone. The race was to be at eleven o'clock. I jumped out of bed and looked at my watch--it was nearly ten! I looked for my clothes. My valise was gone! I rang the bell, but in the excitement downstairs, I suppose, no one answered it. What was I to do? Those Harvard friends of mine thought it a good joke on me to steal my clothes and take themselves off to the race without waking me up. I don't know what I should have done in my anguish, when, thank goodness, I heard a tap at my door, and went to it. "Well, do hurry!" (It was my sister's voice.) "Aunt won't go to the race; we'll have to go without her." "They've stolen my clothes, Mollie--those Harvard fellows." "Haven't you anything?" she asked through the keyhole. "Not a thing, dear." "Oh, well! it's a just punishment to you after last night! That ---- noise was dreadful!" "Perhaps it is," I said, "but don't preach now, sister dear--get me something to put on. I want to see the race." "I haven't anything except some dresses and one of aunt's." "Get me Aunt Sarah's black silk," I cried. "I will wear anything rather than not see the race, and it's half-past ten nearly now." (Correct your theme with reference to the points mentioned in Section 146.) +147. Number and Choice of Details--Unity.+--In relating experiences the choice of details will be determined by the purpose of the narrative and by the person or persons for whom we are writing. A brief account of an accident for a newspaper will need to include only a clear and concise statement of a few important facts. A traveling experience may be made interesting and vivid if we select several facts and treat each quite fully. This is especially true if the experience took place in a country or part of a country not familiar to our readers. If we are writing for those with whom we are acquainted, we can easily decide what will interest them. If we write to different persons an account of the same event, we find that these accounts differ from one another. We know what each person will enjoy, and we try to adapt our writing to each individual taste. Our narrative will be improved by adapting it to an imaginary audience in case we do not know exactly who our readers will be. In your high school work you know your readers and can select your facts accordingly. To summarize: a narration should possess unity, that is, it should say all that should be said about the subject and not more than needs to be said. The length of the theme, the character of the audience to which it is addressed, and the purpose for which it is written, determine what facts are necessary and how many to choose in order to give unity. (See Section 81.) +148. Arrangement of Details--Coherence.+--We should use an arrangement of our facts that will give coherence to our theme. In a coherent theme each sentence or paragraph is naturally suggested by the preceding one. It has been pointed out in Sections 82-85 that in narration we gain coherence by relating our facts in the order of their occurrence. When a single series of events is set forth, we can follow the real time-order, omitting such details as are not essential to the unity of the story. If, however, more than one series of events are given, we cannot follow the exact time-order, for, though two events occur at the same time, one must be told before the other. Here, the actual time relations must be carefully indicated by the use of expressions; as, _at the same time, meanwhile, already_, etc. (See Section 12.) Two or more series of events belong in the same story only if they finally come together at some time, usually at the point of the story. They should be carried along together so that the reader shall have in mind all that is necessary for the understanding of the point when it is reached. In short stories the changes from one series to another are close together. In a long book one or more chapters may give one series of incidents, while the following chapters may be concerned with a parallel series of incidents. Notice the introductory paragraph of each chapter in Scott's _Ivanhoe_ or Cooper's _The Last of the Mohicans_. Many of these indicate that a new series of events is to be related. It will be of advantage in writing a narrative to construct an outline as indicated in Section 84. Such an outline will assist us in making our narrative clear by giving it unity, coherence, and emphasis. EXERCISES 1. Name events that have occurred in your school or city which could be related in their exact time-order. Relate one of them orally. 2. Name two accidents that could not be related in their exact time-order. 3. Name subjects for real narratives that would need to be written in the first person; in the third person. 4. In telling about a runaway accident, what points would you mention if you were writing a short account for a newspaper? 5. What points would you add if you were writing to some one who was acquainted with the persons in the accident? 6. Consider the choice and arrangement of details in the next magazine story that you read. +Theme LXXVIII.+--_Write a personal narrative in which the time-order can be carefully followed._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The irate conductor. 2. A personal adventure with a window. 3. An interrupted nap. 4. Lost in the woods. 5. In a runaway. 6. An amusing adventure. 7. A day at grandfather's. (Consider the unity and coherence of the theme.) +Theme LXXIX.+--_Write in the third person a true narrative in which different events are going on at the same time._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. A skating accident. 2. The hunters hunted. 3. Capsized on the river. 4. How he won the race. 5. An experience with a balky horse. 6. The search for a lost child. 7. How they missed each other. 8. A strange adventure. 9. A tip over in a bobsleigh. (How many series of events have you in your narrative? Are they well connected? What words have you used to show the time-order of the different events?) +149. Interrelation of Plot and Character.+--Though in narration the interest centers primarily in the action, yet in the higher types of narration interest in character is closely interwoven with interest in plot. In reading, our attention is held by the plot; we follow its development, noticing the addition of incidents, their relation to one another and to the larger elements of action in the story, and their union in the final disentanglement of the plot; but our complete appreciation of the story runs far beyond the plot and depends to a large extent upon our interpretation of the character of the individuals concerned. The mere story may be exciting and interesting, but its effect will be of little permanent value if it does not stir within us some appreciation of character, which we shall find reflected in our own lives or in the lives of those about us. We may read the _Merchant of Venice_ for its story, but a deeper study of the play sets forth and renforces the character of Portia, Shylock, and the others. With many of the celebrated characters of literature this interest has grown quite apart from interest in the plot, and they stand to-day as the embodiment of phases of human nature. Thus by means of action does the skillful author portray his conception of human life and human character. On the other hand, when we write we shall need to distinguish action that indicates character from that which is merely incidental to the plot. In order to develop a story to its climax we may need to have the persons concerned perform certain actions. If by skillful wording we can show not only what was done but also to some extent the way in which it was done, we may give our readers some notion of the character of the individuals in our story. (See Section 10.) This portrayal of character may be aided by the use of description. (See Section 134.) Notice that the purpose of the following selection is to indicate the character of Pitkin rather than to relate the incident. If the author were to relate other doings of Pitkin, he would need to make the actions of Pitkin in each case consistent with the character indicated by this sketch. It was the day of our great football game with Harvard, and when I heard my friend Pitkin returning to the room we shared in common, I knew that he was mad. And when I say mad I mean it,--not angry, nor exasperated, nor aggravated, nor provoked, but mad: not mad according to the dictionary, that is, crazy, but mad as we common folk use the term. So I say my friend Pitkin was mad. I thought so when I heard the angry click-clack of his heels on the cement walk, and I carefully put all the chairs against the wall; I was sure of it when the door slammed, and I set the coal scuttle in the corner behind the stove. There was no doubt of it when he mounted the stairs three steps at a time, and I hastily cleared his side of the desk. You may wonder why I did all these things, but you have never seen Pitkin mad. Why was Pitkin mad? I did not then know. I had not seen him yet, for I was so busy--so very, very busy--that I did not look up when he slammed his books on the desk with a resounding whack which caused the ink bottle to tremble and the lampshade to clatter as though chattering its teeth with fear, while the pens and pencils, tumbling from the holder, scurried away to hide themselves under the desk. I was still busily engaged with my books while he threw his wet overcoat and dripping hat on the white bedspread and kicked his rubbers under the stove, the smell of which soon warned me to rescue them before they melted. Pitkin must be very mad this time. He was taking off his collar and even his shoes. Pitkin always took off his collar when very mad, and if especially so, put on his slippers, even if he had to change them again in fifteen minutes. "What are you doing? Why don't you say something? You are a pretty fellow not to speak or even look up." Such was Pitkin's first remark. Sometimes he was talkative and would insist on giving his opinion of things in general. At other times he preferred to be left alone to bury himself and his wrath in his books. Since he had failed to poke the fire, though the room was very warm, I had decided that he would dive into his books and be heard no more until a half hour past his suppertime, but I had made a mistake. Today he was in a talkative mood, and knowing that work was impossible, I devoted the next half hour to listening to a dissertation on the general perverseness of human nature, and to an elaborate description of my friend Pitkin's scheme for endowing a rival institution with a hundred million, and making things so cheap and attractive that our university would have to go out of business. When Pitkin reached this point, I knew that I could safely ask the special reason of his anger and that, having answered, he would settle down to his regular work. I gently insinuated that I was still ignorant of the matter, and received the reply quite in keeping with Pitkin's nature, "I bet on Harvard and won." EXERCISES 1. Read one of Dickens's books and bring to class selections that will show how Dickens portrays character by use of action. 2. What kind of man is Silas Marner? What leads you to think as you do? 3. Select three persons from _Ivanhoe_ and state your opinion of their character. 4. Notice the relative importance of plot and character in three magazine stories. 5. Select some person from a magazine story. Tell the class what makes you form the estimate of his character that you do. To what extent does the descriptive matter help you determine his character? +Theme LXXX.+--_Write a character sketch or a story which shows character by means of action._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The girl from Texas. 2. The Chinese cook. 3. Taking care of the baby. 4. Nathan's temptation. 5. The small boy's triumph. 6. A village character. 7. The meanest man I ever knew. (Consider the development of the plot. To what extent have you shown character by action? Can you make the impression of character stronger by adding some description?) +150. History and Biography.+--Historical and biographical narratives may be highly entertaining and at the same time furnish us with much valuable information. Such writings often contain much that is not pure narration. A historian may set forth merely the program of events, but most histories contain besides a large amount of description and explanation. Frequently, too, all of this is but the basis of either a direct or an implied argument. Likewise a biographer may be chiefly concerned with the acts of a man, but he usually finds that the introduction of description and explanation aids him in making clear the life purpose of the man about whom he writes. In shorter histories and biographies, the expository and descriptive matter often displaces the narrative matter to such an extent that the story ceases to be interesting. The actual time-order of events need not be followed. It will often make our account clearer to discuss the literary works of a man at one time, his education at another, and his practical achievements at a third. Certain portions of his life may need to be emphasized while others are neglected. What we include in a biography and what we emphasize will be determined by the purpose for which it is written. For pure information, a short account is desirable, but a long account is of greater interest. If a man is really great, the most insignificant events in his life will be read with interest, but a good biographer will select such events with good taste and then will present them so that they will have a bearing upon the more important phases of the man's life and character. Hundreds of the stories told about Lincoln would be trivial but for the fact that they help us better to understand the real character of the man. EXERCISE 1. Select some topic briefly mentioned in the history text you study. Look up a more extended account of it and come to the class prepared to recite the topic orally. Make your report clear, concise, and interesting. Decide beforehand just what facts you will relate and in what order. (See Sections 39, 52, 53.) +Theme LXXXI.+--_Come to class prepared to write upon some topic assigned by the teacher, or upon one of the following_:-- 1. Pontiac's conspiracy. 2. The battle of Marathon. 3. 4. The battle of Bannockburn. 5. Sherman's march to the sea. 6. Passage of the Alps by Napoleon. (Is your narrative told in an interesting way? Are any facts necessary to the clear understanding of it omitted?) EXERCISES 1. Name an English orator, an English statesman, and an English writer about each of whom an interesting biography might be written. 2. With the same purpose in view name two American orators, two American writers, and two American statesmen. +Theme LXXXII.+--_Write a short biography of some prominent person. Include only well-known and important facts, but do not give his name. Read the biography before the class and have them tell whose biography it is._ +151. Description in Narration.+--The descriptive elements, of narration should always have for their purpose something more than the mere creating of images. If a house is described, the description should enable us to bring to mind more vividly the events that take place within or around it. If the description aids us in understanding how or why the events occur, it is helpful; but if it fails to do this, it has no place in the narrative. Description when thus used serves as a background for the actions told in the story, and has for its purpose the explanation of how or why they occur. Sometimes the descriptions are given before the incident and sometimes the two are intermixed. In the following incident from the _Legend of Sleepy Hollow_, notice how the description prepares the mind for the action that follows. We are told that the brook which Ichabod must cross runs into a marshy and thickly wooded glen; that the oaks and chestnuts matted with grapevines throw a gloom over the place, and already we feel that it is a dreadful spot after dark. The fact that Andr was captured here adds to the feeling. We are prepared to have some exciting action take place, and had Ichabod ridden quietly across the bridge, we should have been disappointed. About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the woods, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andr was captured, and under covert of those vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot. It was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp, by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. The most important use of description in connection with narration is that of portraying character. Though it is by their actions that the character of persons is most strongly brought out, yet the descriptive matter may do much to strengthen the impression of character which we form. (Section 134.) Much of the description found in literature is of this nature. Stripped of its context such a description may fail to satisfy our ideals as judged by the principles of description discussed in Chapter VIII. Nevertheless, in its place it may be perfectly adapted to its purpose and give just the impression the author wished to give. Such descriptions must be judged in their settings, and the sole standard of judgment is not their beauty or completeness as descriptions, but how well they give the desired impressions. +Theme LXXXIII.+--_Write a short personal narrative containing some description which explains how or why events occur._ (Is there anything in the descriptive part that does not bear on the narration?) +Theme LXXXIV.+--_Write a narrative containing description that aids in giving an impression of character._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Holding the fort. 2. A steamer trip. 3. How I played truant. 4. Kidnapped. 5. The misfortunes of our circus. 6. Account for the situation shown in a picture that you have seen. (Will the reader form the impression of character which you wish him to form? Consider your theme with reference to its introduction, incentive moment, selection and arrangement of details, and climax.) SUMMARY 1. Narration assumes a variety of forms,--incidents, anecdotes, stories, letters, novels, histories, biographies, etc.,--all concerned with the relation of events. 2. The essential characteristics of a narration are,-- _a._ An introduction which tells the characters, the time, the place, and enough of the attendant circumstances to make clear the point of the narrative. _b._ The early introduction of an incentive moment. _c._ A climax presented in such a way as to maintain the interest of the reader. _d._ The selection of details essential to the climax in accordance with the principle of unity. _e._ The arrangement of these details in a coherent order. _f._ The skillful introduction of minor details which will assist in the appreciation of the point. _g._ The introduction of all necessary description and explanation. _h._ That additional effectiveness which comes from (1) Proper choice of words. (3) Variety of sentence structure. _i._ A brief conclusion. X. EXPOSITION +152. Purpose of Exposition.+--It is the purpose of exposition to make clear to others that which we ourselves understand. Its primary object is to give information. Herein lies one of the chief differences between the two forms of discourse just studied and the one that we are about to study. The primary object of most description and narration is to please, while that of exposition is to inform. Exposition answers such questions as how? why? what does it mean? what is it used for? and by these answers attempts to satisfy demands for knowledge. In the following selections notice that the first tells us _how_ to burnish a photograph; the second, _how_ to split a sheet of paper:-- 1. When the prints are almost dry they can be burnished. The burnishing iron should be heated and kept hot during the burnishing, about the same heat as a flatiron in ironing clothes. Care must be taken to keep the polished surface of the burnisher bright and clean. When the iron is hot enough the prints should be rubbed with a glac polish, which is sold for this purpose, and is applied with a small wad of flannel. Then the prints should be passed through the burnisher two or three times, the burnisher being so adjusted that the pressure on the prints is rather light; the degree of pressure will be quickly learned by experience, more pressure being required if the prints have been allowed to become dry before being polished. White castile soap will do very well as a lubricator for the prints before burnishing, and is applied in the same manner as above. --_The Amateur Photographer's Handbook_. 2. Paper can be split into two or even three parts, however thin the sheet. It may be convenient to know how to do this sometimes; as, for instance, when one wishes to paste in a scrapbook an article printed on both sides of the paper. Get a piece of plate glass and place it on a sheet of paper. Then let the paper be thoroughly soaked. With care and a little skill the sheet can be split by the top surface being removed. The best plan, however, is to paste a piece of cloth or strong paper to each side of the sheet to be split. When dry, quickly, and without hesitation, pull the two pieces asunder, when one part of the sheet will be found to have adhered to one, and part to the other. Soften the paste in water, and the two pieces can easily be removed from the cloth. EXERCISES A. Explain orally any two of the following:-- 1. How to fly a kite. 2. How a robin builds her nest. 3. How oats are harvested. 4. How tacks are made. 5. How to make a popgun. 6. How fishes breathe. 7. How to swim. 8. How to hemstitch a handkerchief. 9. How to play golf. 10. How salt is obtained. B. Name several subjects with the explanation of which you are unfamiliar. +Theme LXXXV.+--_Select for a subject something that you know how to do. Write a theme on the subject chosen._ (Have you made use of either general description or general narration? See Sections 67 and 68.) Very frequently explanations of _how_ and _why_ anything is done are combined, as in the following:-- In cases of sunstroke, place the person attacked in a cool, airy place. Do not allow a crowd to collect closely about him. Remove his clothing, and lay him flat upon his back. Dash him all over with cold water--ice-water, if it can be obtained--and rub the entire body with pieces of ice. This treatment is used to reduce the heat of the body, for in all cases of sunstroke the temperature of the body is greatly increased. When the body has become cooler, wipe it dry and remove the person to a dry locality. If respiration ceases, or becomes exceedingly slow, practice artificial respiration. After the patient has apparently recovered, he should be kept quiet in bed for some time. --Baldwin: _Essential Lessons in Human Physiology and Hygiene_. Notice that the following selection answers neither the question _how_? nor _why_? but explains what journalism is:-- JOURNALISM What is a journal? What is a journalist? What is journalism? Is it a trade, a commercial business, or a profession? Our word _journal_ comes from the French. It has different forms in the several Romantic languages, and all go back to the Latin _diurnalis_, daily, from _dies_, a day. Diurnal and diary are derived from the same source. The first journals were in fact diaries, daily records of happenings, compiled often for the pleasure and use of the compiler alone, sometimes for monarchs or statesmen or friends; later to be circulated for the information of a circle of readers, or distributed in copies to subscribers among the public at large. These were the first newspapers. While we still in a specific sense speak of daily newspapers as journals, the term is often enlarged to comprise nearly all publications that are issued periodically and distributed to subscribers. A journalist is one whose business is publishing a journal (or more than one), or editing a journal, or writing for journals, especially a person who is regularly employed in some responsible directing or creative work on a journal, as a publisher, editor, writer, reporter, critic, etc. This use of the word is comparatively modern, and it is commonly restricted to persons connected with daily or weekly newspapers. Many older newspaper men scout it, preferring to be known as publishers, editors, writers, or contributors. Journalism, however, is a word that is needed for its comprehensiveness. It includes the theory, the business, and the art of producing newspapers in all departments of the work. Hence, any school of professional journalism must be presumed to comprise in its scope and detail of instruction the knowledge that is essential to the making and conduct of newspapers. It must have for its aim the ideal newspaper which is ideally perfect in every department. Journalism, so far as it is more than mere reporting and mere money making, so far as it undertakes to frame and guide opinion, to educate the thought and instruct the conscience of the community, by editorial comment, interpretation and homily, based on the news, is under obligation to the community to be truthful, sincere, and uncorrupted; to enlighten the understanding, not to darken counsel; to uphold justice and honor with unfailing resolution, to champion morality and the public welfare with intelligent zeal, to expose wrong and antagonize it with unflinching courage. If journalism has any mission in the world besides and beyond the dissemination of news, it is a mission of maintaining a high standard of thought and life in the community it serves, strengthening all its forces that make for righteousness and beauty and fair growth. This is not solely, nor peculiarly, the office of what is called the editorial page. To be most influential, it must be a consistent expression in all departments, giving the newspaper a totality of power in such aim. This is the right ideal of journalism whenever it is considered as more than a form of commercialism. No newspaper attains its ideal in completeness. If it steadfastly works toward attainment, it gives proof of its right to be. The advancing newspaper, going on from good to better in the substance of its character and the ability of its endeavor, is the type of journalism which affords hope for the future. And one strong encouragement to fidelity in a high motive is public appreciation. --_The Boston Herald._ EXERCISES Give as complete an answer as possible to any two of the following questions:-- 1. Why do fish bite better on a cloudy day than on a bright one? 2. Why should we study history? 3. Why does a baseball curve? 4. Why did the American colonies revolt against England? 5. Why did the early settlers of New England persecute the Quakers? 6. Why should trees be planted either in early spring or late autumn? 7. Why do we lose a day in going from America to China? 8. In laying a railroad track, why is there a space left between the ends of the rails? +Theme LXXXVI.+--_Choose one of the above or a similar question as a subject for a theme. Write out as complete and exact an explanation as possible._ EXERCISE Write out a list of subjects the explanation of which would not answer the questions _why_? or _how_? How many of them can you explain? +Theme LXXXVII.+--_Write out the explanation of one of the subjects in the above list._ (Read what you have written and consider it with reference to clearness, unity, and coherence.) +153. Importance of Exposition.+--This form of discourse is important because it deals so extensively with important subjects, such as questions of government, facts in science, points in history, methods in education, and processes of manufacture. It enters vitally into our lives, no matter what our occupation may be. Business men make constant use of this kind of discourse. In fact, it would be impossible for business to be transacted with any degree of success without explanations. Loans of money would not be made if men did not understand how they could have security for the sums loaned. A manufacturer cannot expect to have good articles produced if he is unable to give needful explanations concerning their manufacture. In order that a merchant be successful he must be able to explain the relative merits of his goods to his customers. Very much of the work done in our schools is of an expository nature. The text-books used are expositions. When they of themselves are not sufficient for the clear understanding of the subject, it is necessary to consult reference books. Then, if the subject is still lacking in clearness, the teacher is called upon for additional explanation. On the other hand, the greater part of the pupil's recitations consists simply in explaining the subjects under discussion. Much of the class-room work in our schools consists of either receiving or giving explanations. EXERCISES 1. Name anything outside of school work that you have been called upon to explain during the last week or two. 2. Name anything outside of school work that you have recently learned through explanation. 3. Name three topics in each of your studies for to-day that call for explanation. 4. Name some topic in which the text-book did not seem to make the explanation clear. +Theme LXXXVIII.+--_Write out one of the topics mentioned in number three of the preceding exercise._ (Have you included everything that is necessary to make your explanation clear? Can anything be omitted without affecting the clearness?) +154. Clear Understanding.+--The first requisite of a good explanation is a clear understanding on the part of the one who is giving the explanation. It is evident that if we do not understand a subject ourselves we cannot make our explanations clear to others. If the ideas in our mind are in a confused state, our explanation will be equally confused. If you do not understand a problem in algebra, your attempt to explain it to others will prove a failure. If you attempt to explain how a canal boat is taken through a lock without thoroughly understanding the process yourself, you will give your listeners only a confused idea of how it is done. The principal reason why pupils fail in their recitations and examinations is that in preparing their lessons, they do not make themselves thoroughly acquainted with the topics that they are studying. They often go over the lessons hurriedly and carelessly and come to class with confused ideas. Consequently when the pupils attempt to recite, there is, if anything, an additional confusion of ideas, and the recitation proves a failure. Carelessness in the preparation of daily recitations, negligence in asking for additional explanations, and inattention to the explanations that are given, inevitably cause failure when tests or examinations are called for. EXERCISES 1. Name five subjects about which you know so little that it would be useless to attempt an explanation. 2. Name five about which you know something, but not enough to give clear explanations of them. 3. Name four about which you know but little, but concerning which you feel sure that you can obtain information. 4. Name six that you think you clearly understand. Report orally on one of them. +Theme LXXXIV.+--_Write out an explanation of one of the subjects named in number four of the preceding exercise._ (Read your theme and criticise it as to clearness. In listening to the themes read by other members of the class consider them as to clearness. Call for further explanation of any part not perfectly clear to you.) +155. Selection of Facts--Unity.+--After we have been given a subject for explanation or have chosen one for ourselves, we must decide concerning the facts to be presented. In some kinds of exposition this selection is rather difficult. Since the purpose is to make our meaning clear to the person addressed, we secure unity by including all that is necessary to that purpose and by omitting all that is not necessary. It is evident that selection of facts to secure unity depends to some extent upon the audience. If a child asks us to explain what a trust is, our explanation will differ very much from that which we would give if we were addressing a body of men who were familiar with the term _trusts_, but do not understand the advantages and disadvantages arising from their existence. Examine the following as to selection of facts. For what class of people do you think it was written? What seems to be the purpose of it? THE FEUDAL SYSTEM This connection of king as sovereign, with his princes and great men as vassals, must be attended to and understood, in order that you may comprehend the history which follows. A great king, or sovereign prince, gave large provinces, or grants of land, to his dukes, earls, and noblemen; and each of these possessed nearly as much power, within his own district, as the king did in the rest of his dominions. But then the vassal, whether duke, earl, or lord, or whatever he was, was obliged to come with a certain number of men to assist the sovereign, when he was engaged in war; and in time of peace, he was bound to attend on his court when summoned, and do homage to him, that is, acknowledge that he was his master and liege lord. In like manner, the vassals of the crown, as they were called, divided the lands which the king had given them into estates, which they bestowed on knights, and gentlemen, whom they thought fitted to follow them in war, and to attend them in peace; for they, too, held courts, and administered justice, each in his own province. Then the knights and gentlemen, who had these estates from the great nobles, distributed the property among an inferior class of proprietors, some of whom cultivated the land themselves, and others by means of husbandmen and peasants, who were treated as a sort of slaves, being bought and sold like brute beasts, along with the farms which they labored. Thus, when a great king, like that of France or England, went to war, he summoned all his crown vassals to attend him, with the number of armed men corresponding to his fief, as it was called, that is, territory which had been granted to each of them. The prince, duke, or earl, in order to obey the summons, called upon all the gentlemen to whom he had given estates, to attend his standard with their followers in arms. The gentlemen, in their turn, called on the franklins, a lower order of gentry, and upon the peasants; and thus the whole force of the kingdom was assembled in one array. This system of holding lands for military service, that is, for fighting for the sovereign when called upon, was called the _feudal system_. It was general throughout all Europe for a great many ages. --Scott: _Tales of a Grandfather_. +Theme LXXXV.+--_Write a theme on one of the following:_-- 1. Tell your younger brother how to make a whistle. 2. Explain some game to a friend of your own age. 3. Give an explanation of the heating system of your school to a member of the school board of an adjoining city. 4. Explain to a city girl how butter is made. 5. Explain to a city boy how hay is cured. 6. Explain to a friend how to run an automobile. (Consider the selection of facts as determined by the person addressed.) +156. Arrangement--Coherence.+--Some expositions are of such a nature that there is but little question concerning the proper arrangement of the topics composing them. In order to be coherent, all we do is to follow the natural order of occurrence in time and place. This is especially true of general narrations and of some general descriptions. In explaining the circulation of the blood, for instance, it is most natural for us to follow the course which the blood takes in circulating through the body. In explaining the manufacture of articles we naturally begin with the material as it comes to the factory, and trace the process of manufacture in order through its successive stages. In other kinds of exposition a coherent arrangement is somewhat difficult. We should not, however, fail to pay attention to it. A clear understanding of the subject, on the part of the listener, depends largely upon the proper arrangement of topics. As you study examples of expositions of some length, you will notice that there are topics which naturally belong together. These topics form groups, and the groups are treated separately. If the expositions are good ones, the related facts will not only be united into groups, but the groups will also be so arranged and the transition from one group to another be so naturally made that it will cause no confusion. In brief explanations of but one paragraph there should be but one group of facts. Even these facts need to be so arranged as to make the whole idea clear. The writer may have a clear understanding of the whole idea, but in order to give the reader the same clear understanding, certain facts must be presented before others are. In order to make an explanation clear, the facts must be so arranged that those which are necessary to the understanding of others shall come first. Examine the following expositions as to the grouping of related facts and the arrangement of those groups:-- Fresh, pure air at all times is essential to bodily comfort and good health. Air may become impure from many causes. Poisonous gases may be mixed with it; sewer gas is especially to be guarded against; coal gas which is used for illuminating purposes is very poisonous and dangerous if inhaled; the air arising from decaying substances, foul cellars, or stagnant pools, is impure and unhealthy, and breeds diseases; the foul and poisonous air which has been expelled from the lungs, if breathed again, will cause many distressing symptoms. Ventilation has for its object the removal of impure air and the supplying of fresh, wholesome air in its place. Proper ventilation should be secured in all rooms and buildings, and its importance cannot be overestimated. In the summer time and in climates which permit of it with comfort, ventilation may be secured by having the doors and windows open, thus allowing the fresh air to circulate freely through the house. In stormy and cold weather, however, some other means of ventilation must be supplied. If open fires or grates are used for heating purposes, good ventilation exists, for under such circumstances, the foul and impure air is drawn out of the rooms through the chimneys, and the fresh air enters through the cracks of the doors and windows. Where open fireplaces are not used, several plans of ventilation may be used, as they all operate on the same principle. Two openings should be in the room, one of them near the floor, through which the fresh air may enter, the other higher up, and connected with a shaft or chimney, which producing a draft, may serve to free the room from impure air. The size of these openings may be regulated according to the size of the room. --Baldwin: _Essential Lessons in Human Physiology_. THE QUEEN BEE It is a singular fact, also, that the queen is made, not born. If the entire population of Spain or Great Britain were the offspring of one mother, it might be found necessary to hit upon some device by which a royal baby could be manufactured out of an ordinary one, or else give up the fashion of royalty. All the bees in the hive have a common parentage, and the queen and the worker are the same in the egg and in the chick; the patent of royalty is in the cell and in the food; the cell being much larger, and the food a peculiar stimulating kind of jelly. In certain contingencies, such as the loss of the queen with no eggs in the royal cells, the workers take the larva of an ordinary bee, enlarge the cell by taking in the two adjoining ones, and nurse it and stuff it and coddle it, till at the end of sixteen days it comes out a queen. But ordinarily, in the natural course of events, the young queen is kept a prisoner in her cell till the old queen has left with the swarm. Not only kept, but guarded against the mother queen, who only wants an opportunity to murder every royal scion in the hive. Both the queens, the one a prisoner and the other at large, pipe defiance at each other at this time, a shrill, fine, trumpetlike note that any ear will at once recognize. This challenge, not being allowed to be accepted by either party, is followed, in a day or two, by the abdication of the old queen; she leads out the swarm, and her successor is liberated by her keepers, who, in her turn, abdicates in favor of the next younger. When the bees have decided that no more swarms can issue, the reigning queen is allowed to use her stiletto upon her unhatched sisters. Cases have been known where two queens issued at the same time, when a mortal combat ensued, encouraged by the workers, who formed a ring about them, but showed no preference, and recognized the victor as the lawful sovereign. For these and many other curious facts we are indebted to the blind Huber. It is worthy of note that the position of the queen cells is always vertical, while that of the drones and workers is horizontal; majesty stands on its head, which fact may be a part of the secret. The notion has always very generally prevailed that the queen of the bees is an absolute ruler, and issues her royal orders to willing subjects. Hence Napoleon the First sprinkled the symbolic bees over the imperial mantle that bore the arms of his dynasty; and in the country of the Pharaohs the bee was used as the emblem of a people sweetly submissive to the orders of its king. But the fact is, a swarm of bees is an absolute democracy, and kings and despots can find no warrant in their example. The power and authority are entirely vested in the great mass, the workers. They furnish all the brains and foresight of the colony, and administer its affairs. Their word is law, and both king and queen must obey. They regulate the swarming, and give the signal for the swarm to issue from the hive; they select and make ready the tree in the woods and conduct the queen to it. The peculiar office and sacredness of the queen consists in the fact that she is the mother of the swarm, and the bees love and cherish her as a mother and not as a sovereign. She is the sole female bee in the hive, and the swarm clings to her because she is their life. Deprived of their queen, and of all brood from which to rear one, the swarm loses all heart and soon dies, though there be an abundance of honey. The common bees will never use their sting upon the queen,--if she is to be disposed of they starve her to death; and the queen herself will sting nothing but royalty--nothing but a rival queen. --John Burroughs: _Birds and Bees_. +Theme LXXXVI.+--_Write an expository theme._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. Duties of the sheriff. 2. How a motor works. 3. How wheat is harvested. 4. Why the tide exists. 5. How our schoolhouse is ventilated. 6. What is meant by the theory of evolution. 7. The manufacture of ----. 8. How to make a ----. (Consider the arrangement of your statements.) +157. Use of an Outline.+--Before beginning to write an explanation we need to consider what we know about the subject and what our purpose is; we need to select facts that will make our explanations clear to our readers; and we need to decide what arrangement of these facts will best show their relation to each other. We shall find it of advantage, especially in lengthy explanations, to express our thoughts in the form of an outline. An outline helps us to see clearly whether our facts are well chosen, and it also helps us to see whether the arrangement is orderly or not. Clearness is above all the essential of exposition, and outlines aid clearness by giving unity and coherence. EXERCISES Select three of the following subjects and make lists of facts that you know about them. From these select those which would be necessary in making a clear explanation of each. After making out these lists of facts, arrange them in what seems to you the best possible order for making the explanation clear to your classmates. 1. The value of a school library. 2. Sponges. 3. The manufacture of clocks. 4. Drawing. 5. Athletics in the high school. 6. Examinations. 7. Debating societies. +Theme LXXXVII.+--_Following the outline, write an exposition on one of the subjects chosen._ (Notice the transition from one paragraph to another. See Section 87.) +158. Exposition of Terms--Definition.+--Explanation of the meaning of general terms is one form of exposition (Section 63). The first step in the exposition of a term is the giving of a definition. This may be accomplished by the use of a synonym (Section 64). We make a term intelligible to the reader by the use of a synonym with which he is familiar; and though such a definition is inexact, it gives a rough idea of the meaning of the term in question, and so serves a useful purpose. If, however, we wish exactness, we shall need to make use of the logical definition. +159. The Logical Definition.+--The logical definition sets exact limits to the meaning of a term. An exact definition must include all the members of a class indicated by the term defined, and it must exclude everything that does not belong to that class. A logical definition is composed of two parts. It first names the class to which the term to be defined belongs, and then it names the characteristic that distinguishes that term from all other members of the same class. The class is termed the _genus_, and the distinguishing characteristics of the different members of the class are termed the _differentia_. Notice the following division into genus and differentia. TERM TO BE | CLASS | DISTINGUISHING DEFINED | _(Genus)_ | CHARACTERISTIC | | _(Differentia)_ | | A parallelogram | is a quadrilateral | whose opposite sides | | are parallel | | Exposition | is that form of | which seeks to explain | discourse | the meaning of a term. | | Each definition includes three elements: the term to be defined, the genus, and the differentia; but these are not necessarily arranged in the order named. EXERCISE Select the three elements (the term to be defined, the genus, and the differentia) in each of the following:-- 1. A polygon of three sides is called a triangle. 2. A square is an equilateral rectangle. 3. A rectangle whose sides are equal is a square. 4. Description is that form of discourse which aims to present a picture. 5. The characters composing written words are called letters. 6. The olfactory nerves are the first pair of cranial nerves. 7. Person is that modification of a noun or pronoun which denotes the speaker, the person spoken to, or the person or things spoken of. 8. The diptera, or true flies, are readily distinguishable from other insects by their having a single pair of wings instead of two pairs, the hind wings being transformed into small knob-headed pedicles called balancers or halters. +160. Difficulty of Framing Exact Definitions.+--In order to frame a logical definition, exactness of thought is essential. Even when the thought is exact, it will be found difficult and often impossible to frame a satisfactory definition. Usually there is little difficulty in selecting the genus, still care should be taken to select one that includes the term to be defined. We might begin the definition of iron by saying, "Iron is a metal," since all iron is metal, but it would be incorrect to begin the definition of rodent by saying, "A rodent is a beaver," because the term beaver does not include all rodents. We must also take care to choose for the genus some term familiar to the reader, because the object of the definition is to make the meaning clear to him. The chief difficulty of framing logical definitions arises in the selection of differentia. In many cases it is not easy to decide just what characteristics distinguish one member of a class from all other members of that class. We all know that iron is a metal, but most of us would find it difficult to add to the definition just those things which distinguish iron from other metals. We may say, "A flute is a musical instrument"; so much of the definition is easily given. The difficulty lies in distinguishing it from all other musical instruments. EXERCISES _A._ Select proper differentia for the following:-- | TERM TO BE DEFINED | CLASS (Genus) | DISTINGUISHING | | CHARACTERISTIC | | _(Differentia)_ | | 1. Narration | is that form of discourse | ? | | 2. A circle | is a portion of a plane | ? | | 3. A dog | is an animal | ? | | 4. A hawk | is a bird | ? | | 5. Physiography | is the science | ? | | 6. A sneak | is a person | ? | | 7. A quadrilateral | is a plane figure | ? | | 8. A barn | is a building | ? | | 9. A bicycle | is a machine | ? | | 10. A lady | is a woman | ? _B._ Give logical definitions for at least four words in the list below. 1. Telephone. 2. Square. 3. Hammer. 4. Novel 5. Curiosity. 6. Door. 7. Camera. 8. Brick. 9. Microscope. +161. Inexact Definitions.+--If the distinguishing characteristics are not properly selected, the definition though logical in form may be inexact, because the differentia do not exclude all but the term to be defined. If we say, "Exposition is that form of discourse which gives information," the definition is inexact because there are other forms of discourse that give information. Many definitions given in text-books are inexact. Care should be taken to distinguish them from those which are logically exact. EXERCISE Which of the following are exact? 1. A sheep is a gregarious animal that produces wool. 2. A squash is a garden plant much liked by striped bugs. 3. A pronoun is a word used for a noun. 4. The diaphragm is a sheet of muscle and tendon, convex on its upper side, and attached by bands of striped muscle to the lower ribs at the side, to the sternum, and to the cartilage of the ribs which join it in front, and at the back by very strong bands to the lumbar vertebrae. 5. A man is a two-legged animal without feathers. 6. Argument is that form of discourse which has for its object the proof of the truth or falsity of a proposition. 7. The base of an isosceles triangle is that side which is equal to no other. 8. Zinc is a metal used under stoves. 9. The epidermis of a leaf is a delicate, transparent skin which covers the whole leaf. +Theme LXXXVIII.+--_Write an expository paragraph about one of the following:_-- Suggested subjects:-- 1. Household science and arts. 2. Architecture. 3. Aesthetics. 4. Poetry. 5. Fiction. 6. Half tones. 7. Steam fitting. 8. Swimming. (Consider the definitions you have used.) +162. Division.+--The second step in the exposition of a term is division. Definition establishes the limits of the term. Division separates into its parts that which is included by the term. By definition we distinguish triangles from squares, circles, and other plane figures. By division we may separate them into scalene, isosceles, and equilateral, or if we divide them according to a different principle into right and oblique triangles. In either case the division is complete and exact. By completeness is meant that every object denoted by the term explained is included in the division given, thus making the sum of these divisions equal to the whole. By exactness is meant that but a single principle has been used, and so no object denoted by the term explained will be included in more than one of the divisions made. There are no triangles which are neither right nor oblique, so the division is complete; and no triangle can be both right and oblique, so the division is exact. Such a complete and exact division is called _classification_. Nearly every term may be divided according to more than one principle. We may divide the term _books_ into ancient and modern, or into religious and secular, or in any one of a dozen other ways. Which principle of division we shall choose will depend upon our purpose. If we wish to discuss _sponges_ with reference to their shapes, our division will be different from what it would be if we were to discuss them with reference to their uses. When a principle of division has once been chosen it is essential that it be followed throughout. The use of two principles causes an overlapping of divisions, thus producing what is called cross division. Using the principle of use, a tailor may sort his bolts of cloth into cloth for overcoats, cloth for suits, and cloth for trousers; using the principle of weight, into heavy weight and light weight; or he may sort them with reference to color or price. In any case but a single principle is used. It would not do to divide them into cloth for suits, light weight goods, and brown cloth. Such a division would be neither complete nor exact; for some of the cloth would belong to none of the classes while other pieces might properly be placed in all three. In the exact sciences complete exposition is the aim, and classification is necessary; but in other writing the purpose in hand is often better accomplished by omitting minor divisions. A writer of history might consider the political growth, the wars, and the religion of a nation and omit its domestic life and educational progress, especially if these did not greatly influence the result that he wishes to make plain. If we wished to explain the plan of the organization of a high school, it would be satisfactory to divide the pupils into freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors, even though, in any particular school, there might be a few special and irregular pupils who belonged to none of these classes. An exposition of the use of hammers would omit many occasional and unimportant uses. Such a classification though exact is incomplete and is called _partition_. EXERCISES _A._ Can you tell which of the following are classifications? Which are partitions? Which are defective? 1. The inhabitants of the United States are Americans, Indians, and negroes. 2. Lines are straight, curved, and crooked. 3. Literature is composed of prose, poetry, and fiction. 4. The political parties in the last campaign were Republican and Democrat. 5. The United States Government has control of states and territories 6. Plants are divided into two groups: (1) the phanerogams, or flowering plants, and (2) cryptogams, or flowerless plants. 7. All phanerogamous plants consist of (1) root and (2) shoot; the shoot consisting of (_a_) stem and (_b_) leaf. It is true that some exceptional plants, in maturity, lack leaves, or lack root. These exceptions are few. 8. We may divide the activities of the government into: keeping order, making law, protecting individual rights, providing public schools, providing and mending roads, caring for the destitute, carrying the mail, managing foreign relations, making war, and collecting taxes. _B_. Notice the following paragraphs, State briefly the divisions made. +1. Plan of the Book.+--What is government? Who is the government? We shall begin by considering the American answers to these questions. What does The Government do? That will be our next inquiry. And with regard to the ordinary practical work of government, we shall see that government in the United States is not very different from government in the other civilized countries of the world. Then we shall inquire how government officials are chosen in the United States, and how the work of government is parceled out among them. This part of the book will show what is meant by self-government and local self-government, and will show that our system differs from European systems chiefly in these very matters of self-government and local self-government. Coming then to the details of our subject, we shall consider the names and duties of the principal officials in the United States; first, those of the township, county, and city, then those of the state, and then those of the federal government. Finally, we shall examine certain operations in the American system, such as a trial in court, and nominations for office, and conclude with an outline of international relations, and a summary of the commonest laws of business and property. 2. +Zology and its Divisions.+--What things we do know about the dog, however, and about its relatives, and what things others know can be classified into several groups; namely, things or facts about what a dog does or its behavior, things about the make-up of its body, things about its growth and development, things about the kind of dog it is and the kinds of relatives it has, and things about its relations to the outer world and its special fitness for life. All that is known of these different kinds of facts about the dog constitutes our knowledge of the dog and its life. All that is known by scientific men and others of these different kinds of facts about all the 500,000 or more kinds of living animals, constitutes our knowledge of animals and is the science _zology_. Names have been given to these different groups of facts about animals. The facts about the bodily make-up or structure of animals constitute that part of zology called animal _anatomy_ or _morphology;_ the facts about the things animals do, or the functions of animals, compose animal _physiology;_ the facts about the development of animals from young to adult condition are the facts of animal _development;_ the knowledge of the different kinds of animals and their relationships to each other is called _systematic_ zology or animal _classification;_ and finally the knowledge of the relations of animals to their external surroundings, including the inorganic world, plants and other animals, is called animal _ecology_. Any study of animals and their life, that is, of zology, may include all or any of these parts of zology. --Kellogg: _Elementary Zology_. 3. Are not these outlines of American destiny in the near-by future rational? In these papers an attempt has been made:-- First, to picture the physical situation and equipment of the American in the modern world. Second, to outline the large and fundamental elements of American character, which are:-- (_a_) Conservatism--moderation, thoughtfulness, and poise. (_b_) Thoroughness--conscientious performance, to the minutest detail, of any work which we as individuals or people may have in hand. (_c_) Justice--that spirit which weighs with the scales of righteousness our conduct toward each other and our conduct as a nation toward the world. (_d_) Religion--the sense of dependence upon and responsibility to the Higher Power; the profound American belief that our destiny is in His hands. (_e_) The minor elements of American character--such as the tendency to organize, the element of humor, impatience with frauds, and the movement in American life toward the simple and sincere. --Beveridge: _Americans of To-day and To-morrow_. _C._ Consult the table of contents or opening chapters of any text-book and notice the main divisions. _D._ Find in text-books five examples of classification or division. _E._ Make one or more divisions of each of the following:-- 1. The pupils in your school. 2. Your neighbors. 3. The books in the school library. 4. The buildings you see on the way to school. 5. The games you know how to play. 6. Dogs. 7. Results of competition. +Theme LXXXIX.+--_Write an introductory paragraph showing what divisions you, would make if called upon, to write about one of the following topics:_-- 1. Mathematics. 2. The school system of our city. 3. The churches of our town. 4. Methods of transportation. 5. Our manufacturing interests. 6. Games that girls like. 7. The inhabitants of the United States. (Have you mentioned all important divisions of your subject? Have you included any minor and unimportant divisions? Consider other possible principles of division of your subject. Have you chosen the one best suited to your purpose?) +163. Exposition of a Proposition.+--Two terms united into a sentence so that one is affirmed of the other become a proposition. Propositions, like terms, may be either specific or general. "Napoleon was ambitious" is a specific proposition; "Politicians are ambitious" is a general one. When a proposition is presented to the mind, its meaning may not at once be clear. The obscurity may arise from the fact that some of the terms in the proposition are unfamiliar, or are obscure, or misleading. In this case the first step, and often the only step necessary, is the explanation of the terms in the proposition. The following selection taken from Dewey's _Psychology_ illustrates the exposition of a proposition by explaining its terms:-- The habitual act thus occurs automatically and mechanically. When we say that it occurs automatically, we mean that it takes place, as it were, of itself, spontaneously, without the intervention of the will. By saying that it is mechanical, we mean that there exists no consciousness of the process involved, nor of the relation of the means, the various muscular adjustments, to the end, locomotion. It is possible for our listeners or readers to understand each term in a proposition and yet not be able to understand the meaning of the proposition as a whole. When this is the case, we shall find it necessary to make use of methods of exposition discussed later. EXERCISES Explain orally the following propositions by explaining any of the terms likely to be unfamiliar or misunderstood: 1. The purpose of muscular contraction is the production of motion. 2. Ping-pong is lawn tennis in miniature, with a few modifications. 3. An inevitable dualism bisects nature. 4. Never inflict corporal chastisement for intellectual faults. 5. Children should be led to make their own investigations and to draw their own inferences. 6. The black willow is an excellent tonic as well as a powerful antiseptic. 7. Give the Anglo-Saxon equivalent for "nocturnal." 8. A negative exponent signifies the reciprocal of what the expression would be if the exponent were positive. +Theme XC.+--_Write an explanation of one of the following:_ 1. Birds of a feather flock together. 2. Truths and roses have thorns about them. 3. Where there's a will, there's a way. 4. Who keeps company with a wolf will learn to howl. 5. He gives nothing but worthless gold, who gives from a sense of duty. 6. All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed. 7. Be not simply good--be good for something. 8. He that hath light within his own clear breast, May sit i' the center, and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the midday sun; Himself is his own dungeon. (Select the sentence that seems most difficult to you, determine what it means, and then attempt to make an explanation that will show that you thoroughly understand its meaning.) +164. Exposition by Repetition.+--In discussing paragraph development (Section 50) we have already learned that the meaning of a proposition may be made clearer by the repetition of the topic statement. This repetition may be used to supplement the definition of terms, or it may by itself make clear both the meaning of the terms and of the proposition. Each repetition of the proposition presents it to the reader in a new light or in a stronger light. Each time the idea is presented it seems more definite, more familiar, more clear. Such statements of a proposition take advantage of the fact that the reader is thinking, and we merely attempt to direct his thought in such a way that he will turn the proposition over and over in his mind until it is understood. Notice how the following propositions are explained largely by means of repetitions, each of which adds a little to the original statement. How to live?--that is the essential question for us. Not how to live in the mere material sense only, but in the widest sense. The general problem, which comprehends every special problem, is the right ruling of conduct in all directions under all circumstances. In what way to treat the body; in what way to treat the mind; in what way to manage our affairs; in what way to bring up a family; in what way to behave as a citizen; in what way to utilize all those sources of happiness which nature supplies--how to use all our faculties to the greatest advantage of ourselves and others--how to live completely? And this being the great thing needful for us to learn, is, by consequence, the great thing which education has to teach. To prepare us for complete living is the function which education has to discharge: and the only radical mode of judging of any educational course, is, to judge in what degree it discharges such functions. --Herbert Spencer: _Education_. The gray squirrel is remarkably graceful in all his movements. It seems as though some subtle curve was always produced by the line of the back and tail at every light bound of the athletic little creature. He never moves abruptly or jerks himself impatiently, as the red squirrel is continually doing. On the contrary, all his movements are measured and deliberate, but swift and sure. He never makes a bungling leap, and his course is marked by a number of sinuous curves almost equal to those of a snake. He is here one minute, and the next he has slipped away almost beyond the ability of our eyes to follow. --F. Schuyler Matthews: _American Nut Gatherers_. +Theme XCI.+--_Write a paragraph explaining one of the propositions below by means of repetition._ 1. Physical training should be made compulsory in the high school. 2. Some people who seem to be selfish are not really so. 3. The dangers of athletic contests are overestimated. 4. The Monroe Doctrine is a warning to European powers to keep their hands off territory in North and South America. 5. By the "treadmill of life" we mean the daily routine of duties. 6. The thirst for novelty is one of the most powerful incentives that take a man to distant countries. 7. There are unquestionably increasing opportunities for an honorable and useful career in the civil service of the United States. (Have you used any method besides that of repetition? Does your paragraph really explain the proposition?) +165. Exposition by Use of Examples.+--Exposition treats of general subjects, and the topic statement of a paragraph is, therefore, a general statement. In order to understand what such a general statement means, the reader may need to think of a concrete case. The writer may develop his paragraph by furnishing concrete cases. (See Section 44.) In many cases no further explanation is necessary. The following paragraph illustrates this method of explanation:-- The lower portions of stream valleys which have sunk below sea level are called _drowned valleys_. The lower St. Lawrence is perhaps the greatest example of a drowned valley in the world, but many other rivers are in the same condition. The old channel of the Hudson River may be traced upon the sea bottom about 125 miles beyond its present mouth, and its valley is drowned as far up as Troy, 150 miles. The sea extends up the Delaware River to Trenton, and Chesapeake Bay with its many arms is the drowned valleys of the Susquehanna and its former tributaries. Many of the most famous harbors in the world, as San Francisco Bay, Puget Sound, the estuaries of the Thames and the Mersey, and the Scottish firths, are drowned valleys. +Theme XCII.+--_Develop one of the following topic statements into an expository paragraph by use of examples:_-- 1. Weather depends to a great extent upon winds. 2. Progress in civilization has been materially aided by the use of nails. 3. Habit is formed by the repetition of the same act. 4. Men become criminals by a gradual process. 5. Men's lives are affected by small things. 6. Defeat often proves to be real success. (Have you made your meaning clear? Does your example really illustrate the topic statement? Can you think of other illustrations?) +166. Exposition by Comparison or Contrast.+--We can frequently make our explanations clear by comparing the subject under discussion with something that is already familiar to the reader. In such a case we shall need to show in what respect the subject we are explaining is similar to or differs from that with which it is compared. (Section 48.) Though customary it is not necessary to compare the term under discussion with some well-known term. In the example below the term _socialism_ is probably no more familiar than the term _anarchism_. Both are explained in the selection, and the explanations are made clearer by contrasting the one with the other. Socialism, which is curiously confounded by the indiscriminating with Anarchism, is its exact opposite. Anarchy is the doctrine that there should be no government control; Socialism--that is, State Socialism--is the doctrine that government should control everything. State Socialism affirms that the state--that is, the government--should own all the tools and implements of industry, should direct all occupations, and should give to every man according to his need and require from every man according to his ability. State Socialism points to the evils of overproduction in some fields and insufficient production in others, under our competitive system, and proposes to remedy these evils by assigning to government the duty of determining what shall be produced and what each worker shall produce. If there are too many preachers and too few shoemakers, the preacher will be taken from the pulpit and assigned to the bench; if there are too many shoemakers and too few preachers, the shoemaker will be taken from the bench and assigned to the pulpit. Anarchy says, no government; Socialism says, all government; Anarchy leaves the will of the individual absolutely unfettered, Socialism leaves nothing to the individual will; Anarchism would have no social organism which is not dependent on the entirely voluntary assent of each individual member of the organism at every instant of its history; Socialism would have every individual of the social organism wholly subordinate in all his lifework to the authority of the whole body expressed through its properly constituted officers. It is true that there are some writers who endeavor to unite these two antagonistic doctrines by teaching that society should be organized wholly for industry, not at all for government. But how a coperative industry can be carried on without a government which controls as well as counsels, no writer, so far as I have been able to discover, has ever even suggested. --Lyman Abbott: _Anarchism: Its Cause and Cure_. +Theme XCIII.+--_Write an exposition that makes use of comparison:_-- Suggested subjects:-- 1. A bad habit is a tyrant. 2. Typewritten letters. 3. The muskrat's house. 4. Compare Shylock with Barabas in Marlowe's _Jew of Malta_. 5. Methods of reading. 6. All the world's a stage. 7. Compare life to a flower. (Can you suggest any other comparisons which you might have used? Have you been careful in your selection of facts and arrangement?) +167. Exposition by Obverse Statements.+--In explaining an idea it is necessary to distinguish it from any related or similar idea with which it may be confused in the minds of our readers. Clearness is added by the statement that one is _not_ the other. To say that socialism is not anarchy is a good preparation for the explanation of what socialism really is. In the following selection Burke excludes different kinds of peace and by this exclusion emphasizes the kind of peace which he has in mind. The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of war; not peace to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate and endless negotiations; not peace to arise out of universal discord, fomented from principle, in all parts of the empire; not peace to depend on the juridical determination of perplexing questions, or the precise marking the shadowy boundaries of a complex government. It is simple peace; sought in its natural course, and in its ordinary haunts.--It is peace sought in the spirit of peace; and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, by removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the _former unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the Mother Country_, to give permanent satisfaction to your people; and (far from a scheme of ruling by discord) to reconcile them to each other in the same act, and by the bond of the very same interest which reconciles them to British government. +168. Exposition by Giving Particulars or Details.+--One of the most natural methods of explaining is to give particulars or details. After a general statement has been made, our minds naturally look for details to make the meaning of that statement clearer. (See Sections 45-47.) This method is used very largely in generalized descriptions and narrations. Notice the use of particulars or details in the following examples:-- Happy the boy who knows the secret of making a willow whistle! He must know the best kind of willow for the purpose, and the exact time of year when the bark will slip. The country boy seems to know these things by instinct. When the day for whistles arrives he puts away marbles and hunts the whetstone. His jackknife must be in good shape, for the making of a whistle is a delicate piece of handicraft. The knife has seen service in mumblepeg and as nut pick since whistle-making time last year. Surrounded by a crowd of spectators, some admiring, some skeptical, the boy selects his branch. There is an air of mystery about the proceeding. With a patient indulgent smile he rejects all offers of assistance. He does not attempt to explain why this or that branch will not do. When finally he raises his shining knife and cuts the branch on which his choice has fallen, all crowd round and watch. From the large end between two twigs he takes a section about six inches long. Its bark is light green and smooth. He trims one end neatly and passes his thumb thoughtfully over it to be sure it is finished to his taste. He then cuts the other end of the stick at an angle of about 45, making a clean single cut. The sharp edge of this is now cut off to make a mouthpiece. This is a delicate operation, for the bark is apt to crush or split if the knife is dull, or the hand is unskillful. The boy holds it up, inspecting his own work critically. Sometimes he is dissatisfied and cuts again. If he makes a third cut and is still unsuccessful he tosses the spoiled piece away. It is too short now. A half dozen eager hands reach for the discarded stick, and the one who gets it fondles it lovingly. I once had such a treasure and cherished it until I learned the secret of the whistle-maker's art. He next places the knife edge about half an inch back from the end of the mouthpiece and cuts straight towards the center of the branch about one-fourth the way through. A three-cornered piece is now cut out, and the chip falls to the ground unheeded. When this is finished the boy's eye runs along the stick with a calculating squint. The knife edge is placed at the middle, then moved a short distance towards the mouthpiece. With skillful hand he cuts through the bark in a perfect circle round the stick. While we watch in fascinated silence, he takes the knife by the blade and resting the unfinished whistle on his knees he strikes firmly but gently the part of the stick between the ring and the mouthpiece. Only the wooden part of the handle touches the bark. He goes over and over it until every spot on its surface has felt his light blow. Now he lays the knife aside, and grasping the stick with a firm hand below the ring in the bark, with the right hand he holds the pounded end. He tries it with a careful twist. It sticks. Back to his knees it goes and the tap, tap, begins again. When he twists it again it slips, and the bark comes off smoothly in one piece, while we breathe a sigh of relief. How white the stick is under the bark! It shines and looks slippery. Now the boy takes his knife again. He cuts towards the straight jog where the chip was taken out, paring the wood away, sloping up to within an inch of the end of the bark. Now he cuts a thin slice of the wood between the edge of the vertical cut and the mouthpiece. The whistle is nearly finished. We have all seen him make them before and know what comes next. Our tongues seek over moist lips sympathetically, for we know the taste of peeled willow. He puts the end of the stick into his mouth and draws it in and out until it is thoroughly wet. Then he lifts the carefully guarded section of bark and slips it back into place, fitting the parts nicely together. The willow whistle is finished. There remains but to try it. Will it go? Does he dare blow into it and risk our jeers if it is dumb? With all the fine certainty of the Pied Piper the boy lifts the humble instrument to his lips. His eyes have a far-off look, his face changes; while we strain eyes and ears, he takes his own time. The silence is broken by a note, so soft, so tender, yet so weird and unlike other sounds! Our hands quiver, our hearts beat faster. It is as if the spirit of the willow tree had joined with the spirit of childhood in the natural song of earth. It goes! (Copyright, 1902, Doubleday, Page and Co.) +Theme XCIV.+--_Write an exposition on one of the following subjects, making use of particulars or details:_-- 1. How ice cream is made. 2. The cultivation of rice. 3. Greek architecture. 4. How paper is made. 5. A tornado. 6. Description of a steam engine. 7. The circulatory system of a frog. 8. A western ranch. 9. Street furniture. 10. A street fair. (Have you used particulars sufficient to make your meaning clear? Have you used any unnecessary particulars? Why is the arrangement of your topics easy in this theme?) +169. Exposition by Cause and Effect.+--When our general statement is in the form of a cause or causes, the question naturally arises in our mind as to the effects resulting from those causes. In like manner, when the general statement takes the form of an effect, we want to know what the causes are that produce such an effect. From the very nature of exposition we may expect to find much of this kind of discourse relating to causes and effects. (See Section 49.) Notice the following example:-- The effect of the polar whirls may be seen in the rapid rotation of water in a pan or bowl. The centrifugal force throws the water away from the center, where the surface becomes depressed, and piles it up around the sides, where the surface becomes elevated. The water being deeper at the sides than at the center, its pressure upon the bottom is proportionately greater. A similar effect is produced by the whirl of the air around the polar regions. It is thrown away from the polar regions and piled up around the circumference of the whirl. There is less air above the polar regions than above latitude 30-40, and the atmospheric pressure is correspondingly low at one place and high at the other. Thus the centrifugal force of the polar whirl makes the pressure low in spite of the low temperature. The position of the tropical belts of high pressure is a resultant of the high temperature of the equatorial regions on one side and the polar whirls on the other. +Theme XCV.+--_Write an expository theme using cause or effect._ Suggested subjects:-- 1. The causes of the French Revolution. 2. How ravines are formed. 3. Irrigation. 4. Effects of smoking. 5. Lack of exercise. 6. Volcanic eruptions. (Did you find it necessary to make use of any other method of explanation? Did you make use of description in any place?) SUMMARY 1. Exposition is that form of discourse the purpose of which is to explain. 2. The essential characteristics of an exposition are-- _a._ That it possess unity because it contains only those facts essential to its purpose. _b._ That the facts used be arranged in a coherent order. 3. Exposition is concerned with (_a_) general terms or (_b_) general propositions. 4. The steps in the exposition of a term are-- _a._ Definition. This may be-- (1) By synonym (inexact). (2) By use of the logical definition (exact). _b._ Division. This may be-- (1) Complete (classification). (2) Incomplete (partition). The same principle of division should be followed throughout. 5. Exposition of a proposition may use any one of the following methods-- _a._ By repetition. _b._ By giving examples. _c._ By stating comparisons and contrasts. _d._ By making obverse statements. _e._ By relating particulars or details. _f._ By stating cause or effect. _g._ By any suitable combination of these methods. XI. ARGUMENT +170. Difference between Argument and Exposition.+--Argument differs from exposition in its purpose. By exposition we endeavor to make clear the meaning of a proposition; by argument we attempt to prove its truth. If a person does not understand what we mean, we explain; if, after he does understand, he does not believe, we argue. Often a simple explanation is sufficient to convince. As soon as the reader understands the real meaning of a proposition, he accepts our view of the case. A heated discussion may end with the statement, "Oh, if that is what you mean, I agree with you." In Section 70, we have learned that the first step in argument is explanation, by which we make clear the meaning of the proposition the truth of which we wish to establish. This explanation may include both the expounding of the terms in the proposition and the explanation of the proposition as a whole. There is another difference between exposition and argument. We cannot argue about single terms, though we may explain them. We may explain what is meant by the term _elective studies_, or _civil service;_ but an argument requires a proposition such as, Pupils should be allowed to choose their own studies, or, Civil Service should be established. Even with such a topic as Expansion or Restricted Immigration, which seems to be a subject of argument, there is really an implied proposition under discussion; as, The United States should acquire control of territory outside of its present boundaries; or, It should be the policy of our government to restrict immigration. We may explain the meaning of single terms or of propositions, but in order to argue, we must have a proposition either expressed or implied. +171. Proposition of Fact and Proposition of Theory.+--Some propositions state facts and some propositions state theories. Every argument therefore aims either to prove the occurrence of a fact or the truth of a theory. The first would attempt to show the actual or probable truth of a specific proposition; for example:-- Nero was guilty of burning Rome. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. Barbara Frietchie actually existed. Sheridan never made the ride from Winchester. Homer was born at Chios. The second would try to establish the probable truth of a general theory; for example:-- A college education is a profitable investment. Light is caused by a wave motion of ether. +172. Statement of the Proposition.+--The subject about which we argue may be stated in any one of the three forms discussed in Section 74; that is, as a declarative sentence, a resolution, or a question. The statement does not necessarily appear first in the argument, but it must be clearly formulated in the mind of the writer before he attempts to argue. Before trying to convince others he must know exactly what he himself believes, and the attempt to state his belief in the form of a proposition will assist in making his own thought clear and definite. If we are going to argue concerning elective studies, we should first of all be sure that we understand the meaning of the term ourselves. Then we must consider carefully what we believe about it, and state our proposition so that it shall express exactly this belief. On first thought we may believe the proposition that pupils should be allowed to choose their own studies. But is this proposition true of pupils in the grades as well as in the high schools? Or is it true only of the upper classes in the high school or only of college students? Can you state this proposition so that it will express your own belief on the subject? EXERCISES _A_. Use the following terms in expressed propositions:-- 1. Immigration. 2. Elevated railways. 3. American history. 4. Military training. 5. Single session. 6. Athletics. _B_. Explain the following propositions:-- 1. The United States should adopt a free-trade policy. 2. Is vivisection justifiable? 3. The author has greater influence than the orator. 4. The civil service system should be abolished. 5. The best is always cheapest. _C_. Can you restate the following propositions so that the meaning of each will be made more definite? 1. Athletics should be abolished. (Should _all_ athletic exercises be abolished?) 2. Latin is better than algebra. (_Better_ for what purpose? _Better_ for whom?) 3. Training in domestic arts and sciences should be provided for high school pupils. (Define domestic arts and sciences. Should they be taught to _all_ high school pupils?) 4. Punctuality is more important than efficiency. 5. The commercial course is better than the classical course. 6. A city should control the transportation facilities within its limits. +Theme XCVI.+--_Write out an argument favoring one of the propositions as restated in Exercise C above._ (Before writing, make a brief as indicated in Section 77. Consider the arrangement of your argument.) +173. Clear Thinking Essential to Argument.+--Having clearly in mind the proposition which we wish to prove, we next proceed to give arguments in its support. The very fact that we argue at all assumes that there are two sides to the question. If we hope to have another accept our view we must present good reasons. We cannot convince another that a proposition is true unless we can tell him why it is true; and certainly we cannot tell him why until we know definitely our own reasons for believing the statement. In order to present a good argument we must be clear logical thinkers ourselves; that is, we must be able to state definite reasons for our beliefs and to draw the correct conclusions. +174. Inductive Reasoning.+--One of the best preparations for trying to convince others is for us to consider carefully our own reasons for believing as we do. Minds act in a similar manner, and what leads you and me to believe certain truths will be likely to cause others to believe them also. A brief consideration of how our belief in the truth of a proposition has been established will indicate the way in which we should present our material in order to cause others to believe the same proposition. If you ask yourself the question, What leads me to believe as I do? the answer will undoubtedly be effective in convincing others. Are the following propositions true or false? Why do you believe or refuse to believe each? 1. Maple trees shed their leaves in winter. 2. Dogs bark. 3. Kettles are made of iron. 4. Grasshoppers jump. 5. Giraffes have long necks. 6. Raccoons sleep in the daytime. 7. The sun will rise to-morrow. 8. Examinations are not fair tests of a pupil's knowledge. 9. Honest people are respected. 10. Water freezes at 32 Fahrenheit. 11. Boys get higher standings in mathematics than girls do. It is at once evident that we believe a proposition such as one of these, because we have known of many examples. If we reject any of the propositions it is because we know of exceptions (we have seen kettles not made of iron), or because we do not know of instances (we may never have seen a raccoon, and so not know what he does in the daytime). The greater the number of cases which have occurred without presenting an exception, the stronger our belief in the truth of the proposition (we expect the sun to rise because it has never failed). The process by which, from many individual cases, we establish the truth of a proposition is called +inductive reasoning+. +175. Establishing a General Theory.+--A general theory is established by showing that for all known particular cases it will offer an acceptable explanation. By investigation or experiment we note that a certain fact is true in one particular instance, and, after a large number of individual cases have been noted, and the same fact found to be true in each, we assume that such is true of all like cases, and a general law is established. This is the natural scientific method and is constantly being made use of in pursuing scientific studies. By experiment, it was found that one particular kind of acid turned blue litmus red. This, of course, was not sufficient proof to establish a general law, but when, upon further investigation, it was found to be true of all known acids, scientists felt justified in stating the general law that acids turn blue litmus red. In establishing a new theory in science it is necessary to bring forward many facts which seem to establish it, and the argument will consist in pointing out these facts. Frequently the general principle is assumed to be true, and the argument then consists in showing that it will apply to and account for all the facts of a given kind. Theories which have been for a time believed have, as the world progressed in learning, been found unable to account for all of a given class of conditions. They have been replaced, therefore, by other theories, just as the Copernican theory of astronomy has displaced the Ptolemaic theory. Our belief may be based upon the absence of facts proving the contrary as well as upon the presence of facts proving the proposition. If A has never told an untruth, that fact is an argument in favor of his truthfulness on the present occasion. A man who has never been dishonest may point to this as an argument in favor of placing him in a position of trust. Often the strongest evidence that we can offer in favor of a proposition is the absence of any fact that would support the negative conclusion. The point of the whole matter is that from the observation of a large number of cases, we may establish the _probable_ truth of a proposition, but emphasis needs to be laid upon the probability. We cannot be sure. Not all crows are black, though you may never have seen a white one. The sun may not rise to-morrow, though it has never failed up to this time. Still it is by this observation of many individual cases that the truth of the propositions that men do believe has been established. We realize that our inductions are often imperfect, but the general truths so established will be found to underlie every process of reasoning, and will be either directly or indirectly the basis upon which we build up all argument. We may then redefine inductive reasoning as the process by which from many individual cases we establish the _probable_ truth of a general proposition. EXERCISES Notice in the following selections that the truth of the conclusion is shown by giving particular examples:-- 1. It is curious enough that _we always remember people by their worst points_, and still more curious that _we always suppose that we ourselves are remembered by our best_. I once knew a hunchback who had a well-shaped hand, and was continually showing it. He never believed that anybody noticed his hump, but lived and died in the conviction that the whole town spoke of him no otherwise than as the man with the beautiful hand, whereas, in fact, they only looked at his hump, and never so much as noticed whether he had a hand at all. This young lady, so pretty and so clever, is simply the girl who had that awkward history with So-and-so; that man, who has some of the very greatest qualities, is nothing more than the one who behaved so badly on such an occasion. It is a terrible thing to think that we are all always at watch one upon the other, to catch the false step in order that we may have the grateful satisfaction of holding our neighbor for one who cannot walk straight. No regard is paid to the better qualities and acts, however numerous; all the attention is fixed upon the worst, however slight. If St. Peter were alive he would be known as the man who denied his Master; St. Paul would be the man who stoned Stephen; and St. Thomas would never be mentioned in any decent society without allusions to that unfortunate request for further evidence. Probably this may be the reason why we all have so much greater a contempt for and distrust of each other than would be warranted by a correct balance between the good and the evil that are in each. --Thomas Gibson Bowles: _Flotsam and Jetsam_. 2. In the first place, 227 withered leaves of various kinds, mostly of English plants, were pulled out of worm burrows in several places. Of these, 181 had been drawn into the burrows by or near their tips, so that the footstalk projected nearly upright from the mouth of the burrow; 20 had been drawn in by their bases, and in this case the tips projected from the burrows; and 26 had been seized near the middle, so that these had been drawn in transversely and were much crumpled. Therefore 80 per cent (always using the nearest whole number) had been drawn in by the tip, 9 per cent by the base or footstalk, and 11 per cent transversely or by the middle. This alone is almost sufficient to show that _chance does not determine the manner in which leaves are dragged into the burrows_. --Darwin: _Vegetable Mold and Earthworms_. 3. _The catastrophe of every play is caused always by the folly or fault of a man; the redemption, if there be any, is by the wisdom and virtue of a woman, and, failing that, there is none_. The catastrophe of King Lear is owing to his own want of judgment, his impatient vanity, his misunderstanding of his children; the virtue of his one true daughter would have saved him from all the injuries of the others, unless he had cast her away from him; as it is, she all but saves him. Of Othello, I need not trace the tale; nor the one weakness of his so mighty love; nor the inferiority of his perceptive intellect to that even of the second woman character in the play, the Emilia who dies in wild testimony against his error:-- "Oh, murderous coxcomb! what should such a fool Do with so good a wife?" In _Romeo and Juliet_, the wise and brave stratagem of the wife is brought to ruinous issue by the reckless impatience of her husband. In _The Winter's Tale_, and in _Cymbeline_, the happiness and existence of two princely households, lost through long years, and imperiled to the death by the folly and obstinacy of the husbands, are redeemed at last by the queenly patience and wisdom of the wives. In _Measure for Measure_, the foul injustice of the judge, and the foul cowardice of the brother, are opposed to the victorious truth and adamantine purity of a woman. In _Coriolanus_, the mother's counsel, acted upon in time, would have saved her son from all evil; his momentary forgetfulness of it is his ruin; her prayer, at last, granted, saves him--not, indeed, from death, but from the curse of living as the destroyer of his country. 4. _Bas. _So may the outward shows be least themselves; _The world is still deceived with ornament_. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts: How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk; And these assume but valor's excrement To render them redoubted! Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight; Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulcher. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man: but thou, though meager lead, Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught, Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence; And here choose I: joy be the consequence! --Shakespeare: _The Merchant of Venice_. +Theme XCVII.+--_Write a paragraph proving the truth of one of the following statements:_-- 1. It is a distinct advantage to a large town to be connected with the smaller towns by electric car lines. 2. Vertical penmanship should be taught in all elementary schools. 3. Examinations develop dishonesty. 4. 5. Tramps ought not to be fed. (Make a brief. Consider the arrangement of your arguments. Read Section 72.) +176. Errors of Induction.+--A common error is that of too hasty generalization. We conclude that something is always so because it happened to be so in the few cases that have come under our observation. A broader experience frequently shows that the hastily made generalization will not hold. Some people are led to lose faith in all humanity because one or two of their acquaintances have shown themselves unworthy of their trust. Others are ready to pronounce a merchant dishonest because some article purchased at his store has not proved to be so good as it was expected to be. There are those who are superstitious concerning the wearing of opals, claiming that these jewels bring the wearer ill luck, because they have heard of some instances where misfortune seemed to follow the wearing of that particular stone. What may seem to be causes and effects at first may, upon further investigation or inquiry, prove to be merely chance coincidences. In your work in argument, whether for the class room or outside, be careful about this point. Remember that your induction will be weak or even worthless if you draw conclusions from too few examples. Often one example seems sufficient to cause belief. We might believe that all giraffes have long necks, even though we had seen but one; but such a belief would exist because, by many examples of other animals, we have learned that a single specimen will fairly represent all other specimens of the same class. On the other hand, if this one giraffe should possess one brown eye and one white eye, we should not expect all other giraffes to have such eyes, for our observation of many hundreds of animals teaches us that the eyes of an animal are usually alike in color. In order to establish a true generalization, the _essential_ characteristics must be selected, and these cannot be determined by rule, but rather by common sense. +177. Deductive Reasoning.+--When once a general principle has been established, we may demonstrate the truth of a specific proposition by showing that the general principle applies to it. We see a gold ring and say, "This ring is valuable," because we believe the general proposition, "All articles made of gold are valuable." Expressed in full, the process of reasoning would be-- _A._ All articles made of gold are valuable. _B._ This ring is made of gold. _C._ Therefore this ring is valuable. A series of statements such as the above is called a syllogism. It consists of a major premise (_A_), a minor premise (_B_), and a conclusion (_C_). Of course we shall not be called upon to prove so simple a proposition as the one given, but with more difficult ones the method of reasoning is the same. The process which applies a general proposition (_A_) to a specific instance (_C_), is called deductive reasoning. +178. Relation between Inductive and Deductive Reasoning.+--Deductive reasoning is shorter and seems more convincing than inductive reasoning, for if the premises are true and the statement is made in correct form, the conclusions are irresistible. Each conclusion carries with it, however, the weakness of the premises on which it is based, and as these premises are general principles that have been themselves established by inductive reasoning, the conclusions of deductive reasoning can be no more _sure_ than those of inductive reasoning. Each may prove only that the proposition is probably true rather than that it is surely true, though in many cases this probability becomes almost a certainty. +179. The Enthymeme.+--We seldom need to state our argument in the syllogistic form. One of the premises is usually omitted, and we pass directly from one premise to the conclusion. If we say, "Henry will not succeed as an engineer," and when asked why he will not, we reply, "Because he is not good in mathematics," we have omitted the premise, "A knowledge of mathematics is necessary for success in engineering." A shortened syllogism, that is, a syllogism with one premise omitted, is called an enthymeme. Thus in ordinary matters our thought turns at once to the conclusion in connection with but one premise. We make a thousand statements which a moment's thought will show that we believe because we believe some unexpressed general principle. If I should say of my dog, "Fido will die sometime," no sensible person would doubt the truth of the statement. If asked to prove it, I would say, "Because he is a dog, and all dogs die sometime." Thus I apply to a specific proposition, Fido will die, the general one, All dogs die, a proposition about which there is no doubt. Frequently the suppressed premise is not so well established as in this case, and the belief or nonbelief of the proposition will be determined by the individuals addressed, each in accordance with his experience. Suppose that in reading we find the statement, "A boy of fourteen ought not to be allowed to choose his own subjects of study, because he will choose all the easy ones and avoid the more difficult though more valuable ones." The omitted premise that all boys will choose easy studies, needs to be established by induction. If a high school principal had noticed that out of five hundred boys, four hundred elected the easy studies, he would admit the truth of the omitted premise, and so of the conclusion. But if only one hundred had chosen the easy subjects, he would reject the major premise and likewise the conclusion. It is evident that in order to be sure of the truth of a proposition we must determine the truth of the premises upon which it is based. An argument therefore is frequently given over wholly to establishing the premises. If their truth can be demonstrated, the conclusion inevitably follows. EXERCISES _A._ Supply the missing premise for the following:-- 1. John will succeed because he has a college education. 2. Henry is happy because he has plenty of money. 3. Candy is nutritious because it is made of sugar. 4. These biscuits will make me ill because they are heavy. 5. This dog must be angry because he is growling. 6. This fish can swim. 7. The plural of the German noun _der Garten_ is _die Grten_. 8. It will hurt to have this tooth filled. _B._ Supply the reasons and complete the syllogism for each of the following:-- 1. This book should not be read. 2. This hammer is useful. 3. That dog will bite. 4. This greyhound can run rapidly. 5. The leaves have fallen from the trees. 6. That boy ought to be punished. 7. It is too early to go nutting. 8. This boy should not study. 9. You ought not to vote for this man for mayor. +Theme XCVIII.+--_Write a paragraph proving the truth of one of the following propositions:_-- 1. Labor-saving machinery is of permanent advantage to mankind. 2. New Orleans will some day be a greater shipping port than New York. 3. Poetry has a greater influence on the morals of a nation than prose writing. 4. Boycotting injures innocent persons and should never be employed. 5. Ireland should have Home Rule. 6. The President of the United States should be elected by the direct vote of the people. (Consider your argument with reference to the suppressed premises.) +180. Errors of Deduction.+--The deductive method of reasoning, if properly used, is effective, but much care needs to be taken to avoid false conclusions. A complete exposition of the variations of the syllogism is not necessary here, but it will be of value to consider briefly three chief errors. If the terms are not used with the same meaning throughout, the conclusion is valueless. A person might agree with you that domestic arts should be taught to girls in school, but if you continued by saying that scrubbing the floor is a form of domestic art, therefore the girls should be taught to scrub the floor, he would reject your conclusion because the meaning of the term _domestic art_ as he understood it in the first statement, is not that used in the second. It will be noticed that each syllogism includes three terms. For example, the syllogism,-- All hawks eat flesh; This bird is a hawk; Therefore this bird eats flesh,-- contains the three terms, _hawk, eats flesh, this bird_; of these but two appear in the conclusion. The one which does not (in this case _hawk_) is called the middle term. If the major premise does not make a statement about every member of the class denoted by the middle term, the conclusion may not be valid even though the premises are true. For example:-- All hawks are birds; This chicken is a bird; Therefore this chicken is a hawk. In this case the middle term is _birds_, and the major premise, _All hawks are birds_, does not make a statement which applies to all birds. The conclusion is therefore untrue. Such an argument is a fallacy. The validity of the conclusion is impaired if either premise is false. In the enthymeme, "Henry is a coward; he dare not run away from school," the suppressed premise, "All persons who will not run away from school, are cowards," is not true, and so invalidates the conclusion. It is well to test the validity of your own argument and that of your opponent by seeking for the suppressed premise and stating it, for this may reveal a fatal weakness in the thought. EXERCISES Which of the following are incorrect? 1. The government should pay for the education of its people; Travel is a form of education; Therefore the government should pay the traveling expenses of the people. 2. All horses are useful; This animal is useful; Therefore this animal is a horse. 3. I ought not to study algebra because it is a very difficult subject. 4. Pupils ought not to write notes because note writing interferes with the rights of others. 5. All fish can swim; Charles can swim; Therefore Charles is a fish. 6. Henry is a fool because he wears a white necktie. 7. All dogs bark; This animal barks; Therefore this animal is a dog. +Theme XCIX.+--_Write a paragraph proving the truth of one of the following propositions:_-- 1. The government should establish a parcels post. 2. The laws of mind determine the forms of composition. 3. Training for citizenship should be given greater attention in the public schools. 4. The members of the school board should be appointed by the mayor of the city. 5. In the estimation of future ages ---- will be considered the greatest President since Lincoln. (State your premises. Have you shown that they are true?) +181. Evidence.+--We may reach belief in the truth of a specific statement by means of deductive reasoning. Commonly, however, when dealing with an actual state or occurrence, we present other facts or circumstances that show its existence. The facts presented may be those of experience, the testimony of witnesses, the opinion of those considered as experts in the subject, or a combination of circumstances known to have existed. To be of any value as arguments, they must be true, and they must be related to the fact that we are trying to prove. These true and pertinent facts we term _evidence_. Evidence may be direct or indirect. If a man sees a boy steal a bag of apples from the orchard across the way, his evidence is direct. If instead, he only sees him with an empty bag and later with a full one, the evidence will be indirect. If you testify that early in the evening you saw a tramp enter a barn which later in the evening caught fire, your testimony as regards the cause of the fire would be indirect evidence against the tramp. If you can testify that you saw sparks fall from his lighted pipe and ignite a pile of hay in the barn, the evidence which you give will be direct. Direct evidence has more weight than indirect, but often the latter is nearly equal to the former and is sufficient to convince us. Even the direct testimony of eye-witnesses must be carefully considered. Several persons may see the same thing and yet make very different reports, even though they may all desire to tell the truth. The weight that we shall give to a person's testimony will depend upon his ability to observe and to report accurately what he has experienced, and upon his desire to tell the truth. Notice in the following selection what facts, specific instances, and circumstances are advanced in support of the proposition. Assuming that they are true, are they pertinent to the proposition? Certain species of these army ants which inhabit tropical America, Mr. Belt considered to be the most intelligent of all the insects of that part of the world. On one occasion he noticed a wide column of them trying to pass along a nearly perpendicular slope of crumbling earth, on which they found great difficulty in obtaining a foothold. A number succeeded in retaining their positions, and further strengthened them by laying hold of their neighbors. They then remained in this position, and allowed the column to march securely and easily over their bodies. On another occasion a column was crossing a stream of water by a very narrow branch of a tree, which only permitted them to go in single file. The ants widened the bridge by a number clinging to the sides and to each other, and this allowed the column to pass over three or four deep. These ants, having no permanent nests, carry their larvae and pupae with them when marching. The prey they capture is cut up and carried to the rear of the army to be distributed as food. --Robert Brown: _Science for All_. +Theme C.+--_Present all the evidence you can either to prove or disprove one of the following propositions:_-- Select some question of local interest as:-- 1. The last fire in our town was of incendiary origin. 2. The football team from ---- indulged in "slugging" at the last game. 3. Our heating system is inadequate. 4. It rained last night. If you prefer, choose one of the following subjects:-- 1. The Stuart kings were arbitrary rulers. 2. The climate of our country is changing. 3. Gutenberg did not invent the printing press. 4. The American Indians have been unjustly treated by the whites. 5. Nations have their periods of rise and decay. (Are the facts you use true? Are they pertinent? Do you know of facts that would tend to show that your proposition is not true?) +182. Number and Value of Reasons.+--Although a statement may be true and pertinent it is seldom sufficient for proof. We need, as a rule, several such statements. If you are trying to convince a friend that one kind of automobile is superior to another, and can give only one reason for its superiority, you no doubt will fail in your attempt. If, however, you can give several reasons, you may succeed in convincing him. Suppose you go to your principal and ask permission to take an extra study. You may give as a reason the fact that your parents wish you to take it. He may not think that is a sufficient reason for your doing so, but when he finds that with your present studies you do not need to study evenings, that one of them is a review, and that you have been standing well in all your studies, he may be led to think that it will be wise for you to take the desired extra study. While we must guard against insufficiency of reasons, we must not forget that numbers alone do not convince. One good reason is more convincing than several weak ones. Two or three good reasons, clearly and definitely stated, will have much more weight than a large number of less important ones. EXERCISES _A._ Give a reason or two in addition to the reasons already given in each of the following:-- 1. It is better to attend a large college than a small one, because the teachers are as a rule greater experts in their lines of work. 2. The school board ought to give us a field for athletics as the school ground is not large enough for practice. 3. Gymnasium work ought to be made compulsory. Otherwise many who need physical training will neglect it. 4. The game of basket ball is an injury to a school, since it detracts from interest in studies. 5. Rudolph Horton will make a good class president because he has had experience. _B._ Be able to answer orally any two of the following: 1. Prove to a timid person that there is no more danger in riding in an automobile than there is in riding in a carriage drawn by horses. Use but one argument, but make it as strong as possible. 2. Give two good reasons why the superstition concerning Friday is absurd. 3. What, in your mind, is the strongest reason why you wish to graduate from a high school? For your wishing to go into business after leaving the high school? For your wishing to attend college? 4. What are two or three of the strong arguments in favor of woman suffrage? Name two or three arguments in opposition to woman suffrage. _C._ Name all the points that you can in favor of the following. Select the one that you consider the most important. 1. Try to convince a friend that he ought to give up the practice of cigarette smoking. 2. Show that athletics in a high school ought to be under the management of the faculty. 3. Show that athletics should be under the management of the pupils themselves. 4. Macbeth's ambition and not his wife was the cause of his ruin. 5. Macbeth's wife was the cause of his ruin. +Theme CI.+--_Select one of the subjects in the exercise above, and write out two or three of the strongest arguments in its favor._ (Consider the premises, especially those which are not expressed. Is your argument deductive or inductive?) +183. The Basis of Belief.+--If you ask yourself, Why do I believe this? the answer will in many cases show that your belief in the particular case under consideration arises because you believe some general principle or theory which applies to it. One person may believe that political economy should be taught in high schools because he believes that it is the function of the high school to train its pupils for citizenship, and that the study of political economy will furnish this training. Another person may oppose the teaching of political economy because he believes that pupils of high school age are not sufficiently mature in judgment to discuss intelligently the principles of political economy, and that the study of these principles at that age does not furnish desirable training for citizenship. It is evident that an argument between these two concerning the teaching of political economy in any particular school would consist in a discussion of the conflicting general theories which each believed to be true. We have shown in Section 179 that one high school principal might believe that boys should be allowed to choose their own studies because he believed that they would not generally select the easy ones; while another principal would oppose free electives because he believes that boys would choose the less difficult studies. The proposition that "The United States should retain its hold on the Philippines" involves conflicting theories of the function of this government. So it will be found with many of our beliefs that either consciously or unconsciously they are based on general theories. It is important in argument to know what these theories are, and especially to consider what may be the general theories of those whom we wish to convince. +184. Appeals to General Theory, Authority, and Maxims.+--A successful argument in deductive form must be based upon principles and theories that the audience believes. A minister in preaching to the members of his church may with success proceed by deductive methods, because the members believe the general principles upon which he bases his arguments. But in addressing a mixed audience, many of whom are not church members, such an argument might not be convincing, because his hearers might deny the validity of the premises from which his conclusions were drawn. In such a case he must either keep to general theories which his auditors do believe, or by inductive methods seek to prove the truth of the general principles themselves. If in support of our view we quote the opinion of some one whom we believe competent to speak with weight and authority upon the question, we must remember that it will have weight with our audience only if they too look upon the person as an authority. It proves nothing to a body of teachers to say that some educational expert believes as you do unless they have confidence in him as a man of sound judgment. On the other hand, it may count against a proposition to show that it has not been endorsed by any one of importance or prominence. In a similar way a maxim or proverb may be quoted in support of a proposition. If a boy associates with bad company, we may offer the maxim, "Birds of a feather flock together," in proof that he is probably bad too. Such maxims or proverbs are brief statements of principles generally believed, and the use of them in an argument is in effect the presentation of a general theory in a form which appeals to the mind of the hearer and causes him to believe our proposition. +185. Argument by Inference.+--The statement of a fact may be introduced into an argument, not because the fact itself applies directly to the proposition we wish to prove, but because it by inference suggests a general theory which does so apply. Though the reader may not be conscious of it, the presence of this general theory may influence his decision even more than the explicit statement of the general theory would. An argument implies that there are two sides to a question. Which you shall take depends on the way you look on it, that is, on what may be called your mental point of view. Therefore any fact, allusion, maxim, comparison, or other statement which may cause you to look at the question in a different light or from a different point of view may be used as an argument. In effect, it calls up a general theory whose presence affects your decision. Notice how brief the argument is in the following selection from Macaulay:-- Many politicians of our time are in the habit of laying it down as a self-evident proposition, that no people ought to be free till they are fit to use their freedom. The maxim is worthy of the fool in the old story, who resolved not to go into the water till he had learned to swim. If men are to wait for liberty till they become wise and good in slavery, they may indeed wait forever. --Macaulay: _Milton_. +186. Summary.+--To summarize the preceding paragraphs, the authority we quote, the maxims we state, the facts we adduce become valuable because they appeal to general theories already believed by the reader. Success in argument demands, therefore, that we consider carefully what theories may probably be in the mind of our audience, and that we present our argument in such a way as to appeal to those theories. +Theme CII.+--_Write a short argument, using one of the following:_-- 1. A young boy is urging his father to permit him to attend an entertainment. Give his reasons as he would give them to his father. 2. Suppose the father refuses the request. Write out his reasons. 3. Try to convince a companion just entering high school to take the college preparatory course instead of the commercial course. (Are your reasons true and pertinent? To what general theories have you appealed? Consider the coherence of each paragraph.) +187. Arrangement of Arguments.+--We have learned that in arguing we need to consider how those whom we address arrive at the belief they hold, and that it will assist us to this knowledge of others if we consider our own beliefs and the manner of their establishing. We must present our material in the order that convinces. Each case may differ so from every other that no general rule can be followed, but the consideration of some general principles of arrangement will be of assistance. It is the purpose of the following paragraphs to point out in so far as possible the most effective order of arrangement. +188. Possibility, Probability, and Actuality.+--It has been stated, in Section 175, that reasoning leads to probable truth, and that this probability may become so strong as to be accepted as certainty. In common speech this difference is borne in mind, and we distinguish a fact or event that is only possible from one that is probable; and likewise one that is only probable from one in which the probability approaches so near to certainty as to convince us that it actually did exist or occur. Our arguments may therefore be directed to proving possibility, probability, or actuality. If we believe that an event actually occurred, the belief implies both possibility and probability. Therefore, if we wish a person to believe in the actual occurrence of an event, we must first be sure that he does not question the possibility of its existence, and then we must show him that it probably did take place. Only when we have shown that an event is extremely probable have we the right to say that we have shown its actual occurrence. A mother finding some damage done to one of the pictures on the wall could not justly accuse her young son unless by the presence of a chair or stepladder it had been possible for him to reach the picture. This possibility, renforced by a knowledge of his tendency to mischief, and by the fact that he was in the house at the time the damage was done, would lead to the belief that he probably was guilty. Proof that he was actually responsible for the damage would still be lacking, and it might later be discovered that the injury had been done accidentally by one of the servants. Possibility, probability, and actuality merge into one another so gradually that no sharply defined distinctions can be observed. It is impossible to say that a certain argument establishes possibility, another probability, and a third the actuality of an event. One statement may do all three, but any proof of actuality must include arguments showing both possibility and probability. A person accused of murder attempts to demonstrate his innocence by proving an _alibi;_ that is, he attempts to show that he was at some other place at the time the murder was committed and so cannot possibly be guilty. Such an alibi, established by reliable witnesses, is positive proof of innocence, no matter how strong the evidence pointing to probable guilt may be. +189. Argument from Cause.+--We have learned, in Section 49, that the relation of cause and effect is one which is ingrained in our nature. We accept a proposition as plausible if a cause which we consider adequate has been assigned. Our belief in a proposition often depends upon our belief in some other proposition which may be accepted as a cause. Thus, in the following statements, the truth of one proposition leads to the belief that the other is also true:-- _a._ Henry has studied hard this year; therefore he will pass his college entrance examinations. _b._ The man has severed an artery; therefore he will probably bleed to death before the physician arrives. _c._ It will soon grow warmer, because the sun has risen. _An argument from cause_ may be of itself conclusive evidence of the fact. But, for the most part, such arguments merely establish the possibility or probability of the proposition and so render it ready for proof. In our arrangement of material, we therefore place such arguments _first_. +190. Argument from Sign.+--Cause and effect are so closely united that when an effect is observed we assume that there has been a cause, and we direct our argument to proving what it is. An effect is so associated with its cause that the existence of an effect is a sign of the existence of a cause, and such an argument is called an _argument from sign_. Reasoning from sign is very common in our daily life. The wild geese flying south indicate the approach of cold weather. The baby's toys show that the baby has been in the room. A man's hat found beside a rifled safe will convict the man of the crime. A dog's track in the garden is proof that a dog has been there. If the effect observed is always associated with the same cause, the argument is conclusive. If I observe as an effect that the river has frozen over during the night, I have no doubt that it has been caused by a lowering of the temperature. If two or three possible causes exist, our argument becomes conclusive only by considering them all and by showing that all but one did not produce the observed effect. If the principal of a school knows that one of three boys broke a window light, he may be able to prove which one did it by finding out the two who did not. If a man is found shot to death, the coroner's jury may prove that he was murdered by showing that he did not commit suicide. If there are many possible causes, the method of elimination becomes too tedious and must be abandoned. If you find that your horse is lame, it would be difficult to prove which of the many possible causes actually operated to produce the lameness, though the attendant circumstances might point to some one cause and so lead you to assume that it was the one. Under _arguments from sign_ should be included also those cases when we pass directly from one effect to another that arises from the same cause; as, "I hear the windmill turning, it will be a good day to sail;" or, "These beans are thrifty, therefore if I plant potatoes here I shall get a good crop." In these sentences the wind and the fertile soil are not mentioned, but we pass directly from one effect to another. As used by rhetoricians, arguments from sign include also arguments from attendant circumstances. If we have observed that two events have happened near together in time, we accept the occurrence of one as a sign that the other will follow. When we hear the factory whistle blow, we conclude that in a few minutes the workmen will pass our window on their way home. Such a conclusion is based upon a belief established by an inductive process. The degree of probability that it gives depends upon the number of times that it has been observed to act without failure. If we have seen two boys frequently together, the presence of one is a sign of the probable presence of the other. A camp fire would point to the recent presence of some one who kindled it. In using an argument from sign care must be taken not to confuse the relation of cause and effect with that of contiguity in time or place. Do not allege that which happened at the same time or near the same place as a cause. If you do use an attendant circumstance, be sure that it adds something to the probability. +191. Argument from Example.+--It has been pointed out in the study of inductive reasoning (Section 176) that a single example may suffice to establish a general notion of a class. In dealing with objects of the physical world, if essential and invariable qualities of the object are considered, they may be asserted to be qualities of each member of the class, and such an argument from an individual to all the members of the class is convincing. They thus rank with arguments from sign as effective in proving the certainty of a proposition. In dealing with human actions, on the other hand, examples are seldom proofs of fact. We cannot say that all men will act in a certain way under given circumstances because one man has so acted. Nevertheless, arguments by examples are frequently used and are especially powerful when we wish not only to convince a man, but also to persuade him to action. This persuasion to action must be based on conviction, and in such a case the argument from sign that convinces the man of the truth of a proposition should precede the example that urges him to action. After convincing a friend that there are advantages to be derived from joining a society, we may persuade him to join by naming those who have joined. +192. Argument from Analogy.+--Analogy is very much relied upon in practical life. Reasoning from analogy depends upon the recognition of similarity in regard to some particulars followed by the inference that the similarity extends to other particulars. As soon as it was known that the atmospheric conditions of the planet Mars are similar to those of the earth, it was argued by analogy that Mars must also, be inhabited. An analogy is seldom conclusive and, though it is often effective in argument, it must not be taken as proof of fact. The mind very readily observes likenesses, and when directed toward the establishing of a proposition easily overlooks the differences. In order to determine the strength of an argument from analogy, attention should be given to the differences existing between the two propositions considered. False analogies are very common. We must guard against using them, and especially against allowing ourselves to be convinced by them. Even when the resemblance is so slight as to render analogy impossible, it may serve to produce a metaphor that often has the effect of argument. It is much easier to captivate the fancy with a pretty or striking figure than to move the judgment with sound reason.... His (the speaker's) picture appeals to the mind's visible sense, hence his power over us, though his analogies are more apt to be false than true.... The use of metaphor, comparison, analogy, is twofold--to enliven and to convince; to illustrate and enforce an accepted truth, and to press home and clinch one in dispute. An apt figure may put a new face upon an old and much worn truism, and a vital analogy may reach and move the reason. Thus when Renan, referring to the decay of the old religious beliefs, says that the people are no poorer for being robbed of false bank notes and bogus shares, his comparison has a logical validity.... The accidental analogies or likenesses are limitless, and are the great stock in trade of most writers and speakers. An ingenious mind finds types everywhere, but real analogies are not so common. The likeness of one thing to another may be valid and real, but the likeness of a thought with a thing is often merely fanciful.... I recently have met with the same fallacy in a leading article in one of the magazines. "The fact revealed by the spectroscope," says the writer, "that the physical elements of the earth exist also in the stars, supports the faith that a moral nature like our own inhabits the universe." A tremendous leap--a leap from the physical to the moral. We know that these earth elements are found in the stars by actual observation and experience; but a moral nature like our own--this is assumed, and is not supported by the analogy. John Burroughs: _Analogy, True and False_. Notice the use of analogy in the argument below. There is only one cure for the evils which newly acquired freedom produces; and that cure is freedom. When a prisoner first leaves his cell he cannot bear the light of day: he is unable to discriminate colors, or recognize faces. But the remedy is, not to remand him into his dungeon, but to accustom him to the rays of the sun. The blaze of truth and liberty may at first dazzle and bewilder nations which have become blind in the house of bondage. But, let them gaze on, and they will soon be able to bear it. In a few years men learn to reason. The extreme violence of opinions subsides. Hostile theories correct each other. The scattered elements of truth cease to contend and begin to coalesce, and at length a system of justice and order is educed out of the chaos. +193. Summary of Arrangement.+--The necessity of argument arises because some one does not believe the truth of a proposition. To establish in his mind a belief, we must present our arguments in an orderly and convincing way. The order will usually be to show him first the possibility and then the probability, and finally to lead him as near to certainty as we can. We may say, therefore, that we should use arguments from cause, arguments from sign, and arguments from example in the order named. Another principle of arrangement is that inductive argument will usually precede deductive argument. We naturally proceed by induction to establish general truths which, when established, we may apply. If our audience already believe the general theories, the inductive part may be omitted. Both of these principles of arrangement should be considered with reference to that of a third, namely, climax. Climax means nothing more than the orderly progression of our argument to the point where it convinces our hearer. We call that argument which finally convinces him the strongest, and naturally this should be the end of the argument. Of several proofs of equal grade, one that will attract the attention of the hearer should come first, while the most convincing one should come last. In arranging arguments attention needs also to be given to coherence. One proof may be so related to another that the presentation of one naturally suggests the other. Sometimes, for the sake of climax, the coherent order must be abandoned. More often the climax is made more effective by following the order which gives the greatest coherence. +Theme CII.+--_Prove one of the following propositions:_ 1. The Presidential term should be extended. 2. Bookkeeping is of greater practical value than any other high school study. 3. In cities all buildings should be restricted to three stories in height. 4. Sumptuary laws are never desirable. 5. No pupil should carry more than four studies. 6. This school should have a debating society. (Have you proved possibility, probability, or actuality? Have you used arguments from cause, sign, or example? Consider the analogies you have used, if any. Can you shorten your theme without weakening it?) +194. The Brief.+--Arrangement is of very great importance in argument. In fact, it is so important that much more care and attention needs to be given to the outline in argument, and the outline itself may be more definitely known to the hearer than in the other forms of discourse. In description and narration especially, it detracts from the value of the impressions if the reader becomes aware of the plan of composition. In exposition a view of the framework may not hinder clear understanding, but in argument it may be of distinct advantage to have the orderly arrangements of our arguments definitely known to him whom we seek to convince. The brief not only assists us in making our own thought orderly and exact, but enables us to exclude that which is trivial or untrue. An explanation may fail to make every point clear and yet retain some valuable elements, but an argument fails of its purpose if it does not establish a belief. A single false argument or even a trivial one may so appeal to a mind prejudiced against the proposition that all the valid proofs fail to convince. This single weakness is at once used by our opponent to show that our other arguments are false because this one is. A committee once endeavored to persuade the governor of a state not to sign a certain bill, but they defeated themselves because their opponents pointed out to the governor that two of the ten reasons which they presented were false and that the committee presenting them knew they were false. This cast a doubt upon the honesty of the committee and the validity of their whole argument, and the governor signed the bill. The brief differs from the ordinary outline in that it is composed of complete sentences rather than of topics. Notice the following example. +Term examinations should be abolished.+ AFFIRMATIVE I. There is no necessity for such examinations. 1. The teacher knows the pupil's standing from his daily recitations. 2. Monthly reviews or tests may be substituted if desirable. II. The evils arising from examinations more than offset any advantages that may be derived from them. 1. The best pupils are likely to work hardest, and to overtax their strength. 2. Pupils often aim to pass rather than to know their subject. 3. A temptation to cheat is placed before them. III. Examinations are not a fair test of a pupil's ability. 1. A pupil may know his subject as a whole and yet not be able to answer one or two of the questions given him. 2. A pupil who has done poor work during the term may cram for an examination and pass very creditably. 3. Pupils are likely to be tired out at the end of the term and often are not able to do themselves justice. NEGATIVE If the writer should choose to defend the negative of the above proposition, the brief might be as follows:-- I. Examinations are indispensable to school work. 1. In no other way can teachers find out so well what their pupils know about their subjects, especially in large classes. 2. They are essential as an incentive to pupils who are inclined to let their work lag. II. As a rule they are fair tests of a pupil's ability. 1. Pupils who prepare the daily recitations well are almost sure to pass a good examination. 2. Pupils who cram are likely to write a hurried, faulty examination. 3. It seldom happens that many in a class are too worn out to take a term examination. III. They prepare the pupils for later examinations. (1) For college entrance examinations. (2) For examinations at college. (3) For civil service examinations. (4) For examinations for teachers' certificates. EXERCISES _A._ Write out subordinate propositions proving the main subdivisions. Also change the arrangement when you think it desirable to do so. 1. Two sessions are preferable to one in a high school. (1) One long session is too fatiguing to both teachers and pupils. (2) Boys and girls as a rule study better at school than they do at home. (3) The time after school is long enough for recreation. 2. The pupils of this high school should be granted a holiday during the street (county or state) fair. (1) They will all go at least one day. (2) It will cause less interruption in the school work if they all go the same day. 3. Women should be allowed to vote. (1) They are now taxed without representation. (2) Whenever they have been allowed to take part in the affairs of the government, it has been an advantage to that government. (3) Many of them are much more intelligent than some men who vote. _B._ Write out briefs for the following propositions (affirmative or negative):-- 1. High school studies should be made elective in the last two years of the course. 2. The government should own and control the railroads of our country. 3. The old building on the corner of ---- Street ought to be removed. 4. Latin should not be made a compulsory study. 5. Reading newspapers is unprofitable. 6. Laws should be made to prohibit all adulteration of foods. 7. We are all selfish. 8. A system of self-government should be introduced into our school. +Theme CIV.+--_Write out the argument for one of the preceding propositions._ (Examine the brief carefully before beginning to write. Can you improve it? ) +Theme CV.+--_Write a theme proving one of the following propositions:_-- 1. Immigration is detrimental to the United States. 2. The descriptions in _Ivanhoe_ are better than those in the _House of the Seven Gables_. 3. Argument is of greater practical value than exposition. 4. The Mexican Indians were a civilized race when America was discovered. 5. The standing army of the United States should be increased. 6. All police officers should be controlled by the state and not by the city. Are they arranged with reference to the principles of arrangement? (Section 192.) Consider each paragraph and the whole theme with reference to unity.) +Theme CVI.+--_Write a debate on some question assigned by the teacher._ (To what points should you give attention in correcting your theme? Read Section 79.) +195. Difference between Persuasion and Argument.+--Up to this point we have considered argument as having for its aim the proof of the truth of a proposition. If we consider the things about which we argue most frequently, we shall find that in many cases we attempt to do more than merely to convince the hearer. We wish to convince him in order to cause him to act. We argue with him in order to persuade him to do something. Such an argument tries to establish the wisdom of a course of action and is termed _persuasion_. Persuasion differs from argument in its aim. In argument by an appeal principally to the reason, we endeavor to convince; in persuasion by an appeal mainly to the feelings, we endeavor to move to action. +196. Importance of Persuasion.+--Persuasion deals with the practical affairs of life, and for that reason the part that it performs is a large and important one. All questions of advantage, privilege, and duty are included in the sphere of persuasion. Since such questions are so directly related to our business interests, to our happiness, and to our mode of conduct and action, we are constantly making use of persuasion and quite as constantly are being influenced by it. Our own welfare and happiness depends to so great an extent upon the actions of others that our success in life is often measured by our ability to persuade others to act in accordance with our desires. +197. Necessity of Persuasion.+--It is frequently not enough to convince our hearer of the truth of a proposition. Often a person believes a proposition, yet does not act. If we wish action, persuasion must be added to argument. If we always acted at the time we were convinced, and in accordance with our convictions, there would be no need of persuasion. Strange as it seems, we often believe one thing and do just the opposite, or we are indifferent and do nothing at all. We all know that disobedience to the laws of health brings its punishment--yet how many of us act as if we did not believe it at all! The indifferent pupil is positive that he will fail if he does not study. He knows that he ought to apply himself diligently to his work. There is no excuse for doing otherwise, yet he neglects to act and failure is the result. +198. Motive in Persuasion.+--The motive of persuasion depends upon the nature of the question. The motives that we have in mind may be selfish, or, on the other hand, they may be supremely unselfish. We may urge others to act in order to bring about our own pleasure or profit; we may urge them to act for their own self-interest or for the interest of others. We may appeal to private or public interest, to social or religious duty. When a boy urges his father to buy him a bicycle, he has his own pleasure in mind. When we urge people to take care of their health, we have their interest in view; and when we urge city improvements or reforms in politics, we are thinking of the welfare of people in general. +199. The Material of Persuasion.+--Persuasion aims to produce action and may make use of any of the forms of discourse that will fit that purpose. We may describe the beauty of the Adirondacks or narrate our experiences there in order to persuade a friend to accompany us on a camping trip. We may explain the workings of a new invention in order to persuade a capitalist to invest money in its manufacture. Or we may by argument demonstrate that there is a great opportunity for young men in New Orleans, hoping to persuade an acquaintance to move there. When thus used, description, narration, exposition, and argument may become persuasion; but their effectiveness depends upon their appeal to some fundamental belief or feeling in the person addressed. Our description and narration would not bring to the Adirondacks a man who cared nothing for scenery and who disliked camp life. The explanation of our invention would not interest a capitalist unless he was seeking a profitable investment. Our argument would not induce a man to move to New Orleans if his prejudice against the South was greater than his desire for profit and position. In each case there has been an appeal to some belief or sentiment or desire of the person whom we seek to persuade. +200. Appeal to the Feelings.+--Persuasion, therefore, in order to produce action must appeal largely to the feelings. But all persons are not affected in the same way. In order to bring about the same result we may need to make a different appeal to different individuals. One person may be led to act by an appeal made to his sense of justice, another by an appeal made to his patriotism, while still another, unmoved by either of these appeals, may be led to act by an appeal made to his pride or to his love of power. If we would be successful in persuading others, we ought to be able to understand what to appeal to in individual cases. Children may be enticed by candy, and older persons may be quite as readily influenced if we but choose the proper incentive. It is our duty to see that we are persuaded only by the presentation of worthy motives, and that in our own efforts to persuade others we do not appeal to envy, jealousy, religious prejudices, race hatred, or lower motives. EXERCISES Show how an appeal to the feelings could be made in the following. To what particular feeling or feelings would you appeal in each case? 1. Try to gain your parents' permission to attend college. 2. Urge a friend to give up card playing. 3. Try to persuade your teachers not to give so long lessons. 4. Persuade others to aid an unfortunate family living in our community. 5. Induce the school board to give you a good gymnasium. 6. Persuade a tramp to give up his mode of life. 7. Try to get some one to buy your old bicycle. 8. Urge your country to act in behalf of some oppressed people. 9. Urge a resident of your town to give something for a public park. +Theme CVII.+--_Write out one of the preceding._ (Consider what you have written with reference to coherence and climax.) +201. Argument with Persuasion.+--In some cases we are sure that our hearers are already convinced as to the truth of a proposition. Then there is no need of argument and persuasion is used alone, but more frequently both are used. Argument naturally precedes persuasion, but with few exceptions the two are intermixed and even so blended as to be scarcely distinguishable, the one from the other. A good example of the use of both forms is found in the speech of Antony over the dead body of Caesar in Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_. Read the speech and note the argument and persuasion given in it. What three arguments does Antony advance to prove that Caesar was not ambitious? Does he draw conclusions or leave that for his listeners to do? Where is there an appeal to their pity? To their curiosity? To their gratitude? What is the result in each case of the various appeals? In the following examples note the argument and persuasion. Remember that persuasion commences when we begin to urge to action. Notice what feelings are appealed to in the persuasive parts of the speeches. They tell us, Sir, that we are weak, unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But, when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance, by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of the means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, Sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, Sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, Sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery. Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, Sir, let it come!--It is vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace--but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we here, idle? Is life so dear, is peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death. --Patrick Henry. The pictures in the American newspapers of the starving reconcentrados are true. They can all be duplicated by the thousands. I never before saw, and please God, I may never again see, so deplorable a sight as the reconcentrados in the suburbs of Matanzas. I can never forget to my dying day the hopeless anguish in their despairing eyes. Huddled about their little bark huts, they raised no voice of appeal to us for alms as we went among them.... Men, women, and children stand silent, famishing with hunger. Their only appeal comes from their sad eyes, through which one looks as through an open window into their agonizing souls. The Government of Spain has not appropriated and will not appropriate one dollar to save these people. They are now being attended and nursed and administered to by the charity of the United States. Think of the spectacle! We are feeding the citizens of Spain; we are nursing their sick; we are saving such as can be saved, and yet there are those who still say it is right for us to send food, but we must keep hands off. I say that the time has come when muskets ought to go with the food.... The time for action has, then, come. No greater reason for it can exist to-morrow than exists to-day. Every hour's delay only adds another chapter to the awful story of misery and death. Only one power can intervene--the United States of America. Ours is the one great nation of the New World, the mother of American republics. She holds a position of trust and responsibility toward the peoples and the affairs of the whole Western Hemisphere. Mr. President, there is only one action possible, if any is taken--that is, intervention for the independence of the island. But we cannot intervene and save Cuba without the exercise of force, and force means war; war means blood. The lowly Nazarene on the shores of Galilee preached the divine doctrine of love, "Peace on earth, good will toward men." Not peace on earth at the expense of liberty and humanity. Not good will toward men who despoil, enslave, degrade, and starve to death their fellow-men. I believe in the doctrine of Christ, I believe in the doctrine of peace; but, Mr. President, men must have liberty before there can come abiding peace. Intervention means force. Force means war. War means blood. But it will be God's force. When has a battle for humanity and liberty ever been won except by force? What barricade of wrong, injustice, and oppression has ever been carried except by force? Force compelled the signature of unwilling royalty to the great Magna Charta; force put life into the Declaration of Independence and made effective the Emancipation Proclamation; force beat with naked hands upon the iron gateway of the Bastile and made reprisal in one awful hour for centuries of kingly crime; force waved the flag of revolution over Bunker Hill and marked the snows of Valley Forge with blood-stained feet; force held the broken line at Shiloh, climbed the flame-swept hill at Chattanooga, and stormed the clouds on Lookout heights; force marched with Sherman to the sea, rode with Sheridan in the valley of Shenandoah, and gave Grant victory at Appomattox; force saved the Union, kept the stars in the flag, made "niggers" men. Others may hesitate, others may procrastinate, others may plead for further diplomatic negotiations, which means delay; but for me, I am ready to act now, and for my action I am ready to answer to my conscience, my country, and my God. --John Mellen Thurston: _Speech in United States Senate_, March, 1898. EXERCISES 1. A young boy is trying to gain his father's permission to attend an evening entertainment with some other boys. Make a list of his appeals to his father's reason; to his father's feelings. Make a list of his father's objections. Is there any appeal to his son's feelings? 2. Suppose you are about to address the voters of your city on the question of granting saloon licenses. Make a list of appeals to their reason; to their intellect. Remember that appeals to the feelings are made more forcible by descriptive and narrative examples than by direct general appeals. 3. Urge your classmates to vote for some member of your class for president. What qualifications should a good class president have? +Theme CVIII.+--_Select one of the subjects, concerning which you have written an argument; either add persuasion to the argument or intermix them._ (What part of your theme is argument and what part persuasion? Does the introduction of persuasion affect the order of arrangement?) +Theme CIX.+--_Select one of the subjects given on page 361 of which you have not yet made use. Write a theme appealing to both feeling and intellect._ (Are your facts true and pertinent? Consider the arrangement.) +Theme CX.+--_Write a letter to a friend who went to work instead of entering the high school. Urge him to come to the high school._ (What arguments have you made? To what feelings have you appealed?) +Theme CXI.+--_Use one of the following as a subject for a persuasive theme:_-- 1. Induce your friends not to play ball on Memorial Day. 2. Ask permission to be excused from writing your next essay. 3. Persuade one of your friends to play golf. 4. Induce your friends not to wear birds on their hats. 5. Write an address to young children, trying to persuade them not to be cruel to the lower animals. +202. Questions of Right and Questions of Expediency.+--Arguments that aim to convince us of the wisdom of an action are very common. In our home life and in our social and religious life these questions are always arising. They may be classified into two kinds: (1) those which answer the question, Is it right? and (2) those which answer the question, Is it expedient? The moral element enters into questions of right. It is always wise for us to do that which is morally right, but sometimes we are in doubt as to what course of action is morally right. Opinions differ concerning what is right, and for that reason we spend much time in defending our opinions or in trying to make others believe as we do. In answering such a question honestly, we must lose sight of all advantage or disadvantage to ourselves. When asked to do something we should at once ask ourselves, Is it right? and when once that is determined one line of action should be clear. An argument which aims to answer the question, Is it expedient? presupposes that there are at least two lines of action each of which is right. It aims to prove that one course of action will bring greater advantages than any other. Taking all classes of people into consideration we shall find that they are arguing more questions of expediency than of any other kind. Every one is looking for advantages either to himself or to those in whom he is interested. A question of expediency should never be separated from the question of right. In determining either our own course of action or that which we attempt to persuade another to follow, we should never forget the presupposition of a question of expediency that either course is right. EXERCISES 1. Name five questions the right or wrong of which you have been called upon to decide. 2. Name five similar questions that are likely to arise in every one's experience. 3. Name five questions of right concerning which opinions very often differ. 4. Is an action that is right for one person ever wrong for another? +Theme CXII.+--_Write out the reasons for or against one of the following:_-- 1. Should two pupils ever study together? 2. Is a lie ever justifiable? 3. Was Shylock's punishment too severe? 4. Woman's suffrage should be established. 5. The regular party nominee should not always be supported. EXERCISES Give reasons for or against the following:-- 1. We should abolish class-day exercises. 2. The study of science is more beneficial than the study of language. 3. Foreign skilled laborers should be excluded from the United States. 4. Hypnotic entertainments should not be allowed. 5. The study of algebra should not be made compulsory in a high school. 6. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ should be excluded from school libraries. 7. Physical training should be compulsory in public schools. 8. High school secret societies should not be allowed. +Theme CXIII.+--_Write an argument of expediency using one of the subjects named in the preceding exercise._ (What advantages have you made most prominent? +Theme CXIV.+--_Write a narration in which the hero is called upon to decide whether some course of action is right or wrong_. (Consider the theme as a narration. Does it fulfill the requirements of Chapter IX? (See Summary.) Consider just the arguments used. Are the arguments sufficient to bring conviction to the reader that the hero decided rightly?) +203. Refutation.+--No question is worth argument unless there are two sides to it--unless there is a chance for some doubt in the mind of the hearer as to which side seems most reasonable. Many questions are of such a nature that in trying to convince our hearers of some truth, we often find it necessary to show them, not only the truth of a proposition or the expediency of a course of action, but also the falsity of some opposing proposition or the inexpediency of the opposite course of action. This tearing to pieces another's argument, is called refutation, or destructive argument. A successful debater shows nearly if not equal skill in tearing down his opponent's arguments as in building up his own. Even in arguments in which no one takes the opposite side at the given time, we must not forget that there are points on the opposite side which are likely to arise in the minds of our hearers. Just as the skillful teacher must know the difficulties that will arise in the minds of the pupils even though they are not expressed, so must the skillful debater consider the objections that his hearer will mentally set up against his argument. It is well, however, for the debater to avoid overemphasizing objections. Sometimes his discussion gives the objections a weight that they would not otherwise have. It is not wise to set up "a man of straw" for the purpose of knocking him down. Notice the refutation in the following argument:-- In no respect is the difference of opinion as to the methods of fishing so pronounced and disturbing among anglers as the diverse ones of fishing "up" and "down" stream. "Fishing up stream" has many advocates who assert that as trout always lie with their heads up current, they are less likely to see the fisherman or the glint of his rod when the casts are made; that the discomfort and fatigue accompanying wading against strong rapids is amply repaid by the increased scores secured; that the flies deftly thrown a foot or two above the head of a feeding trout float more life-like down the current than those drawn against it by the line, when they are apt to exhibit a muscular power which in the live insect would be exaggerated and unnatural. On the other hand, the "down stream" fisherman is equally assertive as to the value of his method. He feels the charm of gurgling waters around his limbs, a down current that aids rather than retards or fatigues him in each successive step of enjoyment in his pastime; as he casts his fifty or more feet of line adown the stream, he is assured that he is beyond the ken of the most keen-sighted and wary trout; that his artificial bugs, under the tension of the current seaming it from right to left, reaches every square inch of the "swim," as English rodsters term a likely water, and coming naturally down stream, just the direction from whence a hungry trout is awaiting it, are much more likely to be taken, than those thrown against the current, with, doubtless, a foot or more of the leader drooping and bagging before the nose of a trout, with a dead bug, soaked and bedraggled, following slowly behind. By wading "down stream" its advocates do not mean splashing and lifting the feet above the surface, sending the water hither and yon on to the banks, into the pools, with the soil of silt or mud or fine gravel from the bottom, polluting the stream many yards ahead, and causing every fish to scurry to the shelter of a hole in the bank or under a shelving rock. They intend that the rodster shall enter the water quietly, and, after a few preliminary casts to get the water gear in good working order to proceed down stream by sliding rather than lifting his feet from the bottom, noiselessly and cautiously approaching the most likely pools or eddies behind the roots in mid stream, or still stretches close to the banks, where the quiet reaches broaden down stream, where nine chances in ten, on a good trout water, one or more fish will be seen lazily rising and feeding. Again, the down-stream angler contends that when a fish is fastened on a hook, taking the lure in a current, that he is more likely to be well hooked, hence more certain of capture when the line is tense, than when rising to a floating bug at the end of a looping line and leader. Certainly it is very difficult when casting against the current to keep the line sufficiently taut to strike quickly and effectively a rising trout, which as a rule ejects the artificial lure the instant he feels the gritty impact of the steel. In fishing down stream, the advocate of the principle that the greater the surface commotion made by the flies used, the surer the rise and catch, has an advantage over his brother who always fishes "fine" and with flies that do not make a ripple. Drawing the artificial bugs across and slightly up stream over the mirrored bosom of a pool is apt to leave a wake behind them which may not inaptly be compared with the one created by a small stern-wheel steamer; an unnatural condition of things, but of such is a trout's make-up. --W.C. HARRIS: _Fishing Up or Down Stream_. +Theme CXV.+--_Persuade a friend, to choose some sport from one of the following pairs:_-- 1. Canoeing or sailing. 2. Bicycling or automobiling. 3. Golf or polo. 4. Basket ball or tennis. 5. Football or baseball. +Theme CXVI.+--_Choose one side of a proposition. Name the probable points on the other side and write out a refutation of them_. +Theme CXVII.+--_State a proposition and write the direct argument._ +Theme CXVIII.+--_Exchange theme CXVII for one written by a classmate and write the refutation of the arguments in the theme you receive._ (Theme CXVII and the corresponding Theme CXVIII should be read before the class.) SUMMARY 1. Argument is that form of discourse which attempts to prove the truth of a proposition. 2. Inductive reasoning is that process by which from many individual cases we establish the probable truth of a general proposition. 3. The establishing of a general truth by induction requires-- _a._ That there be a large number of facts, circumstances, or specific instances supporting it. _b._ That these facts be true. _c._ That they be pertinent. _d._ That there be no facts proving the truth of the contrary proposition. 4. Deductive reasoning is that process which attempts to prove the truth of a specific proposition by showing that a general theory applies to it. 5. The establishing of the truth of a specific proposition by deductive reasoning requires-- _a._ A major premise that makes an affirmation about _all_ the members of a class. _b._ A minor premise that states that the individual under consideration belongs to the class named. _c._ A conclusion that states that the affirmation made about the class applies to the individual. These three statements constitute a syllogism. 6. An enthymeme is a syllogism with but one premise expressed. 7. Errors of deduction arise-- _a._ If terms are not used throughout with the same meaning. _b._ If the major premise does not make a statement about every member of the class denoted by the middle term. _c._ If either premise is false. 8. Belief in a specific proposition may arise-- _a._ Because of the presentation of evidence which is true and pertinent. _b._ Because of a belief in some general principle or theory which applies to it. In arguing therefore we-- _a._ Present true and pertinent facts, or evidence; or _b._ Appeal directly to general theories, or by means of facts, maxims, allusions, inferences, or the quoting of authorities, seek to call up such theories. 9. Classes of arguments:-- _a._ Arguments from cause. _b._ Arguments from sign and attendant circumstances. _c._ Arguments from example and analogy. 10. Arrangement. _a._ Arguments from cause should precede arguments from sign, and arguments from sign should precede arguments from example. _b._ Inductive arguments usually precede deductive arguments. _c._ Arguments should be arranged with reference to climax. _d._ Arguments should be arranged, when possible, in a coherent order. 11. In making a brief the above principles of arrangement should be observed. Attention should be given to unity so that the trivial and false may be excluded. 12. Persuasion is argument that aims to establish the wisdom of a course of action. 13. Persuasion appeals largely to the feelings. _a._ Those feelings of satisfaction resulting from approval, commendation, or praise, or the desire to avoid blame, disaster, or loss of self-esteem. _b._ Those feelings resulting from the proper and legitimate use of one's powers. _c._ Those feelings which arise from possession, either actual or anticipated. 14. Persuasion is concerned with-- _a._ Questions of right. _b._ Questions of expediency. APPENDIX I. ELEMENTS OF FORM +1. Importance of Form.+--The suggestions which have been made for the correction of the Themes have laid emphasis upon the thought. Though the thought side is the more important, yet careful attention must also be given to the form in which it is stated. If we wish to express our thoughts so that they will be understood by others, we shall be surer to succeed if we use the forms to which our hearers are accustomed. The great purpose of composition is the clear expression of thought, and this is aided by the use of the forms which are conventional and customary. Wrong habits of speech indicate looseness and carelessness of thought, and if not corrected show a lack of training. In speaking, our language goes directly to the listener without revision. It is, therefore, essential that we pay much attention to the form of the expression so that it may be correct when we use it. Our aim should be to avoid an error rather than to correct it. Similarly in writing, your effort should be given to avoiding errors rather than to correcting those already made. A misspelled word or an incorrect grammatical form in the letter that you send to a business man may show you to be so careless and inaccurate that he will not wish to have you in his employ. In such a case it is only the avoidance of the error that is of value. You must determine for yourself that the letter is correct before you send it. This same condition should prevail with reference to your school themes. The teacher may return these for correction, but you must not forget that the purpose of this correction is merely to emphasize the correct form so that you will use it in your next theme. It will be helpful to have some one point out your individual mistakes, but it is only by attention to them on your own part and by a definite and long-continued effort to avoid them that you will really accomplish much toward the establishing of correct language habits. In this, as in other things, the most rapid progress will be made by doing but one thing at a time. Many matters of form are already familiar to you. A brief statement of these is made in order to serve as a review and to secure uniformity in class work. 1. _Neatness._--All papers should be free from blots and finger marks. Corrections should be neatly done. Care in correcting or interlining will often render copying unnecessary. 2. _Legibility._--Excellence of thought is not dependent upon penmanship, and the best composition may be the most difficult to read. A poorly written composition is, however, more likely to be considered bad than one that is well written. A plain, legible, and rapid handwriting is so valuable an accomplishment that it is well worth acquiring. 3. _Paper._--White, unruled paper, about 8-1/2 by 11 inches, is best for composition purposes. The ability to write straight across the page without the aid of lines can be acquired by practice. It is customary to write on only one side of the paper. 4. _Margins._--Leave a margin of about one inch at the left of the sheet. Except in formal notes and special forms there will be no margin at the right. Care should be taken to begin the lines at the left exactly under each other, but the varying length of words makes it impossible to end the lines at the right at exactly the same place. A word should not be crowded into a space too small for it, nor should part of it be put on the next line, as is customary in printing, unless it is a compound one, such as steam-boat. Spaces of too great length at the end of a line may be avoided by slightly lengthening the preceding words or the spaces between them. 5. _Spacing._--Each theme should have a title. It should be placed in the center of the line above the composition, and should have all important words capitalized. Titles too long for a single line may be written as follows:-- MY TRIP TO CHICAGO ON A BICYCLE With unruled paper some care must be taken to keep the lines the same distance apart. The spaces between sentences should be somewhat greater than those between words. Paragraphs are indicated by indentations. 6. _Corrections._--These are best made by using a sharp knife or an ink eraser. Sometimes, if neatly done, a line may be drawn through an incorrect word and the correct one written above it. Omitted words may be written between the lines and the place where they belong indicated by a caret. If a page contains many corrections, it should be copied. 7. _Inscription and Folding._--The teacher will give directions as to inscription and folding. He will indicate what information he wishes, such as name, class, date, etc., and where it is to be written. Each page should be numbered. If the paper is folded, it should be done with neatness and precision. +2. Capitals.+--The use of capitals will serve to illustrate the value of using conventional forms. We are so accustomed to seeing a proper name, such as Mr. Brown, written with capitals that we should be puzzled if we should find it written without capitals. The sentence, Ben-Hur was written by Lew Wallace, would look unfamiliar if written without capitals. We are so used to our present forms that beginning sentences with small letters would hinder the ready comprehension of the thought. Everybody agrees that capitals should be used to begin sentences, direct questions, names of deity, days of the week, the months, each line of poetry, the pronoun I, the interjection O, etc., and no good writer will fail to use them. Usage varies somewhat in regard to capitals in some other places. Such expressions as Ohio river, Lincoln school, Jackson county, state of Illinois, once had both names capitalized. The present tendency is to write them as above. Even titles of honor are not capitalized unless they are used with a proper name; for example, He introduced General Grant The general then spoke. +3. Rules of Capitalization.+--1. Every sentence and every line of poetry begin with capitals. 2. Every direct quotation, except brief phrases and subordinate parts of sentences, begins with a capital. 3. Proper nouns and adjectives derived from proper nouns begin with capitals. Some adjectives, though derived from proper nouns, are no longer capitalized; _e.g._ voltaic. 4. Titles of honor when used with the name of a person begin with capitals. 5. The first word and every important word in the titles of books, etc., begin with capitals. 6. The pronoun I and the interjection O are always capitalized. 7. Names applied to the Deity are capitalized and pronouns referring thereto, especially if personal, are usually capitalized. 8. Important words are often capitalized for emphasis, especially words in text-books indicating topics. +4. Punctuation.+--The meaning of a sentence depends largely on the grouping of words that are related in sense to each other. When we are reading aloud we make the sense clear by bringing out to the hearer this grouping. This is accomplished by the use of pauses and by emphasis and inflection. In writing we must do for the eye what inflection and pauses do for the ear. We therefore use punctuation marks to indicate inflection and emphasis, and especially to show word grouping. Punctuation marks are important because their purpose is to assist in making the sense clear. There are many special rules more or less familiar to you, but they may all be included under the one general statement: Use such marks and only such marks as will assist the reader in getting the sense. What marks we shall use and how we shall use them will be determined by custom. In order to benefit a reader, marks must be used in ways with which he is familiar. Punctuation changes from time to time. The present tendency is to omit all marks not absolutely necessary to the clear understanding of the sentence. There are some very definite rules, but there are others that cannot be made so definite, and the application of them requires care and judgment on the part of the writer. Improvement will come only by practice. Sentences should not be written for the purpose of illustrating punctuation. The meaning of what you are writing ought to be clear to you, and the punctuation marks should be put in _as you write_, not inserted afterward. +5. Rules for the Use of the Comma.+--1. The comma is used to separate words or phrases having the same construction, used in a series. Judges, senators, and representatives were imprisoned. The country is a good place to be born in, a good place to die in, a good place to live in at least part of the year. If any conjunctions are used to connect the last two members, the comma may or may not be used in connection with the conjunction. The cabbage palmetto affords shade, kindling, bed, and food. 2. Words or expressions in apposition should be separated by a comma. The native Indian dress is an evolution, a survival from long years of wild life. 3. Commas are used to separate words in direct address from the rest of the sentence. Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release. O, Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! 4. Introductory and parenthetical words or expressions are set off by commas. However, the current is narrow and very shallow here. This, in a general way, describes the scope of the small parks or playgrounds. If the parenthetical expression is long and not very closely related to the rest of the sentence, dashes or marks of parenthesis are frequently used. Some writers use them even when the connection is somewhat close. 5. The comma is frequently used to separate the parts of a long compound predicate. Pine torches have no glass to break, and are within the reach of any man who can wield an ax. 6. A comma is often used to separate a subject with several modifiers, or with a long modifier, from the predicate verb. One of the mistakes often made in beginning the study of birds with small children, is in placing stress upon learning by sight and name as many species of birds as possible. 7. Participial and adjective phrases and adverb phrases out of their natural order should be separated from the rest of the sentence by commas. A knight, clad in armor, was the most conspicuous figure of all. To the mind of the writer, this explanation has much to commend it. 8. When negative expressions are used in order to show a contrast, they are set off by commas. They believed in men, not in mere workers in the great human workshop. 9. Commas are used in complex sentences to separate the dependent clause from the rest of the sentence. The great majority of people would be better off, if they had more money and spent it. While the flour is being made, samples are sent every hour to the testing department. If the connection is close, the comma is usually omitted, especially when the dependent clause comes last. I will be there when the train arrives. 10. When a relative clause furnishes an additional thought, it should be separated from the rest of the sentence by a comma. Hiram Watts, who has been living in New York for six years, has just returned to England. If the relative clause is restrictive, that is, if it restricts or limits the meaning of the antecedent, the comma is unnecessary. This is the best article that he ever wrote. 11. Commas are used to separate the members of a compound sentence when they are short or closely connected. Ireland is rich in minerals, yet there is but little mining done there. Breathe it, exult in it, All the day long, Glide in it, leap in it, Thrill it with song. 12. Short quotations should be separated from the rest of the sentence by a comma. "There must be a beaver dam here," he called. 13. The omissions of important words in a sentence should be indicated by commas. If you can, come to-morrow; if not, come next week. +6. Rules for the Use of the Semicolon.+--1. When the members of a compound sentence are long or are not closely connected, semicolons should be used to separate them. Webster could address a bench of judges; Everett could charm a college; Choate could delude a jury; Clay could magnetize a senate, and Tom Corwin could hold the mob in his right hand; but no one of these men could do more than this one thing. --Wendell Phillips. We might as well decide the question now; for we shall surely be obliged to soon. 2. When the members of a compound sentence themselves contain commas, they should be separated from one another by semicolons. As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. --Shakespeare. 3. The semicolon should be used to precede _as, namely, i.e., e.g., viz_. Some adjectives are compared irregularly; as, good, bad, and little. 4. When a series of distinct statements all have a common dependence on what precedes or follows them, they may be separated from each other by semicolons. When subject to the influence of cold we eat more; we choose more heat-producing foods, as fatty foodstuffs; we take more vigorous exercise; we put on more clothing, especially of the non-conducting kinds--woolens. +7. Rules for the Use of the Colon.+--1. The colon is used before long or formal quotations, before enumerations, and before the conclusion of a previous statement. Old Sir Thomas Browne shrewdly observes: "Every man is not only himself. There have been many Diogeneses and many Timons though but few of the name. Men are lived over again. The world is now as it was in ages past. There were none then, but there has been one since, that parallels him, and is, as it were, revived self." --George Dana Boardman. Adjectives are divided into two general classes: descriptive and definitive adjectives. The following members sent in their resignations: Mrs. William M. Murphy, Mrs. Ralph B. Wiltsie, and Mrs. John C. Clark. 2. The colon is used to separate the different members of a compound sentence, when they themselves are divided by semicolons. It is too warm to-day; the sunshine is too bright; the shade, too pleasant: we will wait until to-morrow or we will have some one else do it when the busy time is over. +8. Rules for the Use of the Period.+--1. The period is used at the close of imperative and declarative sentences. 2. All abbreviations should be followed by a period. +9. Rule for the Use of the Interrogation Mark.+--The interrogation mark should be used after all direct questions. +10. Rule for the Use of the Exclamation Mark.+--Interjections and exclamatory words and expressions should be followed by the exclamation mark. Sometimes the exclamatory word is only a part of the whole exclamation. In this case, the exclamatory word should be followed by a comma, and the entire exclamation by an exclamation mark. See, how the lightning flashes! +11. Rules for the Use of the Dash.+--1. The dash is used to show sudden changes in thought or breaks in speech. I can speak of this better when temptation comes my way--if it ever does. 2. The dash is often used in the place of commas or marks of parenthesis to set off parenthetical expressions. In the mountains of New York State this most valuable tree--the spruce-- abounds. 3. The dash, either alone or in connection with the comma, is used to point out that part of a sentence on which special stress is to be placed. I saw unpruned fruit trees, broken fences, and farm implements, rusting in the rain--all evidences of wasted time. 4. The dash is sometimes used with the colon before long quotations, before an enumeration of things, or before a formally introduced statement. +12. Rules for the Use of Quotation Marks.+--1. Quotation marks are used to inclose direct quotations. "In all the great affairs of life one must run some risk," she remarked. 2. A quotation within a quotation is usually indicated by single quotation marks. "Can you tell me where I can find 'Rienzi's Address'?" asked a young lady of a clerk in Brooklyn. 3. When a quotation is interrupted by parenthetical expressions, the different parts of the quotation should be inclosed in quotation marks. "Bring forth," cried the monarch, "the vessels of gold." 4. When the quotation consists of several paragraphs, the quotation marks are placed at the beginning of each paragraph and at the close of the last one. +13. Rule for the Use of the Apostrophe.+--The apostrophe is used to denote the possessive case, to indicate the omission of letters, and to form the plural of signs, figures, and letters. In the teacher's copy book you will find several fancy A's and 3's which can't be distinguished from engravings. II. REVIEW OF GRAMMAR THE SENTENCE +14. English grammar+ is the study of the forms of English words and their relationship to one another as they appear in sentences. A _sentence_ is a group of words that expresses a complete thought. +15. Elements of a Sentence.+--The elements of a sentence, as regards the office that they perform, are the _subject_ and the _predicate_. The _subject_ is that about which something is asserted, and the _predicate_ is that which asserts something about the subject. Some predicates may consist of a single word or word-group, able in itself to complete a sentence: . Some require a following word or words: . The necessary parts of a sentence are: some name for the object of thought (to which the general term _substantive_ may be given); some word or group of words to make assertion concerning the substantive (general term, _assertive_); and, in case of an incomplete assertive, one of the above given completions of its meaning (object complement, attribute complement, objective complement). In addition to these necessary elements of the sentence, words or groups of words may be added to make the meaning of any one of the elements more exact. Such additions are known as _modifiers_. The word-groups which are used as modifiers are the _phrase_ and the _clause_. Both the subject and the predicate may be unmodified: ; both may be modified: ; one may be modified and the other unmodified: . The unmodified subject may be called the _simple subject_, or, merely, the _subject_. If modified, it becomes the _complete subject_. The assertive element, together with the attribute complement, if one is present, may be called the _simple predicate_. If modified, it becomes the _complete predicate_. Some grammarians call the assertive element, alone, the _simple predicate_; modified or completed, the _complete predicate_. +16. Classification of Sentences as to Purpose.+--Sentences are classified according to purpose into three classes: _declarative_, _interrogative_, and _imperative_ sentences. A _declarative_ sentence is one that makes a statement or declares something: . An _interrogative_ sentence is one that asks a question: . An _imperative_ sentence is one that expresses a command or entreaty: . Each kind of sentence may be of an exclamatory nature, and then the sentence is said to be an _exclamatory_ sentence: . Notice that the exclamation point follows the declarative and imperative forms, but the interrogative form is followed by the question mark. WORDS AND THEIR OFFICES +17. The Individual Elements+ of which every sentence is composed are _words_. Every word is the sign of some idea. Each of the words _horse, he, blue, speaks, merrily, at_, and _because_, has a certain naming value, more or less definite, for the mind of the reader. Of these, _horse, blue, he, merrily_, have a fairly vivid descriptive power. In the case of _at_ and _because_, the main office is, evidently, to express a relation between other ideas: , . The word _speaks_ is less clearly a relational word; at first thought it would seem to have only the office of picturing an activity. That it also fills the office of a connective will be evident if we compare the following sentences: He _speaks_ in public. He _is_ a public _speaker_. It is evident that _speaks_ contains in itself the _naming_ value represented in the word _speaker_, but also has the _connecting_ office fulfilled in the second sentence by _is_. All words have, therefore, a naming office, and some have in addition a connecting or relational office. PARTS OF SPEECH +18. Parts of Speech.+--When we examine the different words in sentences we find that, in spite of these fundamentally similar qualities, the words are serving different purposes. This difference in purpose or use serves as the basis for dividing words into eight classes, called Parts of Speech. Use alone determines to which class a word in any given sentence shall belong. Not only are single words so classified, but any part of speech may be represented by a group of words. Such a group is either a _phrase_ or a _clause_. A _phrase_ is a group of words, containing neither subject nor predicate, that is used as a single part of speech. A _clause_ is a group of words, containing both subject and predicate, that is used as part of a sentence. If used as a single part of speech, it is called a _subordinate_, or _dependent_, clause. Some grammarians use the word _clause_ for a subordinate statement only. +19. Classification.+--The eight parts of speech may be classified as follows:-- I. Substantives: nouns, pronouns. II. Assertives: verbs. III. Modifiers: adjectives, adverbs. IV. Connectives: prepositions, conjunctions. V. Interjections. +20. Definitions.+--The parts of speech may be defined as follows:-- (1) A _noun_ is a word used as a name. (2) A _pronoun_ is a word used in place of a noun, designating a person, place, or thing without naming it. (3) An _adjective_ is a word that modifies a substantive. (4) A _verb_ is a word that asserts something--action, state, or being--- concerning a substantive. (5) An _adverb_ is a word that modifies a verb, adjective, or another adverb. (6) A _preposition_ is a word that shows the relation of the substantive that follows it to some other word or words in the sentence. (7) A _conjunction_ is a word that connects words or groups of words used in the same way. (8) An _interjection_ is a cry expressing emotion, but not forming part of the sentence. NOUNS +21. Classes of Nouns.+--Nouns are divided into two general classes: _proper_ nouns and _common_ nouns . Common nouns include _abstract_ nouns and _collective_ nouns . Any word mentioned merely _as a word_ is a noun: . +22. Inflection.+--A change in the form of a word to denote a change in its meaning is termed _inflection_. +23. Number.+--The most common inflection of the noun is that which shows us whether the name denotes one or more than one. The power of the noun to denote one or more than one is termed _number_. A noun that denotes but one object is _singular_ in number. A noun that denotes more than one object is _plural_ in number. The plural number of nouns is regularly formed by adding _s_ and _es_ to the singular . Other points to be noted concerning the plural of nouns are as follows:-- 1. The irregular plural in _en_ . 2. Formation of the plural by internal change . 3. Fourteen nouns ending in _f_ or _fe_ change the _f_ or _fe_ into _yes_ . 4. Nouns ending in _y_, preceded by a consonant, change the _y_ to _i_ and add _es_ . 5. Letters, figures, signs, etc., form their plural by adding '_s_:. 6. Nouns taken from other languages usually form their plurals according to the laws of those languages . 7. A few nouns in our language do not change their form to denote number. (_a_) Some nouns have the same form, for both the singular and the plural . (_b_) Some nouns are used only in the plural . (_c_) Some nouns have no plurals . (_d_) Some nouns, plural in form, have a singular meaning . 8. Compound nouns usually form their plural by pluralizing the noun part of the compound . If the words of the compound are both nouns, and are of equal importance, both are given a plural ending . When the compound is thought of as a whole, the last part only is made plural . 9. Proper names usually form their plurals regularly. If they are preceded by titles, they form their plurals either by pluralizing the title or by pluralizing the name 10. A few nouns have two plurals differing in meaning or use . +24. Case.+--Case is the relation that a noun or pronoun bears to some other word in the sentence. Inflection of nouns or pronouns for the purpose of denoting case is termed _declension_. There are three cases in the English language: the _nominative_, the _possessive_, and the _objective_; but nouns show only two forms for each number, as the nominative and objective cases have the same form. +25. Formation of the Possessive.+--Nouns in the singular, and those in the plural not already ending in _s_, form the possessive regularly by adding '_s_ to the nominative . In case the plural already ends in _s_, the possessive case adds only the apostrophe . A few singular nouns add only the apostrophe, when the addition of the '_s_ would make an unpleasant sound . Compound nouns form the possessive case by adding '_s_ to the last word. This is also the rule when two names denoting joint ownership are used: . Notice that in the following expression the '_s_ is affixed to the second noun only: . Names of inanimate objects usually substitute prepositional phrases to denote possession: . +26. Gender.+--Gender is the power of nouns and pronouns to denote sex. Nouns or pronouns denoting males are of the _masculine_ gender; those denoting females are of the _feminine_ gender; and those denoting things without animal life are of the _neuter_ gender. +27. Person.+--Person is the power of one class of pronouns to show whether the speaker, the person spoken to, or the person or thing spoken of is designated. According to the person denoted, the pronoun is said to be in the _first, second_, or _third_ person. Nouns and many pronouns are not inflected for person, but most grammarians attribute person to them because the context of the sentence in which they are used shows what persons they represent. +28. Constructions of Nouns.+--The following are the usual constructions of nouns:-- (_a_) The _possessive_ case of the noun denotes possession. (_b_) Nouns in the _nominative_ case are used as follows:-- 1. As the subject of a verb: 2. As an attribute complement: . 3. In an exclamation: . 4. In direct address: . 5. Absolutely: . 6. As a noun in apposition with a nominative: . (_c_) Nouns in the _objective_ case are used as follows:-- 1. As the direct object of a verb, termed either the direct object or the object complement: . 2. As the objective complement: . 3. As the indirect object of a verb: . 4. As the object of a preposition: . 5. As the subject of an infinitive: . 6. As the attribute of an expressed subject of the infinitive _to be_: . 7. As an adverbial noun: . 8. As a noun in apposition with an object: . +29. Equivalents for Nouns.+ 1. Pronoun: . 2. Adjective: . 3. Adverb: . 4. A gerund, or infinitive in _ing_: . 5. An infinitive or infinitive phrase: . 6. Clause: . Noun clauses may be used as subject, object, attribute complement, and appositive. 7. A prepositional phrase: . PRONOUNS +30. Antecedent.+--The most common equivalent for a noun is the pronoun. The substantive for which the pronoun is an equivalent is called the _antecedent_, and with this antecedent the pronoun must agree in _person, number_, and _gender_, but not necessarily in _case_. +31. Classes of Pronouns.+--Pronouns are commonly divided into five classes, and sometimes a sixth class is added: (1) personal pronouns, (2) relative pronouns, (3) interrogative pronouns, (4) demonstrative pronouns, (5) adjective pronouns,(6) indefinite pronouns (not always added). +32. Personal Pronouns.+--Personal pronouns are so called because they show by their form whether they refer to the first, the second, or the third person. There are five personal pronouns in common use: _I, you, he, she_, and _it_. +33. Constructions of Personal Pronouns.+--The personal pronouns are used in the same ways in which nouns are used. Besides the regular uses that the personal pronoun has, there are some special uses that should be understood. 1. The word _it_ is often used in an indefinite way at the beginning of a sentence: . When so used, it has no antecedent, and we say it is used _impersonally_. 2. The pronoun _it_ is often used as the _grammatical_ subject of a sentence in which the _logical_ subject is found after the predicate verb: . When so used the pronoun _it_ is called an _expletive. There_ is used in the same way. +34. Cautions and Suggestions.+ 1. Be careful not to use the apostrophe in the possessive forms _its, yours, ours_, and _theirs_. 2. Be careful to use the nominative form of a pronoun used as an attribute complement: . 3. Be sure that the pronoun agrees in number with its antecedent. One of the most common violations of this rule is in using _their_ in such sentences as the following:--Every boy and girl must arrange _his_ desk. Who has lost _his_ book? The use of _every_ and the form _has_ obliges us to make the possessive pronouns singular. _His_ may be regarded as applying to females as well as males, where it is convenient not to use the expression _his or her_. 4. The so-called subject of an infinitive is always in the objective case: . 5. The attribute complement will agree in case with the subject of the verb. Hence the attribute complement of an infinitive is in the objective case: ; but the attribute complement of the subject of a finite verb is in the nominative case: . 6. Words should be so arranged in a sentence that there will be no doubt in the mind concerning the antecedent of the pronoun. 7. Do not use the personal pronoun form _them_ for the adjective _those_: . +35. Compound Personal Pronouns.+--To the personal pronouns _my, our, your, him, her, it_, and _them_, the syllables _self_ (singular) and _selves_ (plural) may be added, thus forming what are termed _compound personal_ pronouns. These pronouns have only two uses:-- 1. They are used for emphasis: . 2. They are also used reflexively: . +36. The Relative or Conjunctive Pronouns.+--The pronouns _who, which, what_ (= that which), _that_, and _as_ (after _such_) are more than equivalents for nouns, inasmuch as they serve as connectives. They are often named _relative pronouns_ because they relate to some antecedent either expressed or implied; they are equally well named _conjunctive pronouns_ because they are used as connectives. They introduce subordinate clauses only; these clauses are called _relative clauses_, and since they modify substantives, are also called _adjective clauses_. +37. Uses of Relative Pronouns.+--_Who_ is used to represent persons, and objects or ideas personified; _which_ is used to represent things; _that_ and _as_ are used to represent both persons and things. When a clause is used _for the purpose_ of pointing out some particular person, object, or idea, it is usually introduced by _that_; but when the clause supplies an additional thought, _who_ or _which_ is more frequently used. The former is called a _restrictive clause_, and the latter, a _non-restrictive clause_. Note the omission of the comma before _that_. Note the inclosure of the clause in commas. See Appendix 5, rule 10. In the first sentence it is evident that the intent of the writer is to separate, in thought, _the boy that broke his leg_ from all other boys. Although the clause does indeed describe the boy's condition, it does so _for the purpose_ of _limiting_ or _restricting_ thought to one especial boy among many. In the second sentence the especial person meant is indicated by the word _eldest_. The clause, _who is now in England_, is put in for the sake of giving an additional bit of information. +38. Constructions of Relative Pronouns.+--Relative pronouns may be used as subject, object, object of a preposition, subject of an infinitive, and possessive modifier. The relative pronoun is regarded as agreeing in person with its antecedent. Its verb, therefore, takes the person of the antecedent: . The case of the relative is determined by its construction in the clause in which it is found: . +39. Compound Relative Pronouns.+--The compound relative pronouns are formed by adding _ever_ and _soever_ to the relative pronouns _who, which_, and _what_. These have the constructions of the simple relatives, and the same rules hold about person and case: . +40. Interrogative Pronouns.+--The pronouns _who, which_, and _what_ are used to ask questions, and when so used, are called _interrogative_ pronouns. _Who_ refers to persons; _what_, to things; and _which_, to persons or things. Like the relatives _who_ has three case forms; _which_ and _what_ are uninflected. The implied question in the sentence, I know whom you saw, is, Whom did you see? The introductory _whom_ is an interrogative pronoun, and the clause itself is called an _indirect question_. The words _which, what_, and _whose_ may also be used as modifiers of substantives, and when so used they are called _interrogative adjectives_: . +41. Demonstrative Pronouns.+--_This_ and _that_, with their plurals _these_ and _those_, are called _demonstrative pronouns_, because they point out individual persons or things. +42. Indefinite Pronouns.+--Some pronouns, as _each, either, some, any, many, such_, etc., are indefinite in character. Many indefinites may be used either as pronouns or adjectives. Of the indefinites only two, _one_ and _other_, are inflected. SINGULAR PLURAL SINGULAR PLURAL NOM. AND OBJ. one ones other others POSS. one's ones' other's others' +43. Adjective Pronouns or Pronominal Adjectives.+--Many words, as has been noted already, are either pronouns or adjectives according to the office that they perform. If the noun is expressed, the word in question is called a _pronominal adjective_; but if the noun is omitted so that the word in question takes its place, it is called an _adjective pronoun_. ADJECTIVES +44. Classes of Adjectives.+--There are two general classes of adjectives: the _descriptive_ , so called because they describe, and the _limiting_ or _definitive_ adjectives , so called because they limit or define. It is, of course, true that any adjective which describes a noun limits its meaning; but the adjective is named from its descriptive power, not from its limiting power. A very large per cent of all adjectives belong to the first class,--_descriptive_ adjectives. Proper adjectives and _participial_ adjectives form a small part of this large class: . +45. Limiting or Definitive Adjectives.+--The _limiting_ adjectives include the various classes of _pronominal adjectives_ (all of which have been mentioned under pronouns), the _articles_ (_a_, _an_, and _the_), and adjectives denoting _place_ and _number_. +46. Comparison of Adjectives.+--With the exception of the words _this_ and _that_, adjectives are not inflected for number, and none are inflected for case. Many of them, however, change their form to express a difference in degree. This change of form is called _comparison_. There are three degrees of comparison: the _positive_, the _comparative_, and the _superlative_. Adjectives are regularly compared by adding the syllables _er_ and _est_ to the positive to form the comparative and superlative degrees. In some cases, especially in the case of adjectives of more than one syllable, the adverbs _more_ and _most_ are placed before the positive degree in order to form the other two degrees . +47. Irregular Comparison of Adjectives.+--A few adjectives are compared irregularly. These adjectives are in common use and we should be familiar with the correct forms. POSITIVE COMPARATIVE SUPERLATIVE bad } evil } worse worst ill } far farther farthest good } better best well } fore former { foremost { first late { later { latest { latter { last little less least many } more most much } near nearer { nearest { next old { older { oldest { elder { eldest The following words are used as adverbs or prepositions in the positive degree, and as _adjectives_ in the other two degrees:-- (forth) further furthest (in) inner { innermost { inmost (out) { outer { outermost { utter { utmost { uttermost (up) upper { upmost { uppermost +48. Cautions concerning the Use of Adjectives.+ 1. When two or more adjectives modify the same noun, the article is placed only before the first, unless emphasis is desired: . 2. If the adjectives refer to different things, the article should be repeated before each adjective: . 3. When two or more nouns are in apposition, the article is placed only before the first: . 4. _This, these, that_, and _those_ must agree in number with the noun they modify: . 5. When but two things are compared, the comparative degree is used: . 6. When _than_ is used after a comparative, whatever is compared should be excluded from the class with which it is compared: . 7. Do not use _a_ after _kind of, sort of_, etc. : . _One_ man does not constitute a class consisting of many kinds. +49. Constructions of Adjectives.+--Adjectives that merely describe or limit are said to be _attributive_ in construction. When the adjective limits or describes, and, at the same time, adds to the predicate, it is called a _predicate adjective_.Predicate adjectives may be used either as attribute or objective complements: . +50. Equivalents for Adjectives.+--The following are used as equivalents for the typical adjective:-- 1. A noun used in apposition: . 2. A noun used as an adjective: . 3. 4. Participles or participial phrases: . 5. Relative clauses: . 6. An adverb (sometimes called the _locative_ adjective): . VERBS +51. Uses of Verbs.+--A _verb_ is the word or word-group that makes an assertion or statement, and it is therefore the most important part of the whole sentence. It has been already shown that such a verb as _speaks_ serves the double purpose of suggesting an activity and showing relation. The most purely _relational_ verb is the verb _to be_, which is called the _copula_ or _linking verb_, for the very reason that it joins predicate words to the subject: . _To be_, however, is not always a pure _copula_. In such a sentence as, "He that cometh to God must believe that He _is_," the word _is_ means _exists_.Verbs that are like the copula, such as, _appear, become, seem_, etc., are called _copulative_ verbs. Verbs that not only are relational but have descriptive power, such as _sings, plays, runs_, etc., are called _attributive_ verbs. They attribute some quality or characteristic to the subject. +52. Classes of Verbs.+--According to their uses in a sentence verbs are divided into two classes: _transitive_ and _intransitive_. A _transitive_ verb is one that takes a following substantive, expressed or implied, called the _object_, to designate the receiver or the product of the action: . The transitive verb may sometimes be used _absolutely_:. Here the object is implied. An _intransitive_ verb is one that does not take an object to complete its meaning; or, in other words, an intransitive verb is one that denotes an action, state, or feeling that involves the subject only: . A few verbs in our language are always transitive, and a few others are always intransitive. The verbs _lie_ and _lay, rise_ and _raise, sit_ and _set_, are so frequently misused that attention is here called to them. The verbs _lie, rise_, and _sit_ (usually) are intransitive in meaning, while the verbs _lay, raise_, and _set_ are transitive. The word _sit_ may sometimes take a reflexive object: . The majority of verbs in our language are either transitive or intransitive, according to the sense in which they are used. Some intransitive verbs take what is known as a _cognate object_: Here the object repeats the meaning of the verb. +53. Complete and Incomplete Verbs.+--Some intransitive verbs make a complete assertion or statement without the aid of any other words. Such verbs are said to be of _complete predication_: . All transitive verbs and some intransitive verbs require one or more words to complete the meaning of the predicate. Such verbs are said to be incomplete. Whatever is added to complete the meaning of the predicate is termed a _complement_. The complement of a transitive verb is called the _object complement_, or simply the _object_: . Some transitive verbs, from the nature of their meaning, take also an _indirect_ object: . When a word belonging to the subject is added to an intransitive verb in order to complete the predicate, it is termed an _attribute complement_. This complement may be either a noun or an adjective: . Among the incomplete intransitive verbs the most conspicuous are the copula and the copulative verbs. +54. Auxiliary Verbs.+--English verbs have so few changes of form to express differences in meaning that it is often necessary to use the so-called _auxiliary_ verbs. The most common are: _do, be, have, may, must, might, can, shall, will, should, would, could_, and _ought_. Some of these may be used as principal verbs. A few notes and cautions are added. _Can_ is used to denote the ability of the subject. _May_ is used to denote permission, possibility, purpose, or desire. Thus the request for permission should be, "May I?" not "Can I?" _Must_ indicates necessity. _Ought_ expresses obligation. _Had_ should never be used with _ought_. To express a moral obligation in past time, combine _ought_ with the perfect infinitive: . _Should_ sometimes expresses duty: . _Would_ sometimes denotes a custom: . Sometimes it expresses a wish: . For other uses of _should_ and _would_, see Appendix 60. +55. Principal Parts.+--The main forms of the verb--so important as to be called the _principal parts_ because the other parts are formed from them-- are the _root infinitive_, the _preterite_ (_past_) _indicative_, and the _past participle_ . The _present_ participle is sometimes given with the principal parts. +56. Inflection.+--As is evident from the preceding paragraph, verbs have certain changes of form to indicate change of meaning. Such a change or _inflection_, in the case of the noun, is called _declension;_ in the case of the verb it is called _conjugation_. Nouns are _declined_; verbs are _conjugated_. +57. Person and Number.+--In Latin, or any other highly inflected language, there are many terminations to indicate differences in person and number, but in English there is but one in common use, _s_ in the third person singular: , _St_ or _est_ is used after _thou_ in the second person singular: . +58. Agreement.+--Verbs must agree with their subjects in person and number. The following suggestions concerning agreement may be helpful:-- 1. A compound subject that expresses a single idea takes a singular verb: . 2. When the members of a compound subject, connected by _neither ... nor_, differ as regards person and number, the verb should agree with the nearer of the two: . 3. When the subject consists of singular nouns or pronouns connected by _or, either ... or, neither ... nor_, the verb is singular: . 4. Words joined to the subject by _with, together with, as well as_, etc., do not affect the number of the verb. The same is true of any modifier of the subject: . 5. When the article _the_ precedes the word _number_, used as a subject, the verb should be in the singular; otherwise the verb is plural: . 6. The pronoun _you_ always takes a plural verb, even if its meaning is singular: . 7. A collective noun takes a singular or plural verb, according as the collection is thought of as a whole or as composed of individuals. +59. Tense.+--The power of the verb to show differences of time is called _tense_. Tense shows also the completeness or incompleteness of an act or condition at the time of speaking. There are three _primary_ tenses: _present, preterite_ (_past_), and _future_; and three _secondary_ tenses for completed action:_present perfect, past perfect_ (_pluperfect_), and _future perfect_. English has only two simple tenses, the present and the preterite: _I love, I loved_. All other tenses are formed by the use of the auxiliary verbs. By combining the present and past tenses of _will, shall, have, be_, or _do_ with those parts of the verb known as infinitives and participles, the various tenses of the complete conjugation of the verb are built up. The formation of the _preterite_ tense, and the consequent division of verbs into _strong_ and _weak_, will be discussed later. +60. The Future Tense.+--The future tense is formed by combining _shall_ or _will_ with the root infinitive, without _to_. The correct form of the _future tense_ in assertions is here given:-- SINGULAR PLURAL 1. I shall fall 1. We shall fall 2. Thou wilt fall 2. You will fall 3. He will fall 3. They will fall _Will_, in the _first_ person, denotes not simple futurity, but determination: . _Shall_, in the _second_ and _third_ persons, is not simply the sign of the future tense in declarative sentences. It is used to denote the determination of the speaker with reference to others. Notice:-- 1. In clauses introduced by _that_, expressed or understood, if the noun clause and the principal clause have _different_ subjects, the same auxiliary is used that would be used were the subordinate clause used independently: . 2. In all other subordinate clauses, _shall_, for all persons, denotes simple futurity; _will_, an expression of willingness or determination: . 3. In questions, _shall_ is always used in the first person; in the second and third persons the same auxiliary is used which is expected in the answer. (NOTE.--_Should_ and _would_ follow the rules for _shall_ and _will_.) +61. Tenses for the Completed Action.+ 1. To represent an action as completed at the _present_ time, the past participle is used with _have_ (_hast, has_). This forms the _present perfect_ tense: . 2. To represent an action as completed in _past_ time, the past participle is combined with _had_ (_hadst_). This forms the _past perfect_, or _pluperfect_, tense: . 3. To represent action that will be completed _in future_ time, _shall have_ or _will have_ is combined with the past participle. This forms the _future perfect_ tense: . +62. Sequence of Tenses.+--It is, in general, true that the tense of a subordinate clause changes when the tense of the main verb changes. This is known as the Law of the Sequence (or _following_) of Tenses: . The verb in the main clause and the verb in the subordinate clause are not necessarily in the same tense. In general, the principle may be laid down that in a complex sentence the tense for both principal and subordinate clauses is that which the sense requires. General truths and present facts should be expressed in the present tense, whatever the tense of the principal verb: . The _perfect infinitive_ is used to denote action completed at the time of the main verb: . +63. Mode.+--A statement may be regarded as the expression of a fact, of a doubt or supposition, or of a command. The power of the verb to show how an action should be regarded is called _mode (mood_). In our language there is but a slight change of form for this purpose. The distinction of mode which we must make is a distinction that has regard to the thought or attitude of mind of the speaker rather than to the form of the verb. The _indicative_ mode is used to state a fact or to ask questions of fact: . The _subjunctive_ mode indicates uncertainty, unreality, and some forms of condition: . The _imperative_ mode expresses a command or entreaty: . +64. The Subjunctive Mode.+--The subjunctive is disappearing from colloquial speech, and the indicative form is used almost entirely. The verb _to be_ has the following indicative and subjunctive forms in the present and preterite:-- IND. SUBJ. IND. SUBJ. { I am I be { I was I were { Thou art Thou be { Thou wast Thou were PRESENT { He is He be PRETERITE { He was He were { We are We be { We were We were { You are You be { You were You were { They are They be { They were They were In other verbs the indicative and subjunctive forms are the same, except that the second and third persons singular subjunctive have no personal endings. INDICATIVE Thou learnest He learns SUBJUNCTIVE Thou learn He learn The subjunctive idea is sometimes expressed by verb phrases, containing the auxiliary verbs _may (might), would_, or _should_. _May, would_, and _should_ are not, however, always subjunctive. In "I _may_ go" (may = am allowed to), _may_ is indicative. In "you _should_ go" (= ought to), _should_ is indicative. The subjunctive mode is used most frequently to express:-- 1. A wish: . 2. A condition regarded as doubtful: , or a condition regarded as untrue: . When condition is expressed by the subjunctive without _if_, the verb precedes the subject: . 3. A purpose: . 4. Exhortations: . 5. A concession,--supposed, not given as a fact: . 6. A possibility: . The tenses of the subjunctive require especial notice. In conditional clauses, the _present_ refers either to present or future time: . The _preterite_ refers to present time. It implies that the supposed case is not a fact: . The _pluperfect_ subjunctive expresses a false supposition in past time: . The phrases with _may, might, can, must, could, would_, and _should_ are sometimes called the _potential mode_, but the constructions all fall within either the indicative or the subjunctive uses, and a fourth mode is only an incumbrance. +65. The Imperative Mode.+--The imperative is the mode of command and entreaty. It has but one form for both singular and plural, and but one tense,--the present. It has but one person,--the second. The subject is usually omitted. The case of direct address, frequently used with the imperative, should not be confused with the subject. In, "John, hold my books," the subject is _you_, understood. Were _John_ the subject, the verb must be _holds_. _John_ is, here, a compellative, or vocative. +66. Voice.+--Verbs are said to be in the _active_ voice when they represent the subject as acting, and in the _passive_ voice when they represent the subject as being acted upon. Intransitive verbs, from their very nature, have no passive voice. Transitive verbs may have both voices, for they may represent the subject either as acting or as being acted upon. The direct object in the active voice generally becomes the subject in the passive; if the subject of the active appears in the passive, it is the object of the preposition _by_: . Verbs of calling, naming, making, and thinking may take two objects referring to the same person or thing. The first of these is the direct object and the second is called the objective complement: . The objective complement becomes an attribute complement when the verb is changed from the active to the passive voice: . Certain verbs take both a direct and an indirect object in the active: . If the indirect object becomes the subject in the passive voice, the direct object is known as the _retained object:_ . +67. Infinitives.+--The infinitive form of the verb is often called a verbal noun, because it partakes of the nature both of the verb and of the noun. It is distinguished from the _finite_, or true, verb because it does not make an assertion, and yet it assumes one. While it has the modifiers and complements of a verb, it at the same time has the uses of a noun. There are two infinitives: the _root infinitive_ (commonly preceded by _to_, the so-called _sign_ of the infinitive), and the _gerund_, or _infinitive in -ing_. 1. Root infinitive: . 2. Gerund: . In each of these sentences the infinitive, in its capacity as noun, stands as the subject of the sentence. In 1, _to write_ shows its verb nature by governing the object _theme;_ in 2, _riding_ shows its verb nature by taking as a modifier the adverb _rapidly_. Each form of the infinitive is found as the subject of a verb, as its object, as an attribute complement, and as the object of a preposition. The root infinitive, together with its subject in the objective case, is used as the object of verbs of knowing, telling, etc. : . See also Appendix 85 for adjective and adverbial uses. The infinitive has two tenses: the _present_ and the _perfect_. The _present_ tense denotes action which is not completed at the time of the principal verb: . The _perfect_ infinitive denotes action complete with reference to the time of the principal verb: . +68. Participles.+--Participles are verbal adjectives: . _Playing_, as an _adjective_, modifies the noun _girl_; it shows its _verbal_ nature by taking the object _piano_. The _present participle_ ends in _-ing_. When the _past participle_ has an ending, it is either _-d, -ed, -t_, or _-en_. The _perfect participle_ is formed by combining _having_ with a past participle; as, _having gone_. There is danger of confusing the present participle with the gerund, or infinitive in _-ing_, unless the adjective character of the one and the noun character of the other are clearly distinguished: . Participles are used to form verb-phrases. The present participle is used for the formation of the progressive conjugation; the past participle, for the formation of the compound or perfect tenses. Participles are also used in all the adjective constructions. One especial construction requires notice,--the _absolute_ construction, or the _nominative absolute_, as it is called: . The construction here is equivalent to a clause denoting _time_ or _cause_ or some _circumstance_ attendant on the main action of the sentence. The participle is sometimes omitted, but the substantive must not be, lest the participle be left apparently belonging to the nearest substantive; as, Walking home, the rain began to fall. As the sentence stands, _walking_ modifies _rain_. +69. Conjugation.+--The complete and orderly arrangement of the various forms of a verb is termed its conjugation. Complete conjugations will be found in any text-book on English grammar. The passive voice must not be confused with such a form as the progressive conjugation of the verb. The passive consists of a form of _to be_ and a _past participle_: . The progressive tenses combine some form of _to be_ with a _present_ participle: . It may be well to distinguish here between the passive voice and a past participle used as an attribute complement of the verb _be_. Both have the same form, but there is a difference of meaning. The passive voice always shows action received by the subject, while the participle is used only as an adjective denoting condition: . +70. Weak and Strong Conjugations.+--Verbs are divided into two classes as regards their conjugations. It has been the custom to call all verbs which form the preterite and past participle by adding _-d_ or _-ed_ to the present, _regular_ verbs , and to call all others _irregular_. A better classification, based on more careful study of the history of the English verb, divides verbs into those of the _weak_ and those of the _strong_ conjugations. The _weak verbs_ are those which form the preterite by adding _-ed, -d_, or _-t_ to the present: _love, loved_. There is also infrequently a change of vowel: _sell, sold_; _teach, taught_. All verbs which form the preterite without the addition of an ending are _strong verbs_. There is usually a change of vowel. The termination of the past participle in _-n_ or _-en_ is a sure indication that a verb is _strong_. Some verbs show forms of both conjugations. A complete list of _strong_ verbs cannot be given here, but a few of the most common will be given, together with a few _weak_ verbs, in the use of which mistakes occur. PRESENT PRETERITE PAST PARTICIPLE am was been arise rose arisen bear bore borne, born begin began begun bid (command) bade bidden bite bit bitten blow blew blown break broke broken bring brought brought burst burst burst catch caught caught choose chose chosen climb climbed climbed come came come do did done drink drank drunk drive drove driven drown drowned drowned eat ate eaten fall fell fallen fly flew flown freeze froze frozen get got got give gave given go went gone grow grew grown have had had hide hid hidden hurt hurt hurt know knew known lay laid laid lie (recline) lay lain lead led led read read read ride rode ridden ring rang rung run ran run see saw seen shake shook shaken show showed shown sing sang sung sink sank sunk sit sat sat slay slew slain speak spoke spoken spring sprang sprung steal stole stolen swell swell { swelled { swollen swim swam swum take took taken tear tore torn throw threw thrown wear wore worn wish wished wished write wrote written CAUTION.--Do not confuse the preterite with the past participle. Always use the past participle form in the compound tenses. ADVERBS +71. Classes of Adverbs.+--Adverbs vary much as to their use and meaning. It is therefore impossible to make a very accurate classification, but we may divide them, according to use, into _limiting, interrogative_, and _conjunctive_ adverbs. _Limiting_ adverbs modify the meaning of verbs, etc. : . _Interrogative_ adverbs are used to ask questions: . _Conjunctive_ adverbs introduce clauses: . Here _where_ is used as a connective and also as a modifier of _stayed_. Conjunctive adverbs introduce the following kinds of clauses: 1. Adverbial clauses: . 2. Adjective clauses: . 3. Noun clause: . Adverbs may also be classified, according to meaning, into adverbs of _manner, time, place_, and _degree_. The classification is not, however, a rigid one. Adverbs of _manner_ answer the question How? Most of these terminate in _-ly_. A few, however, are identical in form with adjectives of like meaning: . Adverbs of _time_ answer the question When? Adverbs of _place_ answer the question Where? This class, together with the preceding two classes, usually modify verbs. _Adverbs of degree_ answer the question To what extent? These adverbs modify verbs, adjectives, and other adverbs. +72. Phrasal Adverbs.+--Certain phrases, adverbial in character, cannot easily be separated into parts. They have been called _phrased adverbs;_ as, arm-in-arm, now-a-days, etc. +73. Inflection.+--Some adverbs, like adjectives, are compared for the purpose of showing different degrees of quality or quantity. The comparative and superlative degrees may be formed by adding the syllables _er_ and _est_ to the positive degree. The great majority of adverbs, however, make use of the words _more_ and _most_ or _less_ and _least_ to show a difference in degree: . Some adverbs are compared irregularly:-- badly } worse worst ill (evil)} far } { farther { farthest forth } { further { furthest late later { latest { last little less least much more most nigh nigher { nigher { next well better best +74. Suggestions and Cautions concerning the Use of Adverbs.+ 1. Some words, as _fast, little, much, more_, and others, have the same form for both adjective and adverb, and use alone can determine what part of speech each is. (Adjective) He is a fast driver. She looks well (in good health). (Adverb) How fast he walks! I learned my lesson well. 2. Corresponding adjectives and adverbs usually have different forms which should not be confused. (Adjective) She is a good student. (Adverb) He works well. 3. The adjective, and not the adverbial, form should be used after a copulative verb, since adverbs cannot modify substantives: . 4. Two negatives imply an affirmative. Hence only one should be used to denote negation: . +75. Equivalents for Adverbs.+ 1. A phrase: . 2. A clause: . 3. A noun: . PREPOSITIONS +76. Classes of Prepositions.+--The _simple_ prepositions are: _at, after, against, but, by, down, for, from, in, of, off, over, on, since, through, till, to, under, up_, and _with_. Other prepositions are either derived or compound: such as, _underneath, across, between, concerning_, and _notwithstanding_. +77. Suggestions concerning the Use of Prepositions.+--Mistakes are frequently made in the use of the preposition. This use cannot be fully discussed here, but a partial list of words with the required preposition will be given. afraid _of_. agree _with_ a person. agree _to_ a proposal. bestow _upon_. compare _to_ (to show similarity). compare _with_ (to show similarity or difference). comply _with_. conform _to_. convenient _for_ or _to_. correspond _to_ or _with_ (a thing). correspond _with_ (a person). dependent _on_. differ _from_ (a person or thing). differ _from_ or _with_ (an opinion). different _from_. disappointed _in_. frightened _at_ or _by_. glad _of_. need _of_. profit _by_. scared _by_. taste _of_ (food). taste _for_ (art). thirst _for_ or _after_. _Like_, originally an adjective or adverb, is often, in some of its uses, called a preposition. It governs the objective case, and should not be used as a conjunction: . The appropriate _conjunction_ here would be _as_: . The prepositions _in_ and _at_ denote rest or motion _in_ a place; _into_ denotes motion _toward_ a place: . +78. Prepositional Phrases.+--The preposition, with its object, forms what is termed a prepositional phrase. This phrase is _adjective_ in force when it modifies a substantive; and _adverbial_, when it modifies a verb, adjective, or other adverb: . Some prepositions were originally adverbs; such as, _in, on, off, up_, and _to_. Many of them are still used adverbially or as adverbial suffixes: . CONJUNCTIONS +79. Classes of Conjunctions.+--Conjunctions are divided according to their use into two general classes: the _cordinate_ and the _subordinate_ conjunctions. _Cordinate_ conjunctions are used to connect words, phrases, and clauses of equal rank; _subordinate_ conjunctions connect clauses of unequal rank. The principal cordinate conjunctions are _and, but, or, nor_, and _for_. _And_ is said to be _copulative_ because it merely adds something to what has just been said. Other conjunctions having a copulative use are _also, besides, likewise, moreover_, and _too_; and the correlative conjunctions, _both ... and, not only ... but also_, etc. These are termed _correlative_ because they occur together. _But_ is termed the _adversative_ cordinate conjunction because it usually introduces something adverse to what has already been said. Other words of an adversative nature are _yet, however, nevertheless, only, notwithstanding_, and _still_. _Or_ is alternative in its force. This conjunction implies that there is a choice to be made. Other similar conjunctions are _either ... or, neither ... nor, or, else_. _Either ... or_ and _neither ... nor_ are termed _correlative_ conjunctions, and they introduce alternatives. _For, because, such_, and as are _cordinate_ conjunctions only in such a case as the following: . Some of the most common conjunctions of the _subordinate_ type are those of place and time, cause, condition, purpose, comparison, concession, and result. _That_ introducing a subordinate clause may be called a _substantive_ conjunction: . There are a number of subordinate conjunctions used in pairs which are called _correlatives_. The principal pairs are _as ... so, as ... as, so ... as, if ... then, though ... yet_. +80. Simple and Compound Sentences.+--In the first section of this review the parts of a sentence were named as the _subject_ and _predicate_. The _subject_ may itself consist of two parts joined by one of the cordinating conjunctions: . The predicate may be formed in a similar fashion: . Both subject and predicate may be so compounded: . In all these cases the sentence, consisting as it does of but one subject and one predicate, is said to be _simple_. When two clauses--that is, two groups of words containing each a subject and predicate--are united by a cordinate conjunction, the sentence is said to be _compound_: . The cordinating conjunction need not actually appear in the sentence. Its omission is then indicated by the punctuation: . +81. Subordinate Conjunctions and Complex Sentences.+--A _subordinate_ conjunction is used to join a subordinate clause to a principal clause, thus forming a _complex_ sentence. The test to be applied to a clause in order to ascertain whether it is a subordinate clause, is this: if any group of words in a sentence, containing a subject and predicate, fulfills the office of some single part of speech, it is a _subordinate_ clause. In the sentence, "I went because I knew that I must," the clause, "because I knew that I must" states the reason for the action named in the main clause. It, therefore, stands in _adverbial_ relation to the verb "went." "That I must" is the object of "knew." It, therefore, stands in a _substantive_ relation to the verb. Subordinate clauses are often introduced by subordinate conjunctions (sometimes by relative pronouns or adverbs); but, whenever such a clause appears in a sentence, otherwise simple, the sentence is _complex_. If it appears in a sentence otherwise compound, the sentence is _compound-complex_. The different types of subordinate clauses will be discussed later. SENTENCE STRUCTURE +82. Phrases.+--Phrases are classified both as to structure and use. From the standpoint of structure, a phrase is classified from its introductory word or words, as:-- 1. _Prepositional_: . 2. _Infinitive_: . 3. _Participial_: . Classified as to use, a phrase may be-- 1. A _noun_: . 2. An _adjective_: . 3. An _adverb_: . +83. Clauses.+--It has been already shown that clauses may be either principal or subordinate. A principal clause is sometimes defined as "one that can stand alone," and is therefore independent of the rest of the sentence. This statement is misleading, for, although true in most cases, it does not hold in cases like the following:-- 1. As the tree falls, so it must lie. 2. That sunshine is cheering, cannot be denied. The genuine test for the subordinate clause is the one already given in connection with the study of the subordinate conjunction. It must serve the purpose of some single part of speech. All other clauses are principal clauses. +84. Classification of Subordinate Clauses.+--_A._ Subordinate clauses may be classified into _substantive_ and _modifying_ clauses. _Substantive clauses_ show the various substantive constructions. Thus:-- 1. Subject: . 2. Object: . 3. Appositive: . 4. Attribute complement: . _Modifying clauses_ show adjective and adverbial constructions. Thus:-- 1. Adjective: . 2. Adverb: . _B._ Subordinate clauses may also be classified according to the introductory word. (_a_) Clauses introduced by _relative_ or _interrogative pronouns_: _who, which, what, that_ (= who or which), _as_ (after such), and the compound relatives, _whoever, whichever, whatever_ (the first three are both relative and interrogative): . (_b_) Clauses introduced by a relative or interrogative adjective: . (_c_) Clauses introduced by a relative or interrogative adverb, such as _when, whenever, since_ (referring to time), _until, before, after, where, whence, whither, wherever, why, as, how_: . (_d_) Clauses introduced by a subordinate conjunction, such as _because, since_ (= because), _though, although, if, unless, that_ (= in order that), _as, as if, as though, then_: . _C._ Subordinate clauses may also be classified according to the nature of the thought expressed. (_a_) General description: . (_b_) Place: . (_c_) Time: . (_d_) Cause: . (_e_) Concession: . (_f_) Purpose: . (_g_) Result: . (_h_) Condition: . (_i_) Comparison: . Note that the subordinate clauses in the above examples are modifying clauses. (_j_) Direct quotation: . (_k_) Indirect statement: . (_l_) Indirect question: . Note that the subordinate clauses in the above examples are substantive clauses. +85. The Framework of a Sentence+ has been already described as consisting of the _subject_, the _verb_, and, if the verb be incomplete, of some completing element, _object_ or _attribute complement_. Occasionally an _objective complement_ must be added. Besides these elementary parts, both subject and predicate may have modifiers. The usual modifiers of the subject are:-- 1. Adjective: . 2. Adjective phrase: . 3. Adjective clause: . 4. Noun or pronoun in possessive case: . 5. Noun in apposition: . 6. Adverb used as an adjective: . 7. Infinitive used adjectively: . 8. Participle: . The modifiers of the predicate are:-- 1. Adverb: . 2. Noun used adverbially: . 3. Infinitive used adverbially: . 4. Adverbial phrase: . 5. Adverbial clause: . 6. Nominative absolute: . Occasionally, adverbs and phrases of adverbial character modify the entire thought in a sentence, rather than some single word: . LIST OF SPECIAL WORDS +86. Special Words.+--A list is here given of words which appear as various parts of speech:--- +a+ (1) Adjective: _A_ book. (2) Preposition: I go a-fishing. +about+ (1) Preposition: Walk _about_ the house. (2) Adverb: We walked _about_ for an hour. _By, over, up_, etc., are used in the same way. +above+ (1) Preposition: The sun is _above_ the horizon. (2) Adverb: Go _above_. (3) Noun: Every good gift is from _above_. (4) Adjective: The _above_ remarks are discredited. _Below_ has the same uses. +after+ (1) Preposition: _After_ our sail. (2) Conjunctive adverb: He came _after_ she went away. +all+ (1) Pronoun: _All_ went merry as a marriage bell. (2) Noun: I gave my _all_. (3) Adjective: _All_ hands to the rescue. (4) Adverb: The work is _all_ right. +as+ (1) Conjunctive pronoun: I give such _as_ I have. (2) Conjunctive adverb: I am not so old _as_ she. (3) Adverb: What other grief is _as_ hard to bear? (4) Conjunction: _As_ it was hot, we did not go. (5) Preposition: I warned her _as_ a friend. (6) Compound Conjunction: He looks _as_ if he were not well. +before+ (1) Preposition: He stood _before_ the door. (2) Conjunctive Adverb: I will do it _before_ I go. (3) Adverb: She has never been here _before_. +both+ (1) Adjective: _Both_ white and red pines are beautiful. (2) Pronoun: _Both_ are yours. (3) Conjunction: She is _both_ good and beautiful. +but+ (1) Conjunction: John reads _but_ Richard plays. (2) Preposition: All _but_ him are at home. (3) Adverb: We can _but_ fail. +either+ (1) Adjective: _Either_ dress is becoming. (2) Conjunction: _Either_ this dress or the other is becoming. (3) Pronoun: _Either_ is right. +fast+ (1) Noun: A long _fast_. (2) Verb: They _fast_ often. (3) Adverb: The rain fell _fast_. (4) Adjective: He is a _fast_ walker. +for+ (1) Subordinate Conjunction: I must go, _for_ I promised. (2) Cordinate Conjunction: She stayed at home, _for_ I saw her. (3) Preposition: I have nothing _for_ you. +hard+ (1) Adjective: _Hard_ labor. (2) Adverb: He works _hard_. +like+ (1) Noun: We may never see her _like_ again. (2) Adjective: This process gives _like_ results. (3) Adverb: _Like_ as a father pitieth his children. (4) Preposition: She looks _like_ me. (By some grammarians _like_ in this case is considered a _adjective_ with the preposition _to_ omitted.) (5) Verb: You _like_ your work. +little+ (1) Adjective: A _little_ bread. (2) Noun: I wish a _little_. (3) Adverb: He laughs _little_. _Much_ has the same uses. +many a+ (1) Adjective: _Many a_ tree. +notwithstanding+ (1) Preposition: _Notwithstanding_ the rain, we were content. (2) Conjunction or Preposition: She is happy, _notwithstanding_ (the fact that) she is an invalid. +only+ (1) Adjective: This is the _only_ way. (2) Adverb: _Only_ experienced persons need apply. (3) Conjunction: I should go, _only_ it is stormy. +since+ (1) Preposition: _Since_ that day I have not seen her. (2) Conjunction: _Since_ you lost it, you must replace it. (3) Adverb: I have not seen her _since_. (4) Conjunctive Adverb: You have been here _since_ I have. +still+ (1) Adjective: The lake is _still_. (2) Adverb: The tree is _still_ lying where it fell. (3) Conjunction: He is entertaining; _still_ he talks too much. (4) Verb: Oil is said to _still_ the waves. (5) Noun: In the _still_ of noonday the song of the locust was loud. +than+ (1) Conjunction: I am older _than_ she. (2) Preposition: _Than_ whom there is none wiser. +that+ (1) Demonstrative Pronoun: _That_ is right. (2) Conjunctive Pronoun: He _that_ lives nobly is happy. (3) Adjective: _That_ book is mine. (4) Conjunction: I say this _that_ you may understand my position. (5) Substantive Conjunction: _That_ this is true is evident. +the+ (1) Adjective (article): _The_ lake. (2) Adverb: _The_ more ... _the_ merrier. +then+ (1) Adverb: I shall know _then_. (2) Conjunction: If you so decide, _then_ we may go. +there+ (1) Adverb: The stream runs _there_. (2) Expletive: _There_ are many points to be considered. (3) Interjection: _There! there!_ it makes no difference! +what+ (1) Conjunctive Interrogative Pronoun: I heard _what_ you said. Pronoun: _What_ shall I do? (3) Interrogative Adjective: _What_ game do you prefer? (4) Conjunctive Adjective: I know _what_ books he enjoys. (5) Adverb: _What_ with this and _what_ with that, he finally got his wish. (6) Interjection: _What! what!_ +while+ (1) Noun: A long _while_. (2) Verb: To _while_ away the time. (3) Conjunctive Adverb: I stay in _while_ it snows. III. FIGURES OF SPEECH +87. Figures of Speech.+--A figure of speech is a change from the usual form of expression for the purpose of producing a greater effect. These changes may be effective either because they are more pleasing to us or because they are more forcible, or for both reasons. While figurative language is a change from the usual mode of expression, we are not to think of it as being unnatural. It is, in fact, as natural as plain language, and nearly every one, from the illiterate to the most learned, makes use of it, more or less, in his ordinary conversation. This arises from, the fact that we all enjoy comparisons and substitutions. When we say that we have been pegging away all day at our work, or that the wind howls, or that the man has a heart of steel, we are making use of figures of speech. Figurative language ranges from these very simple expressions to the beautiful figures of speech found in so much of our poetry. Written prose contains many beautiful and forcible examples, but it is in poetry that we find most of them. +88. Simile.+--A simile is an expressed comparison between objects belonging to different classes. We must remember, however, that all resemblances do not constitute similes. If we compare two trees, or two beehives, or two rivers, our comparison is not a simile. If we compare a tree to a person, a beehive to a schoolroom, or time to a river, we may form a good simile, since the things compared do not belong to the same class. The best similes are those in which the ideas compared have one strong point of resemblance, and are unlike in all other respects. 1. How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. --Shakespeare. 2. For very young he seemed, tenderly reared; Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight. --Matthew Arnold. 3. In the primrose-tinted sky The wan little moon Hangs like a jewel dainty and rare. --Francis C. Rankin. +89. Metaphor.+--A metaphor differs from a simile in that the comparison is implied rather than expressed. They are essentially the same as far as the comparison is concerned, and usually the one kind may be easily changed to the other. In a simile we say that one object _is like_ another, in a metaphor we say that one object _is_ another. EXERCISES Select the metaphors in the following and change them to similes:-- 1. In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood. --James Montgomery. 2. The familiar lines Are footpaths for the thoughts of Italy. --Longfellow. 3. Life is a leaf of paper white, Whereon each one of us may write His word or two, and then comes night. --Lowell. +90. Personification.+--Personification is a special form of the metaphor in which life is attributed to inanimate objects or the characteristics of persons are attributed to objects, animals, or even to abstract ideas. EXERCISES Explain why the following quotations are examples of personifications:-- 1. The day is done; and slowly from the scene The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts And puts them back into his golden quiver. --Longfellow. 2. Time is a cunning workman and no man can detect his joints. --Charles Pierce Burton. 3. The sun is couched, the seafowl gone to rest, And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest. --Wordsworth. 4. See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother. --Shelley. +91. Apostrophe.+--Apostrophe is like personification, but has an additional characteristic. When we directly address inanimate objects or the absent as if they were present, we call the figure of speech thus formed apostrophe. The following are examples of apostrophe:-- 1. --Tennyson. 2. Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore. --Elizabeth Akers Allen. +92. Metonymy.+--Metonymy consists in substituting one object for another, the two being so closely associated that the mention of one suggests the other. 1. The pupils are reading George Eliot. 2. Each hamlet heard the call. 3. Strike for your altars and your fires. 4. Gray hairs should be respected. +93. Synecdoche.+--Synecdoche consists in substituting a part of anything for the whole or a whole for the part. 1. A babe, two summers old. 2. Give us this day our daily bread. 3. Ring out the thousand years of woe, Ring in the thousand years of peace. 4. Fifty mast are on the ocean. +94. Other Figures of Speech.+--Sometimes, especially in older rhetorics, the following so-called figures of speech are added to the list already given: irony, hyperbole, antithesis, climax, and interrogation. The two former pertain rather to style, in fact, are qualities of style, while the last two might properly be placed along with kinds of sentences or paragraph development. Since these so-called figures are not all mentioned elsewhere in this text, a brief explanation and example of each will be given here. 1. _Irony_ consists in saying just the opposite of the intended meaning, but in such a way that it emphasizes that meaning. What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so; his crime is a fouler one-- God made the old man poor. --Whittier. 2. _Hyperbole_ is an exaggerated expression used to increase the effectiveness of a statement. He was a man of boundless knowledge. 3. _Antithesis_ consists merely of contrasted statements. This contrast may be found in a single sentence or it may be extended through an entire paragraph. Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it. --Shakespeare. 4. _Climax_ consists of an ascendant arrangement of words or ideas. I came, I saw, I conquered. 5. When a question is asked, not for the purpose of obtaining information but in order to make speech more effective, it is called the figure of _interrogation_. An affirmative question denies and a negative question affirms. 1. Am I my brother's keeper? 2. Am I not free? IV. THE RHETORICAL FEATURES OF THE SENTENCE +95. Unity, Coherence, and Emphasis in Sentences.+--On pages 153-155 we have considered the principles of unity, coherence, and emphasis as applied to the whole composition. In much the same way these principles are applicable to the sentence. A sentence possesses unity if all that it contains makes one complete statement, and no more; and if all minor ideas are made subordinate to one main idea. The effect must be single. A sentence exhibits coherence when the relation of all of its parts is perfectly clear. We secure emphasis in the sentence by placing ideas that deserve distinction in conspicuous positions; by arranging the members of a series in the order of climax; by using specific rather than general terms; by expressing thoughts with directness and simplicity; and by employing the devices of balance and contrast. We must remember that, in the sentence as well as in the whole composition and the paragraph, if coherence and unity are secured, emphasis is quite likely to follow naturally. On the other hand, a violation of coherence or unity often results in a lack of emphasis. +96. Unity in the sentence is affected unfavorably by+-- 1. _The presence of more than one main thought_. (Stonewall Jackson was a general in the Confederate Army, and he is said to have been a very religious man.) In this sentence two distinct thoughts are embodied, and in such a way that their relation to each other is altogether illogical. The effect is not that of a single thought. To possess unity the two or more thoughts of a compound sentence should sustain some particular relation, like cause and effect, contrast, series, details of a picture. We can unite the two thoughts in a perfectly logical sentence, thus: (Stonewall Jackson, the Confederate general, is said to have been a very religious man.) 2. _The addition of too many dependent clauses_. (The boy was startled when he awoke, for he heard the plan of his captors, who were preparing to seize the boat, which had been left by his friends who had so mysteriously deserted him at a time when he needed them most.) Here, the numerous dependent clauses tacked on obscure the main thought. The sentence should be broken up and, where possible, clauses should be reduced to phrases and words. (The boy was startled when he awoke, for he heard the plan of his captors. They were preparing to seize the boat left by his friends, who had deserted him in the hour of greatest need.) 3. _The presence of incongruous ideas_. (With his hair combed and his shoes blacked, he gave the impression of being a very strong man.) The ideas of this sentence have no logical relation to each other. There is little likelihood, too, of making them more congruous by any change in the sentence. Blacking one's shoes and combing one's hair do not make one look strong. The remedy for such a sentence is to separate the incongruous ideas. 4. _A needless change of construction_. (Silas was kindly received by the men in the tavern; and when they had listened to his story and his answers to their questions had been noted, they began to think of catching the thief.) Confusion arises from such sudden and needless changes of the subject. By keeping the same subject throughout, we secure unity of impression. (The men in the tavern received Silas kindly; and when they had listened to his story and had noted his answers to their questions, they began to think of catching the thief.) 5. _Making the sentence too short and fragmentary to serve as a logical unit of the paragraph_. (I went to the park yesterday. It was a pleasant day. I saw many animals. I had a good time, etc.) Each of these sentences, when considered in its relation to the others, and to the development of the thought, is altogether too incomplete and unimportant in ideas expressed to stand alone. Unity of impression and dignity of thought are gained by combining the sentences. (Yesterday was a pleasant day; so I went to the park, where I saw many animals, and had a good time.) +97. Coherence in the sentence is affected unfavorably by+-- 1. _The wrong placing of modifiers_. (The victorious general was returning to his native city after many hard-fought campaigns with his staff officers.) It is not likely that the campaigns here referred to were waged against the staff officers. By changing the position of phrases we express the thought that the writer had in mind. (After many hard-fought campaigns, the victorious general, with his staff officers, was approaching his native city.) Especial care should be taken in placing the correlatives _either, or; neither, nor; not only, but also;_ and the word _only_. Incoherence frequently arises through the wrong placing of these words. 2. _The careless use of pronouns_. (Argument plays a very little part in that work, and those that do occur are not interesting.) (He repeated to his father what he had told him the night before when he was in his room.) In both sentences, the relation between pronouns and antecedents is not clear, and incoherence results. With the ambiguity in the use of the pronouns remedied, the sentences are entirely coherent. (Argument plays a very little part in that work, and whatever argumentative material is found is not interesting.) (He repeated to his father what he had told this parent the night before in his room.) 3. _Careless participial and infinitive relations_. (After carefully preparing my lessons, a friend came in.) (Standing on Brooklyn Bridge, a great many ferryboats can be seen.) The relation of the parts is manifestly illogical and absurd. The sentences should read: (After I had carefully prepared my lessons, a friend came in.) (While standing on Brooklyn Bridge, one can see a great many ferryboats.) 4. _The use of wrong connectives_. (It rained yesterday, and I went to school.) We assume that the pupil wishes to convey the thought that he went to school yesterday in spite of the rain. But by his use of the coordinating conjunction, "and," he has failed to establish a logical relation between the two clauses. In this case unity is violated as well as coherence. Use different connectives and note the result, (Although it rained yesterday, I went to school) or, (It rained yesterday, but I went to school). 5. _Failure to observe parallelism in form_. (The stranger seemed courteous in his conduct and to have a solicitude for my welfare.) Although this sentence is grammatically correct, the shift in structure from the adjective and its phrase to the infinitive phrase leads to confusion in thought. How much clearer and smoother this rendering: (The stranger seemed courteous in his conduct and solicitous for my welfare.) +98. Emphasis in the sentence is affected unfavorably by+-- 1. _Weak beginnings and endings_. (A fire in the city is an exciting event to the average boy.) (It seemed that the unprincipled fellow had forged his father's name.) In the first sentence, the important words are "exciting event," and they should occupy the most conspicuous position,-- at the end of the sentence. The effectiveness is much improved by this order: (To the average boy, a fire in the city is an exciting event.) In the second sentence the weak place is the beginning. The subject and its modifiers are striking enough to demand their rightful position,--as the introductory words; in "forged his father's name" we have ideas startling enough for a place at the end of the sentence. "It seemed that" can be reduced to one word, "apparently," and this can be made parenthetical. (The unprincipled fellow, apparently, had forged his father's name.) This sentence, it will be observed, illustrates the periodic or suspended structure, a type particularly effective to employ for sustaining interest as well as for securing emphasis. 2. _Failure to observe the order of climax_. (Dazed, broken-hearted, hungry, the poor mother resumed her daily tasks.) Clearly, the strongest idea is suggested by "broken-hearted." A better order would be: (Hungry, dazed, broken-hearted, the poor mother resumed her daily tasks.) 3. _The use of superfluous words_. (I rushed hurriedly into the burning house and hastily snatched my few possessions.) In this sentence, "rushed" and "snatched" lose rather than gain force by adding "hurriedly" and "hastily." Look up definitions of "rush" and "snatch." When we wish to express strong emotion or to describe action resulting from excitement, we only weaken the impression by using unnecessary words. Simple, direct sentences are most forceful. In aiming to secure sentence emphasis, then, we should avoid circumlocution, redundancy, tautology, and verbosity. (Look up these terms in the Century Dictionary.) 4. _The use of general rather than specific terms_. (He approached the brook cautiously, and concealing himself in the bushes, began fishing.) A consideration of the choice of words in the sentence belongs strictly to the study of diction; however, force in the sentence is dependent in a large measure on the words employed. Observe how forceful the following sentence is as contrasted with the first example: (He crept noiselessly to the fishing hole, and hiding in the willows, threw his hook into the stream.) 5. _Failure to employ balance and contrast_. (Worth makes the man; but the fellow is made by the want of it.) (His life was spent in repenting of past misdeeds; in doing what was wrong, while he inculcated principles of righteousness.) Compare these with: (Worth makes the man; the want of it, the fellow.) (His life was spent in sinning and repenting; in inculcating what was right, and doing what was wrong.) Here the regularity of form gives pleasure to the taste, while the position of balanced and parallel parts adds clearness, coherence, and emphasis to the thoughts expressed. This method of sentence structure, if employed too frequently, however, will lead to a mannerism difficult to overcome. The caution to be heeded in the case of this type of sentence as well as in the case of every other is, "Nothing too much." Observe the law of variety. EXERCISES Point out the specific faults and correct:-- 1. He neither gave satisfaction as butler nor as coachman. 2. Elaine deserves our sympathy from the beginning to the end of the novel. 3. John only played once and won; and then, after watching the other players for a time, he got up and left the room. 4. The boy had an unconquerable fear of reptiles which no reasoning could overcome. 5 The Vicar's son Moses was a good student of the classics, but he made a bad bargain in his purchase of the green spectacles. 6. In all of his behavior toward Lynette, Gareth was patient and courteous, which reflected much credit on his knightly character. 7. Johnson was a man with a heroic soul, a wonderful intellect, and a kind heart. 8. After they had all assembled and come together, Odysseus addressed them. 9. He had reached the age of seventy, and his death was due to a nervous disorder. 10. The boys were only injured a little. 11. George Eliot's writings are filled with the philosophy of life, if we are wise enough to discover it. 12. Addison was sincere and kindly in his attitude toward men, and Pope was hypocritical and spiteful. 13. With reputation, character, and wealth gone, the poor man had little to live for. 14. Lancelot loved Queen Guinevere dearly, and he was Arthur's most valorous knight. 15. We are at peace with all the world and the rest of mankind. 16. Cedric lived with two great ends in view,--the union of Athelstane and Rowena and to see a restored Saxon monarchy. 17. James was walking backward and forward on the mountain side, which at this place was very precipitous and from which a little silvery stream issued to begin its rapid descent to the quiet hamlet that lay far below. 18. In our efforts to succeed in life we work hard that we may make names for ourselves and to acquire property. 19. He is a good hunter, but his wife is a Methodist. 20. Going up the street I saw the strangest-looking man. 21. James speaks German fluently, and he did not begin to study it until last year. 22. On returning to the deck, the sea assumed a very different aspect. V. LIST OF SYNONYMS Abandon, cast off, desert, forswear, quit, renounce, withdraw from. Abate, decrease, diminish, mitigate, moderate. Abhor, abominate, detest, dislike, loathe. Abiding, enduring, lasting, permanent, perpetual. Ability, capability, capacity, competency, efficacy, power. Abolish, annul, eradicate, exterminate, obliterate, root out, wipe out. Abomination, curse, evil, iniquity, nuisance, shame. Absent, absent-minded, absorbed, abstracted, oblivious, preoccupied. Absolve, acquit, clear. Abstemiousness, abstinence, frugality, moderation, sobriety, temperance. Absurd, ill-advised, ill-considered, ludicrous, monstrous, paradoxical, preposterous, unreasonable, wild. Abundant, adequate, ample, enough, generous, lavish, plentiful. Accomplice, ally, colleague, helper, partner. Active, agile, alert, brisk, bustling, energetic, lively, supple. Actual, authentic, genuine, real. Address, adroitness, courtesy, readiness, tact. Adept, adroit, deft, dexterous, handy, skillful. Adequate, adjoining, bordering, near, neighboring. Admire, adore, respect, revere, venerate. Admit, allow, concede, grant, suffer, tolerate. Admixture, alloy. Adverse, disinclined, indisposed, loath, reluctant, slow, unwilling. Aerial, airy, animated, ethereal, frolicsome. Affectation, cant, hypocrisy, pretense, sham. Affirm, assert, avow, declare, maintain, state. Aged, ancient, antiquated, antique, immemorial, old, venerable. Air, bearing, carriage, demeanor. Akin, alike, identical. Alert, on the alert, sleepless, wary, watchful. Allay, appease, calm, pacify. Alliance, coalition, compact, federation, union, fusion. Allude, hint, imply, insinuate, intimate, suggest. Allure, attract, cajole, coax, inveigle, lure. Amateur, connoisseur, novice, tyro. Amend, better, mend, reform, repair. Amplify, develop, expand, extend, unfold, widen. Amusement, diversion, entertainment, pastime. Anger, exasperation, petulance, rage, resentment. Animal, beast, brute, living creature, living organism. Answer, rejoinder, repartee, reply, response, retort. Anticipate, forestall, preclude, prevent. Apiece, individually, severally, separately. Apparent, clear, evident, obvious, tangible, unmistakable. Apprehend, comprehend, conceive, perceive, understand. Arraign, charge, cite, impeach, indict, prosecute, summon. Arrogance, haughtiness, presumption, pride, self-complacency, superciliousness, vanity. Artist, artificer, artisan, mechanic, operative, workman. Artless, boorish, clownish, hoidenish, rude, uncouth, unsophisticated. Assent, agree, comply. Assurance, effrontery, hardihood, impertinence, impudence, incivility, insolence, officiousness, rudeness. Atom, grain, scrap, particle, shred, whit. Atrociousness, barbaric, barbarous, brutal, merciless. Attack, assault, infringement, intrusion, onslaught. Attain, accomplish, achieve, arrive at, compass, reach, secure. Attempt, endeavor, essay, strive, try, undertake. Attitude, pose, position, posture. Attribute, ascribe, assign, charge, impute. Axiom, truism. Baffle, balk, bar, check, embarrass, foil, frustrate, hamper, hinder, impede, retard, thwart. Banter, burlesque, drollery, humor, jest, raillery, wit, witticism. Beg, plead, press, urge. Beguile, divert, enliven, entertain, occupy. Bewilderment, confusion, distraction, embarrassment, perplexity. Bind, fetter, oblige, restrain, restrict. Blaze, flame, flare, flash, flicker, glare, gleam, gleaming, glimmer, glitter, light, luster, shimmer, sparkle. Blessed, hallowed, holy, sacred, saintly. Boasting, display, ostentation, pomp, pompousness, show. Brave, adventurous, bold, courageous, daring, dauntless, fearless, gallant, heroic, undismayed. Bravery, coolness, courage, gallantry, heroism. Brief, concise, pithy, sententious, terse. Bring over, convince, induce, influence, persuade, prevail upon, win over. Calamity, disaster, misadventure, mischance, misfortune, mishap. Candid, impartial, open, straightforward, transparent, unbiased, unprejudiced, unreserved. Candor, frankness, truth, veracity. Caprice, humor, vagary, whim. Caricature, burlesque, parody, travesty. Catch, capture, clasp, clutch, grip, secure. Cause, consideration, design, end, ground, motive, object, reason, purpose. Caution, discretion, prudence. Censure, criticism, rebuke, reproof, reprimand, reproach. Character, constitution, disposition, reputation, temper, temperament. Characteristic, peculiarity, property, singularity, trait. Chattering, garrulous, loquacious, talkative. Cheer, comfort, delight, ecstasy, gayety, gladness, gratification, happiness, jollity, satisfaction. Churlish, crusty, gloomy, gruff, ill-natured, morose, sour, sullen, surly. Class, circle, clique, coterie. Cloak, cover, gloss over, mitigate, palliate, screen. Cloy, sate, satiate, satisfy, surfeit. Commit, confide, consign, intrust, relegate. Compassion, forbearance, lenience, mercy. Compassionate, gracious, humane. Complete, consummate, faultless, flawless, perfect. Confirm, corroborate. Conflicting, discordant, discrepant, incongruous, mismated. Confused, discordant, miscellaneous, various. Conjecture, guess, suppose, surmise. Conscious, aware, certain. Consequence, issue, outcome, outgrowth, result, sequel, upshot. Continual, continuous, incessant, unbroken, uninterrupted. Credible, conceivable, likely, presumable, probable, reasonable. Customary, habitual, normal, prevailing, usual, wonted. Damage, detriment, disadvantage, harm, hurt, injury, prejudice. Dangerous, formidable, terrible. Defame, deprecate, disparage, slander, vilify. Defile, infect, soil, stain, sully, taint, tarnish. Deleterious, detrimental, hurtful, harmful, mischievous, pernicious, ruinous. Delicate, fine, minute, refined, slender. Delightful, grateful, gratifying, refreshing, satisfying. Difficult, hard, laborious, toilsome, trying. Digress, diverge, stray, swerve, wander. Disown, disclaim, disavow, recall, renounce, repudiate, retract. Dispose, draw, incline, induce, influence, move, prompt, stir. Earlier, foregoing, previous, preliminary. Effeminate, feminine, womanish, womanly. Emergency, extremity, necessity. Empty, fruitless, futile, idle, trifling, unavailing, useless, vain, visionary. Erudition, knowledge, profundity, sagacity, sense, wisdom. Eternal, imperishable, interminable, perennial, perpetual, unfailing. Excuse, pretense, pretext, subterfuge. Exemption, immunity, liberty, license, privilege. Explicit, express. Faint, faint-hearted, faltering, half-hearted, irresolute, languid, listless, purposeless. Faithful, loyal, stanch, trustworthy, trusty. Fanciful, fantastic, grotesque, imaginative, visionary. Fling, gibe, jeer, mock, scoff, sneer, taunt. Flock, bevy, brood, covey, drove, herd, litter, pack. Fluctuate, hesitate, oscillate, vacillate, waver. Folly, imbecility, senselessness, stupidity. Grief, melancholy, regret, sadness, sorrow. Hale, healthful, healthy, salutary, sound, vigorous. Ignorant, illiterate, uninformed, uninstructed, unlettered, untaught. Impulsive, involuntary, spontaneous, unbidden, voluntary, willing. Indispensable, inevitable, necessary, requisite, unavoidable. Inquisitive, inquiring, intrusive, meddlesome, peeping, prying. Intractable, perverse, petulant, ungovernable, wayward, willful. Irritation, offense, pique, resentment. Probably, presumably. Reliable, trustworthy, trusty. Remnant, trace, token, vestige. Requite, repay, retaliate, satisfy. VI. LIST OF WORDS FOR EXERCISES IN WORD USAGE Ability, capacity. Accept, except. Acceptance, acceptation. Access, accession. Accredit, credit. Act, action. Admire, like. Admittance, admission. Advance, advancement, progress, progression. Affect, effect. After, afterward. Aggravating, irritating, provoking, exasperating. Allege, maintain Allow, guess, think. Allusion, illusion, delusion. Almost, most, mostly. Alone, only. Alternate, choice. Among, between. Amount, number, quantity. Angry, mad. Apparently, evidently. Apt, likely, liable. Arise, rise. At, in. Avocation, vocation. Awfully, very. Begin, commence. Beside, besides. Both, each, every. Bring, fetch. By, with. Calculate, intend. Carry, bring, fetch. Casuality, casualty. Claim, assert. Clever, pleasant. College, university, school. Completeness, completion. Compliment, complement. Confess, admit. Construe, construct. Contemptible, contemptuous. Continual, continuous. Convince, convict. Council, counsel. Couple, pair. Credible, creditable, credulous. Custom, habit. Deadly, deathly. Decided, decisive. Decimate, destroy. Declare, assert. Degrade, demean. Depot, station, R.R. Discover, invent. Drive, ride. Each other, any other, one another. Emigration, immigration, migration. Enormity, enormousness. Estimate, esteem. Exceptional, exceptionable. Expect, suppose. Falseness, falsity. Fly, flee. Funny, odd. Grant, give. Habit, practice. Haply, happily. Healthy, healthful, wholesome. Human, humane. Lady, woman. Learn, teach. Lease, hire. Less, fewer. Lie, lay. Loan, lend. Love, like. Mad, angry. Majority, plurality. Manly, mannish. May, can. Mutual, common. Necessities, necessaries. Nice, pleasant, attractive. Noted, notorious. Observation, observance. Official, officious. Oral, verbal. Part, portion. Partly, partially. Persecute, prosecute. Person, party. Practicable, practical. Prescribe, proscribe. Prominent, predominant. Purpose, propose. Quite, very, rather. Relation, relative. Repair, mend. Requirement, requisite. Rise, raise. Scholar, pupil, student. Sensible of, sensitive to. Series, succession. Settle, locate. Sewage, sewerage. Shall, will. Should, would. Sit, set. Splendid, elegant. Statement, assertion. Statue, statute, stature. Stay, stop. Team, carriages. Transpire, happen. Verdict, testimony. Without, unless. Womanly, womanish. INDEX Abbott. Action: observation of. Actuality: in argument. Adams. Adjectives. Advantages: of expressing ideas gained from experience; of imaginative theme writing. Adverbs. Agreement. Allen, Elizabeth A. Allen, James Lane. Ambiguity. Analogy: argument from. Antithesis. Apostrophe: rule for; as figure of speech. Argument: purpose of; use of explanation in; by stating advantages and disadvantages; by use of specific instances; refutation or indirect; differs from exposition; clear thinking essential; by inference; from cause; from sign; from example; from analogy; differs from persuasion; with persuasion. Argumentative themes. Arnold. Arrangement: _see_ coherence; in argument; summary of. Attendant circumstances: argument from. Authority: appeals to in argument. Auxiliary verbs. Ayton. Bagley. Baldwin. Ballad. Bancroft. Belief: necessity in debate; establishing a general theory; basis of. Beveridge. Biography. Blank verse. Boardman. Bourdillon. Bowles. Bradley. Brief. Brown. Browning. Bryant. Budgell. Burke. Burns. Burroughs. Byron. Cable. Camp. Capitals. Cary. Case. Cause and effect: development of paragraph by use of; development of composition by use of; use in exposition; use in argument. Cautions and suggestions: use of figures of speech; in debating; use of pronouns; use of adjectives; use of verbs; use of adverbs; prepositions. Character sketch. Choice of words: adapted to reader; as to meaning; simple. Clark. Classification. Clauses: restrictive and non-restrictive. Clearness. Climax: in narration; in argument; as figure of speech. Coherence: definition; in outline; in composition; arrangement of details; arrangement of facts in exposition; aided by outline; in argument; in sentences. Coleridge. Colon: rules for. Colton. Comma: rules for. Comparison: as an aid to formation of images; development of a paragraph by; definitions supplemented by; as a method of developing a composition; as an aid in establishing fundamental image; as an aid to effectiveness in description; use in exposition; analogy; of adjectives; of adverbs. Complete and incomplete verbs. Composition: kinds of; general principles of. Conclusion. Conjugation. Conjunctions. Connolly. Connor. Constructions: of nouns; of personal pronouns; of relative pronouns; of adjectives. Contrast: development of a paragraph by; development of a composition by; use in exposition. Conversation. Cooper. Copeland-Rideout. Correction of themes. Darwin. Dash: rules for. Debate: value of; statement of question; necessity of belief; order of presentation; cautions. Deductive reasoning: errors of. Definition: by synonym; by use of simpler words; definitions to be supplemented; first step in exposition; logical; difficulty in framing; inexact. Description: Chapter VIII (_see also_ descriptive themes); defined; effectiveness in; classes of objects frequently described: buildings; natural features; sounds; color; animals; plants; persons; impression of; impression as purpose of; in narration; general description. Descriptive themes. Details: selection of; paragraph developed by; related in time-order; related with reference to position in space; used in general description; in general narration; composition developed by giving details in time-order; by giving details with reference to position in space; selection of, affected by point of view; selection of essential; selection and subordination of minor; arrangement of; in narration; arrangement; selection of facts in exposition; exposition by use of. Dewey. Diction. Discourse: forms of presupposes an audience. Division. Dixey. Dramatic poetry. Dryer. Dunbar, Mary Louise. Ease. Effectiveness in description comparison and figures of speech, as aids to. Elegance. Elegy. Eliot, George. Emphasis in sentences. Enthymeme. Epic. Equivalents: for nouns for adjectives. for adverbs Essentials of expression. Euphony. Evidence. Examples: use in exposition argument from _(see also_ specific instances). Exclamation mark: rule for. Expediency: questions of. Experience: ideas gained from, Chapter I; relation to imagination impressions limited to. Exposition: Chapter X (see _also_ expository themes); purpose of importance of clear understanding necessary of terms of propositions by repetition by examples by comparison and contrast by obverse statements by details by cause and effect by general description by general narration by use of specific instances. Expository themes. Expression: essentials of. Fallacy. Feelings: appeal to, in persuasion. Feet. Fields. Figures of speech use of as an aid to effectiveness in description. Ford. Form: importance of directions as to. Forms of discourse. Fundamental image. Gender. General theory: how established, basis of appeals to. George, Marian M. Gilman. Grammar review. Gray. Hare. Harland. Harris. Hawthorne. Henry. Higginson and Channing. Hinman. History: writing of. Hoar. Holland. Holmes. Howells. Hyperbole. Ideas: from experience, Chapter I; from imagination, Chapter II; from language, Chapter III. pleasure in expressing sources of advantages of expressing ideas gained from experience from imagination ideas from pictures acquired through language. Images: making of complete and incomplete reproduction of other requirements to determine meaning fundamental union with impression. Imagination, Chapter II. Impression: of description, as purpose of description, necessity of observing impressions, limited to experience, affected by mood, union with image. Improbability. Incentive moment. Indentation. Inductive reasoning: errors of. Inference: use in argument. Infinitives. Interrogation. Interrogation mark: rule for. Introduction. Invitations. Irony. Irving. Jackson, Helen Hunt. Jordan and Kellogg. Kellogg. Kingsley. Kipling. as a medium through which ideas are acquired, adapted to reader, Letter writing: Chapter VI; importance of, paper, beginning, body, conclusion, envelope, rule of, business letters, letters of friendship, adaptation to reader, notes. Lodge. Longfellow. Lovelace. Lowell. Lyric poetry. Macaulay. Macy-Norris. Madame de Stael. Matthews. Maxims: appeals to in argument. McCarthy, Justin. Meaning of words. Memory. Metaphor: mixed. Methods of developing a composition: with reference to time-order, with reference to position in space, by use of comparison or contrast, by use of generalization and facts, by stating cause and effect, by a combination of methods. Metonymy. Metrical romance. Metrical tale. Mill. Mill, J. S. Miller, Mary Rogers. Milton. Mode. Montgomery. Morris, Clara. Motive, in persuasion. Narration: Chapter IX _(see also_ narrative themes below); kinds of, use of description in, general narration, narrative poetry. Narrative themes. Newcomer. Notes: formal, informal. Nouns. Number. Observation: of actions, order of, accuracy in, observation of impression. Obverse statements. Ode. Ollivaut. Oral compositions. Order of events. Outline: of a paragraph. the brief. making of. use of in exposition. Palmer. Paragraph: defined, topic statement, importance of, length, indentation, reasons for studying, methods of development-- by specific instances, by giving details, in time-order, as determined by position in space, by comparison, by cause and effect, by repetition, by a combination of methods. Paraphrasing. Participles. Partition. Parts of speech. Period: rules for. Person. Personification. Persuasion: differs from argument, importance and necessity of, motive in, material of, appeal to feelings, with argument. Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart. Philips, David Graham. Phillips, Wendell. Phrases. Plot: interrelation with character. Poe. Poetry: Chapter VII; aim of, kinds of. Point: of a story, _see also_ climax. Point of view: selection of details effected by, implied, changing, place in paragraph. Possibility: in argument. Post. Prepositions. Preston and Dodge. Principal parts of verbs. Probability: in narration, in argument. Procter, Adelaide. Pronouns. Pronunciation. Proportion of parts: for emphasis. Propositions: specific, general, exposition of, necessary to argument, of fact and of theory, statement of. Proverbs: use in argument. Punctuation. Quotation marks: rules for. Rankin. Read. Reasoning: inductive, errors of induction, deductive, relation between inductive and deductive, errors of deduction. Reasons: number and value of. Recitations: preparation for, topical. Refutation. Reid, Captain Mayne. Repetition: developing a paragraph by, exposition by use of. Reproduction: of a story, of the thought of a paragraph. Restrictive and nonrestrictive clauses. Rhyme. Rhythm: variation in. Richards, Laura E. Right: questions of. Robertson. Roosevelt. Ruskin. Scansion. Scott. Semicolon: rules for. Sentences: length, in conversation, relations, rhetorical features. Sewell, Anna. Shakespeare. Shelley. Sign: argument from. Simile. Slang. Smith. Song. Sonnet. Sources of ideas. Specific instances: development of a paragraph by use of, use in argument and exposition, development of a composition by use of, use in exposition. Spelling. Spencer. Stanza. Stevenson. Stoddard. Strong verbs. Subject: selection of, adapted to reader, sources, should be definite, narrowing. Suggestions, _see_ cautions. Summaries, at the end of the chapters. Summarizing paragraph. Syllogism. Symons. Synecdoche. Synonyms. Tarkington. Taylor. Tennyson. Tense. Terms: specific, general, explanation of, exposition of, use in argument and exposition. Themes: _see_ descriptive, narrative, expository, argumentative, and reproduction themes. Thoreau. Thurston. Time-order. Topic statement. Transition from one paragraph to another. Transition paragraph. Trowbridge. Turner. Unity: aided by time relations, aided by position in space, definition, in life; in outline, in composition, in sentences, selection of details giving, selection of facts in exposition, aided by outline. Van Dyke. Van Rensselaer (Mrs.). Variety. Verbs. Verse: names of. Vocabulary: how to increase, words applicable to classes of objects. Voice. Wallace. Warner. Wessels. Whittier. Wilcox, Ella Wheeler. Woode. Words: choice of, spelling, pronunciation, meaning, use, relations of, adapted to reader, selection, use of simpler words, selection, applicable to classes of objects, offices of, special list of. Wordsworth. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2. Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII, compressed (zipped), HTML and others. Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks replace the old file and take over the old filename and etext number. 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The included with this eBook or online at Posting Date: November 17, 2011 First Posted: October 9, 2003 Distributed Proofreading Team. THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING EDITED BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY IN TWELVE VOLUMES VOL. II. JOSEPH ANDREWS VOL. II. CONTENTS BOOK II.--continued. CHAPTER XIV. _An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber._ CHAPTER XV. _An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson Adams gave of his forgetfulness._ CHAPTER XVI. _A very curious adventure, in which Mr Adams gave a much greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience in the ways of this world._ CHAPTER XVII. _A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and his host, which, by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers._ BOOK III. CHAPTER I. _Matter prefatory in praise of biography._ CHAPTER II. _A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and his fellow-travellers._ CHAPTER III. _In which the gentleman relates the history of his life._ CHAPTER IV. _A description of Mr Wilson's way of living. The tragical adventure of the dog, and other grave matters._ CHAPTER V. _A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._ CHAPTER VI. _Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and parson Adams's miraculous escape._ CHAPTER VII. _A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and times._ CHAPTER VIII. _Which some readers will think too short and others too long._ CHAPTER IX. _Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this or perhaps any other authentic history._ CHAPTER X. _A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this history but to divert the reader._ CHAPTER XI. _Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the reader._ CHAPTER XII. _More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize the reader._ CHAPTER XIII. _A curious dialogue which passed between Mr Abraham Adams and Mr Peter Pounce, better worth reading than all the works of Colley Cibber and many others._ BOOK IV. CHAPTER I. _The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall._ CHAPTER II. _A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby._ CHAPTER III. _What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout._ CHAPTER IV. _A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival of Mr Booby and his lady._ CHAPTER V. _Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace and their clerks._ CHAPTER VI. _Of which you are desired to read no more than you like._ CHAPTER VII. _Philosophical reflections, the like not to be found in any light French romance. Mr Booby's grave advice to Joseph, and Fanny's encounter with a beau._ CHAPTER VIII. _A discourse which happened between Mr Adams, Mrs Adams, Joseph, and Fanny, with some behaviour of Mr Adams which will be called by some few readers very low, absurd, and unnatural._ CHAPTER IX _A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid to the parson._ CHAPTER X. _The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to all those persons who happen to take up their residence in married families._ CHAPTER XI. _In which the history is continued._ CHAPTER XII. _Where the good-natured reader will see something which will give him no great pleasure._ CHAPTER XIII _The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some account of the terrible conflict in her breast between love and pride, with what happened on the present discovery._ CHAPTER XIV. _Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr Adams fell into many hair-breadth scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and partly to his inadvertency._ CHAPTER XV. _The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews with another person not much expected, and a perfect solution of the difficulties raised by the pedlar._ CHAPTER XVI. _Being the last. In which this true history is brought to a happy conclusion._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. MR WILSON RELATES HIS HISTORY PARSON ADAMS HE RAN TOWARDS HER BOOK II.--continued. CHAPTER XIV. _An interview between parson Adams and parson Trulliber._ Parson Adams came to the house of parson Trulliber, whom he found stript into his waistcoat, with an apron on, and a pail in his hand, just come from serving his hogs; for Mr Trulliber was a parson on Sundays, but all the other six might more properly be called a farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his own, besides which he rented a considerable deal more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy, and followed the markets with butter and eggs. The hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited on at home, and attended to fairs; on which occasion he was liable to many jokes, his own size being, with much ale, rendered little inferior to that of the beasts he sold. He was indeed one of the largest men you should see, and could have acted the part of Sir John Falstaff without stuffing. Add to this that the rotundity of his belly was considerably increased by the shortness of his stature, his shadow ascending very near as far in height, when he lay on his back, as when he stood on his legs. His voice was loud and hoarse, and his accents extremely broad. To complete the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait, when he walked, not unlike that of a goose, only he stalked slower. Mr Trulliber, being informed that somebody wanted to speak with him, immediately slipt off his apron and clothed himself in an old night-gown, being the dress in which he always saw his company at home. His wife, who informed him of Mr Adams's arrival, had made a small mistake; for she had told her husband, "She believed there was a man come for some of his hogs." This supposition made Mr Trulliber hasten with the utmost expedition to attend his guest. He no sooner saw Adams than, not in the least doubting the cause of his errand to be what his wife had imagined, he told him, "He was come in very good time; that he expected a dealer that very afternoon;" and added, "they were all pure and fat, and upwards of twenty score a-piece." Adams answered, "He believed he did not know him." "Yes, yes," cried Trulliber, "I have seen you often at fair; why, we have dealt before now, mun, I warrant you. Yes, yes," cries he, "I remember thy face very well, but won't mention a word more till you have seen them, though I have never sold thee a flitch of such bacon as is now in the stye." Upon which he laid violent hands on Adams, and dragged him into the hog-stye, which was indeed but two steps from his parlour window. They were no sooner arrived there than he cry'd out, "Do but handle them! step in, friend! art welcome to handle them, whether dost buy or no." At which words, opening the gate, he pushed Adams into the pig-stye, insisting on it that he should handle them before he would talk one word with him. Adams, whose natural complacence was beyond any artificial, was obliged to comply before he was suffered to explain himself; and, laying hold on one of their tails, the unruly beast gave such a sudden spring, that he threw poor Adams all along in the mire. Trulliber, instead of assisting him to get up, burst into a laughter, and, entering the stye, said to Adams, with some contempt, "Why, dost not know how to handle a hog?" and was going to lay hold of one himself, but Adams, who thought he had carried his complacence far enough, was no sooner on his legs than he escaped out of the reach of the animals, and cried out, "_Nihil habeo cum porcis_: I am a clergyman, sir, and am not come to buy hogs." Trulliber answered, "He was sorry for the mistake, but that he must blame his wife," adding, "she was a fool, and always committed blunders." He then desired him to walk in and clean himself, that he would only fasten up the stye and follow him. Adams desired leave to dry his greatcoat, wig, and hat by the fire, which Trulliber granted. Mrs Trulliber would have brought him a basin of water to wash his face, but her husband bid her be quiet like a fool as she was, or she would commit more blunders, and then directed Adams to the pump. While Adams was thus employed, Trulliber, conceiving no great respect for the appearance of his guest, fastened the parlour door, and now conducted him into the kitchen, telling him he believed a cup of drink would do him no harm, and whispered his wife to draw a little of the worst ale. After a short silence Adams said, "I fancy, sir, you already perceive me to be a clergyman." --"Ay, ay," cries Trulliber, grinning, "I perceive you have some cassock; I will not venture to caale it a whole one." Adams answered, "It was indeed none of the best, but he had the misfortune to tear it about ten years ago in passing over a stile." Mrs Trulliber, returning with the drink, told her husband, "She fancied the gentleman was a traveller, and that he would be glad to eat a bit." Trulliber bid her hold her impertinent tongue, and asked her, "If parsons used to travel without horses?" adding, "he supposed the gentleman had none by his having no boots on." --"Yes, sir, yes," says Adams; "I have a horse, but I have left him behind me." --"I am glad to hear you have one," says Trulliber; "for I assure you I don't love to see clergymen on foot; it is not seemly nor suiting the dignity of the cloth." Here Trulliber made a long oration on the dignity of the cloth (or rather gown) not much worth relating, till his wife had spread the table and set a mess of porridge on it for his breakfast. He then said to Adams, "I don't know, friend, how you came to caale on me; however, as you are here, if you think proper to eat a morsel, you may." Adams accepted the invitation, and the two parsons sat down together; Mrs Trulliber waiting behind her husband's chair, as was, it seems, her custom. Trulliber eat heartily, but scarce put anything in his mouth without finding fault with his wife's cookery. All which the poor woman bore patiently. Indeed, she was so absolute an admirer of her husband's greatness and importance, of which she had frequent hints from his own mouth, that she almost carried her adoration to an opinion of his infallibility. To say the truth, the parson had exercised her more ways than one; and the pious woman had so well edified by her husband's sermons, that she had resolved to receive the bad things of this world together with the good. She had indeed been at first a little contentious; but he had long since got the better; partly by her love for this, partly by her fear of that, partly by her religion, partly by the respect he paid himself, and partly by that which he received from the parish. She had, in short, absolutely submitted, and now worshipped her husband, as Sarah did Abraham, calling him (not lord, but) master. Whilst they were at table her husband gave her a fresh example of his greatness; for, as she had just delivered a cup of ale to Adams, he snatched it out of his hand, and, crying out, "I caal'd vurst," swallowed down the ale. Adams denied it; it was referred to the wife, who, though her conscience was on the side of Adams, durst not give it against her husband; upon which he said, "No, sir, no; I should not have been so rude to have taken it from you if you had caal'd vurst, but I'd have you know I'm a better man than to suffer the best he in the kingdom to drink before me in my own house when I caale vurst." As soon as their breakfast was ended, Adams began in the following manner: "I think, sir, it is high time to inform you of the business of my embassy. I am a traveller, and am passing this way in company with two young people, a lad and a damsel, my parishioners, towards my own cure; we stopt at a house of hospitality in the parish, where they directed me to you as having the cure." --"Though I am but a curate," says Trulliber, "I believe I am as warm as the vicar himself, or perhaps the rector of the next parish too; I believe I could buy them both." --"Sir," cries Adams, "I rejoice thereat. Now, sir, my business is, that we are by various accidents stript of our money, and are not able to pay our reckoning, being seven shillings. I therefore request you to assist me with the loan of those seven shillings, and also seven shillings more, which, peradventure, I shall return to you; but if not, I am convinced you will joyfully embrace such an opportunity of laying up a treasure in a better place than any this world affords." Suppose a stranger, who entered the chambers of a lawyer, being imagined a client, when the lawyer was preparing his palm for the fee, should pull out a writ against him. Suppose an apothecary, at the door of a chariot containing some great doctor of eminent skill, should, instead of directions to a patient, present him with a potion for himself. Suppose a minister should, instead of a good round sum, treat my lord ----, or sir ----, or esq. ---- with a good broomstick. Suppose a civil companion, or a led captain, should, instead of virtue, and honour, and beauty, and parts, and admiration, thunder vice, and infamy, and ugliness, and folly, and contempt, in his patron's ears. Suppose, when a tradesman first carries in his bill, the man of fashion should pay it; or suppose, if he did so, the tradesman should abate what he had overcharged, on the supposition of waiting. In short--suppose what you will, you never can nor will suppose anything equal to the astonishment which seized on Trulliber, as soon as Adams had ended his speech. A while he rolled his eyes in silence; sometimes surveying Adams, then his wife; then casting them on the ground, then lifting them up to heaven. At last he burst forth in the following accents: "Sir, I believe I know where to lay up my little treasure as well as another. I thank G--, if I am not so warm as some, I am content; that is a blessing greater than riches; and he to whom that is given need ask no more. To be content with a little is greater than to possess the world; which a man may possess without being so. Lay up my treasure! what matters where a man's treasure is whose heart is in the Scriptures? there is the treasure of a Christian." At these words the water ran from Adams's eyes; and, catching Trulliber by the hand in a rapture, "Brother," says he, "heavens bless the accident by which I came to see you! I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you; and, believe me, I will shortly pay you a second visit; but my friends, I fancy, by this time, wonder at my stay; so let me have the money immediately." Trulliber then put on a stern look, and cried out, "Thou dost not intend to rob me?" At which the wife, bursting into tears, fell on her knees and roared out, "O dear sir! for Heaven's sake don't rob my master; we are but poor people." "Get up, for a fool as thou art, and go about thy business," said Trulliber; "dost think the man will venture his life? he is a beggar, and no robber." "Very true, indeed," answered Adams. "I wish, with all my heart, the tithing-man was here," cries Trulliber; "I would have thee punished as a vagabond for thy impudence. Fourteen shillings indeed! I won't give thee a farthing. I believe thou art no more a clergyman than the woman there" (pointing to his wife); "but if thou art, dost deserve to have thy gown stript over thy shoulders for running about the country in such a manner." "I forgive your suspicions," says Adams; "but suppose I am not a clergyman, I am nevertheless thy brother; and thou, as a Christian, much more as a clergyman, art obliged to relieve my distress." "Dost preach to me?" replied Trulliber; "dost pretend to instruct me in my duty?" "Ifacks, a good story," cries Mrs Trulliber, "to preach to my master." "Silence, woman," cries Trulliber. "I would have thee know, friend" (addressing himself to Adams), "I shall not learn my duty from such as thee. I know what charity is, better than to give to vagabonds." "Besides, if we were inclined, the poor's rate obliges us to give so much charity," cries the wife. "Pugh! thou art a fool. Poor's reate! Hold thy nonsense," answered Trulliber; and then, turning to Adams, he told him, "he would give him nothing." "I am sorry," answered Adams, "that you do know what charity is, since you practise it no better: I must tell you, if you trust to your knowledge for your justification, you will find yourself deceived, though you should add faith to it, without good works." "Fellow," cries Trulliber, "dost thou speak against faith in my house? Get out of my doors: I will no longer remain under the same roof with a wretch who speaks wantonly of faith and the Scriptures." "Name not the Scriptures," says Adams. "How! not name the Scriptures! Do you disbelieve the Scriptures?" cries Trulliber. "No; but you do," answered Adams, "if I may reason from your practice; for their commands are so explicit, and their rewards and punishments so immense, that it is impossible a man should stedfastly believe without obeying. Now, there is no command more express, no duty more frequently enjoined, than charity. Whoever, therefore, is void of charity, I make no scruple of pronouncing that he is no Christian." "I would not advise thee," says Trulliber, "to say that I am no Christian: I won't take it of you; for I believe I am as good a man as thyself" (and indeed, though he was now rather too corpulent for athletic exercises, he had, in his youth, been one of the best boxers and cudgel-players in the county). His wife, seeing him clench his fist, interposed, and begged him not to fight, but show himself a true Christian, and take the law of him. As nothing could provoke Adams to strike, but an absolute assault on himself or his friend, he smiled at the angry look and gestures of Trulliber; and, telling him he was sorry to see such men in orders, departed without further ceremony. CHAPTER XV. _An adventure, the consequence of a new instance which parson Adams gave of his forgetfulness._ When he came back to the inn he found Joseph and Fanny sitting together. They were so far from thinking his absence long, as he had feared they would, that they never once missed or thought of him. Indeed, I have been often assured by both, that they spent these hours in a most delightful conversation; but, as I never could prevail on either to relate it, so I cannot communicate it to the reader. Adams acquainted the lovers with the ill success of his enterprize. They were all greatly confounded, none being able to propose any method of departing, till Joseph at last advised calling in the hostess, and desiring her to trust them; which Fanny said she despaired of her doing, as she was one of the sourest-faced women she had ever beheld. But she was agreeably disappointed; for the hostess was no sooner asked the question than she readily agreed; and, with a curtsy and smile, wished them a good journey. However, lest Fanny's skill in physiognomy should be called in question, we will venture to assign one reason which might probably incline her to this confidence and good-humour. When Adams said he was going to visit his brother, he had unwittingly imposed on Joseph and Fanny, who both believed he had meant his natural brother, and not his brother in divinity, and had so informed the hostess, on her enquiry after him. Now Mr Trulliber had, by his professions of piety, by his gravity, austerity, reserve, and the opinion of his great wealth, so great an authority in his parish, that they all lived in the utmost fear and apprehension of him. It was therefore no wonder that the hostess, who knew it was in his option whether she should ever sell another mug of drink, did not dare to affront his supposed brother by denying him credit. They were now just on their departure when Adams recollected he had left his greatcoat and hat at Mr Trulliber's. As he was not desirous of renewing his visit, the hostess herself, having no servant at home, offered to fetch it. This was an unfortunate expedient; for the hostess was soon undeceived in the opinion she had entertained of Adams, whom Trulliber abused in the grossest terms, especially when he heard he had had the assurance to pretend to be his near relation. At her return, therefore, she entirely changed her note. She said, "Folks might be ashamed of travelling about, and pretending to be what they were not. That taxes were high, and for her part she was obliged to pay for what she had; she could not therefore possibly, nor would she, trust anybody; no, not her own father. That money was never scarcer, and she wanted to make up a sum. That she expected, therefore, they should pay their reckoning before they left the house." Adams was now greatly perplexed; but, as he knew that he could easily have borrowed such a sum in his own parish, and as he knew he would have lent it himself to any mortal in distress, so he took fresh courage, and sallied out all round the parish, but to no purpose; he returned as pennyless as he went, groaning and lamenting that it was possible, in a country professing Christianity, for a wretch to starve in the midst of his fellow-creatures who abounded. Whilst he was gone, the hostess, who stayed as a sort of guard with Joseph and Fanny, entertained them with the goodness of parson Trulliber. And, indeed, he had not only a very good character as to other qualities in the neighbourhood, but was reputed a man of great charity; for, though he never gave a farthing, he had always that word in his mouth. Adams was no sooner returned the second time than the storm grew exceedingly high, the hostess declaring, among other things, that, if they offered to stir without paying her, she would soon overtake them with a warrant. Plato and Aristotle, or somebody else, hath said, _that when the most exquisite cunning fails, chance often hits the mark, and that by means the least expected_. Virgil expresses this very boldly:-- _Turne, quod optanti divum promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies, en! attulit ultro._ I would quote more great men if I could; but my memory not permitting me, I will proceed to exemplify these observations by the following instance:-- There chanced (for Adams had not cunning enough to contrive it) to be at that time in the alehouse a fellow who had been formerly a drummer in an Irish regiment, and now travelled the country as a pedlar. This man, having attentively listened to the discourse of the hostess, at last took Adams aside, and asked him what the sum was for which they were detained. As soon as he was informed, he sighed, and said, "He was sorry it was so much; for that he had no more than six shillings and sixpence in his pocket, which he would lend them with all his heart." Adams gave a caper, and cry'd out, "It would do; for that he had sixpence himself." And thus these poor people, who could not engage the compassion of riches and piety, were at length delivered out of their distress by the charity of a poor pedlar. I shall refer it to my reader to make what observations he pleases on this incident: it is sufficient for me to inform him that, after Adams and his companions had returned him a thousand thanks, and told him where he might call to be repaid, they all sallied out of the house without any compliments from their hostess, or indeed without paying her any; Adams declaring he would take particular care never to call there again; and she on her side assuring them she wanted no such guests. CHAPTER XVI. _A very curious adventure, in which Mr Adams gave a much greater instance of the honest simplicity of his heart, than of his experience in the ways of this world._ Our travellers had walked about two miles from that inn, which they had more reason to have mistaken for a castle than Don Quixote ever had any of those in which he sojourned, seeing they had met with such difficulty in escaping out of its walls, when they came to a parish, and beheld a sign of invitation hanging out. A gentleman sat smoaking a pipe at the door, of whom Adams inquired the road, and received so courteous and obliging an answer, accompanied with so smiling a countenance, that the good parson, whose heart was naturally disposed to love and affection, began to ask several other questions; particularly the name of the parish, and who was the owner of a large house whose front they then had in prospect. The gentleman answered as obligingly as before; and as to the house, acquainted him it was his own. He then proceeded in the following manner: "Sir, I presume by your habit you are a clergyman; and as you are travelling on foot I suppose a glass of good beer will not be disagreeable to you; and I can recommend my landlord's within as some of the best in all this country. What say you, will you halt a little and let us take a pipe together? there is no better tobacco in the kingdom." This proposal was not displeasing to Adams, who had allayed his thirst that day with no better liquor than what Mrs Trulliber's cellar had produced; and which was indeed little superior, either in richness or flavour, to that which distilled from those grains her generous husband bestowed on his hogs. Having, therefore, abundantly thanked the gentleman for his kind invitation, and bid Joseph and Fanny follow him, he entered the alehouse, where a large loaf and cheese and a pitcher of beer, which truly answered the character given of it, being set before them, the three travellers fell to eating, with appetites infinitely more voracious than are to be found at the most exquisite eating-houses in the parish of St. James's. The gentleman expressed great delight in the hearty and cheerful behaviour of Adams; and particularly in the familiarity with which he conversed with Joseph and Fanny, whom he often called his children; a term he explained to mean no more than his parishioners; saying, "He looked on all those whom God had intrusted to his care to stand to him in that relation." The gentleman, shaking him by the hand, highly applauded those sentiments. "They are, indeed," says he, "the true principles of a Christian divine; and I heartily wish they were universal; but, on the contrary, I am sorry to say the parson of our parish, instead of esteeming his poor parishioners as a part of his family, seems rather to consider them as not of the same species with himself. He seldom speaks to any, unless some few of the richest of us; nay, indeed, he will not move his hat to the others. I often laugh when I behold him on Sundays strutting along the churchyard like a turkey-cock through rows of his parishioners, who bow to him with as much submission, and are as unregarded, as a set of servile courtiers by the proudest prince in Christendom. But if such temporal pride is ridiculous, surely the spiritual is odious and detestable; if such a puffed--up empty human bladder, strutting in princely robes, justly moves one's derision, surely in the habit of a priest it must raise our scorn." "Doubtless," answered Adams, "your opinion is right; but I hope such examples are rare. The clergy whom I have the honour to know maintain a different behaviour; and you will allow me, sir, that the readiness which too many of the laity show to contemn the order may be one reason of their avoiding too much humility." "Very true, indeed," says the gentleman; "I find, sir, you are a man of excellent sense, and am happy in this opportunity of knowing you; perhaps our accidental meeting may not be disadvantageous to you neither. At present I shall only say to you that the incumbent of this living is old and infirm, and that it is in my gift. Doctor, give me your hand; and assure yourself of it at his decease." Adams told him, "He was never more confounded in his life than at his utter incapacity to make any return to such noble and unmerited generosity." "A mere trifle, sir," cries the gentleman, "scarce worth your acceptance; a little more than three hundred a year. I wish it was double the value for your sake." Adams bowed, and cried from the emotions of his gratitude; when the other asked him, "If he was married, or had any children, besides those in the spiritual sense he had mentioned." "Sir," replied the parson, "I have a wife and six at your service." "That is unlucky," says the gentleman; "for I would otherwise have taken you into my own house as my chaplain; however, I have another in the parish (for the parsonage-house is not good enough), which I will furnish for you. Pray, does your wife understand a dairy?" "I can't profess she does," says Adams. "I am sorry for it," quoth the gentleman; "I would have given you half-a-dozen cows, and very good grounds to have maintained them." "Sir," said Adams, in an ecstasy, "you are too liberal; indeed you are." "Not at all," cries the gentleman: "I esteem riches only as they give me an opportunity of doing good; and I never saw one whom I had a greater inclination to serve." At which words he shook him heartily by the hand, and told him he had sufficient room in his house to entertain him and his friends. Adams begged he might give him no such trouble; that they could be very well accommodated in the house where they were; forgetting they had not a sixpenny piece among them. The gentleman would not be denied; and, informing himself how far they were travelling, he said it was too long a journey to take on foot, and begged that they would favour him by suffering him to lend them a servant and horses; adding, withal, that, if they would do him the pleasure of their company only two days, he would furnish them with his coach and six. Adams, turning to Joseph, said, "How lucky is this gentleman's goodness to you, who I am afraid would be scarce able to hold out on your lame leg!" and then, addressing the person who made him these liberal promises, after much bowing, he cried out, "Blessed be the hour which first introduced me to a man of your charity! you are indeed a Christian of the true primitive kind, and an honour to the country wherein you live. I would willingly have taken a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to have beheld you; for the advantages which we draw from your goodness give me little pleasure, in comparison of what I enjoy for your own sake when I consider the treasures you are by these means laying up for yourself in a country that passeth not away. We will therefore, most generous sir, accept your goodness, as well the entertainment you have so kindly offered us at your house this evening, as the accommodation of your horses to-morrow morning." He then began to search for his hat, as did Joseph for his; and both they and Fanny were in order of departure, when the gentleman, stopping short, and seeming to meditate by himself for the space of about a minute, exclaimed thus: "Sure never anything was so unlucky; I had forgot that my house-keeper was gone abroad, and hath locked up all my rooms; indeed, I would break them open for you, but shall not be able to furnish you with a bed; for she has likewise put away all my linen. I am glad it entered into my head before I had given you the trouble of walking there; besides, I believe you will find better accommodations here than you expected.--Landlord, you can provide good beds for these people, can't you?" "Yes, and please your worship," cries the host, "and such as no lord or justice of the peace in the kingdom need be ashamed to lie in." "I am heartily sorry," says the gentleman, "for this disappointment. I am resolved I will never suffer her to carry away the keys again." "Pray, sir, let it not make you uneasy," cries Adams; "we shall do very well here; and the loan of your horses is a favour we shall be incapable of making any return to." "Ay!" said the squire, "the horses shall attend you here at what hour in the morning you please;" and now, after many civilities too tedious to enumerate, many squeezes by the hand, with most affectionate looks and smiles at each other, and after appointing the horses at seven the next morning, the gentleman took his leave of them, and departed to his own house. Adams and his companions returned to the table, where the parson smoaked another pipe, and then they all retired to rest. Mr Adams rose very early, and called Joseph out of his bed, between whom a very fierce dispute ensued, whether Fanny should ride behind Joseph, or behind the gentleman's servant; Joseph insisting on it that he was perfectly recovered, and was as capable of taking care of Fanny as any other person could be. But Adams would not agree to it, and declared he would not trust her behind him; for that he was weaker than he imagined himself to be. This dispute continued a long time, and had begun to be very hot, when a servant arrived from their good friend, to acquaint them that he was unfortunately prevented from lending them any horses; for that his groom had, unknown to him, put his whole stable under a course of physic. This advice presently struck the two disputants dumb: Adams cried out, "Was ever anything so unlucky as this poor gentleman? I protest I am more sorry on his account than my own. You see, Joseph, how this good-natured man is treated by his servants; one locks up his linen, another physics his horses, and I suppose, by his being at this house last night, the butler had locked up his cellar. Bless us! how good-nature is used in this world! I protest I am more concerned on his account than my own." "So am not I," cries Joseph; "not that I am much troubled about walking on foot; all my concern is, how we shall get out of the house, unless God sends another pedlar to redeem us. But certainly this gentleman has such an affection for you, that he would lend you a larger sum than we owe here, which is not above four or five shillings." "Very true, child," answered Adams; "I will write a letter to him, and will even venture to solicit him for three half-crowns; there will be no harm in having two or three shillings in our pockets; as we have full forty miles to travel, we may possibly have occasion for them." Fanny being now risen, Joseph paid her a visit, and left Adams to write his letter, which having finished, he despatched a boy with it to the gentleman, and then seated himself by the door, lighted his pipe, and betook himself to meditation. The boy staying longer than seemed to be necessary, Joseph, who with Fanny was now returned to the parson, expressed some apprehensions that the gentleman's steward had locked up his purse too. To which Adams answered, "It might very possibly be, and he should wonder at no liberties which the devil might put into the head of a wicked servant to take with so worthy a master;" but added, "that, as the sum was so small, so noble a gentleman would be easily able to procure it in the parish, though he had it not in his own pocket. Indeed," says he, "if it was four or five guineas, or any such large quantity of money, it might be a different matter." They were now sat down to breakfast over some toast and ale, when the boy returned and informed them that the gentleman was not at home. "Very well!" cries Adams; "but why, child, did you not stay till his return? Go back again, my good boy, and wait for his coming home; he cannot be gone far, as his horses are all sick; and besides, he had no intention to go abroad, for he invited us to spend this day and tomorrow at his house. Therefore go back, child, and tarry till his return home." The messenger departed, and was back again with great expedition, bringing an account that the gentleman was gone a long journey, and would not be at home again this month. At these words Adams seemed greatly confounded, saying, "This must be a sudden accident, as the sickness or death of a relation or some such unforeseen misfortune;" and then, turning to Joseph, cried, "I wish you had reminded me to have borrowed this money last night." Joseph, smiling, answered, "He was very much deceived if the gentleman would not have found some excuse to avoid lending it.--I own," says he, "I was never much pleased with his professing so much kindness for you at first sight; for I have heard the gentlemen of our cloth in London tell many such stories of their masters. But when the boy brought the message back of his not being at home, I presently knew what would follow; for, whenever a man of fashion doth not care to fulfil his promises, the custom is to order his servants that he will never be at home to the person so promised. In London they call it denying him. I have myself denied Sir Thomas Booby above a hundred times, and when the man hath danced attendance for about a month or sometimes longer, he is acquainted in the end that the gentleman is gone out of town and could do nothing in the business." --"Good Lord!" says Adams, "what wickedness is there in the Christian world! I profess almost equal to what I have read of the heathens. But surely, Joseph, your suspicions of this gentleman must be unjust, for what a silly fellow must he be who would do the devil's work for nothing! and canst thou tell me any interest he could possibly propose to himself by deceiving us in his professions?" --"It is not for me," answered Joseph, "to give reasons for what men do, to a gentleman of your learning." --"You say right," quoth Adams; "knowledge of men is only to be learned from books; Plato and Seneca for that; and those are authors, I am afraid, child, you never read." --"Not I, sir, truly," answered Joseph; "all I know is, it is a maxim among the gentlemen of our cloth, that those masters who promise the most perform the least; and I have often heard them say they have found the largest vails in those families where they were not promised any. But, sir, instead of considering any farther these matters, it would be our wisest way to contrive some method of getting out of this house; for the generous gentleman, instead of doing us any service, hath left us the whole reckoning to pay." Adams was going to answer, when their host came in, and, with a kind of jeering smile, said, "Well, masters! the squire hath not sent his horses for you yet. Laud help me! how easily some folks make promises!"--"How!" says Adams; "have you ever known him do anything of this kind before?"--"Ay! marry have I," answered the host: "it is no business of mine, you know, sir, to say anything to a gentleman to his face; but now he is not here, I will assure you, he hath not his fellow within the three next market-towns. I own I could not help laughing when I heard him offer you the living, for thereby hangs a good jest. I thought he would have offered you my house next, for one is no more his to dispose of than the other." At these words Adams, blessing himself, declared, "He had never read of such a monster. But what vexes me most," says he, "is, that he hath decoyed us into running up a long debt with you, which we are not able to pay, for we have no money about us, and, what is worse, live at such a distance, that if you should trust us, I am afraid you would lose your money for want of our finding any conveniency of sending it." --"Trust you, master!" says the host, "that I will with all my heart. I honour the clergy too much to deny trusting one of them for such a trifle; besides, I like your fear of never paying me. I have lost many a debt in my lifetime, but was promised to be paid them all in a very short time. I will score this reckoning for the novelty of it. It is the first, I do assure you, of its kind. But what say you, master, shall we have t'other pot before we part? It will waste but a little chalk more, and if you never pay me a shilling the loss will not ruin me." Adams liked the invitation very well, especially as it was delivered with so hearty an accent. He shook his host by the hand, and thanking him, said, "He would tarry another pot rather for the pleasure of such worthy company than for the liquor;" adding, "he was glad to find some Christians left in the kingdom, for that he almost began to suspect that he was sojourning in a country inhabited only by Jews and Turks." The kind host produced the liquor, and Joseph with Fanny retired into the garden, where, while they solaced themselves with amorous discourse, Adams sat down with his host; and, both filling their glasses, and lighting their pipes, they began that dialogue which the reader will find in the next chapter. CHAPTER XVII. _A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and his host, which, by the disagreement in their opinions, seemed to threaten an unlucky catastrophe, had it not been timely prevented by the return of the lovers._ "Sir," said the host, "I assure you you are not the first to whom our squire hath promised more than he hath performed. He is so famous for this practice, that his word will not be taken for much by those who know him. I remember a young fellow whom he promised his parents to make an exciseman. The poor people, who could ill afford it, bred their son to writing and accounts, and other learning to qualify him for the place; and the boy held up his head above his condition with these hopes; nor would he go to plough, nor to any other kind of work, and went constantly drest as fine as could be, with two clean Holland shirts a week, and this for several years; till at last he followed the squire up to London, thinking there to mind him of his promises; but he could never get sight of him. So that, being out of money and business, he fell into evil company and wicked courses; and in the end came to a sentence of transportation, the news of which broke the mother's heart.--I will tell you another true story of him. There was a neighbour of mine, a farmer, who had two sons whom he bred up to the business. Pretty lads they were. Nothing would serve the squire but that the youngest must be made a parson. Upon which he persuaded the father to send him to school, promising that he would afterwards maintain him at the university, and, when he was of a proper age, give him a living. But after the lad had been seven years at school, and his father brought him to the squire, with a letter from his master that he was fit for the university, the squire, instead of minding his promise, or sending him thither at his expense, only told his father that the young man was a fine scholar, and it was pity he could not afford to keep him at Oxford for four or five years more, by which time, if he could get him a curacy, he might have him ordained. The farmer said, 'He was not a man sufficient to do any such thing.' --'Why, then,' answered the squire, 'I am very sorry you have given him so much learning; for, if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil him for anything else; and your other son, who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and sowing, and is in a better condition, than he.' And indeed so it proved; for the poor lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his learning, as he had expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very sober lad before; and in a short time, partly with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consumption, and died.--Nay, I can tell you more still: there was another, a young woman, and the handsomest in all this neighbourhood, whom he enticed up to London, promising to make her a gentlewoman to one of your women of quality; but, instead of keeping his word, we have since heard, after having a child by her himself, she became a common whore; then kept a coffeehouse in Covent Garden; and a little after died of the French distemper in a gaol.--I could tell you many more stories; but how do you imagine he served me myself? You must know, sir, I was bred a seafaring man, and have been many voyages; till at last I came to be master of a ship myself, and was in a fair way of making a fortune, when I was attacked by one of those cursed guarda-costas who took our ships before the beginning of the war; and after a fight, wherein I lost the greater part of my crew, my rigging being all demolished, and two shots received between wind and water, I was forced to strike. The villains carried off my ship, a brigantine of 150 tons--a pretty creature she was--and put me, a man, and a boy, into a little bad pink, in which, with much ado, we at last made Falmouth; though I believe the Spaniards did not imagine she could possibly live a day at sea. Upon my return hither, where my wife, who was of this country, then lived, the squire told me he was so pleased with the defence I had made against the enemy, that he did not fear getting me promoted to a lieutenancy of a man-of-war, if I would accept of it; which I thankfully assured him I would. Well, sir, two or three years passed, during which I had many repeated promises, not only from the squire, but (as he told me) from the lords of the admiralty. He never returned from London but I was assured I might be satisfied now, for I was certain of the first vacancy; and, what surprizes me still, when I reflect on it, these assurances were given me with no less confidence, after so many disappointments, than at first. At last, sir, growing weary, and somewhat suspicious, after so much delay, I wrote to a friend in London, who I knew had some acquaintance at the best house in the admiralty, and desired him to back the squire's interest; for indeed I feared he had solicited the affair with more coldness than he pretended. And what answer do you think my friend sent me? Truly, sir, he acquainted me that the squire had never mentioned my name at the admiralty in his life; and, unless I had much faithfuller interest, advised me to give over my pretensions; which I immediately did, and, with the concurrence of my wife, resolved to set up an alehouse, where you are heartily welcome; and so my service to you; and may the squire, and all such sneaking rascals, go to the devil together." --"O fie!" says Adams, "O fie! He is indeed a wicked man; but G-- will, I hope, turn his heart to repentance. Nay, if he could but once see the meanness of this detestable vice; would he but once reflect that he is one of the most scandalous as well as pernicious lyars; sure he must despise himself to so intolerable a degree, that it would be impossible for him to continue a moment in such a course. And to confess the truth, notwithstanding the baseness of this character, which he hath too well deserved, he hath in his countenance sufficient symptoms of that _bona indoles_, that sweetness of disposition, which furnishes out a good Christian." --"Ah, master! master!" says the host, "if you had travelled as far as I have, and conversed with the many nations where I have traded, you would not give any credit to a man's countenance. Symptoms in his countenance, quotha! I would look there, perhaps, to see whether a man had the small-pox, but for nothing else." He spoke this with so little regard to the parson's observation, that it a good deal nettled him; and, taking the pipe hastily from his mouth, he thus answered: "Master of mine, perhaps I have travelled a great deal farther than you without the assistance of a ship. Do you imagine sailing by different cities or countries is travelling? No. "Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. "I can go farther in an afternoon than you in a twelvemonth. What, I suppose you have seen the Pillars of Hercules, and perhaps the walls of Carthage. Nay, you may have heard Scylla, and seen Charybdis; you may have entered the closet where Archimedes was found at the taking of Syracuse. I suppose you have sailed among the Cyclades, and passed the famous straits which take their name from the unfortunate Helle, whose fate is sweetly described by Apollonius Rhodius; you have passed the very spot, I conceive, where Daedalus fell into that sea, his waxen wings being melted by the sun; you have traversed the Euxine sea, I make no doubt; nay, you may have been on the banks of the Caspian, and called at Colchis, to see if there is ever another golden fleece." "Not I, truly, master," answered the host: "I never touched at any of these places." --"But I have been at all these," replied Adams. "Then, I suppose," cries the host, "you have been at the East Indies; for there are no such, I will be sworn, either in the West or the Levant." --"Pray where's the Levant?" quoth Adams; "that should be in the East Indies by right." "Oho! you are a pretty traveller," cries the host, "and not know the Levant! My service to you, master; you must not talk of these things with me! you must not tip us the traveller; it won't go here." "Since thou art so dull to misunderstand me still," quoth Adams, "I will inform thee; the travelling I mean is in books, the only way of travelling by which any knowledge is to be acquired. From them I learn what I asserted just now, that nature generally imprints such a portraiture of the mind in the countenance, that a skilful physiognomist will rarely be deceived. I presume you have never read the story of Socrates to this purpose, and therefore I will tell it you. A certain physiognomist asserted of Socrates, that he plainly discovered by his features that he was a rogue in his nature. A character so contrary to the tenour of all this great man's actions, and the generally received opinion concerning him, incensed the boys of Athens so that they threw stones at the physiognomist, and would have demolished him for his ignorance, had not Socrates himself prevented them by confessing the truth of his observations, and acknowledging that, though he corrected his disposition by philosophy, he was indeed naturally as inclined to vice as had been predicated of him. Now, pray resolve me--How should a man know this story if he had not read it?" "Well, master," said the host, "and what signifies it whether a man knows it or no? He who goes abroad, as I have done, will always have opportunities enough of knowing the world without troubling his head with Socrates, or any such fellows." "Friend," cries Adams, "if a man should sail round the world, and anchor in every harbour of it, without learning, he would return home as ignorant as he went out." "Lord help you!" answered the host; "there was my boatswain, poor fellow! he could scarce either write or read, and yet he would navigate a ship with any master of a man-of-war; and a very pretty knowledge of trade he had too." "Trade," answered Adams, "as Aristotle proves in his first chapter of Politics, is below a philosopher, and unnatural as it is managed now." The host looked stedfastly at Adams, and after a minute's silence asked him, "If he was one of the writers of the Gazetteers? for I have heard," says he, "they are writ by parsons." "Gazetteers!" answered Adams, "what is that?" "It is a dirty newspaper," replied the host, "which hath been given away all over the nation for these many years, to abuse trade and honest men, which I would not suffer to lye on my table, though it hath been offered me for nothing." "Not I truly," said Adams; "I never write anything but sermons; and I assure you I am no enemy to trade, whilst it is consistent with honesty; nay, I have always looked on the tradesman as a very valuable member of society, and, perhaps, inferior to none but the man of learning." "No, I believe he is not, nor to him neither," answered the host. "Of what use would learning be in a country without trade? What would all you parsons do to clothe your backs and feed your bellies? Who fetches you your silks, and your linens, and your wines, and all the other necessaries of life? I speak chiefly with regard to the sailors." "You should say the extravagancies of life," replied the parson; "but admit they were the necessaries, there is something more necessary than life itself, which is provided by learning; I mean the learning of the clergy. Who clothes you with piety, meekness, humility, charity, patience, and all the other Christian virtues? Who feeds your souls with the milk of brotherly love, and diets them with all the dainty food of holiness, which at once cleanses them of all impure carnal affections, and fattens them with the truly rich spirit of grace? Who doth this?" "Ay, who, indeed?" cries the host; "for I do not remember ever to have seen any such clothing or such feeding. And so, in the mean time, master, my service to you." Adams was going to answer with some severity, when Joseph and Fanny returned and pressed his departure so eagerly that he would not refuse them; and so, grasping his crabstick, he took leave of his host (neither of them being so well pleased with each other as they had been at their first sitting down together), and with Joseph and Fanny, who both expressed much impatience, departed, and now all together renewed their journey. BOOK III. CHAPTER I. _Matter prefatory in praise of biography._ Notwithstanding the preference which may be vulgarly given to the authority of those romance writers who entitle their books "the History of England, the History of France, of Spain, &c.," it is most certain that truth is to be found only in the works of those who celebrate the lives of great men, and are commonly called biographers, as the others should indeed be termed topographers, or chorographers; words which might well mark the distinction between them; it being the business of the latter chiefly to describe countries and cities, which, with the assistance of maps, they do pretty justly, and may be depended upon; but as to the actions and characters of men, their writings are not quite so authentic, of which there needs no other proof than those eternal contradictions occurring between two topographers who undertake the history of the same country: for instance, between my Lord Clarendon and Mr Whitelocke, between Mr Echard and Rapin, and many others; where, facts being set forth in a different light, every reader believes as he pleases; and, indeed, the more judicious and suspicious very justly esteem the whole as no other than a romance, in which the writer hath indulged a happy and fertile invention. But though these widely differ in the narrative of facts; some ascribing victory to the one, and others to the other party; some representing the same man as a rogue, while others give him a great and honest character; yet all agree in the scene where the fact is supposed to have happened, and where the person, who is both a rogue and an honest man, lived. Now with us biographers the case is different; the facts we deliver may be relied on, though we often mistake the age and country wherein they happened: for, though it may be worth the examination of critics, whether the shepherd Chrysostom, who, as Cervantes informs us, died for love of the fair Marcella, who hated him, was ever in Spain, will any one doubt but that such a silly fellow hath really existed? Is there in the world such a sceptic as to disbelieve the madness of Cardenio, the perfidy of Ferdinand, the impertinent curiosity of Anselmo, the weakness of Camilla, the irresolute friendship of Lothario? though perhaps, as to the time and place where those several persons lived, that good historian may be deplorably deficient. But the most known instance of this kind is in the true history of Gil Blas, where the inimitable biographer hath made a notorious blunder in the country of Dr Sangrado, who used his patients as a vintner doth his wine-vessels, by letting out their blood, and filling them up with water. Doth not every one, who is the least versed in physical history, know that Spain was not the country in which this doctor lived? The same writer hath likewise erred in the country of his archbishop, as well as that of those great personages whose understandings were too sublime to taste anything but tragedy, and in many others. The same mistakes may likewise be observed in Scarron, the Arabian Nights, the History of Marianne and le Paisan Parvenu, and perhaps some few other writers of this class, whom I have not read, or do not at present recollect; for I would by no means be thought to comprehend those persons of surprizing genius, the authors of immense romances, or the modern novel and Atalantis writers; who, without any assistance from nature or history, record persons who never were, or will be, and facts which never did, nor possibly can, happen; whose heroes are of their own creation, and their brains the chaos whence all their materials are selected. Not that such writers deserve no honour; so far otherwise, that perhaps they merit the highest; for what can be nobler than to be as an example of the wonderful extent of human genius? One may apply to them what Balzac says of Aristotle, that they are a second nature (for they have no communication with the first; by which, authors of an inferior class, who cannot stand alone, are obliged to support themselves as with crutches); but these of whom I am now speaking seem to be possessed of those stilts, which the excellent Voltaire tells us, in his letters, "carry the genius far off, but with an regular pace." Indeed, far out of the sight of the reader, Beyond the realm of Chaos and old Night. But to return to the former class, who are contented to copy nature, instead of forming originals from the confused heap of matter in their own brains, is not such a book as that which records the achievements of the renowned Don Quixote more worthy the name of a history than even Mariana's: for, whereas the latter is confined to a particular period of time, and to a particular nation, the former is the history of the world in general, at least that part which is polished by laws, arts, and sciences; and of that from the time it was first polished to this day; nay, and forwards as long as it shall so remain? I shall now proceed to apply these observations to the work before us; for indeed I have set them down principally to obviate some constructions which the good nature of mankind, who are always forward to see their friends' virtues recorded, may put to particular parts. I question not but several of my readers will know the lawyer in the stage-coach the moment they hear his voice. It is likewise odds but the wit and the prude meet with some of their acquaintance, as well as all the rest of my characters. To prevent, therefore, any such malicious applications, I declare here, once for all, I describe not men, but manners; not an individual, but a species. Perhaps it will be answered, Are not the characters then taken from life? To which I answer in the affirmative; nay, I believe I might aver that I have writ little more than I have seen. The lawyer is not only alive, but hath been so these four thousand years; and I hope G-- will indulge his life as many yet to come. He hath not indeed confined himself to one profession, one religion, or one country; but when the first mean selfish creature appeared on the human stage, who made self the centre of the whole creation, would give himself no pain, incur no danger, advance no money, to assist or preserve his fellow-creatures; then was our lawyer born; and, whilst such a person as I have described exists on earth, so long shall he remain upon it. It is, therefore, doing him little honour to imagine he endeavours to mimick some little obscure fellow, because he happens to resemble him in one particular feature, or perhaps in his profession; whereas his appearance in the world is calculated for much more general and noble purposes; not to expose one pitiful wretch to the small and contemptible circle of his acquaintance; but to hold the glass to thousands in their closets, that they may contemplate their deformity, and endeavour to reduce it, and thus by suffering private mortification may avoid public shame. This places the boundary between, and distinguishes the satirist from the libeller: for the former privately corrects the fault for the benefit of the person, like a parent; the latter publickly exposes the person himself, as an example to others, like an executioner. There are besides little circumstances to be considered; as the drapery of a picture, which though fashion varies at different times, the resemblance of the countenance is not by those means diminished. Thus I believe we may venture to say Mrs Tow-wouse is coeval with our lawyer: and, though perhaps, during the changes which so long an existence must have passed through, she may in her turn have stood behind the bar at an inn, I will not scruple to affirm she hath likewise in the revolution of ages sat on a throne. In short, where extreme turbulency of temper, avarice, and an insensibility of human misery, with a degree of hypocrisy, have united in a female composition, Mrs Tow-wouse was that woman; and where a good inclination, eclipsed by a poverty of spirit and understanding, hath glimmered forth in a man, that man hath been no other than her sneaking husband. I shall detain my reader no longer than to give him one caution more of an opposite kind: for, as in most of our particular characters we mean not to lash individuals, but all of the like sort, so, in our general descriptions, we mean not universals, but would be understood with many exceptions: for instance, in our description of high people, we cannot be intended to include such as, whilst they are an honour to their high rank, by a well-guided condescension make their superiority as easy as possible to those whom fortune chiefly hath placed below them. Of this number I could name a peer no less elevated by nature than by fortune; who, whilst he wears the noblest ensigns of honour on his person, bears the truest stamp of dignity on his mind, adorned with greatness, enriched with knowledge, and embellished with genius. I have seen this man relieve with generosity, while he hath conversed with freedom, and be to the same person a patron and a companion. I could name a commoner, raised higher above the multitude by superior talents than is in the power of his prince to exalt him, whose behaviour to those he hath obliged is more amiable than the obligation itself; and who is so great a master of affability, that, if he could divest himself of an inherent greatness in his manner, would often make the lowest of his acquaintance forget who was the master of that palace in which they are so courteously entertained. These are pictures which must be, I believe, known: I declare they are taken from the life, and not intended to exceed it. By those high people, therefore, whom I have described, I mean a set of wretches, who, while they are a disgrace to their ancestors, whose honours and fortunes they inherit (or perhaps a greater to their mother, for such degeneracy is scarce credible), have the insolence to treat those with disregard who are at least equal to the founders of their own splendor. It is, I fancy, impossible to conceive a spectacle more worthy of our indignation, than that of a fellow, who is not only a blot in the escutcheon of a great family, but a scandal to the human species, maintaining a supercilious behaviour to men who are an honour to their nature and a disgrace to their fortune. And now, reader, taking these hints along with you, you may, if you please, proceed to the sequel of this our true history. CHAPTER II. _A night scene, wherein several wonderful adventures befel Adams and his fellow-travellers._ It was so late when our travellers left the inn or alehouse (for it might be called either), that they had not travelled many miles before night overtook them, or met them, which you please. The reader must excuse me if I am not particular as to the way they took; for, as we are now drawing near the seat of the Boobies, and as that is a ticklish name, which malicious persons may apply, according to their evil inclinations, to several worthy country squires, a race of men whom we look upon as entirely inoffensive, and for whom we have an adequate regard, we shall lend no assistance to any such malicious purposes. Darkness had now overspread the hemisphere, when Fanny whispered Joseph "that she begged to rest herself a little; for that she was so tired she could walk no farther." Joseph immediately prevailed with parson Adams, who was as brisk as a bee, to stop. He had no sooner seated himself than he lamented the loss of his dear Aeschylus; but was a little comforted when reminded that, if he had it in his possession, he could not see to read. The sky was so clouded, that not a star appeared. It was indeed, according to Milton, darkness visible. This was a circumstance, however, very favourable to Joseph; for Fanny, not suspicious of being overseen by Adams, gave a loose to her passion which she had never done before, and, reclining her head on his bosom, threw her arm carelessly round him, and suffered him to lay his cheek close to hers. All this infused such happiness into Joseph, that he would not have changed his turf for the finest down in the finest palace in the universe. Adams sat at some distance from the lovers, and, being unwilling to disturb them, applied himself to meditation; in which he had not spent much time before he discovered a light at some distance that seemed approaching towards him. He immediately hailed it; but, to his sorrow and surprize, it stopped for a moment, and then disappeared. He then called to Joseph, asking him, "if he had not seen the light?" Joseph answered, "he had." --"And did you not mark how it vanished?" returned he: "though I am not afraid of ghosts, I do not absolutely disbelieve them." He then entered into a meditation on those unsubstantial beings; which was soon interrupted by several voices, which he thought almost at his elbow, though in fact they were not so extremely near. However, he could distinctly hear them agree on the murder of any one they met; and a little after heard one of them say, "he had killed a dozen since that day fortnight." Adams now fell on his knees, and committed himself to the care of Providence; and poor Fanny, who likewise heard those terrible words, embraced Joseph so closely, that had not he, whose ears were also open, been apprehensive on her account, he would have thought no danger which threatened only himself too dear a price for such embraces. Joseph now drew forth his penknife, and Adams, having finished his ejaculations, grasped his crab-stick, his only weapon, and, coming up to Joseph, would have had him quit Fanny, and place her in the rear; but his advice was fruitless; she clung closer to him, not at all regarding the presence of Adams, and in a soothing voice declared, "she would die in his arms." Joseph, clasping her with inexpressible eagerness, whispered her, "that he preferred death in hers to life out of them." Adams, brandishing his crabstick, said, "he despised death as much as any man," and then repeated aloud-- "Est hic, est animus lucis contemptor et illum, Qui vita bene credat emi quo tendis, honorem." Upon this the voices ceased for a moment, and then one of them called out, "D--n you, who is there?" To which Adams was prudent enough to make no reply; and of a sudden he observed half-a-dozen lights, which seemed to rise all at once from the ground and advance briskly towards him. This he immediately concluded to be an apparition; and now, beginning to conceive that the voices were of the same kind, he called out, "In the name of the L--d, what wouldst thou have?" He had no sooner spoke than he heard one of the voices cry out, "D--n them, here they come;" and soon after heard several hearty blows, as if a number of men had been engaged at quarterstaff. He was just advancing towards the place of combat, when Joseph, catching him by the skirts, begged him that they might take the opportunity of the dark to convey away Fanny from the danger which threatened her. He presently complied, and, Joseph lifting up Fanny, they all three made the best of their way; and without looking behind them, or being overtaken, they had travelled full two miles, poor Fanny not once complaining of being tired, when they saw afar off several lights scattered at a small distance from each other, and at the same time found themselves on the descent of a very steep hill. Adams's foot slipping, he instantly disappeared, which greatly frightened both Joseph and Fanny: indeed, if the light had permitted them to see it, they would scarce have refrained laughing to see the parson rolling down the hill; which he did from top to bottom, without receiving any harm. He then hollowed as loud as he could, to inform them of his safety, and relieve them from the fears which they had conceived for him. Joseph and Fanny halted some time, considering what to do; at last they advanced a few paces, where the declivity seemed least steep; and then Joseph, taking his Fanny in his arms, walked firmly down the hill, without making a false step, and at length landed her at the bottom, where Adams soon came to them. Learn hence, my fair countrywomen, to consider your own weakness, and the many occasions on which the strength of a man may be useful to you; and, duly weighing this, take care that you match not yourselves with the spindle-shanked beaus and _petit-matres_ of the age, who, instead of being able, like Joseph Andrews, to carry you in lusty arms through the rugged ways and downhill steeps of life, will rather want to support their feeble limbs with your strength and assistance. Our travellers now moved forwards where the nearest light presented itself; and, having crossed a common field, they came to a meadow, where they seemed to be at a very little distance from the light, when, to their grief, they arrived at the banks of a river. Adams here made a full stop, and declared he could swim, but doubted how it was possible to get Fanny over: to which Joseph answered, "If they walked along its banks, they might be certain of soon finding a bridge, especially as by the number of lights they might be assured a parish was near." "Odso, that's true indeed," said Adams; "I did not think of that." Accordingly, Joseph's advice being taken, they passed over two meadows, and came to a little orchard, which led them to a house. Fanny begged of Joseph to knock at the door, assuring him "she was so weary that she could hardly stand on her feet." Adams, who was foremost, performed this ceremony; and, the door being immediately opened, a plain kind of man appeared at it: Adams acquainted him "that they had a young woman with them who was so tired with her journey that he should be much obliged to him if he would suffer her to come in and rest herself." The man, who saw Fanny by the light of the candle which he held in his hand, perceiving her innocent and modest look, and having no apprehensions from the civil behaviour of Adams, presently answered, "That the young woman was very welcome to rest herself in his house, and so were her company." He then ushered them into a very decent room, where his wife was sitting at a table: she immediately rose up, and assisted them in setting forth chairs, and desired them to sit down; which they had no sooner done than the man of the house asked them if they would have anything to refresh themselves with? Adams thanked him, and answered he should be obliged to him for a cup of his ale, which was likewise chosen by Joseph and Fanny. Whilst he was gone to fill a very large jug with this liquor, his wife told Fanny she seemed greatly fatigued, and desired her to take something stronger than ale; but she refused with many thanks, saying it was true she was very much tired, but a little rest she hoped would restore her. As soon as the company were all seated, Mr Adams, who had filled himself with ale, and by public permission had lighted his pipe, turned to the master of the house, asking him, "If evil spirits did not use to walk in that neighbourhood?" To which receiving no answer, he began to inform him of the adventure which they met with on the downs; nor had he proceeded far in the story when somebody knocked very hard at the door. The company expressed some amazement, and Fanny and the good woman turned pale: her husband went forth, and whilst he was absent, which was some time, they all remained silent, looking at one another, and heard several voices discoursing pretty loudly. Adams was fully persuaded that spirits were abroad, and began to meditate some exorcisms; Joseph a little inclined to the same opinion; Fanny was more afraid of men; and the good woman herself began to suspect her guests, and imagined those without were rogues belonging to their gang. At length the master of the house returned, and, laughing, told Adams he had discovered his apparition; that the murderers were sheep-stealers, and the twelve persons murdered were no other than twelve sheep; adding, that the shepherds had got the better of them, had secured two, and were proceeding with them to a justice of peace. This account greatly relieved the fears of the whole company; but Adams muttered to himself, "He was convinced of the truth of apparitions for all that." They now sat chearfully round the fire, till the master of the house, having surveyed his guests, and conceiving that the cassock, which, having fallen down, appeared under Adams's greatcoat, and the shabby livery on Joseph Andrews, did not well suit with the familiarity between them, began to entertain some suspicions not much to their advantage: addressing himself therefore to Adams, he said, "He perceived he was a clergyman by his dress, and supposed that honest man was his footman." "Sir," answered Adams, "I am a clergyman at your service; but as to that young man, whom you have rightly termed honest, he is at present in nobody's service; he never lived in any other family than that of Lady Booby, from whence he was discharged, I assure you, for no crime." Joseph said, "He did not wonder the gentleman was surprized to see one of Mr Adams's character condescend to so much goodness with a poor man." --"Child," said Adams, "I should be ashamed of my cloth if I thought a poor man, who is honest, below my notice or my familiarity. I know not how those who think otherwise can profess themselves followers and servants of Him who made no distinction, unless, peradventure, by preferring the poor to the rich.--Sir," said he, addressing himself to the gentleman, "these two poor young people are my parishioners, and I look on them and love them as my children. There is something singular enough in their history, but I have not now time to recount it." The master of the house, notwithstanding the simplicity which discovered itself in Adams, knew too much of the world to give a hasty belief to professions. He was not yet quite certain that Adams had any more of the clergyman in him than his cassock. To try him therefore further, he asked him, "If Mr Pope had lately published anything new?" Adams answered, "He had heard great commendations of that poet, but that he had never read nor knew any of his works."--"Ho! ho!" says the gentleman to himself, "have I caught you? What!" said he, "have you never seen his Homer?" Adams answered, "he had never read any translation of the classicks." "Why, truly," reply'd the gentleman, "there is a dignity in the Greek language which I think no modern tongue can reach." --"Do you understand Greek, sir?" said Adams hastily. "A little, sir," answered the gentleman. "Do you know, sir," cry'd Adams, "where I can buy an Aeschylus? an unlucky misfortune lately happened to mine." Aeschylus was beyond the gentleman, though he knew him very well by name; he therefore, returning back to Homer, asked Adams, "What part of the Iliad he thought most excellent?" Adams returned, "His question would be properer, What kind of beauty was the chief in poetry? for that Homer was equally excellent in them all. And, indeed," continued he, "what Cicero says of a complete orator may well be applied to a great poet: 'He ought to comprehend all perfections.' Homer did this in the most excellent degree; it is not without reason, therefore, that the philosopher, in the twenty-second chapter of his Poeticks, mentions him by no other appellation than that of the Poet. He was the father of the drama as well as the epic; not of tragedy only, but of comedy also; for his Margites, which is deplorably lost, bore, says Aristotle, the same analogy to comedy as his Odyssey and Iliad to tragedy. To him, therefore, we owe Aristophanes as well as Euripides, Sophocles, and my poor Aeschylus. But if you please we will confine ourselves (at least for the present) to the Iliad, his noblest work; though neither Aristotle nor Horace give it the preference, as I remember, to the Odyssey. First, then, as to his subject, can anything be more simple, and at the same time more noble? He is rightly praised by the first of those judicious critics for not chusing the whole war, which, though he says it hath a complete beginning and end, would have been too great for the understanding to comprehend at one view. I have, therefore, often wondered why so correct a writer as Horace should, in his epistle to Lollius, call him the Trojani Belli Scriptorem. Secondly, his action, termed by Aristotle, Pragmaton Systasis; is it possible for the mind of man to conceive an idea of such perfect unity, and at the same time so replete with greatness? And here I must observe, what I do not remember to have seen noted by any, the Harmotton, that agreement of his action to his subject: for, as the subject is anger, how agreeable is his action, which is war; from which every incident arises and to which every episode immediately relates. Thirdly, his manners, which Aristotle places second in his description of the several parts of tragedy, and which he says are included in the action; I am at a loss whether I should rather admire the exactness of his judgment in the nice distinction or the immensity of his imagination in their variety. For, as to the former of these, how accurately is the sedate, injured resentment of Achilles, distinguished from the hot, insulting passion of Agamemnon! How widely doth the brutal courage of Ajax differ from the amiable bravery of Diomedes; and the wisdom of Nestor, which is the result of long reflection and experience, from the cunning of Ulysses, the effect of art and subtlety only! If we consider their variety, we may cry out, with Aristotle in his 24th chapter, that no part of this divine poem is destitute of manners. Indeed, I might affirm that there is scarce a character in human nature untouched in some part or other. And, as there is no passion which he is not able to describe, so is there none in his reader which he cannot raise. If he hath any superior excellence to the rest, I have been inclined to fancy it is in the pathetic. I am sure I never read with dry eyes the two episodes where Andromache is introduced in the former lamenting the danger, and in the latter the death, of Hector. The images are so extremely tender in these, that I am convinced the poet had the worthiest and best heart imaginable. Nor can I help observing how Sophocles falls short of the beauties of the original, in that imitation of the dissuasive speech of Andromache which he hath put into the mouth of Tecmessa. And yet Sophocles was the greatest genius who ever wrote tragedy; nor have any of his successors in that art, that is to say, neither Euripides nor Seneca the tragedian, been able to come near him. As to his sentiments and diction, I need say nothing; the former are particularly remarkable for the utmost perfection on that head, namely, propriety; and as to the latter, Aristotle, whom doubtless you have read over and over, is very diffuse. I shall mention but one thing more, which that great critic in his division of tragedy calls Opsis, or the scenery; and which is as proper to the epic as to the drama, with this difference, that in the former it falls to the share of the poet, and in the latter to that of the painter. But did ever painter imagine a scene like that in the 13th and 14th Iliads? where the reader sees at one view the prospect of Troy, with the army drawn up before it; the Grecian army, camp, and fleet; Jupiter sitting on Mount Ida, with his head wrapt in a cloud, and a thunderbolt in his hand, looking towards Thrace; Neptune driving through the sea, which divides on each side to permit his passage, and then seating himself on Mount Samos; the heavens opened, and the deities all seated on their thrones. This is sublime! This is poetry!" Adams then rapt out a hundred Greek verses, and with such a voice, emphasis, and action, that he almost frightened the women; and as for the gentleman, he was so far from entertaining any further suspicion of Adams, that he now doubted whether he had not a bishop in his house. He ran into the most extravagant encomiums on his learning; and the goodness of his heart began to dilate to all the strangers. He said he had great compassion for the poor young woman, who looked pale and faint with her journey; and in truth he conceived a much higher opinion of her quality than it deserved. He said he was sorry he could not accommodate them all; but if they were contented with his fireside, he would sit up with the men; and the young woman might, if she pleased, partake his wife's bed, which he advised her to; for that they must walk upwards of a mile to any house of entertainment, and that not very good neither. Adams, who liked his seat, his ale, his tobacco, and his company, persuaded Fanny to accept this kind proposal, in which sollicitation he was seconded by Joseph. Nor was she very difficultly prevailed on; for she had slept little the last night and not at all the preceding; so that love itself was scarce able to keep her eyes open any longer. The offer, therefore, being kindly accepted, the good woman produced everything eatable in her house on the table, and the guests, being heartily invited, as heartily regaled themselves, especially parson Adams. As to the other two, they were examples of the truth of that physical observation, that love, like other sweet things, is no whetter of the stomach. Supper was no sooner ended, than Fanny at her own request retired, and the good woman bore her company. The man of the house, Adams, and Joseph, who would modestly have withdrawn, had not the gentleman insisted on the contrary, drew round the fireside, where Adams (to use his own words) replenished his pipe, and the gentleman produced a bottle of excellent beer, being the best liquor in his house. The modest behaviour of Joseph, with the gracefulness of his person, the character which Adams gave of him, and the friendship he seemed to entertain for him, began to work on the gentleman's affections, and raised in him a curiosity to know the singularity which Adams had mentioned in his history. This curiosity Adams was no sooner informed of than, with Joseph's consent, he agreed to gratify it; and accordingly related all he knew, with as much tenderness as was possible for the character of Lady Booby; and concluded with the long, faithful, and mutual passion between him and Fanny, not concealing the meanness of her birth and education. These latter circumstances entirely cured a jealousy which had lately risen in the gentleman's mind, that Fanny was the daughter of some person of fashion, and that Joseph had run away with her, and Adams was concerned in the plot. He was now enamoured of his guests, drank their healths with great chearfulness, and returned many thanks to Adams, who had spent much breath, for he was a circumstantial teller of a story. Adams told him it was now in his power to return that favour; for his extraordinary goodness, as well as that fund of literature he was master of, which he did not expect to find under such a roof, had raised in him more curiosity than he had ever known. "Therefore," said he, "if it be not too troublesome, sir, your history, if you please." The author hath by some been represented to have made a blunder here: for Adams had indeed shown some learning (say they), perhaps all the author had; but the gentleman hath shown none, unless his approbation of Mr Adams be such: but surely it would be preposterous in him to call it so. I have, however, notwithstanding this criticism, which I am told came from the mouth of a great orator in a public coffee-house, left this blunder as it stood in the first edition. I will not have the vanity to apply to anything in this work the observation which M. Dacier makes in her preface to her Aristophanes: _Je tiens pour une maxime constante, qu'une beaut mediocr plait plus gnralement qu'une beaut sans dfaut._ Mr Congreve hath made such another blunder in his Love for Love, where Tattle tells Miss Prue, "She should admire him as much for the beauty he commends in her as if he himself was possessed of it." The gentleman answered, he could not refuse him what he had so much right to insist on; and after some of the common apologies, which are the usual preface to a story, he thus began. CHAPTER III. _In which the gentleman relates the history of his life._ Sir, I am descended of a good family, and was born a gentleman. My education was liberal, and at a public school, in which I proceeded so far as to become master of the Latin, and to be tolerably versed in the Greek language. My father died when I was sixteen, and left me master of myself. He bequeathed me a moderate fortune, which he intended I should not receive till I attained the age of twenty-five: for he constantly asserted that was full early enough to give up any man entirely to the guidance of his own discretion. However, as this intention was so obscurely worded in his will that the lawyers advised me to contest the point with my trustees, I own I paid so little regard to the inclinations of my dead father, which were sufficiently certain to me, that I followed their advice, and soon succeeded, for the trustees did not contest the matter very obstinately on their side. "Sir," said Adams, "may I crave the favour of your name?" The gentleman answered his name was Wilson, and then proceeded. I stayed a very little while at school after his death; for, being a forward youth, I was extremely impatient to be in the world, for which I thought my parts, knowledge, and manhood thoroughly qualified me. And to this early introduction into life, without a guide, I impute all my future misfortunes; for, besides the obvious mischiefs which attend this, there is one which hath not been so generally observed: the first impression which mankind receives of you will be very difficult to eradicate. How unhappy, therefore, must it be to fix your character in life, before you can possibly know its value, or weigh the consequences of those actions which are to establish your future reputation! A little under seventeen I left my school, and went to London with no more than six pounds in my pocket; a great sum, as I then conceived; and which I was afterwards surprized to find so soon consumed. The character I was ambitious of attaining was that of a fine gentleman; the first requisites to which I apprehended were to be supplied by a taylor, a periwig-maker, and some few more tradesmen, who deal in furnishing out the human body. Notwithstanding the lowness of my purse, I found credit with them more easily than I expected, and was soon equipped to my wish. This I own then agreeably surprized me; but I have since learned that it is a maxim among many tradesmen at the polite end of the town to deal as largely as they can, reckon as high as they can, and arrest as soon as they can. The next qualifications, namely, dancing, fencing, riding the great horse, and music, came into my head: but, as they required expense and time, I comforted myself, with regard to dancing, that I had learned a little in my youth, and could walk a minuet genteelly enough; as to fencing, I thought my good-humour would preserve me from the danger of a quarrel; as to the horse, I hoped it would not be thought of; and for music, I imagined I could easily acquire the reputation of it; for I had heard some of my schoolfellows pretend to knowledge in operas, without being able to sing or play on the fiddle. Knowledge of the town seemed another ingredient; this I thought I should arrive at by frequenting public places. Accordingly I paid constant attendance to them all; by which means I was soon master of the fashionable phrases, learned to cry up the fashionable diversions, and knew the names and faces of the most fashionable men and women. Nothing now seemed to remain but an intrigue, which I was resolved to have immediately; I mean the reputation of it; and indeed I was so successful, that in a very short time I had half-a-dozen with the finest women in town. At these words Adams fetched a deep groan, and then, blessing himself, cried out, "Good Lord! what wicked times these are!" Not so wicked as you imagine, continued the gentleman; for I assure you they were all vestal virgins for anything which I knew to the contrary. The reputation of intriguing with them was all I sought, and was what I arrived at: and perhaps I only flattered myself even in that; for very probably the persons to whom I showed their billets knew as well as I that they were counterfeits, and that I had written them to myself. "Write letters to yourself!" said Adams, staring. O sir, answered the gentleman, it is the very error of the times. Half our modern plays have one of these characters in them. It is incredible the pains I have taken, and the absurd methods I employed, to traduce the character of women of distinction. When another had spoken in raptures of any one, I have answered, "D--n her, she! We shall have her at H----d's very soon." When he hath replied, "He thought her virtuous," I have answered, "Ay, thou wilt always think a woman virtuous, till she is in the streets; but you and I, Jack or Tom (turning to another in company), know better." At which I have drawn a paper out of my pocket, perhaps a taylor's bill, and kissed it, crying at the same time, "By Gad I was once fond of her." "Proceed, if you please, but do not swear any more," said Adams. Sir, said the gentleman, I ask your pardon. Well, sir, in this course of life I continued full three years.--"What course of life?" answered Adams; "I do not remember you have mentioned any." --Your remark is just, said the gentleman, smiling; I should rather have said, in this course of doing nothing. I remember some time afterwards I wrote the journal of one day, which would serve, I believe, as well for any other during the whole time. I will endeavour to repeat it to you. In the morning I arose, took my great stick, and walked out in my green frock, with my hair in papers (a groan from Adams), and sauntered about till ten. Went to the auction; told lady ---- she had a dirty face; laughed heartily at something captain ---- said, I can't remember what, for I did not very well hear it; whispered lord ----; bowed to the duke of ----; and was going to bid for a snuff-box, but did not, for fear I should have had it. From 2 to 4, drest myself. _A groan._ 4 to 6, dined. _A groan._ 6 to 8, coffee-house. 8 to 9, Drury-lane playhouse. 9 to 10, Lincoln's Inn Fields. 10 to 12, Drawing-room. _A great groan._ At all which places nothing happened worth remark. At which Adams said, with some vehemence, "Sir, this is below the life of an animal, hardly above vegetation: and I am surprized what could lead a man of your sense into it." What leads us into more follies than you imagine, doctor, answered the gentleman--vanity; for as contemptible a creature as I was, and I assure you, yourself cannot have more contempt for such a wretch than I now have, I then admired myself, and should have despised a person of your present appearance (you will pardon me), with all your learning and those excellent qualities which I have remarked in you. Adams bowed, and begged him to proceed. After I had continued two years in this course of life, said the gentleman, an accident happened which obliged me to change the scene. As I was one day at St James's coffee-house, making very free with the character of a young lady of quality, an officer of the guards, who was present, thought proper to give me the lye. I answered I might possibly be mistaken, but I intended to tell no more than the truth. To which he made no reply but by a scornful sneer. After this I observed a strange coldness in all my acquaintance; none of them spoke to me first, and very few returned me even the civility of a bow. The company I used to dine with left me out, and within a week I found myself in as much solitude at St James's as if I had been in a desart. An honest elderly man, with a great hat and long sword, at last told me he had a compassion for my youth, and therefore advised me to show the world I was not such a rascal as they thought me to be. I did not at first understand him; but he explained himself, and ended with telling me, if I would write a challenge to the captain, he would, out of pure charity, go to him with it. "A very charitable person, truly!" cried Adams. I desired till the next day, continued the gentleman, to consider on it, and, retiring to my lodgings, I weighed the consequences on both sides as fairly as I could. On the one, I saw the risk of this alternative, either losing my own life, or having on my hands the blood of a man with whom I was not in the least angry. I soon determined that the good which appeared on the other was not worth this hazard. I therefore resolved to quit the scene, and presently retired to the Temple, where I took chambers. Here I soon got a fresh set of acquaintance, who knew nothing of what had happened to me. Indeed, they were not greatly to my approbation; for the beaus of the Temple are only the shadows of the others. They are the affectation of affectation. The vanity of these is still more ridiculous, if possible, than of the others. Here I met with smart fellows who drank with lords they did not know, and intrigued with women they never saw. Covent Garden was now the farthest stretch of my ambition; where I shone forth in the balconies at the playhouses, visited whores, made love to orange-wenches, and damned plays. This career was soon put a stop to by my surgeon, who convinced me of the necessity of confining myself to my room for a month. At the end of which, having had leisure to reflect, I resolved to quit all farther conversation with beaus and smarts of every kind, and to avoid, if possible, any occasion of returning to this place of confinement. "I think," said Adams, "the advice of a month's retirement and reflection was very proper; but I should rather have expected it from a divine than a surgeon." The gentleman smiled at Adams's simplicity, and, without explaining himself farther on such an odious subject, went on thus: I was no sooner perfectly restored to health than I found my passion for women, which I was afraid to satisfy as I had done, made me very uneasy; I determined, therefore, to keep a mistress. Nor was I long before I fixed my choice on a young woman, who had before been kept by two gentlemen, and to whom I was recommended by a celebrated bawd. I took her home to my chambers, and made her a settlement during cohabitation. This would, perhaps, have been very ill paid: however, she did not suffer me to be perplexed on that account; for, before quarter-day, I found her at my chambers in too familiar conversation with a young fellow who was drest like an officer, but was indeed a city apprentice. Instead of excusing her inconstancy, she rapped out half-a-dozen oaths, and, snapping her fingers at me, swore she scorned to confine herself to the best man in England. Upon this we parted, and the same bawd presently provided her another keeper. I was not so much concerned at our separation as I found, within a day or two, I had reason to be for our meeting; for I was obliged to pay a second visit to my surgeon. I was now forced to do penance for some weeks, during which time I contracted an acquaintance with a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a gentleman who, after having been forty years in the army, and in all the campaigns under the Duke of Marlborough, died a lieutenant on half-pay, and had left a widow, with this only child, in very distrest circumstances: they had only a small pension from the government, with what little the daughter could add to it by her work, for she had great excellence at her needle. This girl was, at my first acquaintance with her, solicited in marriage by a young fellow in good circumstances. He was apprentice to a linendraper, and had a little fortune, sufficient to set up his trade. The mother was greatly pleased with this match, as indeed she had sufficient reason. However, I soon prevented it. I represented him in so low a light to his mistress, and made so good an use of flattery, promises, and presents, that, not to dwell longer on this subject than is necessary, I prevailed with the poor girl, and conveyed her away from her mother! In a word, I debauched her.--(At which words Adams started up, fetched three strides across the room, and then replaced himself in his chair.) You are not more affected with this part of my story than myself; I assure you it will never be sufficiently repented of in my own opinion: but, if you already detest it, how much more will your indignation be raised when you hear the fatal consequences of this barbarous, this villanous action! If you please, therefore, I will here desist.--"By no means," cries Adams; "go on, I beseech you; and Heaven grant you may sincerely repent of this and many other things you have related!" --I was now, continued the gentleman, as happy as the possession of a fine young creature, who had a good education, and was endued with many agreeable qualities, could make me. We lived some months with vast fondness together, without any company or conversation, more than we found in one another: but this could not continue always; and, though I still preserved great affection for her, I began more and more to want the relief of other company, and consequently to leave her by degrees--at last whole days to herself. She failed not to testify some uneasiness on these occasions, and complained of the melancholy life she led; to remedy which, I introduced her into the acquaintance of some other kept mistresses, with whom she used to play at cards, and frequent plays and other diversions. She had not lived long in this intimacy before I perceived a visible alteration in her behaviour; all her modesty and innocence vanished by degrees, till her mind became thoroughly tainted. She affected the company of rakes, gave herself all manner of airs, was never easy but abroad, or when she had a party at my chambers. She was rapacious of money, extravagant to excess, loose in her conversation; and, if ever I demurred to any of her demands, oaths, tears, and fits were the immediate consequences. As the first raptures of fondness were long since over, this behaviour soon estranged my affections from her; I began to reflect with pleasure that she was not my wife, and to conceive an intention of parting with her; of which, having given her a hint, she took care to prevent me the pains of turning her out of doors, and accordingly departed herself, having first broken open my escrutore, and taken with her all she could find, to the amount of about 200. In the first heat of my resentment I resolved to pursue her with all the vengeance of the law: but, as she had the good luck to escape me during that ferment, my passion afterwards cooled; and, having reflected that I had been the first aggressor, and had done her an injury for which I could make her no reparation, by robbing her of the innocence of her mind; and hearing at the same time that the poor old woman her mother had broke her heart on her daughter's elopement from her, I, concluding myself her murderer ("As you very well might," cries Adams, with a groan), was pleased that God Almighty had taken this method of punishing me, and resolved quietly to submit to the loss. Indeed, I could wish I had never heard more of the poor creature, who became in the end an abandoned profligate; and, after being some years a common prostitute, at last ended her miserable life in Newgate.--Here the gentleman fetched a deep sigh, which Mr Adams echoed very loudly; and both continued silent, looking on each other for some minutes. At last the gentleman proceeded thus: I had been perfectly constant to this girl during the whole time I kept her: but she had scarce departed before I discovered more marks of her infidelity to me than the loss of my money. In short, I was forced to make a third visit to my surgeon, out of whose hands I did not get a hasty discharge. I now forswore all future dealings with the sex, complained loudly that the pleasure did not compensate the pain, and railed at the beautiful creatures in as gross language as Juvenal himself formerly reviled them in. I looked on all the town harlots with a detestation not easy to be conceived, their persons appeared to me as painted palaces, inhabited by Disease and Death: nor could their beauty make them more desirable objects in my eyes than gilding could make me covet a pill, or golden plates a coffin. But though I was no longer the absolute slave, I found some reasons to own myself still the subject, of love. My hatred for women decreased daily; and I am not positive but time might have betrayed me again to some common harlot, had I not been secured by a passion for the charming Sapphira, which, having once entered upon, made a violent progress in my heart. Sapphira was wife to a man of fashion and gallantry, and one who seemed, I own, every way worthy of her affections; which, however, he had not the reputation of having. She was indeed a coquette _acheve_. "Pray, sir," says Adams, "what is a coquette? I have met with the word in French authors, but never could assign any idea to it. I believe it is the same with _une sotte,_ Anglic, a fool." Sir, answered the gentleman, perhaps you are not much mistaken; but, as it is a particular kind of folly, I will endeavour to describe it. Were all creatures to be ranked in the order of creation according to their usefulness, I know few animals that would not take place of a coquette; nor indeed hath this creature much pretence to anything beyond instinct; for, though sometimes we might imagine it was animated by the passion of vanity, yet far the greater part of its actions fall beneath even that low motive; for instance, several absurd gestures and tricks, infinitely more foolish than what can be observed in the most ridiculous birds and beasts, and which would persuade the beholder that the silly wretch was aiming at our contempt. Indeed its characteristic is affectation, and this led and governed by whim only: for as beauty, wisdom, wit, good-nature, politeness, and health are sometimes affected by this creature, so are ugliness, folly, nonsense, ill-nature, ill-breeding, and sickness likewise put on by it in their turn. Its life is one constant lie; and the only rule by which you can form any judgment of them is, that they are never what they seem. If it was possible for a coquette to love (as it is not, for if ever it attains this passion the coquette ceases instantly), it would wear the face of indifference, if not of hatred, to the beloved object; you may therefore be assured, when they endeavour to persuade you of their liking, that they are indifferent to you at least. And indeed this was the case of my Sapphira, who no sooner saw me in the number of her admirers than she gave me what is commonly called encouragement: she would often look at me, and, when she perceived me meet her eyes, would instantly take them off, discovering at the same time as much surprize and emotion as possible. These arts failed not of the success she intended; and, as I grew more particular to her than the rest of her admirers, she advanced, in proportion, more directly to me than to the others. She affected the low voice, whisper, lisp, sigh, start, laugh, and many other indications of passion which daily deceive thousands. When I played at whist with her, she would look earnestly at me, and at the same time lose deal or revoke; then burst into a ridiculous laugh and cry, "La! I can't imagine what I was thinking of." To detain you no longer, after I had gone through a sufficient course of gallantry, as I thought, and was thoroughly convinced I had raised a violent passion in my mistress, I sought an opportunity of coming to an eclaircissement with her. She avoided this as much as possible; however, great assiduity at length presented me one. I will not describe all the particulars of this interview; let it suffice that, when she could no longer pretend not to see my drift, she first affected a violent surprize, and immediately after as violent a passion: she wondered what I had seen in her conduct which could induce me to affront her in this manner; and, breaking from me the first moment she could, told me I had no other way to escape the consequence of her resentment than by never seeing, or at least speaking to her more. I was not contented with this answer; I still pursued her, but to no purpose; and was at length convinced that her husband had the sole possession of her person, and that neither he nor any other had made any impression on her heart. I was taken off from following this _ignis fatuus_ by some advances which were made me by the wife of a citizen, who, though neither very young nor handsome, was yet too agreeable to be rejected by my amorous constitution. I accordingly soon satisfied her that she had not cast away her hints on a barren or cold soil: on the contrary, they instantly produced her an eager and desiring lover. Nor did she give me any reason to complain; she met the warmth she had raised with equal ardour. I had no longer a coquette to deal with, but one who was wiser than to prostitute the noble passion of love to the ridiculous lust of vanity. We presently understood one another; and, as the pleasures we sought lay in a mutual gratification, we soon found and enjoyed them. I thought myself at first greatly happy in the possession of this new mistress, whose fondness would have quickly surfeited a more sickly appetite; but it had a different effect on mine: she carried my passion higher by it than youth or beauty had been able. But my happiness could not long continue uninterrupted. The apprehensions we lay under from the jealousy of her husband gave us great uneasiness. "Poor wretch! I pity him," cried Adams. He did indeed deserve it, said the gentleman; for he loved his wife with great tenderness; and, I assure you, it is a great satisfaction to me that I was not the man who first seduced her affections from him. These apprehensions appeared also too well grounded, for in the end he discovered us, and procured witnesses of our caresses. He then prosecuted me at law, and recovered 3000 damages, which much distressed my fortune to pay; and, what was worse, his wife, being divorced, came upon my hands. I led a very uneasy life with her; for, besides that my passion was now much abated, her excessive jealousy was very troublesome. At length death rid me of an inconvenience which the consideration of my having been the author of her misfortunes would never suffer me to take any other method of discarding. I now bad adieu to love, and resolved to pursue other less dangerous and expensive pleasures. I fell into the acquaintance of a set of jolly companions, who slept all day and drank all night; fellows who might rather be said to consume time than to live. Their best conversation was nothing but noise: singing, hollowing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, sp--wing, smoaking were the chief ingredients of our entertainment. And yet, bad as these were, they were more tolerable than our graver scenes, which were either excessive tedious narratives of dull common matters of fact, or hot disputes about trifling matters, which commonly ended in a wager. This way of life the first serious reflection put a period to; and I became member of a club frequented by young men of great abilities. The bottle was now only called in to the assistance of our conversation, which rolled on the deepest points of philosophy. These gentlemen were engaged in a search after truth, in the pursuit of which they threw aside all the prejudices of education, and governed themselves only by the infallible guide of human reason. This great guide, after having shown them the falsehood of that very ancient but simple tenet, that there is such a being as a Deity in the universe, helped them to establish in his stead a certain rule of right, by adhering to which they all arrived at the utmost purity of morals. Reflection made me as much delighted with this society as it had taught me to despise and detest the former. I began now to esteem myself a being of a higher order than I had ever before conceived; and was the more charmed with this rule of right, as I really found in my own nature nothing repugnant to it. I held in utter contempt all persons who wanted any other inducement to virtue besides her intrinsic beauty and excellence; and had so high an opinion of my present companions, with regard to their morality, that I would have trusted them with whatever was nearest and dearest to me. Whilst I was engaged in this delightful dream, two or three accidents happened successively, which at first much surprized me;--for one of our greatest philosophers, or rule-of-right men, withdrew himself from us, taking with him the wife of one of his most intimate friends. Secondly, another of the same society left the club without remembering to take leave of his bail. A third, having borrowed a sum of money of me, for which I received no security, when I asked him to repay it, absolutely denied the loan. These several practices, so inconsistent with our golden rule, made me begin to suspect its infallibility; but when I communicated my thoughts to one of the club, he said, "There was nothing absolutely good or evil in itself; that actions were denominated good or bad by the circumstances of the agent. That possibly the man who ran away with his neighbour's wife might be one of very good inclinations, but over-prevailed on by the violence of an unruly passion; and, in other particulars, might be a very worthy member of society; that if the beauty of any woman created in him an uneasiness, he had a right from nature to relieve himself;"--with many other things, which I then detested so much, that I took leave of the society that very evening and never returned to it again. Being now reduced to a state of solitude which I did not like, I became a great frequenter of the playhouses, which indeed was always my favourite diversion; and most evenings passed away two or three hours behind the scenes, where I met with several poets, with whom I made engagements at the taverns. Some of the players were likewise of our parties. At these meetings we were generally entertained by the poets with reading their performances, and by the players with repeating their parts: upon which occasions, I observed the gentleman who furnished our entertainment was commonly the best pleased of the company; who, though they were pretty civil to him to his face, seldom failed to take the first opportunity of his absence to ridicule him. Now I made some remarks which probably are too obvious to be worth relating. "Sir," says Adams, "your remarks if you please." First then, says he, I concluded that the general observation, that wits are most inclined to vanity, is not true. Men are equally vain of riches, strength, beauty, honours, &c. But these appear of themselves to the eyes of the beholders, whereas the poor wit is obliged to produce his performance to show you his perfection; and on his readiness to do this that vulgar opinion I have before mentioned is grounded; but doth not the person who expends vast sums in the furniture of his house or the ornaments of his person, who consumes much time and employs great pains in dressing himself, or who thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is desirous to read you his poem or his play? My second remark was, that vanity is the worst of passions, and more apt to contaminate the mind than any other: for, as selfishness is much more general than we please to allow it, so it is natural to hate and envy those who stand between us and the good we desire. Now, in lust and ambition these are few; and even in avarice we find many who are no obstacles to our pursuits; but the vain man seeks pre-eminence; and everything which is excellent or praiseworthy in another renders him the mark of his antipathy. Adams now began to fumble in his pockets, and soon cried out, "O la! I have it not about me." Upon this, the gentleman asking him what he was searching for, he said he searched after a sermon, which he thought his masterpiece, against vanity. "Fie upon it, fie upon it!" cries he, "why do I ever leave that sermon out of my pocket? I wish it was within five miles; I would willingly fetch it, to read it you." The gentleman answered that there was no need, for he was cured of the passion. "And for that very reason," quoth Adams, "I would read it, for I am confident you would admire it: indeed, I have never been a greater enemy to any passion than that silly one of vanity." The gentleman smiled, and proceeded--From this society I easily passed to that of the gamesters, where nothing remarkable happened but the finishing my fortune, which those gentlemen soon helped me to the end of. This opened scenes of life hitherto unknown; poverty and distress, with their horrid train of duns, attorneys, bailiffs, haunted me day and night. My clothes grew shabby, my credit bad, my friends and acquaintance of all kinds cold. In this situation the strangest thought imaginable came into my head; and what was this but to write a play? for I had sufficient leisure: fear of bailiffs confined me every day to my room: and, having always had a little inclination and something of a genius that way, I set myself to work, and within a few months produced a piece of five acts, which was accepted of at the theatre. I remembered to have formerly taken tickets of other poets for their benefits, long before the appearance of their performances; and, resolving to follow a precedent which was so well suited to my present circumstances, I immediately provided myself with a large number of little papers. Happy indeed would be the state of poetry, would these tickets pass current at the bakehouse, the ale-house, and the chandler's shop: but alas! far otherwise; no taylor will take them in payment for buckram, canvas, stay-tape; nor no bailiff for civility money. They are, indeed, no more than a passport to beg with; a certificate that the owner wants five shillings, which induces well-disposed Christians to charity. I now experienced what is worse than poverty, or rather what is the worst consequence of poverty--I mean attendance and dependance on the great. Many a morning have I waited hours in the cold parlours of men of quality; where, after seeing the lowest rascals in lace and embroidery, the pimps and buffoons in fashion, admitted, I have been sometimes told, on sending in my name, that my lord could not possibly see me this morning; a sufficient assurance that I should never more get entrance into that house. Sometimes I have been at last admitted; and the great man hath thought proper to excuse himself, by telling me he was tied up. "Tied up," says Adams, "pray what's that?" Sir, says the gentleman, the profit which booksellers allowed authors for the best works was so very small, that certain men of birth and fortune some years ago, who were the patrons of wit and learning, thought fit to encourage them farther by entering into voluntary subscriptions for their encouragement. Thus Prior, Rowe, Pope, and some other men of genius, received large sums for their labours from the public. This seemed so easy a method of getting money, that many of the lowest scribblers of the times ventured to publish their works in the same way; and many had the assurance to take in subscriptions for what was not writ, nor ever intended. Subscriptions in this manner growing infinite, and a kind of tax on the publick, some persons, finding it not so easy a task to discern good from bad authors, or to know what genius was worthy encouragement and what was not, to prevent the expense of subscribing to so many, invented a method to excuse themselves from all subscriptions whatever; and this was to receive a small sum of money in consideration of giving a large one if ever they subscribed; which many have done, and many more have pretended to have done, in order to silence all solicitation. The same method was likewise taken with playhouse tickets, which were no less a public grievance; and this is what they call being tied up from subscribing. "I can't say but the term is apt enough, and somewhat typical," said Adams; "for a man of large fortune, who ties himself up, as you call it, from the encouragement of men of merit, ought to be tied up in reality." Well, sir, says the gentleman, to return to my story. Sometimes I have received a guinea from a man of quality, given with as ill a grace as alms are generally to the meanest beggar; and purchased too with as much time spent in attendance as, if it had been spent in honest industry, might have brought me more profit with infinitely more satisfaction. After about two months spent in this disagreeable way, with the utmost mortification, when I was pluming my hopes on the prospect of a plentiful harvest from my play, upon applying to the prompter to know when it came into rehearsal, he informed me he had received orders from the managers to return me the play again, for that they could not possibly act it that season; but, if I would take it and revise it against the next, they would be glad to see it again. I snatched it from him with great indignation, and retired to my room, where I threw myself on the bed in a fit of despair. "You should rather have thrown yourself on your knees," says Adams, "for despair is sinful." As soon, continued the gentleman, as I had indulged the first tumult of my passion, I began to consider coolly what course I should take, in a situation without friends, money, credit, or reputation of any kind. After revolving many things in my mind, I could see no other possibility of furnishing myself with the miserable necessaries of life than to retire to a garret near the Temple, and commence hackney-writer to the lawyers, for which I was well qualified, being an excellent penman. This purpose I resolved on, and immediately put it in execution. I had an acquaintance with an attorney who had formerly transacted affairs for me, and to him I applied; but, instead of furnishing me with any business, he laughed at my undertaking, and told me, "He was afraid I should turn his deeds into plays, and he should expect to see them on the stage." Not to tire you with instances of this kind from others, I found that Plato himself did not hold poets in greater abhorrence than these men of business do. Whenever I durst venture to a coffeehouse, which was on Sundays only, a whisper ran round the room, which was constantly attended with a sneer--That's poet Wilson; for I know not whether you have observed it, but there is a malignity in the nature of man, which, when not weeded out, or at least covered by a good education and politeness, delights in making another uneasy or dissatisfied with himself. This abundantly appears in all assemblies, except those which are filled by people of fashion, and especially among the younger people of both sexes whose birth and fortunes place them just without the polite circles; I mean the lower class of the gentry, and the higher of the mercantile world, who are, in reality, the worst-bred part of mankind. Well, sir, whilst I continued in this miserable state, with scarce sufficient business to keep me from starving, the reputation of a poet being my bane, I accidentally became acquainted with a bookseller, who told me, "It was a pity a man of my learning and genius should be obliged to such a method of getting his livelihood; that he had a compassion for me, and, if I would engage with him, he would undertake to provide handsomely for me." A man in my circumstances, as he very well knew, had no choice. I accordingly accepted his proposal with his conditions, which were none of the most favourable, and fell to translating with all my might. I had no longer reason to lament the want of business; for he furnished me with so much, that in half a year I almost writ myself blind. I likewise contracted a distemper by my sedentary life, in which no part of my body was exercised but my right arm, which rendered me incapable of writing for a long time. This unluckily happening to delay the publication of a work, and my last performance not having sold well, the bookseller declined any further engagement, and aspersed me to his brethren as a careless idle fellow. I had, however, by having half worked and half starved myself to death during the time I was in his service, saved a few guineas, with which I bought a lottery-ticket, resolving to throw myself into Fortune's lap, and try if she would make me amends for the injuries she had done me at the gaming-table. This purchase, being made, left me almost pennyless; when, as if I had not been sufficiently miserable, a bailiff in woman's clothes got admittance to my chamber, whither he was directed by the bookseller. He arrested me at my taylor's suit for thirty-five pounds; a sum for which I could not procure bail; and was therefore conveyed to his house, where I was locked up in an upper chamber. I had now neither health (for I was scarce recovered from my indisposition), liberty, money, or friends; and had abandoned all hopes, and even the desire, of life. "But this could not last long," said Adams; "for doubtless the taylor released you the moment he was truly acquainted with your affairs, and knew that your circumstances would not permit you to pay him." "Oh, sir," answered the gentleman, "he knew that before he arrested me; nay, he knew that nothing but incapacity could prevent me paying my debts; for I had been his customer many years, had spent vast sums of money with him, and had always paid most punctually in my prosperous days; but when I reminded him of this, with assurances that, if he would not molest my endeavours, I would pay him all the money I could by my utmost labour and industry procure, reserving only what was sufficient to preserve me alive, he answered, his patience was worn out; that I had put him off from time to time; that he wanted the money; that he had put it into a lawyer's hands; and if I did not pay him immediately, or find security, I must die in gaol and expect no mercy." "He may expect mercy," cries Adams, starting from his chair, "where he will find none! How can such a wretch repeat the Lord's Prayer; where the word, which is translated, I know not for what reason, trespasses, is in the original, debts? And as surely as we do not forgive others their debts, when they are unable to pay them, so surely shall we ourselves be unforgiven when we are in no condition of paying." He ceased, and the gentleman proceeded. While I was in this deplorable situation, a former acquaintance, to whom I had communicated my lottery-ticket, found me out, and, making me a visit, with great delight in his countenance, shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me joy of my good fortune: for, says he, your ticket is come up a prize of 3000. Adams snapped his fingers at these words in an ecstasy of joy; which, however, did not continue long; for the gentleman thus proceeded:--Alas! sir, this was only a trick of Fortune to sink me the deeper; for I had disposed of this lottery-ticket two days before to a relation, who refused lending me a shilling without it, in order to procure myself bread. As soon as my friend was acquainted with my unfortunate sale he began to revile me and remind me of all the ill-conduct and miscarriages of my life. He said I was one whom Fortune could not save if she would; that I was now ruined without any hopes of retrieval, nor must expect any pity from my friends; that it would be extreme weakness to compassionate the misfortunes of a man who ran headlong to his own destruction. He then painted to me, in as lively colours as he was able, the happiness I should have now enjoyed, had I not foolishly disposed of my ticket. I urged the plea of necessity; but he made no answer to that, and began again to revile me, till I could bear it no longer, and desired him to finish his visit. I soon exchanged the bailiff's house for a prison; where, as I had not money sufficient to procure me a separate apartment, I was crouded in with a great number of miserable wretches, in common with whom I was destitute of every convenience of life, even that which all the brutes enjoy, wholesome air. In these dreadful circumstances I applied by letter to several of my old acquaintance, and such to whom I had formerly lent money without any great prospect of its being returned, for their assistance; but in vain. An excuse, instead of a denial, was the gentlest answer I received. Whilst I languished in a condition too horrible to be described, and which, in a land of humanity, and, what is much more, Christianity, seems a strange punishment for a little inadvertency and indiscretion; whilst I was in this condition, a fellow came into the prison, and, enquiring me out, delivered me the following letter:-- "SIR,--My father, to whom you sold your ticket in the last lottery, died the same day in which it came up a prize, as you have possibly heard, and left me sole heiress of all his fortune. I am so much touched with your present circumstances, and the uneasiness you must feel at having been driven to dispose of what might have made you happy, that I must desire your acceptance of the enclosed, and am your humble servant, "HARRIET HEARTY." And what do you think was enclosed? "I don't know," cried Adams; "not less than a guinea, I hope." Sir, it was a bank-note for 200.--"200?" says Adams, in a rapture. No less, I assure you, answered the gentleman; a sum I was not half so delighted with as with the dear name of the generous girl that sent it me; and who was not only the best but the handsomest creature in the universe, and for whom I had long had a passion which I never durst disclose to her. I kissed her name a thousand times, my eyes overflowing with tenderness and gratitude; I repeated--But not to detain you with these raptures, I immediately acquired my liberty; and, having paid all my debts, departed, with upwards of fifty pounds in my pocket, to thank my kind deliverer. She happened to be then out of town, a circumstance which, upon reflection, pleased me; for by that means I had an opportunity to appear before her in a more decent dress. At her return to town, within a day or two, I threw myself at her feet with the most ardent acknowledgments, which she rejected with an unfeigned greatness of mind, and told me I could not oblige her more than by never mentioning, or if possible thinking on, a circumstance which must bring to my mind an accident that might be grievous to me to think on. She proceeded thus: "What I have done is in my own eyes a trifle, and perhaps infinitely less than would have become me to do. And if you think of engaging in any business where a larger sum may be serviceable to you, I shall not be over-rigid either as to the security or interest." I endeavoured to express all the gratitude in my power to this profusion of goodness, though perhaps it was my enemy, and began to afflict my mind with more agonies than all the miseries I had underwent; it affected me with severer reflections than poverty, distress, and prisons united had been able to make me feel; for, sir, these acts and professions of kindness, which were sufficient to have raised in a good heart the most violent passion of friendship to one of the same, or to age and ugliness in a different sex, came to me from a woman, a young and beautiful woman; one whose perfections I had long known, and for whom I had long conceived a violent passion, though with a despair which made me endeavour rather to curb and conceal, than to nourish or acquaint her with it. In short, they came upon me united with beauty, softness, and tenderness: such bewitching smiles!--O Mr Adams, in that moment I lost myself, and, forgetting our different situations, nor considering what return I was making to her goodness by desiring her, who had given me so much, to bestow her all, I laid gently hold on her hand, and, conveying it to my lips, I prest it with inconceivable ardour; then, lifting up my swimming eyes, I saw her face and neck overspread with one blush; she offered to withdraw her hand, yet not so as to deliver it from mine, though I held it with the gentlest force. We both stood trembling; her eyes cast on the ground, and mine stedfastly fixed on her. Good G--d, what was then the condition of my soul! burning with love, desire, admiration, gratitude, and every tender passion, all bent on one charming object. Passion at last got the better of both reason and respect, and, softly letting go her hand, I offered madly to clasp her in my arms; when, a little recovering herself, she started from me, asking me, with some show of anger, "If she had any reason to expect this treatment from me." I then fell prostrate before her, and told her, if I had offended, my life was absolutely in her power, which I would in any manner lose for her sake. Nay, madam, said I, you shall not be so ready to punish me as I to suffer. I own my guilt. I detest the reflection that I would have sacrificed your happiness to mine. Believe me, I sincerely repent my ingratitude; yet, believe me too, it was my passion, my unbounded passion for you, which hurried me so far: I have loved you long and tenderly, and the goodness you have shown me hath innocently weighed down a wretch undone before. Acquit me of all mean, mercenary views; and, before I take my leave of you for ever, which I am resolved instantly to do, believe me that Fortune could have raised me to no height to which I could not have gladly lifted you. O, curst be Fortune!--"Do not," says she, interrupting me with the sweetest voice, "do not curse Fortune, since she hath made me happy; and, if she hath put your happiness in my power, I have told you you shall ask nothing in reason which I will refuse." Madam, said I, you mistake me if you imagine, as you seem, my happiness is in the power of Fortune now. You have obliged me too much already; if I have any wish, it is for some blest accident, by which I may contribute with my life to the least augmentation of your felicity. As for myself, the only happiness I can ever have will be hearing of yours; and if Fortune will make that complete, I will forgive her all her wrongs to me. "You may, indeed," answered she, smiling, "for your own happiness must be included in mine. I have long known your worth; nay, I must confess," said she, blushing, "I have long discovered that passion for me you profess, notwithstanding those endeavours, which I am convinced were unaffected, to conceal it; and if all I can give with reason will not suffice, take reason away; and now I believe you cannot ask me what I will deny." --She uttered these words with a sweetness not to be imagined. I immediately started; my blood, which lay freezing at my heart, rushed tumultuously through every vein. I stood for a moment silent; then, flying to her, I caught her in my arms, no longer resisting, and softly told her she must give me then herself. O, sir! can I describe her look? She remained silent, and almost motionless, several minutes. At last, recovering herself a little, she insisted on my leaving her, and in such a manner that I instantly obeyed: you may imagine, however, I soon saw her again.--But I ask pardon: I fear I have detained you too long in relating the particulars of the former interview. "So far otherwise," said Adams, licking his lips, "that I could willingly hear it over again." Well, sir, continued the gentleman, to be as concise as possible, within a week she consented to make me the happiest of mankind. We were married shortly after; and when I came to examine the circumstances of my wife's fortune (which, I do assure you, I was not presently at leisure enough to do), I found it amounted to about six thousand pounds, most part of which lay in effects; for her father had been a wine-merchant, and she seemed willing, if I liked it, that I should carry on the same trade. I readily, and too inconsiderately, undertook it; for, not having been bred up to the secrets of the business, and endeavouring to deal with the utmost honesty and uprightness, I soon found our fortune in a declining way, and my trade decreasing by little and little; for my wines, which I never adulterated after their importation, and were sold as neat as they came over, were universally decried by the vintners, to whom I could not allow them quite as cheap as those who gained double the profit by a less price. I soon began to despair of improving our fortune by these means; nor was I at all easy at the visits and familiarity of many who had been my acquaintance in my prosperity, but had denied and shunned me in my adversity, and now very forwardly renewed their acquaintance with me. In short, I had sufficiently seen that the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of it mostly knavery, and both nothing better than vanity; the men of pleasure tearing one another to pieces from the emulation of spending money, and the men of business from envy in getting it. My happiness consisted entirely in my wife, whom I loved with an inexpressible fondness, which was perfectly returned; and my prospects were no other than to provide for our growing family; for she was now big of her second child: I therefore took an opportunity to ask her opinion of entering into a retired life, which, after hearing my reasons and perceiving my affection for it, she readily embraced. We soon put our small fortune, now reduced under three thousand pounds, into money, with part of which we purchased this little place, whither we retired soon after her delivery, from a world full of bustle, noise, hatred, envy, and ingratitude, to ease, quiet, and love. We have here lived almost twenty years, with little other conversation than our own, most of the neighbourhood taking us for very strange people; the squire of the parish representing me as a madman, and the parson as a presbyterian, because I will not hunt with the one nor drink with the other. "Sir," says Adams, "Fortune hath, I think, paid you all her debts in this sweet retirement." Sir, replied the gentleman, I am thankful to the great Author of all things for the blessings I here enjoy. I have the best of wives, and three pretty children, for whom I have the true tenderness of a parent. But no blessings are pure in this world: within three years of my arrival here I lost my eldest son. (Here he sighed bitterly.) "Sir," says Adams, "we must submit to Providence, and consider death as common to all." We must submit, indeed, answered the gentleman; and if he had died I could have borne the loss with patience; but alas! sir, he was stolen away from my door by some wicked travelling people whom they call gipsies; nor could I ever, with the most diligent search, recover him. Poor child! he had the sweetest look--the exact picture of his mother; at which some tears unwittingly dropt from his eyes, as did likewise from those of Adams, who always sympathized with his friends on those occasions. Thus, sir, said the gentleman, I have finished my story, in which if I have been too particular, I ask your pardon; and now, if you please, I will fetch you another bottle: which proposal the parson thankfully accepted. CHAPTER IV. The tragical adventure of the dog, and other grave matters._ The gentleman returned with the bottle; and Adams and he sat some time silent, when the former started up, and cried, "No, that won't do." The gentleman inquired into his meaning; he answered, "He had been considering that it was possible the late famous king Theodore might have been that very son whom he had lost;" but added, "that his age could not answer that imagination. However," says he, "G-- disposes all things for the best; and very probably he may be some great man, or duke, and may, one day or other, revisit you in that capacity." The gentleman answered, he should know him amongst ten thousand, for he had a mark on his left breast of a strawberry, which his mother had given him by longing for that fruit. That beautiful young lady the Morning now rose from her bed, and with a countenance blooming with fresh youth and sprightliness, like Miss ----, with soft dews hanging on her pouting lips, began to take her early walk over the eastern hills; and presently after, that gallant person the Sun stole softly from his wife's chamber to pay his addresses to her; when the gentleman asked his guest if he would walk forth and survey his little garden, which he readily agreed to, and Joseph at the same time awaking from a sleep in which he had been two hours buried, went with them. No parterres, no fountains, no statues, embellished this little garden. Its only ornament was a short walk, shaded on each side by a filbert-hedge, with a small alcove at one end, whither in hot weather the gentleman and his wife used to retire and divert themselves with their children, who played in the walk before them. But, though vanity had no votary in this little spot, here was variety of fruit and everything useful for the kitchen, which was abundantly sufficient to catch the admiration of Adams, who told the gentleman he had certainly a good gardener. Sir, answered he, that gardener is now before you: whatever you see here is the work solely of my own hands. Whilst I am providing necessaries for my table, I likewise procure myself an appetite for them. In fair seasons I seldom pass less than six hours of the twenty-four in this place, where I am not idle; and by these means I have been able to preserve my health ever since my arrival here, without assistance from physic. Hither I generally repair at the dawn, and exercise myself whilst my wife dresses her children and prepares our breakfast; after which we are seldom asunder during the residue of the day, for, when the weather will not permit them to accompany me here, I am usually within with them; for I am neither ashamed of conversing with my wife nor of playing with my children: to say the truth, I do not perceive that inferiority of understanding which the levity of rakes, the dulness of men of business, or the austerity of the learned, would persuade us of in women. As for my woman, I declare I have found none of my own sex capable of making juster observations on life, or of delivering them more agreeably; nor do I believe any one possessed of a faithfuller or braver friend. And sure as this friendship is sweetened with more delicacy and tenderness, so is it confirmed by dearer pledges than can attend the closest male alliance; for what union can be so fast as our common interest in the fruits of our embraces? Perhaps, sir, you are not yourself a father; if you are not, be assured you cannot conceive the delight I have in my little ones. Would you not despise me if you saw me stretched on the ground, and my children playing round me? "I should reverence the sight," quoth Adams; "I myself am now the father of six, and have been of eleven, and I can say I never scourged a child of my own, unless as his schoolmaster, and then have felt every stroke on my own posteriors. And as to what you say concerning women, I have often lamented my own wife did not understand Greek." --The gentleman smiled, and answered, he would not be apprehended to insinuate that his own had an understanding above the care of her family; on the contrary, says he, my Harriet, I assure you, is a notable housewife, and few gentlemen's housekeepers understand cookery or confectionery better; but these are arts which she hath no great occasion for now: however, the wine you commended so much last night at supper was of her own making, as is indeed all the liquor in my house, except my beer, which falls to my province. "And I assure you it is as excellent," quoth Adams, "as ever I tasted." We formerly kept a maid-servant, but since my girls have been growing up she is unwilling to indulge them in idleness; for as the fortunes I shall give them will be very small, we intend not to breed them above the rank they are likely to fill hereafter, nor to teach them to despise or ruin a plain husband. Indeed, I could wish a man of my own temper, and a retired life, might fall to their lot; for I have experienced that calm serene happiness, which is seated in content, is inconsistent with the hurry and bustle of the world. He was proceeding thus when the little things, being just risen, ran eagerly towards him and asked him blessing. They were shy to the strangers, but the eldest acquainted her father, that her mother and the young gentlewoman were up, and that breakfast was ready. They all went in, where the gentleman was surprized at the beauty of Fanny, who had now recovered herself from her fatigue, and was entirely clean drest; for the rogues who had taken away her purse had left her her bundle. But if he was so much amazed at the beauty of this young creature, his guests were no less charmed at the tenderness which appeared in the behaviour of the husband and wife to each other, and to their children, and at the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of these to their parents. These instances pleased the well-disposed mind of Adams equally with the readiness which they exprest to oblige their guests, and their forwardness to offer them the best of everything in their house; and what delighted him still more was an instance or two of their charity; for whilst they were at breakfast the good woman was called for to assist her sick neighbour, which she did with some cordials made for the public use, and the good man went into his garden at the same time to supply another with something which he wanted thence, for they had nothing which those who wanted it were not welcome to. These good people were in the utmost cheerfulness, when they heard the report of a gun, and immediately afterwards a little dog, the favourite of the eldest daughter, came limping in all bloody and laid himself at his mistress's feet: the poor girl, who was about eleven years old, burst into tears at the sight; and presently one of the neighbours came in and informed them that the young squire, the son of the lord of the manor, had shot him as he past by, swearing at the same time he would prosecute the master of him for keeping a spaniel, for that he had given notice he would not suffer one in the parish. The dog, whom his mistress had taken into her lap, died in a few minutes, licking her hand. She exprest great agony at his loss, and the other children began to cry for their sister's misfortune; nor could Fanny herself refrain. Whilst the father and mother attempted to comfort her, Adams grasped his crabstick and would have sallied out after the squire had not Joseph withheld him. He could not however bridle his tongue--he pronounced the word rascal with great emphasis; said he deserved to be hanged more than a highwayman, and wished he had the scourging him. The mother took her child, lamenting and carrying the dead favourite in her arms, out of the room, when the gentleman said this was the second time this squire had endeavoured to kill the little wretch, and had wounded him smartly once before; adding, he could have no motive but ill-nature, for the little thing, which was not near as big as one's fist, had never been twenty yards from the house in the six years his daughter had had it. He said he had done nothing to deserve this usage, but his father had too great a fortune to contend with: that he was as absolute as any tyrant in the universe, and had killed all the dogs and taken away all the guns in the neighbourhood; and not only that, but he trampled down hedges and rode over corn and gardens, with no more regard than if they were the highway. "I wish I could catch him in my garden," said Adams, "though I would rather forgive him riding through my house than such an ill-natured act as this." The cheerfulness of their conversation being interrupted by this accident, in which the guests could be of no service to their kind entertainer; and as the mother was taken up in administering consolation to the poor girl, whose disposition was too good hastily to forget the sudden loss of her little favourite, which had been fondling with her a few minutes before; and as Joseph and Fanny were impatient to get home and begin those previous ceremonies to their happiness which Adams had insisted on, they now offered to take their leave. The gentleman importuned them much to stay dinner; but when he found their eagerness to depart he summoned his wife; and accordingly, having performed all the usual ceremonies of bows and curtsies more pleasant to be seen than to be related, they took their leave, the gentleman and his wife heartily wishing them a good journey, and they as heartily thanking them for their kind entertainment. They then departed, Adams declaring that this was the manner in which the people had lived in the golden age. Whoever the reader pleases. CHAPTER V. _A disputation on schools held on the road between Mr Abraham Adams and Joseph; and a discovery not unwelcome to them both._ Our travellers, having well refreshed themselves at the gentleman's house, Joseph and Fanny with sleep, and Mr Abraham Adams with ale and tobacco, renewed their journey with great alacrity; and pursuing the road into which they were directed, travelled many miles before they met with any adventure worth relating. In this interval we shall present our readers with a very curious discourse, as we apprehend it, concerning public schools, which passed between Mr Joseph Andrews and Mr Abraham Adams. They had not gone far before Adams, calling to Joseph, asked him, "If he had attended to the gentleman's story?" He answered, "To all the former part." --"And don't you think," says he, "he was a very unhappy man in his youth?" --"A very unhappy man, indeed," answered the other. "Joseph," cries Adams, screwing up his mouth, "I have found it; I have discovered the cause of all the misfortunes which befel him: a public school, Joseph, was the cause of all the calamities which he afterwards suffered. Public schools are the nurseries of all vice and immorality. All the wicked fellows whom I remember at the university were bred at them.--Ah, Lord! I can remember as well as if it was but yesterday, a knot of them; they called them King's scholars, I forget why--very wicked fellows! Joseph, you may thank the Lord you were not bred at a public school; you would never have preserved your virtue as you have. The first care I always take is of a boy's morals; I had rather he should be a blockhead than an atheist or a presbyterian. What is all the learning in the world compared to his immortal soul? What shall a man take in exchange for his soul? But the masters of great schools trouble themselves about no such thing. I have known a lad of eighteen at the university, who hath not been able to say his catechism; but for my own part, I always scourged a lad sooner for missing that than any other lesson. Believe me, child, all that gentleman's misfortunes arose from his being educated at a public school." "It doth not become me," answered Joseph, "to dispute anything, sir, with you, especially a matter of this kind; for to be sure you must be allowed by all the world to be the best teacher of a school in all our county." "Yes, that," says Adams, "I believe, is granted me; that I may without much vanity pretend to--nay, I believe I may go to the next county too--but _gloriari non est meum_." --"However, sir, as you are pleased to bid me speak," says Joseph, "you know my late master, Sir Thomas Booby, was bred at a public school, and he was the finest gentleman in all the neighbourhood. And I have often heard him say, if he had a hundred boys he would breed them all at the same place. It was his opinion, and I have often heard him deliver it, that a boy taken from a public school and carried into the world, will learn more in one year there than one of a private education will in five. He used to say the school itself initiated him a great way (I remember that was his very expression), for great schools are little societies, where a boy of any observation may see in epitome what he will afterwards find in the world at large." --"_Hinc illae lachrymae_: for that very reason," quoth Adams, "I prefer a private school, where boys may be kept in innocence and ignorance; for, according to that fine passage in the play of Cato, the only English tragedy I ever read-- "'If knowledge of the world must make men villains May Juba ever live in ignorance!' "Who would not rather preserve the purity of his child than wish him to attain the whole circle of arts and sciences? which, by the bye, he may learn in the classes of a private school; for I would not be vain, but I esteem myself to be second to none, _nulli secundum_, in teaching these things; so that a lad may have as much learning in a private as in a public education." --"And, with submission," answered Joseph, "he may get as much vice: witness several country gentlemen, who were educated within five miles of their own houses, and are as wicked as if they had known the world from their infancy. I remember when I was in the stable, if a young horse was vicious in his nature, no correction would make him otherwise: I take it to be equally the same among men: if a boy be of a mischievous wicked inclination, no school, though ever so private, will ever make him good: on the contrary, if he be of a righteous temper, you may trust him to London, or wherever else you please--he will be in no danger of being corrupted. Besides, I have often heard my master say that the discipline practised in public schools was much better than that in private." --"You talk like a jackanapes," says Adams, "and so did your master. Discipline indeed! Because one man scourges twenty or thirty boys more in a morning than another, is he therefore a better disciplinarian? I do presume to confer in this point with all who have taught from Chiron's time to this day; and, if I was master of six boys only, I would preserve as good discipline amongst them as the master of the greatest school in the world. I say nothing, young man; remember I say nothing; but if Sir Thomas himself had been educated nearer home, and under the tuition of somebody--remember I name nobody--it might have been better for him:--but his father must institute him in the knowledge of the world. _Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_." Joseph, seeing him run on in this manner, asked pardon many times, assuring him he had no intention to offend. "I believe you had not, child," said he, "and I am not angry with you; but for maintaining good discipline in a school; for this." --And then he ran on as before, named all the masters who are recorded in old books, and preferred himself to them all. Indeed, if this good man had an enthusiasm, or what the vulgar call a blind side, it was this: he thought a schoolmaster the greatest character in the world, and himself the greatest of all schoolmasters: neither of which points he would have given up to Alexander the Great at the head of his army. Adams continued his subject till they came to one of the beautifullest spots of ground in the universe. It was a kind of natural amphitheatre, formed by the winding of a small rivulet, which was planted with thick woods, and the trees rose gradually above each other by the natural ascent of the ground they stood on; which ascent as they hid with their boughs, they seemed to have been disposed by the design of the most skilful planter. The soil was spread with a verdure which no paint could imitate; and the whole place might have raised romantic ideas in elder minds than those of Joseph and Fanny, without the assistance of love. Here they arrived about noon, and Joseph proposed to Adams that they should rest awhile in this delightful place, and refresh themselves with some provisions which the good-nature of Mrs Wilson had provided them with. Adams made no objection to the proposal; so down they sat, and, pulling out a cold fowl and a bottle of wine, they made a repast with a cheerfulness which might have attracted the envy of more splendid tables. I should not omit that they found among their provision a little paper containing a piece of gold, which Adams imagining had been put there by mistake, would have returned back to restore it; but he was at last convinced by Joseph that Mr Wilson had taken this handsome way of furnishing them with a supply for their journey, on his having related the distress which they had been in, when they were relieved by the generosity of the pedlar. Adams said he was glad to see such an instance of goodness, not so much for the conveniency which it brought them as for the sake of the doer, whose reward would be great in heaven. He likewise comforted himself with a reflection that he should shortly have an opportunity of returning it him; for the gentleman was within a week to make a journey into Somersetshire, to pass through Adams's parish, and had faithfully promised to call on him; a circumstance which we thought too immaterial to mention before; but which those who have as great an affection for that gentleman as ourselves will rejoice at, as it may give them hopes of seeing him again. Then Joseph made a speech on charity, which the reader, if he is so disposed, may see in the next chapter; for we scorn to betray him into any such reading, without first giving him warning. CHAPTER VI. _Moral reflections by Joseph Andrews; with the hunting adventure, and parson Adams's miraculous escape._ "I have often wondered, sir," said Joseph, "to observe so few instances of charity among mankind; for though the goodness of a man's heart did not incline him to relieve the distresses of his fellow-creatures, methinks the desire of honour should move him to it. What inspires a man to build fine houses, to purchase fine furniture, pictures, clothes, and other things, at a great expense, but an ambition to be respected more than other people? Now, would not one great act of charity, one instance of redeeming a poor family from all the miseries of poverty, restoring an unfortunate tradesman by a sum of money to the means of procuring a livelihood by his industry, discharging an undone debtor from his debts or a gaol, or any suchlike example of goodness, create a man more honour and respect than he could acquire by the finest house, furniture, pictures, or clothes, that were ever beheld? For not only the object himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard the name of such a person, must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the possessor of all those other things; which when we so admire, we rather praise the builder, the workman, the painter, the lace-maker, the taylor, and the rest, by whose ingenuity they are produced, than the person who by his money makes them his own. For my own part, when I have waited behind my lady in a room hung with fine pictures, while I have been looking at them I have never once thought of their owner, nor hath any one else, as I ever observed; for when it hath been asked whose picture that was, it was never once answered the master's of the house; but Ammyconni, Paul Varnish, Hannibal Scratchi, or Hogarthi, which I suppose were the names of the painters; but if it was asked--Who redeemed such a one out of prison? Who lent such a ruined tradesman money to set up? Who clothed that family of poor small children? it is very plain what must be the answer. And besides, these great folks are mistaken if they imagine they get any honour at all by these means; for I do not remember I ever was with my lady at any house where she commended the house or furniture but I have heard her at her return home make sport and jeer at whatever she had before commended; and I have been told by other gentlemen in livery that it is the same in their families: but I defy the wisest man in the world to turn a true good action into ridicule. I defy him to do it. He who should endeavour it would be laughed at himself, instead of making others laugh. Nobody scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do. Indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what they abuse. This I know not the reason of; but it is as plain as daylight to those who converse in the world, as I have done these three years." "Are all the great folks wicked then?" says Fanny. "To be sure there are some exceptions," answered Joseph. "Some gentlemen of our cloth report charitable actions done by their lords and masters; and I have heard Squire Pope, the great poet, at my lady's table, tell stories of a man that lived at a place called Ross, and another at the Bath, one Al--Al--I forget his name, but it is in the book of verses. This gentleman hath built up a stately house too, which the squire likes very well; but his charity is seen farther than his house, though it stands on a hill,--ay, and brings him more honour too. It was his charity that put him in the book, where the squire says he puts all those who deserve it; and to be sure, as he lives among all the great people, if there were any such, he would know them." This was all of Mr Joseph Andrews's speech which I could get him to recollect, which I have delivered as near as was possible in his own words, with a very small embellishment. But I believe the reader hath not been a little surprized at the long silence of parson Adams, especially as so many occasions offered themselves to exert his curiosity and observation. The truth is, he was fast asleep, and had so been from the beginning of the preceding narrative; and, indeed, if the reader considers that so many hours had passed since he had closed his eyes, he will not wonder at his repose, though even Henley himself, or as great an orator (if any such be), had been in his rostrum or tub before him. Joseph, who whilst he was speaking had continued in one attitude, with his head reclining on one side, and his eyes cast on the ground, no sooner perceived, on looking up, the position of Adams, who was stretched on his back, and snored louder than the usual braying of the animal with long ears, than he turned towards Fanny, and, taking her by the hand, began a dalliance, which, though consistent with the purest innocence and decency, neither he would have attempted nor she permitted before any witness. Whilst they amused themselves in this harmless and delightful manner they heard a pack of hounds approaching in full cry towards them, and presently afterwards saw a hare pop forth from the wood, and, crossing the water, land within a few yards of them in the meadows. The hare was no sooner on shore than it seated itself on its hinder legs, and listened to the sound of the pursuers. Fanny was wonderfully pleased with the little wretch, and eagerly longed to have it in her arms that she might preserve it from the dangers which seemed to threaten it; but the rational part of the creation do not always aptly distinguish their friends from their foes; what wonder then if this silly creature, the moment it beheld her, fled from the friend who would have protected it, and, traversing the meadows again, passed the little rivulet on the opposite side? It was, however, so spent and weak, that it fell down twice or thrice in its way. This affected the tender heart of Fanny, who exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, against the barbarity of worrying a poor innocent defenceless animal out of its life, and putting it to the extremest torture for diversion. She had not much time to make reflections of this kind, for on a sudden the hounds rushed through the wood, which resounded with their throats and the throats of their retinue, who attended on them on horseback. The dogs now past the rivulet, and pursued the footsteps of the hare; five horsemen attempted to leap over, three of whom succeeded, and two were in the attempt thrown from their saddles into the water; their companions, and their own horses too, proceeded after their sport, and left their friends and riders to invoke the assistance of Fortune, or employ the more active means of strength and agility for their deliverance. Joseph, however, was not so unconcerned on this occasion; he left Fanny for a moment to herself, and ran to the gentlemen, who were immediately on their legs, shaking their ears, and easily, with the help of his hand, obtained the bank (for the rivulet was not at all deep); and, without staying to thank their kind assister, ran dripping across the meadow, calling to their brother sportsmen to stop their horses; but they heard them not. The hounds were now very little behind their poor reeling, staggering prey, which, fainting almost at every step, crawled through the wood, and had almost got round to the place where Fanny stood, when it was overtaken by its enemies, and being driven out of the covert, was caught, and instantly tore to pieces before Fanny's face, who was unable to assist it with any aid more powerful than pity; nor could she prevail on Joseph, who had been himself a sportsman in his youth, to attempt anything contrary to the laws of hunting in favour of the hare, which he said was killed fairly. The hare was caught within a yard or two of Adams, who lay asleep at some distance from the lovers; and the hounds, in devouring it, and pulling it backwards and forwards, had drawn it so close to him, that some of them (by mistake perhaps for the hare's skin) laid hold of the skirts of his cassock; others at the same time applying their teeth to his wig, which he had with a handkerchief fastened to his head, began to pull him about; and had not the motion of his body had more effect on him than seemed to be wrought by the noise, they must certainly have tasted his flesh, which delicious flavour might have been fatal to him; but being roused by these tuggings, he instantly awaked, and with a jerk delivering his head from his wig, he with most admirable dexterity recovered his legs, which now seemed the only members he could entrust his safety to. Having, therefore, escaped likewise from at least a third part of his cassock, which he willingly left as his _exuviae_ or spoils to the enemy, he fled with the utmost speed he could summon to his assistance. Nor let this be any detraction from the bravery of his character: let the number of the enemies, and the surprize in which he was taken, be considered; and if there be any modern so outrageously brave that he cannot admit of flight in any circumstance whatever, I say (but I whisper that softly, and I solemnly declare without any intention of giving offence to any brave man in the nation), I say, or rather I whisper, that he is an ignorant fellow, and hath never read Homer nor Virgil, nor knows he anything of Hector or Turnus; nay, he is unacquainted with the history of some great men living, who, though as brave as lions, ay, as tigers, have run away, the Lord knows how far, and the Lord knows why, to the surprize of their friends and the entertainment of their enemies. But if persons of such heroic disposition are a little offended at the behaviour of Adams, we assure them they shall be as much pleased with what we shall immediately relate of Joseph Andrews. The master of the pack was just arrived, or, as the sportsmen call it, come in, when Adams set out, as we have before mentioned. This gentleman was generally said to be a great lover of humour; but, not to mince the matter, especially as we are upon this subject, he was a great hunter of men; indeed, he had hitherto followed the sport only with dogs of his own species; for he kept two or three couple of barking curs for that use only. However, as he thought he had now found a man nimble enough, he was willing to indulge himself with other sport, and accordingly, crying out, "Stole away," encouraged the hounds to pursue Mr Adams, swearing it was the largest jack-hare he ever saw; at the same time hallooing and hooping as if a conquered foe was flying before him; in which he was imitated by these two or three couple of human or rather two-legged curs on horseback which we have mentioned before. Now, thou, whoever thou art, whether a muse, or by what other name soever thou choosest to be called, who presidest over biography, and hast inspired all the writers of lives in these our times: thou who didst infuse such wonderful humour into the pen of immortal Gulliver; who hast carefully guided the judgment whilst thou hast exalted the nervous manly style of thy Mallet: thou who hadst no hand in that dedication and preface, or the translations, which thou wouldst willingly have struck out of the life of Cicero: lastly, thou who, without the assistance of the least spice of literature, and even against his inclination, hast, in some pages of his book, forced Colley Cibber to write English; do thou assist me in what I find myself unequal to. Do thou introduce on the plain the young, the gay, the brave Joseph Andrews, whilst men shall view him with admiration and envy, tender virgins with love and anxious concern for his safety. No sooner did Joseph Andrews perceive the distress of his friend, when first the quick-scenting dogs attacked him, than he grasped his cudgel in his right hand--a cudgel which his father had of his grandfather, to whom a mighty strong man of Kent had given it for a present in that day when he broke three heads on the stage. It was a cudgel of mighty strength and wonderful art, made by one of Mr Deard's best workmen, whom no other artificer can equal, and who hath made all those sticks which the beaus have lately walked with about the Park in a morning; but this was far his masterpiece. On its head was engraved a nose and chin, which might have been mistaken for a pair of nutcrackers. The learned have imagined it designed to represent the Gorgon; but it was in fact copied from the face of a certain long English baronet, of infinite wit, humour, and gravity. He did intend to have engraved here many histories: as the first night of Captain B----'s play, where you would have seen critics in embroidery transplanted from the boxes to the pit, whose ancient inhabitants were exalted to the galleries, where they played on catcalls. He did intend to have painted an auction room, where Mr Cock would have appeared aloft in his pulpit, trumpeting forth the praises of a china basin, and with astonishment wondering that "Nobody bids more for that fine, that superb--" He did intend to have engraved many other things, but was forced to leave all out for want of room. No sooner had Joseph grasped his cudgel in his hands than lightning darted from his eyes; and the heroick youth, swift of foot, ran with the utmost speed to his friend's assistance. He overtook him just as Rockwood had laid hold of the skirt of his cassock, which, being torn, hung to the ground. Reader, we would make a simile on this occasion, but for two reasons: the first is, it would interrupt the description, which should be rapid in this part; but that doth not weigh much, many precedents occurring for such an interruption: the second and much the greater reason is, that we could find no simile adequate to our purpose: for indeed, what instance could we bring to set before our reader's eyes at once the idea of friendship, courage, youth, beauty, strength, and swiftness? all which blazed in the person of Joseph Andrews. Let those, therefore, that describe lions and tigers, and heroes fiercer than both, raise their poems or plays with the simile of Joseph Andrews, who is himself above the reach of any simile. Now Rockwood had laid fast hold on the parson's skirts, and stopt his flight; which Joseph no sooner perceived than he levelled his cudgel at his head and laid him sprawling. Jowler and Ringwood then fell on his greatcoat, and had undoubtedly brought him to the ground, had not Joseph, collecting all his force, given Jowler such a rap on the back, that, quitting his hold, he ran howling over the plain. A harder fate remained for thee, O Ringwood! Ringwood the best hound that ever pursued a hare, who never threw his tongue but where the scent was undoubtedly true; good at trailing, and sure in a highway; no babler, no overrunner; respected by the whole pack, who, whenever he opened, knew the game was at hand. He fell by the stroke of Joseph. Thunder and Plunder, and Wonder and Blunder, were the next victims of his wrath, and measured their lengths on the ground. Then Fairmaid, a bitch which Mr John Temple had bred up in his house, and fed at his own table, and lately sent the squire fifty miles for a present, ran fiercely at Joseph and bit him by the leg: no dog was ever fiercer than she, being descended from an Amazonian breed, and had worried bulls in her own country, but now waged an unequal fight, and had shared the fate of those we have mentioned before, had not Diana (the reader may believe it or not if he pleases) in that instant interposed, and, in the shape of the huntsman, snatched her favourite up in her arms. The parson now faced about, and with his crabstick felled many to the earth, and scattered others, till he was attacked by Caesar and pulled to the ground. Then Joseph flew to his rescue, and with such might fell on the victor, that, O eternal blot to his name! Caesar ran yelping away. The battle now raged with the most dreadful violence, when, lo! the huntsman, a man of years and dignity, lifted his voice, and called his hounds from the fight, telling them, in a language they understood, that it was in vain to contend longer, for that fate had decreed the victory to their enemies. Thus far the muse hath with her usual dignity related this prodigious battle, a battle we apprehend never equalled by any poet, romance or life writer whatever, and, having brought it to a conclusion, she ceased; we shall therefore proceed in our ordinary style with the continuation of this history. The squire and his companions, whom the figure of Adams and the gallantry of Joseph had at first thrown into a violent fit of laughter, and who had hitherto beheld the engagement with more delight than any chase, shooting-match, race, cock-fighting, bull or bear baiting, had ever given them, began now to apprehend the danger of their hounds, many of which lay sprawling in the fields. The squire, therefore, having first called his friends about him, as guards for safety of his person, rode manfully up to the combatants, and, summoning all the terror he was master of into his countenance, demanded with an authoritative voice of Joseph what he meant by assaulting his dogs in that manner? Joseph answered, with great intrepidity, that they had first fallen on his friend; and if they had belonged to the greatest man in the kingdom, he would have treated them in the same way; for, whilst his veins contained a single drop of blood, he would not stand idle by and see that gentleman (pointing to Adams) abused either by man or beast; and, having so said, both he and Adams brandished their wooden weapons, and put themselves into such a posture, that the squire and his company thought proper to preponderate before they offered to revenge the cause of their four-footed allies. At this instant Fanny, whom the apprehension of Joseph's danger had alarmed so much that, forgetting her own, she had made the utmost expedition, came up. The squire and all the horsemen were so surprized with her beauty, that they immediately fixed both their eyes and thoughts solely on her, every one declaring he had never seen so charming a creature. Neither mirth nor anger engaged them a moment longer, but all sat in silent amaze. The huntsman only was free from her attraction, who was busy in cutting the ears of the dogs, and endeavouring to recover them to life; in which he succeeded so well, that only two of no great note remained slaughtered on the field of action. Upon this the huntsman declared, "'Twas well it was no worse; for his part he could not blame the gentleman, and wondered his master would encourage the dogs to hunt Christians; that it was the surest way to spoil them, to make them follow vermin instead of sticking to a hare." The squire, being informed of the little mischief that had been done, and perhaps having more mischief of another kind in his head, accosted Mr Adams with a more favourable aspect than before: he told him he was sorry for what had happened; that he had endeavoured all he could to prevent it the moment he was acquainted with his cloth, and greatly commended the courage of his servant, for so he imagined Joseph to be. He then invited Mr Adams to dinner, and desired the young woman might come with him. Adams refused a long while; but the invitation was repeated with so much earnestness and courtesy, that at length he was forced to accept it. His wig and hat, and other spoils of the field, being gathered together by Joseph (for otherwise probably they would have been forgotten), he put himself into the best order he could; and then the horse and foot moved forward in the same pace towards the squire's house, which stood at a very little distance. Whilst they were on the road the lovely Fanny attracted the eyes of all: they endeavoured to outvie one another in encomiums on her beauty; which the reader will pardon my not relating, as they had not anything new or uncommon in them: so must he likewise my not setting down the many curious jests which were made on Adams; some of them declaring that parson-hunting was the best sport in the world; others commending his standing at bay, which they said he had done as well as any badger; with such like merriment, which, though it would ill become the dignity of this history, afforded much laughter and diversion to the squire and his facetious companions. CHAPTER VII. _A scene of roasting, very nicely adapted to the present taste and times._ They arrived at the squire's house just as his dinner was ready. A little dispute arose on the account of Fanny, whom the squire, who was a bachelor, was desirous to place at his own table; but she would not consent, nor would Mr Adams permit her to be parted from Joseph; so that she was at length with him consigned over to the kitchen, where the servants were ordered to make him drunk; a favour which was likewise intended for Adams; which design being executed, the squire thought he should easily accomplish what he had when he first saw her intended to perpetrate with Fanny. It may not be improper, before we proceed farther, to open a little the character of this gentleman, and that of his friends. The master of this house, then, was a man of a very considerable fortune; a bachelor, as we have said, and about forty years of age: he had been educated (if we may use the expression) in the country, and at his own home, under the care of his mother, and a tutor who had orders never to correct him, nor to compel him to learn more than he liked, which it seems was very little, and that only in his childhood; for from the age of fifteen he addicted himself entirely to hunting and other rural amusements, for which his mother took care to equip him with horses, hounds, and all other necessaries; and his tutor, endeavouring to ingratiate himself with his young pupil, who would, he knew, be able handsomely to provide for him, became his companion, not only at these exercises, but likewise over a bottle, which the young squire had a very early relish for. At the age of twenty his mother began to think she had not fulfilled the duty of a parent; she therefore resolved to persuade her son, if possible, to that which she imagined would well supply all that he might have learned at a public school or university--this is what they commonly call travelling; which, with the help of the tutor, who was fixed on to attend him, she easily succeeded in. He made in three years the tour of Europe, as they term it, and returned home well furnished with French clothes, phrases, and servants, with a hearty contempt for his own country; especially what had any savour of the plain spirit and honesty of our ancestors. His mother greatly applauded herself at his return. And now, being master of his own fortune, he soon procured himself a seat in Parliament, and was in the common opinion one of the finest gentlemen of his age: but what distinguished him chiefly was a strange delight which he took in everything which is ridiculous, odious, and absurd in his own species; so that he never chose a companion without one or more of these ingredients, and those who were marked by nature in the most eminent degree with them were most his favourites. If he ever found a man who either had not, or endeavoured to conceal, these imperfections, he took great pleasure in inventing methods of forcing him into absurdities which were not natural to him, or in drawing forth and exposing those that were; for which purpose he was always provided with a set of fellows, whom we have before called curs, and who did, indeed, no great honour to the canine kind; their business was to hunt out and display everything that had any savour of the above-mentioned qualities, and especially in the gravest and best characters; but if they failed in their search, they were to turn even virtue and wisdom themselves into ridicule, for the diversion of their master and feeder. The gentlemen of curlike disposition who were now at his house, and whom he had brought with him from London, were, an old half-pay officer, a player, a dull poet, a quack-doctor, a scraping fiddler, and a lame German dancing-master. As soon as dinner was served, while Mr Adams was saying grace, the captain conveyed his chair from behind him; so that when he endeavoured to seat himself he fell down on the ground, and this completed joke the first, to the great entertainment of the whole company. The second joke was performed by the poet, who sat next him on the other side, and took an opportunity, while poor Adams was respectfully drinking to the master of the house, to overturn a plate of soup into his breeches; which, with the many apologies he made, and the parson's gentle answers, caused much mirth in the company. Joke the third was served up by one of the waiting-men, who had been ordered to convey a quantity of gin into Mr Adams's ale, which he declaring to be the best liquor he ever drank, but rather too rich of the malt, contributed again to their laughter. Mr Adams, from whom we had most of this relation, could not recollect all the jests of this kind practised on him, which the inoffensive disposition of his own heart made him slow in discovering; and indeed, had it not been for the information which we received from a servant of the family, this part of our history, which we take to be none of the least curious, must have been deplorably imperfect; though we must own it probable that some more jokes were (as they call it) cracked during their dinner; but we have by no means been able to come at the knowledge of them. When dinner was removed, the poet began to repeat some verses, which, he said, were made extempore. The following is a copy of them, procured with the greatest difficulty:-- _An extempore Poem on parson Adams._ Did ever mortal such a parson view? His cassock old, his wig not over-new, Well might the hounds have him for fox mistaken, In smell more like to that than rusty bacon; But would it not make any mortal stare To see this parson taken for a hare? Could Phoebus err thus grossly, even he For a good player might have taken thee. All hounds that will hunt fox or other vermin will hunt a piece of rusty bacon trailed on the ground. At which words the bard whipt off the player's wig, and received the approbation of the company, rather perhaps for the dexterity of his hand than his head. The player, instead of retorting the jest on the poet, began to display his talents on the same subject. He repeated many scraps of wit out of plays, reflecting on the whole body of the clergy, which were received with great acclamations by all present. It was now the dancing-master's turn to exhibit his talents; he therefore, addressing himself to Adams in broken English, told him, "He was a man ver well made for de dance, and he suppose by his walk dat he had learn of some great master." He said, "It was ver pretty quality in clergyman to dance;" and concluded with desiring him to dance a minuet, telling him, "his cassock would serve for petticoats; and that he would himself be his partner." At which words, without waiting for an answer, he pulled out his gloves, and the fiddler was preparing his fiddle. The company all offered the dancing-master wagers that the parson out-danced him, which he refused, saying "he believed so too, for he had never seen any man in his life who looked de dance so well as de gentleman:" he then stepped forwards to take Adams by the hand, which the latter hastily withdrew, and, at the same time clenching his fist, advised him not to carry the jest too far, for he would not endure being put upon. The dancing-master no sooner saw the fist than he prudently retired out of its reach, and stood aloof, mimicking Adams, whose eyes were fixed on him, not guessing what he was at, but to avoid his laying hold on him, which he had once attempted. In the meanwhile, the captain, perceiving an opportunity, pinned a cracker or devil to the cassock, and then lighted it with their little smoking-candle. Adams, being a stranger to this sport, and believing he had been blown up in reality, started from his chair, and jumped about the room, to the infinite joy of the beholders, who declared he was the best dancer in the universe. As soon as the devil had done tormenting him, and he had a little recovered his confusion, he returned to the table, standing up in the posture of one who intended to make a speech. They all cried out, "Hear him, hear him;" and he then spoke in the following manner: "Sir, I am sorry to see one to whom Providence hath been so bountiful in bestowing his favours make so ill and ungrateful a return for them; for, though you have not insulted me yourself, it is visible you have delighted in those that do it, nor have once discouraged the many rudenesses which have been shown towards me; indeed, towards yourself, if you rightly understood them; for I am your guest, and by the laws of hospitality entitled to your protection. One gentleman had thought proper to produce some poetry upon me, of which I shall only say, that I had rather be the subject than the composer. He hath pleased to treat me with disrespect as a parson. I apprehend my order is not the subject of scorn, nor that I can become so, unless by being a disgrace to it, which I hope poverty will never be called. Another gentleman, indeed, hath repeated some sentences, where the order itself is mentioned with contempt. He says they are taken from plays. I am sure such plays are a scandal to the government which permits them, and cursed will be the nation where they are represented. How others have treated me I need not observe; they themselves, when they reflect, must allow the behaviour to be as improper to my years as to my cloth. You found me, sir, travelling with two of my parishioners (I omit your hounds falling on me; for I have quite forgiven it, whether it proceeded from the wantonness or negligence of the huntsman): my appearance might very well persuade you that your invitation was an act of charity, though in reality we were well provided; yes, sir, if we had had an hundred miles to travel, we had sufficient to bear our expenses in a noble manner." (At which words he produced the half-guinea which was found in the basket.) "I do not show you this out of ostentation of riches, but to convince you I speak truth. Your seating me at your table was an honour which I did not ambitiously affect. When I was here, I endeavoured to behave towards you with the utmost respect; if I have failed, it was not with design; nor could I, certainly, so far be guilty as to deserve the insults I have suffered. If they were meant, therefore, either to my order or my poverty (and you see I am not very poor), the shame doth not lie at my door, and I heartily pray that the sin may be averted from yours." He thus finished, and received a general clap from the whole company. Then the gentleman of the house told him, "He was sorry for what had happened; that he could not accuse him of any share in it; that the verses were, as himself had well observed, so bad, that he might easily answer them; and for the serpent, it was undoubtedly a very great affront done him by the dancing-master, for which, if he well thrashed him, as he deserved, he should be very much pleased to see it" (in which, probably, he spoke truth). Adams answered, "Whoever had done it, it was not his profession to punish him that way; but for the person whom he had accused, I am a witness," says he, "of his innocence; for I had my eye on him all the while. Whoever he was, God forgive him, and bestow on him a little more sense as well as humanity." The captain answered with a surly look and accent, "That he hoped he did not mean to reflect upon him; d--n him, he had as much imanity as another, and, if any man said he had not, he would convince him of his mistake by cutting his throat." Adams, smiling, said, "He believed he had spoke right by accident." To which the captain returned, "What do you mean by my speaking right? If you was not a parson, I would not take these words; but your gown protects you. If any man who wears a sword had said so much, I had pulled him by the nose before this." Adams replied, "If he attempted any rudeness to his person, he would not find any protection for himself in his gown;" and, clenching his fist, declared "he had thrashed many a stouter man." The gentleman did all he could to encourage this warlike disposition in Adams, and was in hopes to have produced a battle, but he was disappointed; for the captain made no other answer than, "It is very well you are a parson;" and so, drinking off a bumper to old mother Church, ended the dispute. Then the doctor, who had hitherto been silent, and who was the gravest but most mischievous dog of all, in a very pompous speech highly applauded what Adams had said, and as much discommended the behaviour to him. He proceeded to encomiums on the Church and poverty; and, lastly, recommended forgiveness of what had passed to Adams, who immediately answered, "That everything was forgiven;" and in the warmth of his goodness he filled a bumper of strong beer (a liquor he preferred to wine), and drank a health to the whole company, shaking the captain and the poet heartily by the hand, and addressing himself with great respect to the doctor; who, indeed, had not laughed outwardly at anything that past, as he had a perfect command of his muscles, and could laugh inwardly without betraying the least symptoms in his countenance. The doctor now began a second formal speech, in which he declaimed against all levity of conversation, and what is usually called mirth. He said, "There were amusements fitted for persons of all ages and degrees, from the rattle to the discussing a point of philosophy; and that men discovered themselves in nothing more than in the choice of their amusements; for," says he, "as it must greatly raise our expectation of the future conduct in life of boys whom in their tender years we perceive, instead of taw or balls, or other childish playthings, to chuse, at their leisure hours, to exercise their genius in contentions of wit, learning, and such like; so must it inspire one with equal contempt of a man, if we should discover him playing at taw or other childish play." Adams highly commended the doctor's opinion, and said, "He had often wondered at some passages in ancient authors, where Scipio, Laelius, and other great men were represented to have passed many hours in amusements of the most trifling kind." The doctor replied, "He had by him an old Greek manuscript where a favourite diversion of Socrates was recorded." "Ay!" says the parson eagerly; "I should be most infinitely obliged to you for the favour of perusing it." The doctor promised to send it him, and farther said, "That he believed he could describe it. I think," says he, "as near as I can remember, it was this: there was a throne erected, on one side of which sat a king and on the other a queen, with their guards and attendants ranged on both sides; to them was introduced an ambassador, which part Socrates always used to perform himself; and when he was led up to the footsteps of the throne he addressed himself to the monarchs in some grave speech, full of virtue, and goodness, and morality, and such like. After which, he was seated between the king and queen, and royally entertained. This I think was the chief part. Perhaps I may have forgot some particulars; for it is long since I read it." Adams said, "It was, indeed, a diversion worthy the relaxation of so great a man; and thought something resembling it should be instituted among our great men, instead of cards and other idle pastime, in which, he was informed, they trifled away too much of their lives." He added, "The Christian religion was a nobler subject for these speeches than any Socrates could have invented." The gentleman of the house approved what Mr Adams said, and declared "he was resolved to perform the ceremony this very evening." To which the doctor objected, as no one was prepared with a speech, "unless," said he (turning to Adams with a gravity of countenance which would have deceived a more knowing man), "you have a sermon about you, doctor." "Sir," said Adams, "I never travel without one, for fear of what may happen." He was easily prevailed on by his worthy friend, as he now called the doctor, to undertake the part of the ambassador; so that the gentleman sent immediate orders to have the throne erected, which was performed before they had drank two bottles; and, perhaps, the reader will hereafter have no great reason to admire the nimbleness of the servants. Indeed, to confess the truth, the throne was no more than this: there was a great tub of water provided, on each side of which were placed two stools raised higher than the surface of the tub, and over the whole was laid a blanket; on these stools were placed the king and queen, namely, the master of the house and the captain. And now the ambassador was introduced between the poet and the doctor; who, having read his sermon, to the great entertainment of all present, was led up to his place and seated between their majesties. They immediately rose up, when the blanket, wanting its supports at either end, gave way, and soused Adams over head and ears in the water. The captain made his escape, but, unluckily, the gentleman himself not being as nimble as he ought, Adams caught hold of him before he descended from his throne, and pulled him in with him, to the entire secret satisfaction of all the company. Adams, after ducking the squire twice or thrice, leapt out of the tub, and looked sharp for the doctor, whom he would certainly have conveyed to the same place of honour; but he had wisely withdrawn: he then searched for his crabstick, and having found that, as well as his fellow travellers, he declared he would not stay a moment longer in such a house. He then departed, without taking leave of his host, whom he had exacted a more severe revenge on than he intended; for, as he did not use sufficient care to dry himself in time, he caught a cold by the accident which threw him into a fever that had like to have cost him his life. CHAPTER VIII. _Which some readers will think too short and others too long._ Adams, and Joseph, who was no less enraged than his friend at the treatment he met with, went out with their sticks in their hands, and carried off Fanny, notwithstanding the opposition of the servants, who did all, without proceeding to violence, in their power to detain them. They walked as fast as they could, not so much from any apprehension of being pursued as that Mr Adams might, by exercise, prevent any harm from the water. The gentleman, who had given such orders to his servants concerning Fanny that he did not in the least fear her getting away, no sooner heard that she was gone, than he began to rave, and immediately despatched several with orders either to bring her back or never return. The poet, the player, and all but the dancing-master and doctor, went on this errand. The night was very dark in which our friends began their journey; however, they made such expedition, that they soon arrived at an inn which was at seven miles' distance. Here they unanimously consented to pass the evening, Mr Adams being now as dry as he was before he had set out on his embassy. This inn, which indeed we might call an ale-house, had not the words, The New Inn, been writ on the sign, afforded them no better provision than bread and cheese and ale; on which, however, they made a very comfortable meal; for hunger is better than a French cook. They had no sooner supped, than Adams, returning thanks to the Almighty for his food, declared he had eat his homely commons with much greater satisfaction than his splendid dinner; and expressed great contempt for the folly of mankind, who sacrificed their hopes of heaven to the acquisition of vast wealth, since so much comfort was to be found in the humblest state and the lowest provision. "Very true, sir," says a grave man who sat smoaking his pipe by the fire, and who was a traveller as well as himself. "I have often been as much surprized as you are, when I consider the value which mankind in general set on riches, since every day's experience shows us how little is in their power; for what, indeed, truly desirable, can they bestow on us? Can they give beauty to the deformed, strength to the weak, or health to the infirm? Surely if they could we should not see so many ill-favoured faces haunting the assemblies of the great, nor would such numbers of feeble wretches languish in their coaches and palaces. No, not the wealth of a kingdom can purchase any paint to dress pale Ugliness in the bloom of that young maiden, nor any drugs to equip Disease with the vigour of that young man. Do not riches bring us to solicitude instead of rest, envy instead of affection, and danger instead of safety? Can they prolong their own possession, or lengthen his days who enjoys them? So far otherwise, that the sloth, the luxury, the care which attend them, shorten the lives of millions, and bring them with pain and misery to an untimely grave. Where, then, is their value if they can neither embellish nor strengthen our forms, sweeten nor prolong our lives?--Again: Can they adorn the mind more than the body? Do they not rather swell the heart with vanity, puff up the cheeks with pride, shut our ears to every call of virtue, and our bowels to every motive of compassion?" "Give me your hand, brother," said Adams, in a rapture, "for I suppose you are a clergyman." --"No, truly," answered the other (indeed, he was a priest of the Church of Rome; but those who understand our laws will not wonder he was not over-ready to own it).--"Whatever you are," cries Adams, "you have spoken my sentiments: I believe I have preached every syllable of your speech twenty times over; for it hath always appeared to me easier for a cable-rope (which by the way is the true rendering of that word we have translated camel) to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven." --"That, sir," said the other, "will be easily granted you by divines, and is deplorably true; but as the prospect of our good at a distance doth not so forcibly affect us, it might be of some service to mankind to be made thoroughly sensible--which I think they might be with very little serious attention--that even the blessings of this world are not to be purchased with riches; a doctrine, in my opinion, not only metaphysically, but, if I may so say, mathematically demonstrable; and which I have been always so perfectly convinced of that I have a contempt for nothing so much as for gold." Adams now began a long discourse: but as most which he said occurs among many authors who have treated this subject, I shall omit inserting it. During its continuance Joseph and Fanny retired to rest, and the host likewise left the room. When the English parson had concluded, the Romish resumed the discourse, which he continued with great bitterness and invective; and at last ended by desiring Adams to lend him eighteen-pence to pay his reckoning; promising, if he never paid him, he might be assured of his prayers. The good man answered that eighteen-pence would be too little to carry him any very long journey; that he had half a guinea in his pocket, which he would divide with him. He then fell to searching his pockets, but could find no money; for indeed the company with whom he dined had passed one jest upon him which we did not then enumerate, and had picked his pocket of all that treasure which he had so ostentatiously produced. "Bless me!" cried Adams, "I have certainly lost it; I can never have spent it. Sir, as I am a Christian, I had a whole half-guinea in my pocket this morning, and have not now a single halfpenny of it left. Sure the devil must have taken it from me!" --"Sir," answered the priest, smiling, "you need make no excuses; if you are not willing to lend me the money, I am contented." --"Sir," cries Adams, "if I had the greatest sum in the world--aye, if I had ten pounds about me--I would bestow it all to rescue any Christian from distress. I am more vexed at my loss on your account than my own. Was ever anything so unlucky? Because I have no money in my pocket I shall be suspected to be no Christian." --"I am more unlucky," quoth the other, "if you are as generous as you say; for really a crown would have made me happy, and conveyed me in plenty to the place I am going, which is not above twenty miles off, and where I can arrive by to-morrow night. I assure you I am not accustomed to travel pennyless. I am but just arrived in England; and we were forced by a storm in our passage to throw all we had overboard. I don't suspect but this fellow will take my word for the trifle I owe him; but I hate to appear so mean as to confess myself without a shilling to such people; for these, and indeed too many others, know little difference in their estimation between a beggar and a thief." However, he thought he should deal better with the host that evening than the next morning: he therefore resolved to set out immediately, notwithstanding the darkness; and accordingly, as soon as the host returned, he communicated to him the situation of his affairs; upon which the host, scratching his head, answered, "Why, I do not know, master; if it be so, and you have no money, I must trust, I think, though I had rather always have ready money if I could; but, marry, you look like so honest a gentleman that I don't fear your paying me if it was twenty times as much." The priest made no reply, but, taking leave of him and Adams as fast as he could, not without confusion, and perhaps with some distrust of Adams's sincerity, departed. He was no sooner gone than the host fell a-shaking his head, and declared, if he had suspected the fellow had no money, he would not have drawn him a single drop of drink, saying he despaired of ever seeing his face again, for that he looked like a confounded rogue. "Rabbit the fellow," cries he, "I thought, by his talking so much about riches, that he had a hundred pounds at least in his pocket." Adams chid him for his suspicions, which, he said, were not becoming a Christian; and then, without reflecting on his loss, or considering how he himself should depart in the morning, he retired to a very homely bed, as his companions had before; however, health and fatigue gave them a sweeter repose than is often in the power of velvet and down to bestow. CHAPTER IX. _Containing as surprizing and bloody adventures as can be found in this or perhaps any other authentic history._ It was almost morning when Joseph Andrews, whose eyes the thoughts of his dear Fanny had opened, as he lay fondly meditating on that lovely creature, heard a violent knocking at the door over which he lay. He presently jumped out of bed, and, opening the window, was asked if there were no travellers in the house? and presently, by another voice, if two men and a woman had not taken up there their lodging that night? Though he knew not the voices, he began to entertain a suspicion of the truth--for indeed he had received some information from one of the servants of the squire's house of his design--and answered in the negative. One of the servants, who knew the host well, called out to him by his name just as he had opened another window, and asked him the same question; to which he answered in the affirmative. O ho! said another, have we found you? and ordered the host to come down and open his door. Fanny, who was as wakeful as Joseph, no sooner heard all this than she leaped from her bed, and, hastily putting on her gown and petticoats, ran as fast as possible to Joseph's room, who then was almost drest. He immediately let her in, and, embracing her with the most passionate tenderness, bid her fear nothing, for he would die in her defence. "Is that a reason why I should not fear," says she, "when I should lose what is dearer to me than the whole world?" Joseph, then kissing her hand, said, "He could almost thank the occasion which had extorted from her a tenderness she would never indulge him with before." He then ran and waked his bedfellow Adams, who was yet fast asleep, notwithstanding many calls from Joseph; but was no sooner made sensible of their danger than he leaped from his bed, without considering the presence of Fanny, who hastily turned her face from him, and enjoyed a double benefit from the dark, which, as it would have prevented any offence, to an innocence less pure, or a modesty less delicate, so it concealed even those blushes which were raised in her. Adams had soon put on all his clothes but his breeches, which, in the hurry, he forgot; however, they were pretty well supplied by the length of his other garments; and now, the house-door being opened, the captain, the poet, the player, and three servants came in. The captain told the host that two fellows, who were in his house, had run away with a young woman, and desired to know in which room she lay. The host, who presently believed the story, directed them, and instantly the captain and poet, justling one another, ran up. The poet, who was the nimblest, entering the chamber first, searched the bed, and every other part, but to no purpose; the bird was flown, as the impatient reader, who might otherwise have been in pain for her, was before advertised. They then enquired where the men lay, and were approaching the chamber, when Joseph roared out, in a loud voice, that he would shoot the first man who offered to attack the door. The captain enquired what fire-arms they had; to which the host answered, he believed they had none; nay, he was almost convinced of it, for he had heard one ask the other in the evening what they should have done if they had been overtaken, when they had no arms; to which the other answered, they would have defended themselves with their sticks as long as they were able, and God would assist a just cause. This satisfied the captain, but not the poet, who prudently retreated downstairs, saying, it was his business to record great actions, and not to do them. The captain was no sooner well satisfied that there were no fire-arms than, bidding defiance to gunpowder, and swearing he loved the smell of it, he ordered the servants to follow him, and, marching boldly up, immediately attempted to force the door, which the servants soon helped him to accomplish. When it was opened, they discovered the enemy drawn up three deep; Adams in the front, and Fanny in the rear. The captain told Adams that if they would go all back to the house again they should be civilly treated; but unless they consented he had orders to carry the young lady with him, whom there was great reason to believe they had stolen from her parents; for, notwithstanding her disguise, her air, which she could not conceal, sufficiently discovered her birth to be infinitely superior to theirs. Fanny, bursting into tears, solemnly assured him he was mistaken; that she was a poor helpless foundling, and had no relation in the world which she knew of; and, throwing herself on her knees, begged that he would not attempt to take her from her friends, who, she was convinced, would die before they would lose her; which Adams confirmed with words not far from amounting to an oath. The captain swore he had no leisure to talk, and, bidding them thank themselves for what happened, he ordered the servants to fall on, at the same time endeavouring to pass by Adams, in order to lay hold on Fanny; but the parson, interrupting him, received a blow from one of them, which, without considering whence it came, he returned to the captain, and gave him so dexterous a knock in that part of the stomach which is vulgarly called the pit, that he staggered some paces backwards. The captain, who was not accustomed to this kind of play, and who wisely apprehended the consequence of such another blow, two of them seeming to him equal to a thrust through the body, drew forth his hanger, as Adams approached him, and was levelling a blow at his head, which would probably have silenced the preacher for ever, had not Joseph in that instant lifted up a certain huge stone pot of the chamber with one hand, which six beaus could not have lifted with both, and discharged it, together with the contents, full in the captain's face. The uplifted hanger dropped from his hand, and he fell prostrated on the floor with a lumpish noise, and his halfpence rattled in his pocket; the red liquor which his veins contained, and the white liquor which the pot contained, ran in one stream down his face and his clothes. Nor had Adams quite escaped, some of the water having in its passage shed its honours on his head, and began to trickle down the wrinkles or rather furrows of his cheeks, when one of the servants, snatching a mop out of a pail of water, which had already done its duty in washing the house, pushed it in the parson's face; yet could not he bear him down, for the parson, wresting the mop from the fellow with one hand, with the other brought his enemy as low as the earth, having given him a stroke over that part of the face where, in some men of pleasure, the natural and artificial noses are conjoined. Hitherto, Fortune seemed to incline the victory on the travellers' side, when, according to her custom, she began to show the fickleness of her disposition; for now the host, entering the field, or rather chamber of battle, flew directly at Joseph, and, darting his head into his stomach (for he was a stout fellow and an expert boxer), almost staggered him: but Joseph, stepping one leg back, did with his left hand so chuck him under the chin that he reeled. The youth was pursuing his blow with his right hand when he received from one of the servants such a stroke with a cudgel on his temples, that it instantly deprived him of sense, and he measured his length on the ground. Fanny rent the air with her cries, and Adams was coming to the assistance of Joseph; but the two serving-men and the host now fell on him, and soon subdued him, though he fought like a madman, and looked so black with the impressions he had received from the mop, that Don Quixote would certainly have taken him for an inchanted Moor. But now follows the most tragical part; for the captain was risen again, and, seeing Joseph on the floor, and Adams secured, he instantly laid hold on Fanny, and, with the assistance of the poet and player, who, hearing the battle was over, were now come up, dragged her, crying and tearing her hair, from the sight of her Joseph, and, with a perfect deafness to all her entreaties, carried her downstairs by violence, and fastened her on the player's horse; and the captain, mounting his own, and leading that on which this poor miserable wretch was, departed, without any more consideration of her cries than a butcher hath of those of a lamb; for indeed his thoughts were entertained only with the degree of favour which he promised himself from the squire on the success of this adventure. The servants, who were ordered to secure Adams and Joseph as safe as possible, that the squire might receive no interruption to his design on poor Fanny, immediately, by the poet's advice, tied Adams to one of the bed-posts, as they did Joseph on the other side, as soon as they could bring him to himself; and then, leaving them together, back to back, and desiring the host not to set them at liberty, nor to go near them, till he had further orders, they departed towards their master; but happened to take a different road from that which the captain had fallen into. CHAPTER X. _A discourse between the poet and the player; of no other use in this history but to divert the reader._ Before we proceed any farther in this tragedy we shall leave Mr Joseph and Mr Adams to themselves, and imitate the wise conductors of the stage, who in the midst of a grave action entertain you with some excellent piece of satire or humour called a dance. Which piece, indeed, is therefore danced, and not spoke, as it is delivered to the audience by persons whose thinking faculty is by most people held to lie in their heels; and to whom, as well as heroes, who think with their hands, Nature hath only given heads for the sake of conformity, and as they are of use in dancing, to hang their hats on. The poet, addressing the player, proceeded thus, "As I was saying" (for they had been at this discourse all the time of the engagement above-stairs), "the reason you have no good new plays is evident; it is from your discouragement of authors. Gentlemen will not write, sir, they will not write, without the expectation of fame or profit, or perhaps both. Plays are like trees, which will not grow without nourishment; but like mushrooms, they shoot up spontaneously, as it were, in a rich soil. The muses, like vines, may be pruned, but not with a hatchet. The town, like a peevish child, knows not what it desires, and is always best pleased with a rattle. A farce-writer hath indeed some chance for success: but they have lost all taste for the sublime. Though I believe one reason of their depravity is the badness of the actors. If a man writes like an angel, sir, those fellows know not how to give a sentiment utterance." --"Not so fast," says the player: "the modern actors are as good at least as their authors, nay, they come nearer their illustrious predecessors; and I expect a Booth on the stage again, sooner than a Shakespear or an Otway; and indeed I may turn your observation against you, and with truth say, that the reason no authors are encouraged is because we have no good new plays." --"I have not affirmed the contrary," said the poet; "but I am surprized you grow so warm; you cannot imagine yourself interested in this dispute; I hope you have a better opinion of my taste than to apprehend I squinted at yourself. No, sir, if we had six such actors as you, we should soon rival the Bettertons and Sandfords of former times; for, without a compliment to you, I think it impossible for any one to have excelled you in most of your parts. Nay, it is solemn truth, and I have heard many, and all great judges, express as much; and, you will pardon me if I tell you, I think every time I have seen you lately you have constantly acquired some new excellence, like a snowball. You have deceived me in my estimation of perfection, and have outdone what I thought inimitable." --"You are as little interested," answered the player, "in what I have said of other poets; for d--n me if there are not many strokes, ay, whole scenes, in your last tragedy, which at least equal Shakespear. There is a delicacy of sentiment, a dignity of expression in it, which I will own many of our gentlemen did not do adequate justice to. To confess the truth, they are bad enough, and I pity an author who is present at the murder of his works." --"Nay, it is but seldom that it can happen," returned the poet; "the works of most modern authors, like dead-born children, cannot be murdered. It is such wretched half-begotten, half-writ, lifeless, spiritless, low, grovelling stuff, that I almost pity the actor who is obliged to get it by heart, which must be almost as difficult to remember as words in a language you don't understand." --"I am sure," said the player, "if the sentences have little meaning when they are writ, when they are spoken they have less. I know scarce one who ever lays an emphasis right, and much less adapts his action to his character. I have seen a tender lover in an attitude of fighting with his mistress, and a brave hero suing to his enemy with his sword in his hand. I don't care to abuse my profession, but rot me if in my heart I am not inclined to the poet's side." --"It is rather generous in you than just," said the poet; "and, though I hate to speak ill of any person's production--nay, I never do it, nor will--but yet, to do justice to the actors, what could Booth or Betterton have made of such horrible stuff as Fenton's Mariamne, Frowd's Philotas, or Mallet's Eurydice; or those low, dirty, last-dying-speeches, which a fellow in the city of Wapping, your Dillo or Lillo, what was his name, called tragedies?" --"Very well," says the player; "and pray what do you think of such fellows as Quin and Delane, or that face-making puppy young Cibber, that ill-looked dog Macklin, or that saucy slut Mrs Clive? What work would they make with your Shakespears, Otways, and Lees? How would those harmonious lines of the last come from their tongues?-- "'--No more; for I disdain All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise Of kings and crowns from us, whose gentle souls Our kinder fates have steer'd another way. Free as the forest birds we'll pair together, Without rememb'ring who our fathers were: Fly to the arbors, grots, and flow'ry meads; There in soft murmurs interchange our souls; Together drink the crystal of the stream, Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn yields, And, when the golden evening calls us home, Wing to our downy nests, and sleep till morn.' "Or how would this disdain of Otway-- "'Who'd be that foolish sordid thing call'd man?'" "Hold! hold! hold!" said the poet: "Do repeat that tender speech in the third act of my play which you made such a figure in." --"I would willingly," said the player, "but I have forgot it." --"Ay, you was not quite perfect in it when you played it," cries the poet, "or you would have had such an applause as was never given on the stage; an applause I was extremely concerned for your losing." --"Sure," says the player, "if I remember, that was hissed more than any passage in the whole play." --"Ay, your speaking it was hissed," said the poet.--"My speaking it!" said the player.--"I mean your not speaking it," said the poet. "You was out, and then they hissed." --"They hissed, and then I was out, if I remember," answered the player; "and I must say this for myself, that the whole audience allowed I did your part justice; so don't lay the damnation of your play to my account." --"I don't know what you mean by damnation," replied the poet.--"Why, you know it was acted but one night," cried the player.--"No," said the poet, "you and the whole town were enemies; the pit were all my enemies, fellows that would cut my throat, if the fear of hanging did not restrain them. All taylors, sir, all taylors." --"Why should the taylors be so angry with you?" cries the player. "I suppose you don't employ so many in making your clothes." --"I admit your jest," answered the poet; "but you remember the affair as well as myself; you know there was a party in the pit and upper gallery that would not suffer it to be given out again; though much, ay infinitely, the majority, all the boxes in particular, were desirous of it; nay, most of the ladies swore they never would come to the house till it was acted again. Indeed, I must own their policy was good in not letting it be given out a second time: for the rascals knew if it had gone a second night it would have run fifty; for if ever there was distress in a tragedy--I am not fond of my own performance; but if I should tell you what the best judges said of it--Nor was it entirely owing to my enemies neither that it did not succeed on the stage as well as it hath since among the polite readers; for you can't say it had justice done it by the performers." --"I think," answered the player, "the performers did the distress of it justice; for I am sure we were in distress enough, who were pelted with oranges all the last act: we all imagined it would have been the last act of our lives." The poet, whose fury was now raised, had just attempted to answer when they were interrupted, and an end put to their discourse, by an accident, which if the reader is impatient to know, he must skip over the next chapter, which is a sort of counterpart to this, and contains some of the best and gravest matters in the whole book, being a discourse between parson Abraham Adams and Mr Joseph Andrews. CHAPTER XI. _Containing the exhortations of parson Adams to his friend in affliction; calculated for the instruction and improvement of the reader._ Joseph no sooner came perfectly to himself than, perceiving his mistress gone, he bewailed her loss with groans which would have pierced any heart but those which are possessed by some people, and are made of a certain composition not unlike flint in its hardness and other properties; for you may strike fire from them, which will dart through the eyes, but they can never distil one drop of water the same way. His own, poor youth! was of a softer composition; and at those words, "O my dear Fanny! O my love! shall I never, never see thee more?" his eyes overflowed with tears, which would have become any but a hero. In a word, his despair was more easy to be conceived than related. Mr Adams, after many groans, sitting with his back to Joseph, began thus in a sorrowful tone: "You cannot imagine, my good child, that I entirely blame these first agonies of your grief; for, when misfortunes attack us by surprize, it must require infinitely more learning than you are master of to resist them; but it is the business of a man and a Christian to summon Reason as quickly as he can to his aid; and she will presently teach him patience and submission. Be comforted, therefore, child; I say be comforted. It is true, you have lost the prettiest, kindest, loveliest, sweetest young woman, one with whom you might have expected to have lived in happiness, virtue, and innocence; by whom you might have promised yourself many little darlings, who would have been the delight of your youth and the comfort of your age. You have not only lost her, but have reason to fear the utmost violence which lust and power can inflict upon her. Now, indeed, you may easily raise ideas of horror, which might drive you to despair." --"O I shall run mad!" cries Joseph. "O that I could but command my hands to tear my eyes out and my flesh off!" --"If you would use them to such purposes, I am glad you can't," answered Adams. "I have stated your misfortune as strong as I possibly can; but, on the other side, you are to consider you are a Christian, that no accident happens to us without the Divine permission, and that it is the duty of a man, and a Christian, to submit. We did not make ourselves; but the same power which made us rules over us, and we are absolutely at his disposal; he may do with us what he pleases, nor have we any right to complain. A second reason against our complaint is our ignorance; for, as we know not future events, so neither can we tell to what purpose any accident tends; and that which at first threatens us with evil may in the end produce our good. I should indeed have said our ignorance is twofold (but I have not at present time to divide properly), for, as we know not to what purpose any event is ultimately directed, so neither can we affirm from what cause it originally sprung. You are a man, and consequently a sinner; and this may be a punishment to you for your sins: indeed in this sense it may be esteemed as a good, yea, as the greatest good, which satisfies the anger of Heaven, and averts that wrath which cannot continue without our destruction. Thirdly, our impotency of relieving ourselves demonstrates the folly and absurdity of our complaints: for whom do we resist, or against whom do we complain, but a power from whose shafts no armour can guard us, no speed can fly?--a power which leaves us no hope but in submission." "O sir!" cried Joseph, "all this is very true, and very fine, and I could hear you all day if I was not so grieved at heart as now I am." --"Would you take physic," says Adams, "when you are well, and refuse it when you are sick? Is not comfort to be administered to the afflicted, and not to those who rejoice or those who are at ease?" "O! you have not spoken one word of comfort to me yet!" returned Joseph. "No!" cries Adams; "what am I then doing? what can I say to comfort you?" "O tell me," cries Joseph, "that Fanny will escape back to my arms, that they shall again enclose that lovely creature, with all her sweetness, all her untainted innocence about her!" "Why, perhaps you may," cries Adams, "but I can't promise you what's to come. You must, with perfect resignation, wait the event: if she be restored to you again, it is your duty to be thankful, and so it is if she be not. Joseph, if you are wise and truly know your own interest, you will peaceably and quietly submit to all the dispensations of Providence, being thoroughly assured that all the misfortunes, how great soever, which happen to the righteous, happen to them for their own good. Nay, it is not your interest only, but your duty, to abstain from immoderate grief; which if you indulge, you are not worthy the name of a Christian." He spoke these last words with an accent a little severer than usual; upon which Joseph begged him not to be angry, saying, he mistook him if he thought he denied it was his duty, for he had known that long ago. "What signifies knowing your duty, if you do not perform it?" answered Adams. "Your knowledge increases your guilt. O Joseph! I never thought you had this stubbornness in your mind." Joseph replied, "He fancied he misunderstood him; which I assure you," says he, "you do, if you imagine I endeavour to grieve; upon my soul I don't." Adams rebuked him for swearing, and then proceeded to enlarge on the folly of grief, telling him, all the wise men and philosophers, even among the heathens, had written against it, quoting several passages from Seneca, and the Consolation, which, though it was not Cicero's, was, he said, as good almost as any of his works; and concluded all by hinting that immoderate grief in this case might incense that power which alone could restore him his Fanny. This reason, or indeed rather the idea which it raised of the restoration of his mistress, had more effect than all which the parson had said before, and for a moment abated his agonies; but, when his fears sufficiently set before his eyes the danger that poor creature was in, his grief returned again with repeated violence, nor could Adams in the least asswage it; though it may be doubted in his behalf whether Socrates himself could have prevailed any better. They remained some time in silence, and groans and sighs issued from them both; at length Joseph burst out into the following soliloquy:-- "Yes, I will bear my sorrows like a man, But I must also feel them as a man. I cannot but remember such things were, And were most dear to me." Adams asked him what stuff that was he repeated? To which he answered, they were some lines he had gotten by heart out of a play. "Ay, there is nothing but heathenism to be learned from plays," replied he. "I never heard of any plays fit for a Christian to read, but Cato and the Conscious Lovers; and, I must own, in the latter there are some things almost solemn enough for a sermon." But we shall now leave them a little, and enquire after the subject of their conversation. CHAPTER XII. _More adventures, which we hope will as much please as surprize the reader._ Neither the facetious dialogue which passed between the poet and the player, nor the grave and truly solemn discourse of Mr Adams, will, we conceive, make the reader sufficient amends for the anxiety which he must have felt on the account of poor Fanny, whom we left in so deplorable a condition. We shall therefore now proceed to the relation of what happened to that beautiful and innocent virgin, after she fell into the wicked hands of the captain. The man of war, having conveyed his charming prize out of the inn a little before day, made the utmost expedition in his power towards the squire's house, where this delicate creature was to be offered up a sacrifice to the lust of a ravisher. He was not only deaf to all her bewailings and entreaties on the road, but accosted her ears with impurities which, having been never before accustomed to them, she happily for herself very little understood. At last he changed his note, and attempted to soothe and mollify her, by setting forth the splendor and luxury which would be her fortune with a man who would have the inclination, and power too, to give her whatever her utmost wishes could desire; and told her he doubted not but she would soon look kinder on him, as the instrument of her happiness, and despise that pitiful fellow whom her ignorance only could make her fond of. She answered, she knew not whom he meant; she never was fond of any pitiful fellow. "Are you affronted, madam," says he, "at my calling him so? But what better can be said of one in a livery, notwithstanding your fondness for him?" She returned, that she did not understand him, that the man had been her fellow-servant, and she believed was as honest a creature as any alive; but as for fondness for men--"I warrant ye," cries the captain, "we shall find means to persuade you to be fond; and I advise you to yield to gentle ones, for you may be assured that it is not in your power, by any struggles whatever, to preserve your virginity two hours longer. It will be your interest to consent; for the squire will be much kinder to you if he enjoys you willingly than by force." At which words she began to call aloud for assistance (for it was now open day), but, finding none, she lifted her eyes to heaven, and supplicated the Divine assistance to preserve her innocence. The captain told her, if she persisted in her vociferation, he would find a means of stopping her mouth. And now the poor wretch, perceiving no hopes of succour, abandoned herself to despair, and, sighing out the name of Joseph! Joseph! a river of tears ran down her lovely cheeks, and wet the handkerchief which covered her bosom. A horseman now appeared in the road, upon which the captain threatened her violently if she complained; however, the moment they approached each other she begged him with the utmost earnestness to relieve a distressed creature who was in the hands of a ravisher. The fellow stopt at those words, but the captain assured him it was his wife, and that he was carrying her home from her adulterer, which so satisfied the fellow, who was an old one (and perhaps a married one too), that he wished him a good journey, and rode on. He was no sooner past than the captain abused her violently for breaking his commands, and threatened to gagg her, when two more horsemen, armed with pistols, came into the road just before them. She again solicited their assistance, and the captain told the same story as before. Upon which one said to the other, "That's a charming wench, Jack; I wish I had been in the fellow's place, whoever he is." But the other, instead of answering him, cried out, "Zounds, I know her;" and then, turning to her, said, "Sure you are not Fanny Goodwill?" --"Indeed, indeed, I am," she cried--"O John, I know you now-Heaven hath sent you to my assistance, to deliver me from this wicked man, who is carrying me away for his vile purposes--O for God's sake rescue me from him!" A fierce dialogue immediately ensued between the captain and these two men, who, being both armed with pistols, and the chariot which they attended being now arrived, the captain saw both force and stratagem were vain, and endeavoured to make his escape, in which however he could not succeed. The gentleman who rode in the chariot ordered it to stop, and with an air of authority examined into the merits of the cause; of which being advertised by Fanny, whose credit was confirmed by the fellow who knew her, he ordered the captain, who was all bloody from his encounter at the inn, to be conveyed as a prisoner behind the chariot, and very gallantly took Fanny into it; for, to say the truth, this gentleman (who was no other than the celebrated Mr Peter Pounce, and who preceded the Lady Booby only a few miles, by setting out earlier in the morning) was a very gallant person, and loved a pretty girl better than anything besides his own money or the money of other people. The chariot now proceeded towards the inn, which, as Fanny was informed, lay in their way, and where it arrived at that very time while the poet and player were disputing below-stairs, and Adams and Joseph were discoursing back to back above; just at that period to which we brought them both in the two preceding chapters the chariot stopt at the door, and in an instant Fanny, leaping from it, ran up to her Joseph.--O reader! conceive if thou canst the joy which fired the breasts of these lovers on this meeting; and if thy own heart doth not sympathetically assist thee in this conception, I pity thee sincerely from my own; for let the hard-hearted villain know this, that there is a pleasure in a tender sensation beyond any which he is capable of tasting. Peter, being informed by Fanny of the presence of Adams, stopt to see him, and receive his homage; for, as Peter was an hypocrite, a sort of people whom Mr Adams never saw through, the one paid that respect to his seeming goodness which the other believed to be paid to his riches; hence Mr Adams was so much his favourite, that he once lent him four pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence to prevent his going to gaol, on no greater security than a bond and judgment, which probably he would have made no use of, though the money had not been (as it was) paid exactly at the time. It is not perhaps easy to describe the figure of Adams; he had risen in such a hurry, that he had on neither breeches, garters, nor stockings; nor had he taken from his head a red spotted handkerchief, which by night bound his wig, turned inside out, around his head. He had on his torn cassock and his greatcoat; but, as the remainder of his cassock hung down below his greatcoat, so did a small stripe of white, or rather whitish, linen appear below that; to which we may add the several colours which appeared on his face, where a long piss-burnt beard served to retain the liquor of the stone-pot, and that of a blacker hue which distilled from the mop.--This figure, which Fanny had delivered from his captivity, was no sooner spied by Peter than it disordered the composed gravity of his muscles; however, he advised him immediately to make himself clean, nor would accept his homage in that pickle. The poet and player no sooner saw the captain in captivity than they began to consider of their own safety, of which flight presented itself as the only means; they therefore both of them mounted the poet's horse, and made the most expeditious retreat in their power. The host, who well knew Mr Pounce and Lady Booby's livery, was not a little surprized at this change of the scene; nor was his confusion much helped by his wife, who was now just risen, and, having heard from him the account of what had passed, comforted him with a decent number of fools and blockheads; asked him why he did not consult her, and told him he would never leave following the nonsensical dictates of his own numskull till she and her family were ruined. Joseph, being informed of the captain's arrival, and seeing his Fanny now in safety, quitted her a moment, and, running downstairs, went directly to him, and stripping off his coat, challenged him to fight; but the captain refused, saying he did not understand boxing. He then grasped a cudgel in one hand, and, catching the captain by the collar with the other, gave him a most severe drubbing, and ended with telling him he had now had some revenge for what his dear Fanny had suffered. When Mr Pounce had a little regaled himself with some provision which he had in his chariot, and Mr Adams had put on the best appearance his clothes would allow him, Pounce ordered the captain into his presence, for he said he was guilty of felony, and the next justice of peace should commit him; but the servants (whose appetite for revenge is soon satisfied), being sufficiently contented with the drubbing which Joseph had inflicted on him, and which was indeed of no very moderate kind, had suffered him to go off, which he did, threatening a severe revenge against Joseph, which I have never heard he thought proper to take. The mistress of the house made her voluntary appearance before Mr Pounce, and with a thousand curtsies told him, "She hoped his honour would pardon her husband, who was a very nonsense man, for the sake of his poor family; that indeed if he could be ruined alone, she should be very willing of it; for because as why, his worship very well knew he deserved it; but she had three poor small children, who were not capable to get their own living; and if her husband was sent to gaol, they must all come to the parish; for she was a poor weak woman, continually a-breeding, and had no time to work for them. She therefore hoped his honour would take it into his worship's consideration, and forgive her husband this time; for she was sure he never intended any harm to man, woman, or child; and if it was not for that block-head of his own, the man in some things was well enough; for she had had three children by him in less than three years, and was almost ready to cry out the fourth time." She would have proceeded in this manner much longer, had not Peter stopt her tongue, by telling her he had nothing to say to her husband nor her neither. So, as Adams and the rest had assured her of forgiveness, she cried and curtsied out of the room. Mr Pounce was desirous that Fanny should continue her journey with him in the chariot; but she absolutely refused, saying she would ride behind Joseph on a horse which one of Lady Booby's servants had equipped him with. But, alas! when the horse appeared, it was found to be no other than that identical beast which Mr Adams had left behind him at the inn, and which these honest fellows, who knew him, had redeemed. Indeed, whatever horse they had provided for Joseph, they would have prevailed with him to mount none, no, not even to ride before his beloved Fanny, till the parson was supplied; much less would he deprive his friend of the beast which belonged to him, and which he knew the moment he saw, though Adams did not; however, when he was reminded of the affair, and told that they had brought the horse with them which he left behind, he answered--Bless me! and so I did. Adams was very desirous that Joseph and Fanny should mount this horse, and declared he could very easily walk home. "If I walked alone," says he, "I would wage a shilling that the pedestrian outstripped the equestrian travellers; but, as I intend to take the company of a pipe, peradventure I may be an hour later." One of the servants whispered Joseph to take him at his word, and suffer the old put to walk if he would: this proposal was answered with an angry look and a peremptory refusal by Joseph, who, catching Fanny up in his arms, averred he would rather carry her home in that manner, than take away Mr Adams's horse and permit him to walk on foot. Perhaps, reader, thou hast seen a contest between two gentlemen, or two ladies, quickly decided, though they have both asserted they would not eat such a nice morsel, and each insisted on the other's accepting it; but in reality both were very desirous to swallow it themselves. Do not therefore conclude hence that this dispute would have come to a speedy decision: for here both parties were heartily in earnest, and it is very probable they would have remained in the inn-yard to this day, had not the good Peter Pounce put a stop to it; for, finding he had no longer hopes of satisfying his old appetite with Fanny, and being desirous of having some one to whom he might communicate his grandeur, he told the parson he would convey him home in his chariot. This favour was by Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, accepted, though he afterwards said, "he ascended the chariot rather that he might not offend than from any desire of riding in it, for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian even to the vehicular expedition." All matters being now settled, the chariot, in which rode Adams and Pounce, moved forwards; and Joseph having borrowed a pillion from the host, Fanny had just seated herself thereon, and had laid hold of the girdle which her lover wore for that purpose, when the wise beast, who concluded that one at a time was sufficient, that two to one were odds, &c., discovered much uneasiness at his double load, and began to consider his hinder as his fore legs, moving the direct contrary way to that which is called forwards. Nor could Joseph, with all his horsemanship, persuade him to advance; but, without having any regard to the lovely part of the lovely girl which was on his back, he used such agitations, that, had not one of the men come immediately to her assistance, she had, in plain English, tumbled backwards on the ground. This inconvenience was presently remedied by an exchange of horses; and then Fanny being again placed on her pillion, on a better-natured and somewhat a better-fed beast, the parson's horse, finding he had no longer odds to contend with, agreed to march; and the whole procession set forwards for Booby-hall, where they arrived in a few hours without anything remarkable happening on the road, unless it was a curious dialogue between the parson and the steward: which, to use the language of a late Apologist, a pattern to all biographers, "waits for the reader in the next chapter." CHAPTER XIII. _A curious dialogue which passed between Mr Abraham Adams and Mr Peter Pounce, better worth reading than all the works of Colley Cibber and many others._ The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams observed it was a very fine day. "Ay, and a very fine country too," answered Pounce.--"I should think so more," returned Adams, "if I had not lately travelled over the Downs, which I take to exceed this and all other prospects in the universe." --"A fig for prospects!" answered Pounce; "one acre here is worth ten there; and for my own part, I have no delight in the prospect of any land but my own." --"Sir," said Adams, "you can indulge yourself with many fine prospects of that kind." --"I thank God I have a little," replied the other, "with which I am content, and envy no man: I have a little, Mr Adams, with which I do as much good as I can." Adams answered, "That riches without charity were nothing worth; for that they were a blessing only to him who made them a blessing to others." --"You and I," said Peter, "have different notions of charity. I own, as it is generally used, I do not like the word, nor do I think it becomes one of us gentlemen; it is a mean parson-like quality; though I would not infer many parsons have it neither." --"Sir," said Adams, "my definition of charity is, a generous disposition to relieve the distressed." --"There is something in that definition," answered Peter, "which I like well enough; it is, as you say, a disposition, and does not so much consist in the act as in the disposition to do it. But, alas! Mr Adams, who are meant by the distressed? Believe me, the distresses of mankind are mostly imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to relieve them." --"Sure, sir," replied Adams, "hunger and thirst, cold and nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can never be said to be imaginary evils." --"How can any man complain of hunger," said Peter, "in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered in almost every field? or of thirst, where every river and stream produces such delicious potations? And as for cold and nakedness, they are evils introduced by luxury and custom. A man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any other animal; and there are whole nations who go without them; but these are things perhaps which you, who do not know the world"--"You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams; "I have read of the Gymnosophists." --"A plague of your Jehosaphats!" cried Peter; "the greatest fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor, except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not an estate which doth not contribute almost as much again to the poor as to the land-tax; and I do assure you I expect to come myself to the parish in the end." To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus proceeded: "I fancy, Mr Adams, you are one of those who imagine I am a lump of money; for there are many who, I fancy, believe that not only my pockets, but my whole clothes, are lined with bank-bills; but I assure you, you are all mistaken; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I can hold my head above water it is all I can. I have injured myself by purchasing. I have been too liberal of my money. Indeed, I fear my heir will find my affairs in a worse situation than they are reputed to be. Ah! he will have reason to wish I had loved money more and land less. Pray, my good neighbour, where should I have that quantity of riches the world is so liberal to bestow on me? Where could I possibly, without I had stole it, acquire such a treasure?" "Why, truly," says Adams, "I have been always of your opinion; I have wondered as well as yourself with what confidence they could report such things of you, which have to me appeared as mere impossibilities; for you know, sir, and I have often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own acquisition; and can it be credible that in your short time you should have amassed such a heap of treasure as these people will have you worth? Indeed, had you inherited an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in your family for many generations, they might have had a colour for their assertions." "Why, what do they say I am worth?" cries Peter, with a malicious sneer. "Sir," answered Adams, "I have heard some aver you are not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At which Peter frowned. "Nay, sir," said Adams, "you ask me only the opinion of others; for my own part, I have always denied it, nor did I ever believe you could possibly be worth half that sum." "However, Mr Adams," said he, squeezing him by the hand, "I would not sell them all I am worth for double that sum; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not a fig, no not a fart. I am not poor because you think me so, nor because you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the envy of mankind very well; but I thank Heaven I am above them. It is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. I have not an estate, like Sir Thomas Booby, that has descended in my family through many generations; but I know heirs of such estates who are forced to travel about the country like some people in torn cassocks, and might be glad to accept of a pitiful curacy for what I know. Yes, sir, as shabby fellows as yourself, whom no man of my figure, without that vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride in a chariot with him." "Sir," said Adams, "I value not your chariot of a rush; and if I had known you had intended to affront me, I would have walked to the world's end on foot ere I would have accepted a place in it. However, sir, I will soon rid you of that inconvenience;" and, so saying, he opened the chariot door, without calling to the coachman, and leapt out into the highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him; which, however, Mr Pounce threw after him with great violence. Joseph and Fanny stopt to bear him company the rest of the way, which was not above a mile. BOOK IV. CHAPTER I. _The arrival of Lady Booby and the rest at Booby-hall._ The coach and six, in which Lady Booby rode, overtook the other travellers as they entered the parish. She no sooner saw Joseph than her cheeks glowed with red, and immediately after became as totally pale. She had in her surprize almost stopt her coach; but recollected herself timely enough to prevent it. She entered the parish amidst the ringing of bells and the acclamations of the poor, who were rejoiced to see their patroness returned after so long an absence, during which time all her rents had been drafted to London, without a shilling being spent among them, which tended not a little to their utter impoverishing; for, if the court would be severely missed in such a city as London, how much more must the absence of a person of great fortune be felt in a little country village, for whose inhabitants such a family finds a constant employment and supply; and with the offals of whose table the infirm, aged, and infant poor are abundantly fed, with a generosity which hath scarce a visible effect on their benefactors' pockets! But, if their interest inspired so public a joy into every countenance, how much more forcibly did the affection which they bore parson Adams operate upon all who beheld his return! They flocked about him like dutiful children round an indulgent parent, and vyed with each other in demonstrations of duty and love. The parson on his side shook every one by the hand, enquired heartily after the healths of all that were absent, of their children, and relations; and exprest a satisfaction in his face which nothing but benevolence made happy by its objects could infuse. Nor did Joseph and Fanny want a hearty welcome from all who saw them. In short, no three persons could be more kindly received, as, indeed, none ever more deserved to be universally beloved. Adams carried his fellow-travellers home to his house, where he insisted on their partaking whatever his wife, whom, with his children, he found in health and joy, could provide:--where we shall leave them enjoying perfect happiness over a homely meal, to view scenes of greater splendour, but infinitely less bliss. Our more intelligent readers will doubtless suspect, by this second appearance of Lady Booby on the stage, that all was not ended by the dismission of Joseph; and, to be honest with them, they are in the right: the arrow had pierced deeper than she imagined; nor was the wound so easily to be cured. The removal of the object soon cooled her rage, but it had a different effect on her love; that departed with his person, but this remained lurking in her mind with his image. Restless, interrupted slumbers, and confused horrible dreams were her portion the first night. In the morning, fancy painted her a more delicious scene; but to delude, not delight her; for, before she could reach the promised happiness, it vanished, and left her to curse, not bless, the vision. She started from her sleep, her imagination being all on fire with the phantom, when, her eyes accidentally glancing towards the spot where yesterday the real Joseph had stood, that little circumstance raised his idea in the liveliest colours in her memory. Each look, each word, each gesture rushed back on her mind with charms which all his coldness could not abate. Nay, she imputed that to his youth, his folly, his awe, his religion, to everything but what would instantly have produced contempt, want of passion for the sex, or that which would have roused her hatred, want of liking to her. Reflection then hurried her farther, and told her she must see this beautiful youth no more; nay, suggested to her that she herself had dismissed him for no other fault than probably that of too violent an awe and respect for herself; and which she ought rather to have esteemed a merit, the effects of which were besides so easily and surely to have been removed; she then blamed, she cursed the hasty rashness of her temper; her fury was vented all on herself, and Joseph appeared innocent in her eyes. Her passion at length grew so violent, that it forced her on seeking relief, and now she thought of recalling him: but pride forbad that; pride, which soon drove all softer passions from her soul, and represented to her the meanness of him she was fond of. That thought soon began to obscure his beauties; contempt succeeded next, and then disdain, which presently introduced her hatred of the creature who had given her so much uneasiness. These enemies of Joseph had no sooner taken possession of her mind than they insinuated to her a thousand things in his disfavour; everything but dislike of her person; a thought which, as it would have been intolerable to bear, she checked the moment it endeavoured to arise. Revenge came now to her assistance; and she considered her dismission of him, stript, and without a character, with the utmost pleasure. She rioted in the several kinds of misery which her imagination suggested to her might be his fate; and, with a smile composed of anger, mirth, and scorn, viewed him in the rags in which her fancy had drest him. Mrs Slipslop, being summoned, attended her mistress, who had now in her own opinion totally subdued this passion. Whilst she was dressing she asked if that fellow had been turned away according to her orders. Slipslop answered, she had told her ladyship so (as indeed she had).--"And how did he behave?" replied the lady. "Truly, madam," cries Slipslop, "in such a manner that infected everybody who saw him. The poor lad had but little wages to receive; for he constantly allowed his father and mother half his income; so that, when your ladyship's livery was stript off, he had not wherewithal to buy a coat, and must have gone naked if one of the footmen had not incommodated him with one; and whilst he was standing in his shirt (and, to say truth, he was an amorous figure), being told your ladyship would not give him a character, he sighed, and said he had done nothing willingly to offend; that for his part, he should always give your ladyship a good character wherever he went; and he prayed God to bless you; for you was the best of ladies, though his enemies had set you against him. I wish you had not turned him away; for I believe you have not a faithfuller servant in the house." --"How came you then," replied the lady, "to advise me to turn him away?" --"I, madam!" said Slipslop; "I am sure you will do me the justice to say, I did all in my power to prevent it; but I saw your ladyship was angry; and it is not the business of us upper servants to hinterfear on these occasions." "And was it not you, audacious wretch!" cried the lady, "who made me angry? Was it not your tittle-tattle, in which I believe you belyed the poor fellow, which incensed me against him? He may thank you for all that hath happened; and so may I for the loss of a good servant, and one who probably had more merit than all of you. Poor fellow! I am charmed with his goodness to his parents. Why did not you tell me of that, but suffer me to dismiss so good a creature without a character? I see the reason of your whole behaviour now as well as your complaint; you was jealous of the wenches." "I jealous!" said Slipslop; "I assure you, I look upon myself as his betters; I am not meat for a footman, I hope." These words threw the lady into a violent passion, and she sent Slipslop from her presence, who departed, tossing her nose, and crying, "Marry, come up! there are some people more jealous than I, I believe." Her lady affected not to hear the words, though in reality she did, and understood them too. Now ensued a second conflict, so like the former, that it might savour of repetition to relate it minutely. It may suffice to say that Lady Booby found good reason to doubt whether she had so absolutely conquered her passion as she had flattered herself; and, in order to accomplish it quite, took a resolution, more common than wise, to retire immediately into the country. The reader hath long ago seen the arrival of Mrs Slipslop, whom no pertness could make her mistress resolve to part with; lately, that of Mr Pounce, her forerunners; and, lastly, that of the lady herself. The morning after her arrival being Sunday, she went to church, to the great surprize of everybody, who wondered to see her ladyship, being no very constant church-woman, there so suddenly upon her journey. Joseph was likewise there; and I have heard it was remarked that she fixed her eyes on him much more than on the parson; but this I believe to be only a malicious rumour. When the prayers were ended Mr Adams stood up, and with a loud voice pronounced, "I publish the banns of marriage between Joseph Andrews and Frances Goodwill, both of this parish," &c. Whether this had any effect on Lady Booby or no, who was then in her pew, which the congregation could not see into, I could never discover: but certain it is that in about a quarter of an hour she stood up, and directed her eyes to that part of the church where the women sat, and persisted in looking that way during the remainder of the sermon in so scrutinizing a manner, and with so angry a countenance, that most of the women were afraid she was offended at them. The moment she returned home she sent for Slipslop into her chamber, and told her she wondered what that impudent fellow Joseph did in that parish? Upon which Slipslop gave her an account of her meeting Adams with him on the road, and likewise the adventure with Fanny. At the relation of which the lady often changed her countenance; and when she had heard all, she ordered Mr Adams into her presence, to whom she behaved as the reader will see in the next chapter. CHAPTER II. _A dialogue between Mr Abraham Adams and the Lady Booby._ Mr Adams was not far off, for he was drinking her ladyship's health below in a cup of her ale. He no sooner came before her than she began in the following manner: "I wonder, sir, after the many great obligations you have had to this family" (with all which the reader hath in the course of this history been minutely acquainted), "that you will ungratefully show any respect to a fellow who hath been turned out of it for his misdeeds. Nor doth it, I can tell you, sir, become a man of your character, to run about the country with an idle fellow and wench. Indeed, as for the girl, I know no harm of her. Slipslop tells me she was formerly bred up in my house, and behaved as she ought, till she hankered after this fellow, and he spoiled her. Nay, she may still, perhaps, do very well, if he will let her alone. You are, therefore, doing a monstrous thing in endeavouring to procure a match between these two people, which will be to the ruin of them both." --"Madam," said Adams, "if your ladyship will but hear me speak, I protest I never heard any harm of Mr Joseph Andrews; if I had, I should have corrected him for it; for I never have, nor will, encourage the faults of those under my care. As for the young woman, I assure your ladyship I have as good an opinion of her as your ladyship yourself or any other can have. She is the sweetest-tempered, honestest, worthiest young creature; indeed, as to her beauty, I do not commend her on that account, though all men allow she is the handsomest woman, gentle or simple, that ever appeared in the parish." --"You are very impertinent," says she, "to talk such fulsome stuff to me. It is mighty becoming truly in a clergyman to trouble himself about handsome women, and you are a delicate judge of beauty, no doubt. A man who hath lived all his life in such a parish as this is a rare judge of beauty! Ridiculous! beauty indeed! a country wench a beauty! I shall be sick whenever I hear beauty mentioned again. And so this wench is to stock the parish with beauties, I hope. But, sir, our poor is numerous enough already; I will have no more vagabonds settled here." --"Madam," says Adams, "your ladyship is offended with me, I protest, without any reason. This couple were desirous to consummate long ago, and I dissuaded them from it; nay, I may venture to say, I believe I was the sole cause of their delaying it." --"Well," says she, "and you did very wisely and honestly too, notwithstanding she is the greatest beauty in the parish." --"And now, madam," continued he, "I only perform my office to Mr Joseph." --"Pray, don't mister such fellows to me," cries the lady. "He," said the parson, "with the consent of Fanny, before my face, put in the banns." "Yes," answered the lady, "I suppose the slut is forward enough; Slipslop tells me how her head runs upon fellows; that is one of her beauties, I suppose. But if they have put in the banns, I desire you will publish them no more without my orders." --"Madam," cries Adams, "if any one puts in a sufficient caution, and assigns a proper reason against them, I am willing to surcease." --"I tell you a reason," says she: "he is a vagabond, and he shall not settle here, and bring a nest of beggars into the parish; it will make us but little amends that they will be beauties." --"Madam," answered Adams, "with the utmost submission to your ladyship, I have been informed by lawyer Scout that any person who serves a year gains a settlement in the parish where he serves." --"Lawyer Scout," replied the lady, "is an impudent coxcomb; I will have no lawyer Scout interfere with me. I repeat to you again, I will have no more incumbrances brought on us: so I desire you will proceed no farther." --"Madam," returned Adams, "I would obey your ladyship in everything that is lawful; but surely the parties being poor is no reason against their marrying. God forbid there should be any such law! The poor have little share enough of this world already; it would be barbarous indeed to deny them the common privileges and innocent enjoyments which nature indulges to the animal creation." --"Since you understand yourself no better," cries the lady, "nor the respect due from such as you to a woman of my distinction, than to affront my ears by such loose discourse, I shall mention but one short word; it is my orders to you that you publish these banns no more; and if you dare, I will recommend it to your master, the doctor, to discard you from his service. I will, sir, notwithstanding your poor family; and then you and the greatest beauty in the parish may go and beg together." --"Madam," answered Adams, "I know not what your ladyship means by the terms master and service. I am in the service of a Master who will never discard me for doing my duty; and if the doctor (for indeed I have never been able to pay for a licence) thinks proper to turn me from my cure, God will provide me, I hope, another. At least, my family, as well as myself, have hands; and he will prosper, I doubt not, our endeavours to get our bread honestly with them. Whilst my conscience is pure, I shall never fear what man can do unto me." --"I condemn my humility," said the lady, "for demeaning myself to converse with you so long. I shall take other measures; for I see you are a confederate with them. But the sooner you leave me the better; and I shall give orders that my doors may no longer be open to you. I will suffer no parsons who run about the country with beauties to be entertained here." --"Madam," said Adams, "I shall enter into no persons' doors against their will; but I am assured, when you have enquired farther into this matter, you will applaud, not blame, my proceeding; and so I humbly take my leave:" which he did with many bows, or at least many attempts at a bow. CHAPTER III. _What passed between the lady and lawyer Scout._ In the afternoon the lady sent for Mr Scout, whom she attacked most violently for intermeddling with her servants, which he denied, and indeed with truth, for he had only asserted accidentally, and perhaps rightly, that a year's service gained a settlement; and so far he owned he might have formerly informed the parson and believed it was law. "I am resolved," said the lady, "to have no discarded servants of mine settled here; and so, if this be your law, I shall send to another lawyer." Scout said, "If she sent to a hundred lawyers, not one or all of them could alter the law. The utmost that was in the power of a lawyer was to prevent the law's taking effect; and that he himself could do for her ladyship as well as any other; and I believe," says he, "madam, your ladyship, not being conversant in these matters, hath mistaken a difference; for I asserted only that a man who served a year was settled. Now there is a material difference between being settled in law and settled in fact; and as I affirmed generally he was settled, and law is preferable to fact, my settlement must be understood in law and not in fact. And suppose, madam, we admit he was settled in law, what use will they make of it? how doth that relate to fact? He is not settled in fact; and if he be not settled in fact, he is not an inhabitant; and if he is not an inhabitant, he is not of this parish; and then undoubtedly he ought not to be published here; for Mr Adams hath told me your ladyship's pleasure, and the reason, which is a very good one, to prevent burdening us with the poor; we have too many already, and I think we ought to have an act to hang or transport half of them. If we can prove in evidence that he is not settled in fact, it is another matter. What I said to Mr Adams was on a supposition that he was settled in fact; and indeed, if that was the case, I should doubt." --"Don't tell me your facts and your ifs," said the lady; "I don't understand your gibberish; you take too much upon you, and are very impertinent, in pretending to direct in this parish; and you shall be taught better, I assure you, you shall. But as to the wench, I am resolved she shall not settle here; I will not suffer such beauties as these to produce children for us to keep." --"Beauties, indeed! your ladyship is pleased to be merry," answered Scout.--"Mr Adams described her so to me," said the lady. "Pray, what sort of dowdy is it, Mr Scout?" --"The ugliest creature almost I ever beheld; a poor dirty drab, your ladyship never saw such a wretch." --"Well, but, dear Mr Scout, let her be what she will, these ugly women will bring children, you know; so that we must prevent the marriage." --"True, madam," replied Scout, "for the subsequent marriage co-operating with the law will carry law into fact. When a man is married he is settled in fact, and then he is not removable. I will see Mr Adams, and I make no doubt of prevailing with him. His only objection is, doubtless, that he shall lose his fee; but that being once made easy, as it shall be, I am confident no farther objection will remain. No, no, it is impossible; but your ladyship can't discommend his unwillingness to depart from his fee. Every man ought to have a proper value for his fee. As to the matter in question, if your ladyship pleases to employ me in it, I will venture to promise you success. The laws of this land are not so vulgar to permit a mean fellow to contend with one of your ladyship's fortune. We have one sure card, which is, to carry him before Justice Frolick, who, upon hearing your ladyship's name, will commit him without any farther questions. As for the dirty slut, we shall have nothing to do with her; for, if we get rid of the fellow, the ugly jade will--"--"Take what measures you please, good Mr Scout," answered the lady: "but I wish you could rid the parish of both; for Slipslop tells me such stories of this wench, that I abhor the thoughts of her; and, though you say she is such an ugly slut, yet you know, dear Mr Scout, these forward creatures, who run after men, will always find some as forward as themselves; so that, to prevent the increase of beggars, we must get rid of her." --"Your ladyship is very much in the right," answered Scout; "but I am afraid the law is a little deficient in giving us any such power of prevention; however, the justice will stretch it as far as he is able, to oblige your ladyship. To say truth, it is a great blessing to the country that he is in the commission, for he hath taken several poor off our hands that the law would never lay hold on. I know some justices who think as much of committing a man to Bridewell as his lordship at 'size would of hanging him; but it would do a man good to see his worship, our justice, commit a fellow to Bridewell, he takes so much pleasure in it; and when once we ha'um there, we seldom hear any more o'um. He's either starved or eat up by vermin in a month's time." --Here the arrival of a visitor put an end to the conversation, and Mr Scout, having undertaken the cause and promised it success, departed. This Scout was one of those fellows who, without any knowledge of the law, or being bred to it, take upon them, in defiance of an act of Parliament, to act as lawyers in the country, and are called so. They are the pests of society, and a scandal to a profession, to which indeed they do not belong, and which owes to such kind of rascallions the ill-will which weak persons bear towards it. With this fellow, to whom a little before she would not have condescended to have spoken, did a certain passion for Joseph, and the jealousy and the disdain of poor innocent Fanny, betray the Lady Booby into a familiar discourse, in which she inadvertently confirmed many hints with which Slipslop, whose gallant he was, had pre-acquainted him; and whence he had taken an opportunity to assert those severe falsehoods of little Fanny which possibly the reader might not have been well able to account for if we had not thought proper to give him this information. CHAPTER IV. _A short chapter, but very full of matter; particularly the arrival of Mr Booby and his lady._ All that night, and the next day, the Lady Booby past with the utmost anxiety; her mind was distracted and her soul tossed up and down by many turbulent and opposite passions. She loved, hated, pitied, scorned, admired, despised the same person by fits, which changed in a very short interval. On Tuesday morning, which happened to be a holiday, she went to church, where, to her surprize, Mr Adams published the banns again with as audible a voice as before. It was lucky for her that, as there was no sermon, she had an immediate opportunity of returning home to vent her rage, which she could not have concealed from the congregation five minutes; indeed, it was not then very numerous, the assembly consisting of no more than Adams, his clerk, his wife, the lady, and one of her servants. At her return she met Slipslop, who accosted her in these words:--"O meam, what doth your ladyship think? To be sure, lawyer Scout hath carried Joseph and Fanny both before the justice. All the parish are in tears, and say they will certainly be hanged; for nobody knows what it is for"--"I suppose they deserve it," says the lady. "What! dost thou mention such wretches to me?" --"O dear madam," answered Slipslop, "is it not a pity such a graceless young man should die a virulent death? I hope the judge will take commensuration on his youth. As for Fanny, I don't think it signifies much what becomes of her; and if poor Joseph hath done anything, I could venture to swear she traduced him to it: few men ever come to a fragrant punishment, but by those nasty creatures, who are a scandal to our sect." The lady was no more pleased at this news, after a moment's reflection, than Slipslop herself; for, though she wished Fanny far enough, she did not desire the removal of Joseph, especially with her. She was puzzled how to act or what to say on this occasion, when a coach and six drove into the court, and a servant acquainted her with the arrival of her nephew Booby and his lady. She ordered them to be conducted into a drawing-room, whither she presently repaired, having composed her countenance as well as she could, and being a little satisfied that the wedding would by these means be at least interrupted, and that she should have an opportunity to execute any resolution she might take, for which she saw herself provided with an excellent instrument in Scout. The Lady Booby apprehended her servant had made a mistake when he mentioned Mr Booby's lady; for she had never heard of his marriage: but how great was her surprize when, at her entering the room, her nephew presented his wife to her; saying, "Madam, this is that charming Pamela, of whom I am convinced you have heard so much." The lady received her with more civility than he expected; indeed with the utmost; for she was perfectly polite, nor had any vice inconsistent with good-breeding. They past some little time in ordinary discourse, when a servant came and whispered Mr Booby, who presently told the ladies he must desert them a little on some business of consequence; and, as their discourse during his absence would afford little improvement or entertainment to the reader, we will leave them for a while to attend Mr Booby. CHAPTER V. _Containing justice business; curious precedents of depositions, and other matters necessary to be perused by all justices of the peace and their clerks._ The young squire and his lady were no sooner alighted from their coach than the servants began to inquire after Mr Joseph, from whom they said their lady had not heard a word, to her great surprize, since he had left Lady Booby's. Upon this they were instantly informed of what had lately happened, with which they hastily acquainted their master, who took an immediate resolution to go himself, and endeavour to restore his Pamela her brother, before she even knew she had lost him. The justice before whom the criminals were carried, and who lived within a short mile of the lady's house, was luckily Mr Booby's acquaintance, by his having an estate in his neighbourhood. Ordering therefore his horses to his coach, he set out for the judgment-seat, and arrived when the justice had almost finished his business. He was conducted into a hall, where he was acquainted that his worship would wait on him in a moment; for he had only a man and a woman to commit to Bridewell first. As he was now convinced he had not a minute to lose, he insisted on the servant's introducing him directly into the room where the justice was then executing his office, as he called it. Being brought thither, and the first compliments being passed between the squire and his worship, the former asked the latter what crime those two young people had been guilty of? "No great crime," answered the justice; "I have only ordered them to Bridewell for a month." "But what is their crime?" repeated the squire. "Larceny, an't please your honour," said Scout. "Ay," says the justice, "a kind of felonious larcenous thing. I believe I must order them a little correction too, a little stripping and whipping." (Poor Fanny, who had hitherto supported all with the thoughts of Joseph's company, trembled at that sound; but, indeed, without reason, for none but the devil himself would have executed such a sentence on her.) "Still," said the squire, "I am ignorant of the crime--the fact I mean." "Why, there it is in peaper," answered the justice, showing him a deposition which, in the absence of his clerk, he had writ himself, of which we have with great difficulty procured an authentic copy; and here it follows _verbatim et literatim:_-- _The depusition of James Scout, layer, and Thomas Trotter, yeoman, taken before mee, one of his magesty's justasses of the piece for Zumersetshire._ "These deponants saith, and first Thomas Trotter for himself saith, that on the -- of this instant October, being Sabbath-day, betwin the ours of 2 and 4 in the afternoon, he zeed Joseph Andrews and Francis Goodwill walk akross a certane felde belunging to layer Scout, and out of the path which ledes thru the said felde, and there he zede Joseph Andrews with a nife cut one hassel twig, of the value, as he believes, of three half-pence, or thereabouts; and he saith that the said Francis Goodwill was likewise walking on the grass out of the said path in the said felde, and did receive and karry in her hand the said twig, and so was cumfarting, eading, and abatting to the said Joseph therein. And the said James Scout for himself says that he verily believes the said twig to be his own proper twig," &c. "Jesu!" said the squire, "would you commit two persons to Bridewell for a twig?" "Yes," said the lawyer, "and with great lenity too; for if we had called it a young tree, they would have been both hanged." "Harkee," says the justice, taking aside the squire; "I should not have been so severe on this occasion, but Lady Booby desires to get them out of the parish; so lawyer Scout will give the constable orders to let them run away, if they please: but it seems they intend to marry together, and the lady hath no other means, as they are legally settled there, to prevent their bringing an incumbrance on her own parish." "Well," said the squire, "I will take care my aunt shall be satisfied in this point; and likewise I promise you, Joseph here shall never be any incumbrance on her. I shall be obliged to you, therefore, if, instead of Bridewell, you will commit them to my custody." "O! to be sure, sir, if you desire it," answered the justice; and without more ado Joseph and Fanny were delivered over to Squire Booby, whom Joseph very well knew, but little guessed how nearly he was related to him. The justice burnt his mittimus, the constable was sent about his business, the lawyer made no complaint for want of justice; and the prisoners, with exulting hearts, gave a thousand thanks to his honour Mr Booby; who did not intend their obligations to him should cease here; for, ordering his man to produce a cloak-bag, which he had caused to be brought from Lady Booby's on purpose, he desired the justice that he might have Joseph with him into a room; where, ordering his servant to take out a suit of his own clothes, with linnen and other necessaries, he left Joseph to dress himself, who, not yet knowing the cause of all this civility, excused his accepting such a favour as long as decently he could. Whilst Joseph was dressing, the squire repaired to the justice, whom he found talking with Fanny; for, during the examination, she had flopped her hat over her eyes, which were also bathed in tears, and had by that means concealed from his worship what might perhaps have rendered the arrival of Mr Booby unnecessary, at least for herself. The justice no sooner saw her countenance cleared up, and her bright eyes shining through her tears, than he secretly cursed himself for having once thought of Bridewell for her. He would willingly have sent his own wife thither, to have had Fanny in her place. And, conceiving almost at the same instant desires and schemes to accomplish them, he employed the minutes whilst the squire was absent with Joseph in assuring her how sorry he was for having treated her so roughly before he knew her merit; and told her, that since Lady Booby was unwilling that she should settle in her parish, she was heartily welcome to his, where he promised her his protection, adding that he would take Joseph and her into his own family, if she liked it; which assurance he confirmed with a squeeze by the hand. She thanked him very kindly, and said, "She would acquaint Joseph with the offer, which he would certainly be glad to accept; for that Lady Booby was angry with them both; though she did not know either had done anything to offend her, but imputed it to Madam Slipslop, who had always been her enemy." The squire now returned, and prevented any farther continuance of this conversation; and the justice, out of a pretended respect to his guest, but in reality from an apprehension of a rival (for he knew nothing of his marriage), ordered Fanny into the kitchen, whither she gladly retired; nor did the squire, who declined the trouble of explaining the whole matter, oppose it. It would be unnecessary, if I was able, which indeed I am not, to relate the conversation between these two gentlemen, which rolled, as I have been informed, entirely on the subject of horse-racing. Joseph was soon drest in the plainest dress he could find, which was a blue coat and breeches, with a gold edging, and a red waistcoat with the same: and as this suit, which was rather too large for the squire, exactly fitted him, so he became it so well, and looked so genteel, that no person would have doubted its being as well adapted to his quality as his shape; nor have suspected, as one might, when my Lord ----, or Sir ----, or Mr ----, appear in lace or embroidery, that the taylor's man wore those clothes home on his back which he should have carried under his arm. The squire now took leave of the justice; and, calling for Fanny, made her and Joseph, against their wills, get into the coach with him, which he then ordered to drive to Lady Booby's. It had moved a few yards only, when the squire asked Joseph if he knew who that man was crossing the field; for, added he, I never saw one take such strides before. Joseph answered eagerly, "O, sir, it is parson Adams!" "O la, indeed, and so it is," said Fanny; "poor man, he is coming to do what he could for us. Well, he is the worthiest, best-natured creature." --"Ay," said Joseph; "God bless him! for there is not such another in the universe." "The best creature living sure," cries Fanny. "Is he?" says the squire; "then I am resolved to have the best creature living in my coach;" and so saying, he ordered it to stop, whilst Joseph, at his request, hallowed to the parson, who, well knowing his voice, made all the haste imaginable, and soon came up with them. He was desired by the master, who could scarce refrain from laughter at his figure, to mount into the coach, which he with many thanks refused, saying he could walk by its side, and he'd warrant he kept up with it; but he was at length over-prevailed on. The squire now acquainted Joseph with his marriage; but he might have spared himself that labour; for his servant, whilst Joseph was dressing, had performed that office before. He continued to express the vast happiness he enjoyed in his sister, and the value he had for all who belonged to her. Joseph made many bows, and exprest as many acknowledgments: and parson Adams, who now first perceived Joseph's new apparel, burst into tears with joy, and fell to rubbing his hands and snapping his fingers as if he had been mad. They were now arrived at the Lady Booby's, and the squire, desiring them to wait a moment in the court, walked in to his aunt, and calling her out from his wife, acquainted her with Joseph's arrival; saying, "Madam, as I have married a virtuous and worthy woman, I am resolved to own her relations, and show them all a proper respect; I shall think myself therefore infinitely obliged to all mine who will do the same. It is true, her brother hath been your servant, but he is now become my brother; and I have one happiness, that neither his character, his behaviour, or appearance, give me any reason to be ashamed of calling him so. In short, he is now below, dressed like a gentleman, in which light I intend he shall hereafter be seen; and you will oblige me beyond expression if you will admit him to be of our party; for I know it will give great pleasure to my wife, though she will not mention it." This was a stroke of fortune beyond the Lady Booby's hopes or expectation; she answered him eagerly, "Nephew, you know how easily I am prevailed on to do anything which Joseph Andrews desires--Phoo, I mean which you desire me; and, as he is now your relation, I cannot refuse to entertain him as such." The squire told her he knew his obligation to her for her compliance; and going three steps, returned and told her--he had one more favour, which he believed she would easily grant, as she had accorded him the former. "There is a young woman--"--"Nephew," says she, "don't let my good-nature make you desire, as is too commonly the case, to impose on me. Nor think, because I have with so much condescension agreed to suffer your brother-in-law to come to my table, that I will submit to the company of all my own servants, and all the dirty trollops in the country." "Madam," answered the squire, "I believe you never saw this young creature. I never beheld such sweetness and innocence joined with such beauty, and withal so genteel." "Upon my soul I won't admit her," replied the lady in a passion; "the whole world shan't prevail on me; I resent even the desire as an affront, and--" The squire, who knew her inflexibility, interrupted her, by asking pardon, and promising not to mention it more. He then returned to Joseph, and she to Pamela. He took Joseph aside, and told him he would carry him to his sister, but could not prevail as yet for Fanny. Joseph begged that he might see his sister alone, and then be with his Fanny; but the squire, knowing the pleasure his wife would have in her brother's company, would not admit it, telling Joseph there would be nothing in so short an absence from Fanny, whilst he was assured of her safety; adding, he hoped he could not so easily quit a sister whom he had not seen so long, and who so tenderly loved him. Joseph immediately complied; for indeed no brother could love a sister more; and, recommending Fanny, who rejoiced that she was not to go before Lady Booby, to the care of Mr Adams, he attended the squire upstairs, whilst Fanny repaired with the parson to his house, where she thought herself secure of a kind reception. CHAPTER VI. _Of which you are desired to read no more than you like._ The meeting between Joseph and Pamela was not without tears of joy on both sides; and their embraces were full of tenderness and affection. They were, however, regarded with much more pleasure by the nephew than by the aunt, to whose flame they were fuel only; and this was increased by the addition of dress, which was indeed not wanted to set off the lively colours in which Nature had drawn health, strength, comeliness, and youth. In the afternoon Joseph, at their request, entertained them with an account of his adventures: nor could Lady Booby conceal her dissatisfaction at those parts in which Fanny was concerned, especially when Mr Booby launched forth into such rapturous praises of her beauty. She said, applying to her niece, that she wondered her nephew, who had pretended to marry for love, should think such a subject proper to amuse his wife with; adding, that, for her part, she should be jealous of a husband who spoke so warmly in praise of another woman. Pamela answered, indeed, she thought she had cause; but it was an instance of Mr Booby's aptness to see more beauty in women than they were mistresses of. At which words both the women fixed their eyes on two looking-glasses; and Lady Booby replied, that men were, in the general, very ill judges of beauty; and then, whilst both contemplated only their own faces, they paid a cross compliment to each other's charms. When the hour of rest approached, which the lady of the house deferred as long as decently she could, she informed Joseph (whom for the future we shall call Mr Joseph, he having as good a title to that appellation as many others--I mean that incontested one of good clothes) that she had ordered a bed to be provided for him. He declined this favour to his utmost; for his heart had long been with his Fanny; but she insisted on his accepting it, alledging that the parish had no proper accommodation for such a person as he was now to esteem himself. The squire and his lady both joining with her, Mr Joseph was at last forced to give over his design of visiting Fanny that evening; who, on her side, as impatiently expected him till midnight, when, in complacence to Mr Adams's family, who had sat up two hours out of respect to her, she retired to bed, but not to sleep; the thoughts of her love kept her waking, and his not returning according to his promise filled her with uneasiness; of which, however, she could not assign any other cause than merely that of being absent from him. Mr Joseph rose early in the morning, and visited her in whom his soul delighted. She no sooner heard his voice in the parson's parlour than she leapt from her bed, and, dressing herself in a few minutes, went down to him. They passed two hours with inexpressible happiness together; and then, having appointed Monday, by Mr Adams's permission, for their marriage, Mr Joseph returned, according to his promise, to breakfast at the Lady Booby's, with whose behaviour, since the evening, we shall now acquaint the reader. She was no sooner retired to her chamber than she asked Slipslop "What she thought of this wonderful creature her nephew had married?" -- "Madam?" said Slipslop, not yet sufficiently understanding what answer she was to make. "I ask you," answered the lady, "what you think of the dowdy, my niece, I think I am to call her?" Slipslop, wanting no further hint, began to pull her to pieces, and so miserably defaced her, that it would have been impossible for any one to have known the person. The lady gave her all the assistance she could, and ended with saying, "I think, Slipslop, you have done her justice; but yet, bad as she is, she is an angel compared to this Fanny." Slipslop then fell on Fanny, whom she hacked and hewed in the like barbarous manner, concluding with an observation that there was always something in those low-life creatures which must eternally extinguish them from their betters. "Really," said the lady, "I think there is one exception to your rule; I am certain you may guess who I mean." --"Not I, upon my word, madam," said Slipslop. "I mean a young fellow; sure you are the dullest wretch," said the lady. "O la! I am indeed. Yes, truly, madam, he is an accession," answered Slipslop. "Ay, is he not, Slipslop?" returned the lady. "Is he not so genteel that a prince might, without a blush, acknowledge him for his son? His behaviour is such that would not shame the best education. He borrows from his station a condescension in everything to his superiors, yet unattended by that mean servility which is called good behaviour in such persons. Everything he doth hath no mark of the base motive of fear, but visibly shows some respect and gratitude, and carries with it the persuasion of love. And then for his virtues: such piety to his parents, such tender affection to his sister, such integrity in his friendship, such bravery, such goodness, that, if he had been born a gentleman, his wife would have possessed the most invaluable blessing." --"To be sure, ma'am," says Slipslop. "But as he is," answered the lady, "if he had a thousand more good qualities, it must render a woman of fashion contemptible even to be suspected of thinking of him; yes, I should despise myself for such a thought." --"To be sure, ma'am," said Slipslop. "And why to be sure?" replied the lady; "thou art always one's echo. Is he not more worthy of affection than a dirty country clown, though born of a family as old as the flood? or an idle worthless rake, or little puisny beau of quality? And yet these we must condemn ourselves to, in order to avoid the censure of the world; to shun the contempt of others, we must ally ourselves to those we despise; we must prefer birth, title, and fortune, to real merit. It is a tyranny of custom, a tyranny we must comply with; for we people of fashion are the slaves of custom." --"Marry come up!" said Slipslop, who now knew well which party to take. "If I was a woman of your ladyship's fortune and quality, I would be a slave to nobody." --"Me," said the lady; "I am speaking if a young woman of fashion, who had seen nothing of the world, should happen to like such a fellow.--Me, indeed! I hope thou dost not imagine--"--"No, ma'am, to be sure," cries Slipslop. "No! what no?" cried the lady. "Thou art always ready to answer before thou hast heard one. So far I must allow he is a charming fellow. Me, indeed! No, Slipslop, all thoughts of men are over with me. I have lost a husband who--but if I should reflect I should run mad. My future ease must depend upon forgetfulness. Slipslop, let me hear some of thy nonsense, to turn my thoughts another way. What dost thou think of Mr Andrews?" --"Why, I think," says Slipslop, "he is the handsomest, most properest man I ever saw; and if I was a lady of the greatest degree it would be well for some folks. Your ladyship may talk of custom, if you please: but I am confidous there is no more comparison between young Mr Andrews and most of the young gentlemen who come to your ladyship's house in London; a parcel of whipper-snapper sparks: I would sooner marry our old parson Adams. Never tell me what people say, whilst I am happy in the arms of him I love. Some folks rail against other folks because other folks have what some folks would be glad of." --"And so," answered the lady, "if you was a woman of condition, you would really marry Mr Andrews?" --"Yes, I assure your ladyship," replied Slipslop, "if he would have me." --"Fool, idiot!" cries the lady; "if he would have a woman of fashion! is that a question?" --"No, truly, madam," said Slipslop, "I believe it would be none if Fanny was out of the way; and I am confidous, if I was in your ladyship's place, and liked Mr Joseph Andrews, she should not stay in the parish a moment. I am sure lawyer Scout would send her packing if your ladyship would but say the word." This last speech of Slipslop raised a tempest in the mind of her mistress. She feared Scout had betrayed her, or rather that she had betrayed herself. After some silence, and a double change of her complexion, first to pale and then to red, she thus spoke: "I am astonished at the liberty you give your tongue. Would you insinuate that I employed Scout against this wench on account of the fellow?" --"La, ma'am," said Slipslop, frighted out of her wits, "I assassinate such a thing!" --"I think you dare not," answered the lady; "I believe my conduct may defy malice itself to assert so cursed a slander. If I had ever discovered any wantonness, any lightness in my behaviour; if I had followed the example of some whom thou hast, I believe, seen, in allowing myself indecent liberties, even with a husband; but the dear man who is gone" (here she began to sob), "was he alive again" (then she produced tears), "could not upbraid me with any one act of tenderness or passion. No, Slipslop, all the time I cohabited with him he never obtained even a kiss from me without my expressing reluctance in the granting it. I am sure he himself never suspected how much I loved him. Since his death, thou knowest, though it is almost six weeks (it wants but a day) ago, I have not admitted one visitor till this fool my nephew arrived. I have confined myself quite to one party of friends. And can such a conduct as this fear to be arraigned? To be accused, not only of a passion which I have always despised, but of fixing it on such an object, a creature so much beneath my notice!" --"Upon my word, ma'am," says Slipslop, "I do not understand your ladyship; nor know I anything of the matter." --"I believe indeed thou dost not understand me. Those are delicacies which exist only in superior minds; thy coarse ideas cannot comprehend them. Thou art a low creature, of the Andrews breed, a reptile of a lower order, a weed that grows in the common garden of the creation." --"I assure your ladyship," says Slipslop, whose passions were almost of as high an order as her lady's, "I have no more to do with Common Garden than other folks. Really, your ladyship talks of servants as if they were not born of the Christian specious. Servants have flesh and blood as well as quality; and Mr Andrews himself is a proof that they have as good, if not better. And for my own part, I can't perceive my dears are coarser than other people's; and I am sure, if Mr Andrews was a dear of mine, I should not be ashamed of him in company with gentlemen; for whoever hath seen him in his new clothes must confess he looks as much like a gentleman as anybody. Coarse, quotha! I can't bear to hear the poor young fellow run down neither; for I will say this, I never heard him say an ill word of anybody in his life. I am sure his coarseness doth not lie in his heart, for he is the best-natured man in the world; and as for his skin, it is no coarser than other people's, I am sure. His bosom, when a boy, was as white as driven snow; and, where it is not covered with hairs, is so still. Ifakins! if I was Mrs Andrews, with a hundred a year, I should not envy the best she who wears a head. A woman that could not be happy with such a man ought never to be so; for if he can't make a woman happy, I never yet beheld the man who could. I say again, I wish I was a great lady for his sake. I believe, when I had made a gentleman of him, he'd behave so that nobody should deprecate what I had done; and I fancy few would venture to tell him he was no gentleman to his face, nor to mine neither." At which words, taking up the candles, she asked her mistress, who had been some time in her bed, if she had any farther commands? who mildly answered, she had none; and, telling her she was a comical creature, bid her good-night. Meaning perhaps ideas. CHAPTER VII. Mr Booby's grave advice to Joseph, and Fanny's encounter with a beau._ Habit, my good reader, hath so vast a prevalence over the human mind, that there is scarce anything too strange or too strong to be asserted of it. The story of the miser, who, from long accustoming to cheat others, came at last to cheat himself, and with great delight and triumph picked his own pocket of a guinea to convey to his hoard, is not impossible or improbable. In like manner it fares with the practisers of deceit, who, from having long deceived their acquaintance, gain at last a power of deceiving themselves, and acquire that very opinion (however false) of their own abilities, excellencies, and virtues, into which they have for years perhaps endeavoured to betray their neighbours. Now, reader, to apply this observation to my present purpose, thou must know, that as the passion generally called love exercises most of the talents of the female or fair world, so in this they now and then discover a small inclination to deceit; for which thou wilt not be angry with the beautiful creatures when thou hast considered that at the age of seven, or something earlier, miss is instructed by her mother that master is a very monstrous kind of animal, who will, if she suffers him to come too near her, infallibly eat her up and grind her to pieces: that, so far from kissing or toying with him of her own accord, she must not admit him to kiss or toy with her: and, lastly, that she must never have any affection towards him; for if she should, all her friends in petticoats would esteem her a traitress, point at her, and hunt her out of their society. These impressions, being first received, are farther and deeper inculcated by their school-mistresses and companions; so that by the age of ten they have contracted such a dread and abhorrence of the above-named monster, that whenever they see him they fly from him as the innocent hare doth from the greyhound. Hence, to the age of fourteen or fifteen, they entertain a mighty antipathy to master; they resolve, and frequently profess, that they will never have any commerce with him, and entertain fond hopes of passing their lives out of his reach, of the possibility of which they have so visible an example in their good maiden aunt. But when they arrive at this period, and have now passed their second climacteric, when their wisdom, grown riper, begins to see a little farther, and, from almost daily falling in master's way, to apprehend the great difficulty of keeping out of it; and when they observe him look often at them, and sometimes very eagerly and earnestly too (for the monster seldom takes any notice of them till at this age), they then begin to think of their danger; and, as they perceive they cannot easily avoid him, the wiser part bethink themselves of providing by other means for their security. They endeavour, by all methods they can invent, to render themselves so amiable in his eyes, that he may have no inclination to hurt them; in which they generally succeed so well, that his eyes, by frequent languishing, soon lessen their idea of his fierceness, and so far abate their fears, that they venture to parley with him; and when they perceive him so different from what he hath been described, all gentleness, softness, kindness, tenderness, fondness, their dreadful apprehensions vanish in a moment; and now (it being usual with the human mind to skip from one extreme to its opposite, as easily, and almost as suddenly, as a bird from one bough to another) love instantly succeeds to fear: but, as it happens to persons who have in their infancy been thoroughly frightened with certain no-persons called ghosts, that they retain their dread of those beings after they are convinced that there are no such things, so these young ladies, though they no longer apprehend devouring, cannot so entirely shake off all that hath been instilled into them; they still entertain the idea of that censure which was so strongly imprinted on their tender minds, to which the declarations of abhorrence they every day hear from their companions greatly contribute. To avoid this censure, therefore, is now their only care; for which purpose they still pretend the same aversion to the monster: and the more they love him, the more ardently they counterfeit the antipathy. By the continual and constant practice of which deceit on others, they at length impose on themselves, and really believe they hate what they love. Thus, indeed, it happened to Lady Booby, who loved Joseph long before she knew it; and now loved him much more than she suspected. She had indeed, from the time of his sister's arrival in the quality of her niece, and from the instant she viewed him in the dress and character of a gentleman, began to conceive secretly a design which love had concealed from herself till a dream betrayed it to her. She had no sooner risen than she sent for her nephew. When he came to her, after many compliments on his choice, she told him, "He might perceive, in her condescension to admit her own servant to her table, that she looked on the family of Andrews as his relations, and indeed hers; that, as he had married into such a family, it became him to endeavour by all methods to raise it as much as possible. At length she advised him to use all his heart to dissuade Joseph from his intended match, which would still enlarge their relation to meanness and poverty; concluding that, by a commission in the army, or some other genteel employment, he might soon put young Mr Andrews on the foot of a gentleman; and, that being once done, his accomplishments might quickly gain him an alliance which would not be to their discredit." Her nephew heartily embraced this proposal, and, finding Mr Joseph with his wife, at his return to her chamber, he immediately began thus: "My love to my dear Pamela, brother, will extend to all her relations; nor shall I show them less respect than if I had married into the family of a duke. I hope I have given you some early testimonies of this, and shall continue to give you daily more. You will excuse me therefore, brother, if my concern for your interest makes me mention what may be, perhaps, disagreeable to you to hear: but I must insist upon it, that, if you have any value for my alliance or my friendship, you will decline any thoughts of engaging farther with a girl who is, as you are a relation of mine, so much beneath you. I know there may be at first some difficulty in your compliance, but that will daily diminish; and you will in the end sincerely thank me for my advice. I own, indeed, the girl is handsome; but beauty alone is a poor ingredient, and will make but an uncomfortable marriage." --"Sir," said Joseph, "I assure you her beauty is her least perfection; nor do I know a virtue which that young creature is not possesst of." --"As to her virtues," answered Mr Booby, "you can be yet but a slender judge of them; but, if she had never so many, you will find her equal in these among her superiors in birth and fortune, which now you are to esteem on a footing with yourself; at least I will take care they shall shortly be so, unless you prevent me by degrading yourself with such a match, a match I have hardly patience to think of, and which would break the hearts of your parents, who now rejoice in the expectation of seeing you make a figure in the world." --"I know not," replied Joseph, "that my parents have any power over my inclinations; nor am I obliged to sacrifice my happiness to their whim or ambition: besides, I shall be very sorry to see that the unexpected advancement of my sister should so suddenly inspire them with this wicked pride, and make them despise their equals. I am resolved on no account to quit my dear Fanny; no, though I could raise her as high above her present station as you have raised my sister." --"Your sister, as well as myself," said Booby, "are greatly obliged to you for the comparison: but, sir, she is not worthy to be compared in beauty to my Pamela; nor hath she half her merit. And besides, sir, as you civilly throw my marriage with your sister in my teeth, I must teach you the wide difference between us: my fortune enabled me to please myself; and it would have been as overgrown a folly in me to have omitted it as in you to do it." --"My fortune enables me to please myself likewise," said Joseph; "for all my pleasure is centered in Fanny; and whilst I have health I shall be able to support her with my labour in that station to which she was born, and with which she is content." --"Brother," said Pamela, "Mr Booby advises you as a friend; and no doubt my papa and mamma will be of his opinion, and will have great reason to be angry with you for destroying what his goodness hath done, and throwing down our family again, after he hath raised it. It would become you better, brother, to pray for the assistance of grace against such a passion than to indulge it." --"Sure, sister, you are not in earnest; I am sure she is your equal, at least." --"She was my equal," answered Pamela; "but I am no longer Pamela Andrews; I am now this gentleman's lady, and, as such, am above her.--I hope I shall never behave with an unbecoming pride: but, at the same time, I shall always endeavour to know myself, and question not the assistance of grace to that purpose." They were now summoned to breakfast, and thus ended their discourse for the present, very little to the satisfaction of any of the parties. Fanny was now walking in an avenue at some distance from the house, where Joseph had promised to take the first opportunity of coming to her. She had not a shilling in the world, and had subsisted ever since her return entirely on the charity of parson Adams. A young gentleman, attended by many servants, came up to her, and asked her if that was not the Lady Booby's house before him? This, indeed, he well knew; but had framed the question for no other reason than to make her look up, and discover if her face was equal to the delicacy of her shape. He no sooner saw it than he was struck with amazement. He stopt his horse, and swore she was the most beautiful creature he ever beheld. Then, instantly alighting and delivering his horse to his servant, he rapt out half-a-dozen oaths that he would kiss her; to which she at first submitted, begging he would not be rude; but he was not satisfied with the civility of a salute, nor even with the rudest attack he could make on her lips, but caught her in his arms, and endeavoured to kiss her breasts, which with all her strength she resisted, and, as our spark was not of the Herculean race, with some difficulty prevented. The young gentleman, being soon out of breath in the struggle, quitted her, and, remounting his horse, called one of his servants to him, whom he ordered to stay behind with her, and make her any offers whatever to prevail on her to return home with him in the evening; and to assure her he would take her into keeping. He then rode on with his other servants, and arrived at the lady's house, to whom he was a distant relation, and was come to pay a visit. The trusty fellow, who was employed in an office he had been long accustomed to, discharged his part with all the fidelity and dexterity imaginable, but to no purpose. She was entirely deaf to his offers, and rejected them with the utmost disdain. At last the pimp, who had perhaps more warm blood about him than his master, began to sollicit for himself; he told her, though he was a servant, he was a man of some fortune, which he would make her mistress of; and this without any insult to her virtue, for that he would marry her. She answered, if his master himself, or the greatest lord in the land, would marry her, she would refuse him. At last, being weary with persuasions, and on fire with charms which would have almost kindled a flame in the bosom of an ancient philosopher or modern divine, he fastened his horse to the ground, and attacked her with much more force than the gentleman had exerted. Poor Fanny would not have been able to resist his rudeness a short time, but the deity who presides over chaste love sent her Joseph to her assistance. He no sooner came within sight, and perceived her struggling with a man, than, like a cannon-ball, or like lightning, or anything that is swifter, if anything be, he ran towards her, and, coming up just as the ravisher had torn her handkerchief from her breast, before his lips had touched that seat of innocence and bliss, he dealt him so lusty a blow in that part of his neck which a rope would have become with the utmost propriety, that the fellow staggered backwards, and, perceiving he had to do with something rougher than the little, tender, trembling hand of Fanny, he quitted her, and, turning about, saw his rival, with fire flashing from his eyes, again ready to assail him; and, indeed, before he could well defend himself, or return the first blow, he received a second, which, had it fallen on that part of the stomach to which it was directed, would have been probably the last he would have had any occasion for; but the ravisher, lifting up his hand, drove the blow upwards to his mouth, whence it dislodged three of his teeth; and now, not conceiving any extraordinary affection for the beauty of Joseph's person, nor being extremely pleased with this method of salutation, he collected all his force, and aimed a blow at Joseph's breast, which he artfully parried with one fist, so that it lost its force entirely in air; and, stepping one foot backward, he darted his fist so fiercely at his enemy, that, had he not caught it in his hand (for he was a boxer of no inferior fame), it must have tumbled him on the ground. And now the ravisher meditated another blow, which he aimed at that part of the breast where the heart is lodged; Joseph did not catch it as before, yet so prevented its aim that it fell directly on his nose, but with abated force. Joseph then, moving both fist and foot forwards at the same time, threw his head so dexterously into the stomach of the ravisher that he fell a lifeless lump on the field, where he lay many minutes breathless and motionless. When Fanny saw her Joseph receive a blow in his face, and blood running in a stream from him, she began to tear her hair and invoke all human and divine power to his assistance. She was not, however, long under this affliction before Joseph, having conquered his enemy, ran to her, and assured her he was not hurt; she then instantly fell on her knees, and thanked God that he had made Joseph the means of her rescue, and at the same time preserved him from being injured in attempting it. She offered, with her handkerchief, to wipe his blood from his face; but he, seeing his rival attempting to recover his legs, turned to him, and asked him if he had enough? To which the other answered he had; for he believed he had fought with the devil instead of a man; and, loosening his horse, said he should not have attempted the wench if he had known she had been so well provided for. Fanny now begged Joseph to return with her to parson Adams, and to promise that he would leave her no more. These were propositions so agreeable to Joseph, that, had he heard them, he would have given an immediate assent; but indeed his eyes were now his only sense; for you may remember, reader, that the ravisher had tore her handkerchief from Fanny's neck, by which he had discovered such a sight, that Joseph hath declared all the statues he ever beheld were so much inferior to it in beauty, that it was more capable of converting a man into a statue than of being imitated by the greatest master of that art. This modest creature, whom no warmth in summer could ever induce to expose her charms to the wanton sun, a modesty to which, perhaps, they owed their inconceivable whiteness, had stood many minutes bare-necked in the presence of Joseph before her apprehension of his danger and the horror of seeing his blood would suffer her once to reflect on what concerned herself; till at last, when the cause of her concern had vanished, an admiration at his silence, together with observing the fixed position of his eyes, produced an idea in the lovely maid which brought more blood into her face than had flowed from Joseph's nostrils. The snowy hue of her bosom was likewise changed to vermilion at the instant when she clapped her handkerchief round her neck. Joseph saw the uneasiness she suffered, and immediately removed his eyes from an object, in surveying which he had felt the greatest delight which the organs of sight were capable of conveying to his soul;--so great was his fear of offending her, and so truly did his passion for her deserve the noble name of love. Fanny, being recovered from her confusion, which was almost equalled by what Joseph had felt from observing it, again mentioned her request; this was instantly and gladly complied with; and together they crossed two or three fields, which brought them to the habitation of Mr Adams. CHAPTER VIII. _A discourse which happened between Mr Adams, Mrs Adams, Joseph, and Fanny; with some behaviour of Mr Adams which will be called by some few readers very low, absurd, and unnatural._ The parson and his wife had just ended a long dispute when the lovers came to the door. Indeed, this young couple had been the subject of the dispute; for Mrs Adams was one of those prudent people who never do anything to injure their families, or, perhaps, one of those good mothers who would even stretch their conscience to serve their children. She had long entertained hopes of seeing her eldest daughter succeed Mrs Slipslop, and of making her second son an exciseman by Lady Booby's interest. These were expectations she could not endure the thoughts of quitting, and was, therefore, very uneasy to see her husband so resolute to oppose the lady's intention in Fanny's affair. She told him, "It behoved every man to take the first care of his family; that he had a wife and six children, the maintaining and providing for whom would be business enough for him without intermeddling in other folks' affairs; that he had always preached up submission to superiors, and would do ill to give an example of the contrary behaviour in his own conduct; that if Lady Booby did wrong she must answer for it herself, and the sin would not lie at their door; that Fanny had been a servant, and bred up in the lady's own family, and consequently she must have known more of her than they did, and it was very improbable, if she had behaved herself well, that the lady would have been so bitterly her enemy; that perhaps he was too much inclined to think well of her because she was handsome, but handsome women were often no better than they should be; that G-- made ugly women as well as handsome ones; and that if a woman had virtue it signified nothing whether she had beauty or no." For all which reasons she concluded he should oblige the lady, and stop the future publication of the banns. But all these excellent arguments had no effect on the parson, who persisted in doing his duty without regarding the consequence it might have on his worldly interest. He endeavoured to answer her as well as he could; to which she had just finished her reply (for she had always the last word everywhere but at church) when Joseph and Fanny entered their kitchen, where the parson and his wife then sat at breakfast over some bacon and cabbage. There was a coldness in the civility of Mrs Adams which persons of accurate speculation might have observed, but escaped her present guests; indeed, it was a good deal covered by the heartiness of Adams, who no sooner heard that Fanny had neither eat nor drank that morning than he presented her a bone of bacon he had just been gnawing, being the only remains of his provision, and then ran nimbly to the tap, and produced a mug of small beer, which he called ale; however, it was the best in his house. Joseph, addressing himself to the parson, told him the discourse which had past between Squire Booby, his sister, and himself concerning Fanny; he then acquainted him with the dangers whence he had rescued her, and communicated some apprehensions on her account. He concluded that he should never have an easy moment till Fanny was absolutely his, and begged that he might be suffered to fetch a licence, saying he could easily borrow the money. The parson answered, That he had already given his sentiments concerning a licence, and that a very few days would make it unnecessary. "Joseph," says he, "I wish this haste doth not arise rather from your impatience than your fear; but, as it certainly springs from one of these causes, I will examine both. Of each of these therefore in their turn; and first for the first of these, namely, impatience. Now, child, I must inform you that, if in your purposed marriage with this young woman you have no intention but the indulgence of carnal appetites, you are guilty of a very heinous sin. Marriage was ordained for nobler purposes, as you will learn when you hear the service provided on that occasion read to you. Nay, perhaps, if you are a good lad, I, child, shall give you a sermon gratis, wherein I shall demonstrate how little regard ought to be had to the flesh on such occasions. The text will be Matthew the 5th, and part of the 28th verse--_Whosoever looketh on a woman, so as to lust after her_. The latter part I shall omit, as foreign to my purpose. Indeed, all such brutal lusts and affections are to be greatly subdued, if not totally eradicated, before the vessel can be said to be consecrated to honour. To marry with a view of gratifying those inclinations is a prostitution of that holy ceremony, and must entail a curse on all who so lightly undertake it. If, therefore, this haste arises from impatience, you are to correct, and not give way to it. Now, as to the second head which I proposed to speak to, namely, fear: it argues a diffidence, highly criminal, of that Power in which alone we should put our trust, seeing we may be well assured that he is able, not only to defeat the designs of our enemies, but even to turn their hearts. Instead of taking, therefore, any unjustifiable or desperate means to rid ourselves of fear, we should resort to prayer only on these occasions; and we may be then certain of obtaining what is best for us. When any accident threatens us we are not to despair, nor, when it overtakes us, to grieve; we must submit in all things to the will of Providence, and set our affections so much on nothing here that we cannot quit it without reluctance. You are a young man, and can know but little of this world; I am older, and have seen a great deal. All passions are criminal in their excess; and even love itself, if it is not subservient to our duty, may render us blind to it. Had Abraham so loved his son Isaac as to refuse the sacrifice required, is there any of us who would not condemn him? Joseph, I know your many good qualities, and value you for them; but, as I am to render an account of your soul, which is committed to my cure, I cannot see any fault without reminding you of it. You are too much inclined to passion, child, and have set your affections so absolutely on this young woman, that, if G-- required her at your hands, I fear you would reluctantly part with her. Now, believe me, no Christian ought so to set his heart on any person or thing in this world, but that, whenever it shall be required or taken from him in any manner by Divine Providence, he may be able, peaceably, quietly, and contentedly to resign it." At which words one came hastily in, and acquainted Mr Adams that his youngest son was drowned. He stood silent a moment, and soon began to stamp about the room and deplore his loss with the bitterest agony. Joseph, who was overwhelmed with concern likewise, recovered himself sufficiently to endeavour to comfort the parson; in which attempt he used many arguments that he had at several times remembered out of his own discourses, both in private and public (for he was a great enemy to the passions, and preached nothing more than the conquest of them by reason and grace), but he was not at leisure now to hearken to his advice. "Child, child," said he, "do not go about impossibilities. Had it been any other of my children I could have borne it with patience; but my little prattler, the darling and comfort of my old age--the little wretch, to be snatched out of life just at his entrance into it; the sweetest, best-tempered boy, who never did a thing to offend me. It was but this morning I gave him his first lesson in _Que Genus_. This was the very book he learnt; poor child! it is of no further use to thee now. He would have made the best scholar, and have been an ornament to the Church;--such parts and such goodness never met in one so young." "And the handsomest lad too," says Mrs Adams, recovering from a swoon in Fanny's arms. "My poor Jacky, shall I never see thee more?" cries the parson. "Yes, surely," says Joseph, "and in a better place; you will meet again, never to part more." I believe the parson did not hear these words, for he paid little regard to them, but went on lamenting, whilst the tears trickled down into his bosom. At last he cried out, "Where is my little darling?" and was sallying out, when to his great surprize and joy, in which I hope the reader will sympathize, he met his son in a wet condition indeed, but alive and running towards him. The person who brought the news of his misfortune had been a little too eager, as people sometimes are, from, I believe, no very good principle, to relate ill news; and, seeing him fall into the river, instead of running to his assistance, directly ran to acquaint his father of a fate which he had concluded to be inevitable, but whence the child was relieved by the same poor pedlar who had relieved his father before from a less distress. The parson's joy was now as extravagant as his grief had been before; he kissed and embraced his son a thousand times, and danced about the room like one frantic; but as soon as he discovered the face of his old friend the pedlar, and heard the fresh obligation he had to him, what were his sensations? not those which two courtiers feel in one another's embraces; not those with which a great man receives the vile treacherous engines of his wicked purposes, not those with which a worthless younger brother wishes his elder joy of a son, or a man congratulates his rival on his obtaining a mistress, a place, or an honour.--No, reader; he felt the ebullition, the overflowings of a full, honest, open heart, towards the person who had conferred a real obligation, and of which, if thou canst not conceive an idea within, I will not vainly endeavour to assist thee. When these tumults were over, the parson, taking Joseph aside, proceeded thus--"No, Joseph, do not give too much way to thy passions, if thou dost expect happiness." The patience of Joseph, nor perhaps of Job, could bear no longer; he interrupted the parson, saying, "It was easier to give advice than take it; nor did he perceive he could so entirely conquer himself, when he apprehended he had lost his son, or when he found him recovered." --"Boy," replied Adams, raising his voice, "it doth not become green heads to advise grey hairs.--Thou art ignorant of the tenderness of fatherly affection; when thou art a father thou wilt be capable then only of knowing what a father can feel. No man is obliged to impossibilities; and the loss of a child is one of those great trials where our grief may be allowed to become immoderate." --"Well, sir," cries Joseph, "and if I love a mistress as well as you your child, surely her loss would grieve me equally." --"Yes, but such love is foolishness and wrong in itself, and ought to be conquered," answered Adams; "it savours too much of the flesh." --"Sure, sir," says Joseph, "it is not sinful to love my wife, no, not even to doat on her to distraction!" --"Indeed but it is," says Adams. "Every man ought to love his wife, no doubt; we are commanded so to do; but we ought to love her with moderation and discretion." --"I am afraid I shall be guilty of some sin in spite of all my endeavours," says Joseph; "for I shall love without any moderation, I am sure." --"You talk foolishly and childishly," cries Adams.--"Indeed," says Mrs Adams, who had listened to the latter part of their conversation, "you talk more foolishly yourself. I hope, my dear, you will never preach any such doctrine as that husbands can love their wives too well. If I knew you had such a sermon in the house I am sure I would burn it, and I declare, if I had not been convinced you had loved me as well as you could, I can answer for myself, I should have hated and despised you. Marry come up! Fine doctrine, indeed! A wife hath a right to insist on her husband's loving her as much as ever he can; and he is a sinful villain who doth not. Doth he not promise to love her, and to comfort her, and to cherish her, and all that? I am sure I remember it all as well as if I had repeated it over but yesterday, and shall never forget it. Besides, I am certain you do not preach as you practise; for you have been a loving and a cherishing husband to me; that's the truth on't; and why you should endeavour to put such wicked nonsense into this young man's head I cannot devise. Don't hearken to him, Mr Joseph; be as good a husband as you are able, and love your wife with all your body and soul too." Here a violent rap at the door put an end to their discourse, and produced a scene which the reader will find in the next chapter. CHAPTER IX. _A visit which the polite Lady Booby and her polite friend paid to the parson._ The Lady Booby had no sooner had an account from the gentleman of his meeting a wonderful beauty near her house, and perceived the raptures with which he spoke of her, than, immediately concluding it must be Fanny, she began to meditate a design of bringing them better acquainted; and to entertain hopes that the fine clothes, presents, and promises of this youth, would prevail on her to abandon Joseph: she therefore proposed to her company a walk in the fields before dinner, when she led them towards Mr Adams's house; and, as she approached it, told them if they pleased she would divert them with one of the most ridiculous sights they had ever seen, which was an old foolish parson, who, she said, laughing, kept a wife and six brats on a salary of about twenty pounds a year; adding, that there was not such another ragged family in the parish. They all readily agreed to this visit, and arrived whilst Mrs Adams was declaiming as in the last chapter. Beau Didapper, which was the name of the young gentleman we have seen riding towards Lady Booby's, with his cane mimicked the rap of a London footman at the door. The people within, namely, Adams, his wife and three children, Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar, were all thrown into confusion by this knock, but Adams went directly to the door, which being opened, the Lady Booby and her company walked in, and were received by the parson with about two hundred bows, and by his wife with as many curtsies; the latter telling the lady "She was ashamed to be seen in such a pickle, and that her house was in such a litter; but that if she had expected such an honour from her ladyship she should have found her in a better manner." The parson made no apologies, though he was in his half-cassock and a flannel nightcap. He said "They were heartily welcome to his poor cottage," and turning to Mr Didapper, cried out, "_Non mea renidet in domo lacunar_." The beau answered, "He did not understand Welsh;" at which the parson stared and made no reply. Mr Didapper, or beau Didapper, was a young gentleman of about four foot five inches in height. He wore his own hair, though the scarcity of it might have given him sufficient excuse for a periwig. His face was thin and pale; the shape of his body and legs none of the best, for he had very narrow shoulders and no calf; and his gait might more properly be called hopping than walking. The qualifications of his mind were well adapted to his person. We shall handle them first negatively. He was not entirely ignorant; for he could talk a little French and sing two or three Italian songs; he had lived too much in the world to be bashful, and too much at court to be proud: he seemed not much inclined to avarice, for he was profuse in his expenses; nor had he all the features of prodigality, for he never gave a shilling: no hater of women, for he always dangled after them; yet so little subject to lust, that he had, among those who knew him best, the character of great moderation in his pleasures; no drinker of wine; nor so addicted to passion but that a hot word or two from an adversary made him immediately cool. Now, to give him only a dash or two on the affirmative side: though he was born to an immense fortune, he chose, for the pitiful and dirty consideration of a place of little consequence, to depend entirely on the will of a fellow whom they call a great man; who treated him with the utmost disrespect, and exacted of him a plenary obedience to his commands, which he implicitly submitted to, at the expense of his conscience, his honour, and of his country, in which he had himself so very large a share. And to finish his character; as he was entirely well satisfied with his own person and parts, so he was very apt to ridicule and laugh at any imperfection in another. Such was the little person, or rather thing, that hopped after Lady Booby into Mr Adams's kitchen. The parson and his company retreated from the chimney-side, where they had been seated, to give room to the lady and hers. Instead of returning any of the curtsies or extraordinary civility of Mrs Adams, the lady, turning to Mr Booby, cried out, "_Quelle Bte! Quel Animal!_" And presently after discovering Fanny (for she did not need the circumstance of her standing by Joseph to assure the identity of her person), she asked the beau "Whether he did not think her a pretty girl?" --"Begad, madam," answered he, "'tis the very same I met." "I did not imagine," replied the lady, "you had so good a taste." --"Because I never liked you, I warrant," cries the beau. "Ridiculous!" said she: "you know you was always my aversion." "I would never mention aversion," answered the beau, "with that face; dear Lady Booby, wash your face before you mention aversion, I beseech you." He then laughed, and turned about to coquet it with Fanny. Lest this should appear unnatural to some readers, we think proper to acquaint them, that it is taken verbatim from very polite conversation. Mrs Adams had been all this time begging and praying the ladies to sit down, a favour which she at last obtained. The little boy to whom the accident had happened, still keeping his place by the fire, was chid by his mother for not being more mannerly: but Lady Booby took his part, and, commending his beauty, told the parson he was his very picture. She then, seeing a book in his hand, asked "If he could read?" --"Yes," cried Adams, "a little Latin, madam: he is just got into Quae Genus." --"A fig for quere genius!" answered she; "let me hear him read a little English." --"Lege, Dick, lege," said Adams: but the boy made no answer, till he saw the parson knit his brows, and then cried, "I don't understand you, father." --"How, boy!" says Adams; "what doth lego make in the imperative mood? Legito, doth it not?" --"Yes," answered Dick.--"And what besides ?" says the father. "Lege," quoth the son, after some hesitation. "A good boy," says the father: "and now, child, what is the English of lego?" --To which the boy, after long puzzling, answered, he could not tell. "How!" cries Adams, in a passion;--"what, hath the water washed away your learning? Why, what is Latin for the English verb read? Consider before you speak." The child considered some time, and then the parson cried twice or thrice, "Le--, Le--." Dick answered, "Lego." --"Very well;--and then what is the English," says the parson, "of the verb lego?" --"To read," cried Dick.--"Very well," said the parson; "a good boy: you can do well if you will take pains.--I assure your ladyship he is not much above eight years old, and is out of his Propria quae Maribus already.--Come, Dick, read to her ladyship;"--which she again desiring, in order to give the beau time and opportunity with Fanny, Dick began as in the following chapter. CHAPTER X. _The history of two friends, which may afford an useful lesson to all those persons who happen to take up their residence in married families._ "Leonard and Paul were two friends." --"Pronounce it Lennard, child," cried the parson.--"Pray, Mr Adams," says Lady Booby, "let your son read without interruption." Dick then proceeded. "Lennard and Paul were two friends, who, having been educated together at the same school, commenced a friendship which they preserved a long time for each other. It was so deeply fixed in both their minds, that a long absence, during which they had maintained no correspondence, did not eradicate nor lessen it: but it revived in all its force at their first meeting, which was not till after fifteen years' absence, most of which time Lennard had spent in the East Indi-es." --"Pronounce it short, Indies," says Adams.--"Pray? sir, be quiet," says the lady.--The boy repeated--"in the East Indies, whilst Paul had served his king and country in the army. In which different services they had found such different success, that Lennard was now married, and retired with a fortune of thirty thousand pounds; and Paul was arrived to the degree of a lieutenant of foot; and was not worth a single shilling. "The regiment in which Paul was stationed happened to be ordered into quarters within a small distance from the estate which Lennard had purchased, and where he was settled. This latter, who was now become a country gentleman, and a justice of peace, came to attend the quarter sessions in the town where his old friend was quartered, soon after his arrival. Some affair in which a soldier was concerned occasioned Paul to attend the justices. Manhood, and time, and the change of climate had so much altered Lennard, that Paul did not immediately recollect the features of his old acquaintance: but it was otherwise with Lennard. He knew Paul the moment he saw him; nor could he contain himself from quitting the bench, and running hastily to embrace him. Paul stood at first a little surprized; but had soon sufficient information from his friend, whom he no sooner remembered than he returned his embrace with a passion which made many of the spectators laugh, and gave to some few a much higher and more agreeable sensation. "Not to detain the reader with minute circumstances, Lennard insisted on his friend's returning with him to his house that evening; which request was complied with, and leave for a month's absence for Paul obtained of the commanding officer. "If it was possible for any circumstance to give any addition to the happiness which Paul proposed in this visit, he received that additional pleasure by finding, on his arrival at his friend's house, that his lady was an old acquaintance which he had formerly contracted at his quarters, and who had always appeared to be of a most agreeable temper; a character she had ever maintained among her intimates, being of that number, every individual of which is called quite the best sort of woman in the world. "But, good as this lady was, she was still a woman; that is to say, an angel, and not an angel." --"You must mistake, child," cries the parson, "for you read nonsense." --"It is so in the book," answered the son. Mr Adams was then silenced by authority, and Dick proceeded--"For though her person was of that kind to which men attribute the name of angel, yet in her mind she was perfectly woman. Of which a great degree of obstinacy gave the most remarkable and perhaps most pernicious instance. "A day or two passed after Paul's arrival before any instances of this appeared; but it was impossible to conceal it long. Both she and her husband soon lost all apprehension from their friend's presence, and fell to their disputes with as much vigour as ever. These were still pursued with the utmost ardour and eagerness, however trifling the causes were whence they first arose. Nay, however incredible it may seem, the little consequence of the matter in debate was frequently given as a reason for the fierceness of the contention, as thus: 'If you loved me, sure you would never dispute with me such a trifle as this.' The answer to which is very obvious; for the argument would hold equally on both sides, and was constantly retorted with some addition, as--'I am sure I have much more reason to say so, who am in the right.' During all these disputes, Paul always kept strict silence, and preserved an even countenance, without showing the least visible inclination to either party. One day, however, when madam had left the room in a violent fury, Lennard could not refrain from referring his cause to his friend. Was ever anything so unreasonable, says he, as this woman? What shall I do with her? I doat on her to distraction; nor have I any cause to complain of, more than this obstinacy in her temper; whatever she asserts, she will maintain against all the reason and conviction in the world. Pray give me your advice.--First, says Paul, I will give my opinion, which is, flatly, that you are in the wrong; for, supposing she is in the wrong, was the subject of your contention any ways material? What signified it whether you was married in a red or a yellow waistcoat? for that was your dispute. Now, suppose she was mistaken; as you love her you say so tenderly, and I believe she deserves it, would it not have been wiser to have yielded, though you certainly knew yourself in the right, than to give either her or yourself any uneasiness. For my own part, if ever I marry, I am resolved to enter into an agreement with my wife, that in all disputes (especially about trifles) that party who is most convinced they are right shall always surrender the victory; by which means we shall both be forward to give up the cause. I own, said Lennard, my dear friend, shaking him by the hand, there is great truth and reason in what you say; and I will for the future endeavour to follow your advice. They soon after broke up the conversation, and Lennard, going to his wife, asked her pardon, and told her his friend had convinced him he had been in the wrong. She immediately began a vast encomium on Paul, in which he seconded her, and both agreed he was the worthiest and wisest man upon earth. When next they met, which was at supper, though she had promised not to mention what her husband told her, she could not forbear casting the kindest and most affectionate looks on Paul, and asked him, with the sweetest voice, whether she should help him to some potted woodcock? Potted partridge, my dear, you mean, says the husband. My dear, says she, I ask your friend if he will eat any potted woodcock; and I am sure I must know, who potted it. I think I should know too, who shot them, replied the husband, and I am convinced that I have not seen a woodcock this year; however, though I know I am in the right, I submit, and the potted partridge is potted woodcock if you desire to have it so. It is equal to me, says she, whether it is one or the other; but you would persuade one out of one's senses; to be sure, you are always in the right in your own opinion; but your friend, I believe, knows which he is eating. Paul answered nothing, and the dispute continued, as usual, the greatest part of the evening. The next morning the lady, accidentally meeting Paul, and being convinced he was her friend, and of her side, accosted him thus:--I am certain, sir, you have long since wondered at the unreasonableness of my husband. He is indeed, in other respects, a good sort of man, but so positive, that no woman but one of my complying temper could possibly live with him. Why, last night, now, was ever any creature so unreasonable? I am certain you must condemn him. Pray, answer me, was he not in the wrong? Paul, after a short silence, spoke as follows: I am sorry, madam, that, as good manners obliges me to answer against my will, so an adherence to truth forces me to declare myself of a different opinion. To be plain and honest, you was entirely in the wrong; the cause I own not worth disputing, but the bird was undoubtedly a partridge. O sir! replyed the lady, I cannot possibly help your taste. Madam, returned Paul, that is very little material; for, had it been otherwise, a husband might have expected submission.--Indeed! sir, says she, I assure you!--Yes, madam, cryed he, he might, from a person of your excellent understanding; and pardon me for saying, such a condescension would have shown a superiority of sense even to your husband himself.--But, dear sir, said she, why should I submit when I am in the right?--For that very reason, answered he; it would be the greatest instance of affection imaginable; for can anything be a greater object of our compassion than a person we love in the wrong? Ay, but I should endeavour, said she, to set him right. Pardon me, madam, answered Paul: I will apply to your own experience if you ever found your arguments had that effect. The more our judgments err, the less we are willing to own it: for my own part, I have always observed the persons who maintain the worst side in any contest are the warmest. Why, says she, I must confess there is truth in what you say, and I will endeavour to practise it. The husband then coming in, Paul departed. And Leonard, approaching his wife with an air of good humour, told her he was sorry for their foolish dispute the last night; but he was now convinced of his error. She answered, smiling, she believed she owed his condescension to his complacence; that she was ashamed to think a word had passed on so silly an occasion, especially as she was satisfyed she had been mistaken. A little contention followed, but with the utmost good-will to each other, and was concluded by her asserting that Paul had thoroughly convinced her she had been in the wrong. Upon which they both united in the praises of their common friend. "Paul now passed his time with great satisfaction, these disputes being much less frequent, as well as shorter than usual; but the devil, or some unlucky accident in which perhaps the devil had no hand, shortly put an end to his happiness. He was now eternally the private referee of every difference; in which, after having perfectly, as he thought, established the doctrine of submission, he never scrupled to assure both privately that they were in the right in every argument, as before he had followed the contrary method. One day a violent litigation happened in his absence, and both parties agreed to refer it to his decision. The husband professing himself sure the decision would be in his favour; the wife answered, he might be mistaken; for she believed his friend was convinced how seldom she was to blame; and that if he knew all--The husband replied, My dear, I have no desire of any retrospect; but I believe, if you knew all too, you would not imagine my friend so entirely on your side. Nay, says she, since you provoke me, I will mention one instance. You may remember our dispute about sending Jackey to school in cold weather, which point I gave up to you from mere compassion, knowing myself to be in the right; and Paul himself told me afterwards he thought me so. My dear, replied the husband, I will not scruple your veracity; but I assure you solemnly, on my applying to him, he gave it absolutely on my side, and said he would have acted in the same manner. They then proceeded to produce numberless other instances, in all which Paul had, on vows of secresy, given his opinion on both sides. In the conclusion, both believing each other, they fell severely on the treachery of Paul, and agreed that he had been the occasion of almost every dispute which had fallen out between them. They then became extremely loving, and so full of condescension on both sides, that they vyed with each other in censuring their own conduct, and jointly vented their indignation on Paul, whom the wife, fearing a bloody consequence, earnestly entreated her husband to suffer quietly to depart the next day, which was the time fixed for his return to quarters, and then drop his acquaintance. "However ungenerous this behaviour in Lennard may be esteemed, his wife obtained a promise from him (though with difficulty) to follow her advice; but they both expressed such unusual coldness that day to Paul, that he, who was quick of apprehension, taking Lennard aside, pressed him so home, that he at last discovered the secret. Paul acknowledged the truth, but told him the design with which he had done it.--To which the other answered, he would have acted more friendly to have let him into the whole design; for that he might have assured himself of his secresy. Paul replyed, with some indignation, he had given him a sufficient proof how capable he was of concealing a secret from his wife. Lennard returned with some warmth--he had more reason to upbraid him, for that he had caused most of the quarrels between them by his strange conduct, and might (if they had not discovered the affair to each other) have been the occasion of their separation. Paul then said"--But something now happened which put a stop to Dick's reading, and of which we shall treat in the next chapter. CHAPTER XI. _In which the history is continued._ Joseph Andrews had borne with great uneasiness the impertinence of beau Didapper to Fanny, who had been talking pretty freely to her, and offering her settlements; but the respect to the company had restrained him from interfering whilst the beau confined himself to the use of his tongue only; but the said beau, watching an opportunity whilst the ladies' eyes were disposed another way, offered a rudeness to her with his hands; which Joseph no sooner perceived than he presented him with so sound a box on the ear, that it conveyed him several paces from where he stood. The ladies immediately screamed out, rose from their chairs; and the beau, as soon as he recovered himself, drew his hanger: which Adams observing, snatched up the lid of a pot in his left hand, and, covering himself with it as with a shield, without any weapon of offence in his other hand, stept in before Joseph, and exposed himself to the enraged beau, who threatened such perdition and destruction, that it frighted the women, who were all got in a huddle together, out of their wits, even to hear his denunciations of vengeance. Joseph was of a different complexion, and begged Adams to let his rival come on; for he had a good cudgel in his hand, and did not fear him. Fanny now fainted into Mrs Adams's arms, and the whole room was in confusion, when Mr Booby, passing by Adams, who lay snug under the pot-lid, came up to Didapper, and insisted on his sheathing the hanger, promising he should have satisfaction; which Joseph declared he would give him, and fight him at any weapon whatever. The beau now sheathed his hanger, and taking out a pocket-glass, and vowing vengeance all the time, re-adjusted his hair; the parson deposited his shield; and Joseph, running to Fanny, soon brought her back to life. Lady Booby chid Joseph for his insult on Didapper; but he answered, he would have attacked an army in the same cause. "What cause?" said the lady. "Madam," answered Joseph, "he was rude to that young woman." --"What," says the lady, "I suppose he would have kissed the wench; and is a gentleman to be struck for such an offer? I must tell you, Joseph, these airs do not become you." --"Madam," said Mr Booby, "I saw the whole affair, and I do not commend my brother; for I cannot perceive why he should take upon him to be this girl's champion." --"I can commend him," says Adams: "he is a brave lad; and it becomes any man to be the champion of the innocent; and he must be the basest coward who would not vindicate a woman with whom he is on the brink of marriage." --"Sir," says Mr Booby, "my brother is not a proper match for such a young woman as this." --"No," says Lady Booby; "nor do you, Mr Adams, act in your proper character by encouraging any such doings; and I am very much surprized you should concern yourself in it. I think your wife and family your properer care." --"Indeed, madam, your ladyship says very true," answered Mrs Adams: "he talks a pack of nonsense, that the whole parish are his children. I am sure I don't understand what he means by it; it would make some women suspect he had gone astray, but I acquit him of that; I can read Scripture as well as he, and I never found that the parson was obliged to provide for other folks' children; and besides, he is but a poor curate, and hath little enough, as your ladyship knows, for me and mine." --"You say very well, Mrs Adams," quoth the Lady Booby, who had not spoke a word to her before; "you seem to be a very sensible woman; and I assure you, your husband is acting a very foolish part, and opposing his own interest, seeing my nephew is violently set against this match: and indeed I can't blame him; it is by no means one suitable to our family." In this manner the lady proceeded with Mrs Adams, whilst the beau hopped about the room, shaking his head, partly from pain and partly from anger; and Pamela was chiding Fanny for her assurance in aiming at such a match as her brother. Poor Fanny answered only with her tears, which had long since begun to wet her handkerchief; which Joseph perceiving, took her by the arm, and wrapping it in his carried her off, swearing he would own no relation to any one who was an enemy to her he loved more than all the world. He went out with Fanny under his left arm, brandishing a cudgel in his right, and neither Mr Booby nor the beau thought proper to oppose him. Lady Booby and her company made a very short stay behind him; for the lady's bell now summoned them to dress; for which they had just time before dinner. Adams seemed now very much dejected, which his wife perceiving, began to apply some matrimonial balsam. She told him he had reason to be concerned, for that he had probably ruined his family with his tricks almost; but perhaps he was grieved for the loss of his two children, Joseph and Fanny. His eldest daughter went on: "Indeed, father, it is very hard to bring strangers here to eat your children's bread out of their mouths. You have kept them ever since they came home; and, for anything I see to the contrary, may keep them a month longer; are you obliged to give her meat, tho'f she was never so handsome? But I don't see she is so much handsomer than other people. If people were to be kept for their beauty, she would scarce fare better than her neighbours, I believe. As for Mr Joseph, I have nothing to say; he is a young man of honest principles, and will pay some time or other for what he hath; but for the girl--why doth she not return to her place she ran away from? I would not give such a vagabond slut a halfpenny though I had a million of money; no, though she was starving." "Indeed but I would," cries little Dick; "and, father, rather than poor Fanny shall be starved, I will give her all this bread and cheese"--(offering what he held in his hand). Adams smiled on the boy, and told him he rejoiced to see he was a Christian; and that if he had a halfpenny in his pocket, he would have given it him; telling him it was his duty to look upon all his neighbours as his brothers and sisters, and love them accordingly. "Yes, papa," says he, "I love her better than my sisters, for she is handsomer than any of them." "Is she so, saucebox?" says the sister, giving him a box on the ear; which the father would probably have resented, had not Joseph, Fanny, and the pedlar at that instant returned together. Adams bid his wife prepare some food for their dinner; she said, "Truly she could not, she had something else to do." Adams rebuked her for disputing his commands, and quoted many texts of Scripture to prove "That the husband is the head of the wife, and she is to submit and obey." The wife answered, "It was blasphemy to talk Scripture out of church; that such things were very proper to be said in the pulpit, but that it was profane to talk them in common discourse." Joseph told Mr Adams "He was not come with any design to give him or Mrs Adams any trouble; but to desire the favour of all their company to the George (an ale-house in the parish), where he had bespoke a piece of bacon and greens for their dinner." Mrs Adams, who was a very good sort of woman, only rather too strict in oeconomies, readily accepted this invitation, as did the parson himself by her example; and away they all walked together, not omitting little Dick, to whom Joseph gave a shilling when he heard of his intended liberality to Fanny. CHAPTER XII. _Where the good-natured reader will see something which will give him no great pleasure._ The pedlar had been very inquisitive from the time he had first heard that the great house in this parish belonged to the Lady Booby, and had learnt that she was the widow of Sir Thomas, and that Sir Thomas had bought Fanny, at about the age of three or four years, of a travelling woman; and, now their homely but hearty meal was ended, he told Fanny he believed he could acquaint her with her parents. The whole company, especially she herself, started at this offer of the pedlar's. He then proceeded thus, while they all lent their strictest attention:--"Though I am now contented with this humble way of getting my livelihood, I was formerly a gentleman; for so all those of my profession are called. In a word, I was a drummer in an Irish regiment of foot. Whilst I was in this honourable station I attended an officer of our regiment into England a-recruiting. In our march from Bristol to Froome (for since the decay of the woollen trade the clothing towns have furnished the army with a great number of recruits) we overtook on the road a woman, who seemed to be about thirty years old or thereabouts, not very handsome, but well enough for a soldier. As we came up to her, she mended her pace, and falling into discourse with our ladies (for every man of the party, namely, a serjeant, two private men, and a drum, were provided with their woman except myself), she continued to travel on with us. I, perceiving she must fall to my lot, advanced presently to her, made love to her in our military way, and quickly succeeded to my wishes. We struck a bargain within a mile, and lived together as man and wife to her dying day." "I suppose," says Adams, interrupting him, "you were married with a licence; for I don't see how you could contrive to have the banns published while you were marching from place to place." "No, sir," said the pedlar, "we took a licence to go to bed together without any banns." "Ay! ay!" said the parson; "_ex necessitate_, a licence may be allowable enough; but surely, surely, the other is the more regular and eligible way." The pedlar proceeded thus: "She returned with me to our regiment, and removed with us from quarters to quarters, till at last, whilst we lay at Galloway, she fell ill of a fever and died. When she was on her death-bed she called me to her, and, crying bitterly, declared she could not depart this world without discovering a secret to me, which, she said, was the only sin which sat heavy on her heart. She said she had formerly travelled in a company of gypsies, who had made a practice of stealing away children; that for her own part, she had been only once guilty of the crime; which, she said, she lamented more than all the rest of her sins, since probably it might have occasioned the death of the parents; for, added she, it is almost impossible to describe the beauty of the young creature, which was about a year and a half old when I kidnapped it. We kept her (for she was a girl) above two years in our company, when I sold her myself, for three guineas, to Sir Thomas Booby, in Somersetshire. Now, you know whether there are any more of that name in this county." "Yes," says Adams, "there are several Boobys who are squires, but I believe no baronet now alive; besides, it answers so exactly in every point, there is no room for doubt; but you have forgot to tell us the parents from whom the child was stolen." "Their name," answered the pedlar, "was Andrews. They lived about thirty miles from the squire; and she told me that I might be sure to find them out by one circumstance; for that they had a daughter of a very strange name, Pamela, or Pam_e_la; some pronounced it one way, and some the other." Fanny, who had changed colour at the first mention of the name, now fainted away; Joseph turned pale, and poor Dicky began to roar; the parson fell on his knees, and ejaculated many thanksgivings that this discovery had been made before the dreadful sin of incest was committed; and the pedlar was struck with amazement, not being able to account for all this confusion; the cause of which was presently opened by the parson's daughter, who was the only unconcerned person (for the mother was chafing Fanny's temples, and taking the utmost care of her): and, indeed, Fanny was the only creature whom the daughter would not have pitied in her situation; wherein, though we compassionate her ourselves, we shall leave her for a little while, and pay a short visit to Lady Booby. CHAPTER XIII. _The history, returning to the Lady Booby, gives some account of the terrible conflict in her breast between love and pride; with what happened on the present discovery._ The lady sat down with her company to dinner, but eat nothing. As soon as her cloth was removed she whispered Pamela that she was taken a little ill, and desired her to entertain her husband and beau Didapper. She then went up into her chamber, sent for Slipslop, threw herself on the bed in the agonies of love, rage, and despair; nor could she conceal these boiling passions longer without bursting. Slipslop now approached her bed, and asked how her ladyship did; but, instead of revealing her disorder, as she intended, she entered into a long encomium on the beauty and virtues of Joseph Andrews; ending, at last, with expressing her concern that so much tenderness should be thrown away on so despicable an object as Fanny. Slipslop, well knowing how to humour her mistress's frenzy, proceeded to repeat, with exaggeration, if possible, all her mistress had said, and concluded with a wish that Joseph had been a gentleman, and that she could see her lady in the arms of such a husband. The lady then started from the bed, and, taking a turn or two across the room, cryed out, with a deep sigh, "Sure he would make any woman happy!" --"Your ladyship," says she, "would be the happiest woman in the world with him. A fig for custom and nonsense! What 'vails what people say? Shall I be afraid of eating sweetmeats because people may say I have a sweet tooth? If I had a mind to marry a man, all the world should not hinder me. Your ladyship hath no parents to tutelar your infections; besides, he is of your ladyship's family now, and as good a gentleman as any in the country; and why should not a woman follow her mind as well as man? Why should not your ladyship marry the brother as well as your nephew the sister. I am sure, if it was a fragrant crime, I would not persuade your ladyship to it." --"But, dear Slipslop," answered the lady, "if I could prevail on myself to commit such a weakness, there is that cursed Fanny in the way, whom the idiot--O how I hate and despise him!"--"She! a little ugly mynx," cries Slipslop; "leave her to me. I suppose your ladyship hath heard of Joseph's fitting with one of Mr Didapper's servants about her; and his master hath ordered them to carry her away by force this evening. I'll take care they shall not want assistance. I was talking with this gentleman, who was below, just when your ladyship sent for me." --"Go back," says the Lady Booby, "this instant, for I expect Mr Didapper will soon be going. Do all you can; for I am resolved this wench shall not be in our family: I will endeavour to return to the company; but let me know as soon as she is carried off." Slipslop went away; and her mistress began to arraign her own conduct in the following manner:-- "What am I doing? How do I suffer this passion to creep imperceptibly upon me? How many days are past since I could have submitted to ask myself the question?--Marry a footman! Distraction! Can I afterwards bear the eyes of my acquaintance? But I can retire from them; retire with one in whom I propose more happiness than the world without him can give me! Retire-to feed continually on beauties which my inflamed imagination sickens with eagerly gazing on; to satisfy every appetite, every desire, with their utmost wish. Ha! and do I doat thus on a footman? I despise, I detest my passion.--Yet why? Is he not generous, gentle, kind?--Kind! to whom? to the meanest wretch, a creature below my consideration. Doth he not--yes, he doth prefer her. Curse his beauties, and the little low heart that possesses them; which can basely descend to this despicable wench, and be ungratefully deaf to all the honours I do him. And can I then love this monster? No, I will tear his image from my bosom, tread on him, spurn him. I will have those pitiful charms, which now I despise, mangled in my sight; for I will not suffer the little jade I hate to riot in the beauties I contemn. No; though I despise him myself, though I would spurn him from my feet, was he to languish at them, no other should taste the happiness I scorn. Why do I say happiness? To me it would be misery. To sacrifice my reputation, my character, my rank in life, to the indulgence of a mean and a vile appetite! How I detest the thought! How much more exquisite is the pleasure resulting from the reflection of virtue and prudence than the faint relish of what flows from vice and folly! Whither did I suffer this improper, this mad passion to hurry me, only by neglecting to summon the aids of reason to my assistance? Reason, which hath now set before me my desires in their proper colours, and immediately helped me to expel them. Yes, I thank Heaven and my pride, I have now perfectly conquered this unworthy passion; and if there was no obstacle in its way, my pride would disdain any pleasures which could be the consequence of so base, so mean, so vulgar--" Slipslop returned at this instant in a violent hurry, and with the utmost eagerness cryed out, "O madam! I have strange news. Tom the footman is just come from the George; where, it seems, Joseph and the rest of them are a jinketting; and he says there is a strange man who hath discovered that Fanny and Joseph are brother and sister." --"How, Slipslop?" cries the lady, in a surprize.--"I had not time, madam," cries Slipslop, "to enquire about particles, but Tom says it is most certainly true." This unexpected account entirely obliterated all those admirable reflections which the supreme power of reason had so wisely made just before. In short, when despair, which had more share in producing the resolutions of hatred we have seen taken, began to retreat, the lady hesitated a moment, and then, forgetting all the purport of her soliloquy, dismissed her woman again, with orders to bid Tom attend her in the parlour, whither she now hastened to acquaint Pamela with the news. Pamela said she could not believe it; for she had never heard that her mother had lost any child, or that she had ever had any more than Joseph and herself. The lady flew into a violent rage with her, and talked of upstarts and disowning relations who had so lately been on a level with her. Pamela made no answer; but her husband, taking up her cause, severely reprimanded his aunt for her behaviour to his wife: he told her, if it had been earlier in the evening she should not have staid a moment longer in her house; that he was convinced, if this young woman could be proved her sister, she would readily embrace her as such, and he himself would do the same. He then desired the fellow might be sent for, and the young woman with him, which Lady Booby immediately ordered; and, thinking proper to make some apology to Pamela for what she had said, it was readily accepted, and all things reconciled. The pedlar now attended, as did Fanny and Joseph, who would not quit her; the parson likewise was induced, not only by curiosity, of which he had no small portion, but his duty, as he apprehended it, to follow them; for he continued all the way to exhort them, who were now breaking their hearts, to offer up thanksgivings, and be joyful for so miraculous an escape. When they arrived at Booby-Hall they were presently called into the parlour, where the pedlar repeated the same story he had told before, and insisted on the truth of every circumstance; so that all who heard him were extremely well satisfied of the truth, except Pamela, who imagined, as she had never heard either of her parents mention such an accident, that it must be certainly false; and except the Lady Booby, who suspected the falsehood of the story from her ardent desire that it should be true; and Joseph, who feared its truth, from his earnest wishes that it might prove false. Mr Booby now desired them all to suspend their curiosity and absolute belief or disbelief till the next morning, when he expected old Mr Andrews and his wife to fetch himself and Pamela home in his coach, and then they might be certain of certainly knowing the truth or falsehood of this relation; in which, he said, as there were many strong circumstances to induce their credit, so he could not perceive any interest the pedlar could have in inventing it, or in endeavouring to impose such a falsehood on them. The Lady Booby, who was very little used to such company, entertained them all--_viz_. her nephew, his wife, her brother and sister, the beau, and the parson, with great good humour at her own table. As to the pedlar, she ordered him to be made as welcome as possible by her servants. All the company in the parlour, except the disappointed lovers, who sat sullen and silent, were full of mirth; for Mr Booby had prevailed on Joseph to ask Mr Didapper's pardon, with which he was perfectly satisfied. Many jokes passed between the beau and the parson, chiefly on each other's dress; these afforded much diversion to the company. Pamela chid her brother Joseph for the concern which he exprest at discovering a new sister. She said, if he loved Fanny as he ought, with a pure affection, he had no reason to lament being related to her.--Upon which Adams began to discourse on Platonic love; whence he made a quick transition to the joys in the next world, and concluded with strongly asserting that there was no such thing as pleasure in this. At which Pamela and her husband smiled on one another. This happy pair proposing to retire (for no other person gave the least symptom of desiring rest), they all repaired to several beds provided for them in the same house; nor was Adams himself suffered to go home, it being a stormy night. Fanny indeed often begged she might go home with the parson; but her stay was so strongly insisted on, that she at last, by Joseph's advice, consented. CHAPTER XIV. _Containing several curious night-adventures, in which Mr Adams fell into many hair-breadth 'scapes, partly owing to his goodness, and partly to his inadvertency._ About an hour after they had all separated (it being now past three in the morning), beau Didapper, whose passion for Fanny permitted him not to close his eyes, but had employed his imagination in contrivances how to satisfy his desires, at last hit on a method by which he hoped to effect it. He had ordered his servant to bring him word where Fanny lay, and had received his information; he therefore arose, put on his breeches and nightgown, and stole softly along the gallery which led to her apartment; and, being come to the door, as he imagined it, he opened it with the least noise possible and entered the chamber. A savour now invaded his nostrils which he did not expect in the room of so sweet a young creature, and which might have probably had no good effect on a cooler lover. However, he groped out the bed with difficulty, for there was not a glimpse of light, and, opening the curtains, he whispered in Joseph's voice (for he was an excellent mimic), "Fanny, my angel! I am come to inform thee that I have discovered the falsehood of the story we last night heard. I am no longer thy brother, but the lover; nor will I be delayed the enjoyment of thee one moment longer. You have sufficient assurances of my constancy not to doubt my marrying you, and it would be want of love to deny me the possession of thy charms." --So saying, he disencumbered himself from the little clothes he had on, and, leaping into bed, embraced his angel, as he conceived her, with great rapture. If he was surprized at receiving no answer, he was no less pleased to find his hug returned with equal ardour. He remained not long in this sweet confusion; for both he and his paramour presently discovered their error. Indeed it was no other than the accomplished Slipslop whom he had engaged; but, though she immediately knew the person whom she had mistaken for Joseph, he was at a loss to guess at the representative of Fanny. He had so little seen or taken notice of this gentlewoman, that light itself would have afforded him no assistance in his conjecture. Beau Didapper no sooner had perceived his mistake than he attempted to escape from the bed with much greater haste than he had made to it; but the watchful Slipslop prevented him. For that prudent woman, being disappointed of those delicious offerings which her fancy had promised her pleasure, resolved to make an immediate sacrifice to her virtue. Indeed she wanted an opportunity to heal some wounds, which her late conduct had, she feared, given her reputation; and, as she had a wonderful presence of mind, she conceived the person of the unfortunate beau to be luckily thrown in her way to restore her lady's opinion of her impregnable chastity. At that instant, therefore, when he offered to leap from the bed, she caught fast hold of his shirt, at the same time roaring out, "O thou villain! who hast attacked my chastity, and, I believe, ruined me in my sleep; I will swear a rape against thee, I will prosecute thee with the utmost vengeance." The beau attempted to get loose, but she held him fast, and when he struggled she cried out "Murder! murder! rape! robbery! ruin!" At which words, parson Adams, who lay in the next chamber, wakeful, and meditating on the pedlar's discovery, jumped out of bed, and, without staying to put a rag of clothes on, hastened into the apartment whence the cries proceeded. He made directly to the bed in the dark, where, laying hold of the beau's skin (for Slipslop had torn his shirt almost off), and finding his skin extremely soft, and hearing him in a low voice begging Slipslop to let him go, he no longer doubted but this was the young woman in danger of ravishing, and immediately falling on the bed, and laying hold on Slipslop's chin, where he found a rough beard, his belief was confirmed; he therefore rescued the beau, who presently made his escape, and then, turning towards Slipslop, received such a cuff on his chops, that, his wrath kindling instantly, he offered to return the favour so stoutly, that had poor Slipslop received the fist, which in the dark passed by her and fell on the pillow, she would most probably have given up the ghost. Adams, missing his blow, fell directly on Slipslop, who cuffed and scratched as well as she could; nor was he behindhand with her in his endeavours, but happily the darkness of the night befriended her. She then cried she was a woman; but Adams answered, she was rather the devil, and if she was he would grapple with him; and, being again irritated by another stroke on his chops, he gave her such a remembrance in the guts, that she began to roar loud enough to be heard all over the house. Adams then, seizing her by the hair (for her double-clout had fallen off in the scuffle), pinned her head down to the bolster, and then both called for lights together. The Lady Booby, who was as wakeful as any of her guests, had been alarmed from the beginning; and, being a woman of a bold spirit, she slipt on a nightgown, petticoat, and slippers, and taking a candle, which always burnt in her chamber, in her hand, she walked undauntedly to Slipslop's room; where she entered just at the instant as Adams had discovered, by the two mountains which Slipslop carried before her, that he was concerned with a female. He then concluded her to be a witch, and said he fancied those breasts gave suck to a legion of devils. Slipslop, seeing Lady Booby enter the room, cried help! or I am ravished, with a most audible voice: and Adams, perceiving the light, turned hastily, and saw the lady (as she did him) just as she came to the feet of the bed; nor did her modesty, when she found the naked condition of Adams, suffer her to approach farther. She then began to revile the parson as the wickedest of all men, and particularly railed at his impudence in chusing her house for the scene of his debaucheries, and her own woman for the object of his bestiality. Poor Adams had before discovered the countenance of his bedfellow, and, now first recollecting he was naked, he was no less confounded than Lady Booby herself, and immediately whipt under the bedclothes, whence the chaste Slipslop endeavoured in vain to shut him out. Then putting forth his head, on which, by way of ornament, he wore a flannel nightcap, he protested his innocence, and asked ten thousand pardons of Mrs Slipslop for the blows he had struck her, vowing he had mistaken her for a witch. Lady Booby, then casting her eyes on the ground, observed something sparkle with great lustre, which, when she had taken it up, appeared to be a very fine pair of diamond buttons for the sleeves. A little farther she saw lie the sleeve itself of a shirt with laced ruffles. "Heyday!" says she, "what is the meaning of this?" "O, madam," says Slipslop, "I don't know what hath happened, I have been so terrified. Here may have been a dozen men in the room." "To whom belongs this laced shirt and jewels?" says the lady. "Undoubtedly," cries the parson, "to the young gentleman whom I mistook for a woman on coming into the room, whence proceeded all the subsequent mistakes; for if I had suspected him for a man, I would have seized him, had he been another Hercules, though, indeed, he seems rather to resemble Hylas." He then gave an account of the reason of his rising from bed, and the rest, till the lady came into the room; at which, and the figures of Slipslop and her gallant, whose heads only were visible at the opposite corners of the bed, she could not refrain from laughter; nor did Slipslop persist in accusing the parson of any motions towards a rape. The lady therefore desired him to return to his bed as soon as she was departed, and then ordering Slipslop to rise and attend her in her own room, she returned herself thither. When she was gone, Adams renewed his petitions for pardon to Mrs Slipslop, who, with a most Christian temper, not only forgave, but began to move with much courtesy towards him, which he taking as a hint to begin, immediately quitted the bed, and made the best of his way towards his own; but unluckily, instead of turning to the right, he turned to the left, and went to the apartment where Fanny lay, who (as the reader may remember) had not slept a wink the preceding night, and who was so hagged out with what had happened to her in the day, that, notwithstanding all thoughts of her Joseph, she was fallen into so profound a sleep, that all the noise in the adjoining room had not been able to disturb her. Adams groped out the bed, and, turning the clothes down softly, a custom Mrs Adams had long accustomed him to, crept in, and deposited his carcase on the bed-post, a place which that good woman had always assigned him. As the cat or lap-dog of some lovely nymph, for whom ten thousand lovers languish, lies quietly by the side of the charming maid, and, ignorant of the scene of delight on which they repose, meditates the future capture of a mouse, or surprisal of a plate of bread and butter: so Adams lay by the side of Fanny, ignorant of the paradise to which he was so near; nor could the emanation of sweets which flowed from her breath overpower the fumes of tobacco which played in the parson's nostrils. And now sleep had not overtaken the good man, when Joseph, who had secretly appointed Fanny to come to her at the break of day, rapped softly at the chamber-door, which when he had repeated twice, Adams cryed, "Come in, whoever you are." Joseph thought he had mistaken the door, though she had given him the most exact directions; however, knowing his friend's voice, he opened it, and saw some female vestments lying on a chair. Fanny waking at the same instant, and stretching out her hand on Adams's beard, she cried out,--"O heavens! where am I?" "Bless me! where am I?" said the parson. Then Fanny screamed, Adams leapt out of bed, and Joseph stood, as the tragedians call it, like the statue of Surprize. "How came she into my room?" cryed Adams. "How came you into hers?" cryed Joseph, in an astonishment. "I know nothing of the matter," answered Adams, "but that she is a vestal for me. As I am a Christian, I know not whether she is a man or woman. He is an infidel who doth not believe in witchcraft. They as surely exist now as in the days of Saul. My clothes are bewitched away too, and Fanny's brought into their place." For he still insisted he was in his own apartment; but Fanny denied it vehemently, and said his attempting to persuade Joseph of such a falsehood convinced her of his wicked designs. "How!" said Joseph in a rage, "hath he offered any rudeness to you?" She answered--She could not accuse him of any more than villanously stealing to bed to her, which she thought rudeness sufficient, and what no man would do without a wicked intention. Joseph's great opinion of Adams was not easily to be staggered, and when he heard from Fanny that no harm had happened he grew a little cooler; yet still he was confounded, and, as he knew the house, and that the women's apartments were on this side Mrs Slipslop's room, and the men's on the other, he was convinced that he was in Fanny's chamber. Assuring Adams therefore of this truth, he begged him to give some account how he came there. Adams then, standing in his shirt, which did not offend Fanny, as the curtains of the bed were drawn, related all that had happened; and when he had ended Joseph told him,--It was plain he had mistaken by turning to the right instead of the left. "Odso!" cries Adams, "that's true: as sure as sixpence, you have hit on the very thing." He then traversed the room, rubbing his hands, and begged Fanny's pardon, assuring her he did not know whether she was man or woman. That innocent creature firmly believing all he said, told him she was no longer angry, and begged Joseph to conduct him into his own apartment, where he should stay himself till she had put her clothes on. Joseph and Adams accordingly departed, and the latter soon was convinced of the mistake he had committed; however, whilst he was dressing himself, he often asserted he believed in the power of witchcraft notwithstanding, and did not see how a Christian could deny it. CHAPTER XV. _The arrival of Gaffar and Gammar Andrews, with another person not much expected; and a perfect solution of the difficulties raised by the pedlar._ As soon as Fanny was drest Joseph returned to her, and they had a long conversation together, the conclusion of which was, that, if they found themselves to be really brother and sister, they vowed a perpetual celibacy, and to live together all their days, and indulge a Platonic friendship for each other. The company were all very merry at breakfast, and Joseph and Fanny rather more chearful than the preceding night. The Lady Booby produced the diamond button, which the beau most readily owned, and alledged that he was very subject to walk in his sleep. Indeed, he was far from being ashamed of his amour, and rather endeavoured to insinuate that more than was really true had passed between him and the fair Slipslop. Their tea was scarce over when news came of the arrival of old Mr Andrews and his wife. They were immediately introduced, and kindly received by the Lady Booby, whose heart went now pit-a-pat, as did those of Joseph and Fanny. They felt, perhaps, little less anxiety in this interval than Oedipus himself, whilst his fate was revealing. Mr Booby first opened the cause by informing the old gentleman that he had a child in the company more than he knew of, and, taking Fanny by the hand, told him, this was that daughter of his who had been stolen away by gypsies in her infancy. Mr Andrews, after expressing some astonishment, assured his honour that he had never lost a daughter by gypsies, nor ever had any other children than Joseph and Pamela. These words were a cordial to the two lovers; but had a different effect on Lady Booby. She ordered the pedlar to be called, who recounted his story as he had done before.--At the end of which, old Mrs Andrews, running to Fanny, embraced her, crying out, "She is, she is my child!" The company were all amazed at this disagreement between the man and his wife; and the blood had now forsaken the cheeks of the lovers, when the old woman, turning to her husband, who was more surprized than all the rest, and having a little recovered her own spirits, delivered herself as follows: "You may remember, my dear, when you went a serjeant to Gibraltar, you left me big with child; you stayed abroad, you know, upwards of three years. In your absence I was brought to bed, I verily believe, of this daughter, whom I am sure I have reason to remember, for I suckled her at this very breast till the day she was stolen from me. One afternoon, when the child was about a year, or a year and a half old, or thereabouts, two gypsy-women came to the door and offered to tell my fortune. One of them had a child in her lap. I showed them my hand, and desired to know if you was ever to come home again, which I remember as well as if it was but yesterday: they faithfully promised me you should.--I left the girl in the cradle and went to draw them a cup of liquor, the best I had: when I returned with the pot (I am sure I was not absent longer than whilst I am telling it to you) the women were gone. I was afraid they had stolen something, and looked and looked, but to no purpose, and, Heaven knows, I had very little for them to steal. At last, hearing the child cry in the cradle, I went to take it up--but, O the living! how was I surprized to find, instead of my own girl that I had put into the cradle, who was as fine a fat thriving child as you shall see in a summer's day, a poor sickly boy, that did not seem to have an hour to live. I ran out, pulling my hair off and crying like any mad after the women, but never could hear a word of them from that day to this. When I came back the poor infant (which is our Joseph there, as stout as he now stands) lifted up its eyes upon me so piteously, that, to be sure, notwithstanding my passion, I could not find in my heart to do it any mischief. A neighbour of mine, happening to come in at the same time, and hearing the case, advised me to take care of this poor child, and God would perhaps one day restore me my own. Upon which I took the child up, and suckled it to be sure, all the world as if it had been born of my own natural body; and as true as I am alive, in a little time I loved the boy all to nothing as if it had been my own girl.--Well, as I was saying, times growing very hard, I having two children and nothing but my own work, which was little enough, God knows, to maintain them, was obliged to ask relief of the parish; but, instead of giving it me, they removed me, by justices' warrants, fifteen miles, to the place where I now live, where I had not been long settled before you came home. Joseph (for that was the name I gave him myself--the Lord knows whether he was baptized or no, or by what name), Joseph, I say, seemed to me about five years old when you returned; for I believe he is two or three years older than our daughter here (for I am thoroughly convinced she is the same); and when you saw him you said he was a chopping boy, without ever minding his age; and so I, seeing you did not suspect anything of the matter, thought I might e'en as well keep it to myself, for fear you should not love him as well as I did. And all this is veritably true, and I will take my oath of it before any justice in the kingdom." The pedlar, who had been summoned by the order of Lady Booby, listened with the utmost attention to Gammar Andrews's story; and, when she had finished, asked her if the supposititious child had no mark on its breast? To which she answered, "Yes, he had as fine a strawberry as ever grew in a garden." This Joseph acknowledged, and, unbuttoning his coat, at the intercession of the company, showed to them. "Well," says Gaffar Andrews, who was a comical sly old fellow, and very likely desired to have no more children than he could keep, "you have proved, I think, very plainly, that this boy doth not belong to us; but how are you certain that the girl is ours?" The parson then brought the pedlar forward, and desired him to repeat the story which he had communicated to him the preceding day at the ale-house; which he complied with, and related what the reader, as well as Mr Adams, hath seen before. He then confirmed, from his wife's report, all the circumstances of the exchange, and of the strawberry on Joseph's breast. At the repetition of the word strawberry, Adams, who had seen it without any emotion, started and cried, "Bless me! something comes into my head." But before he had time to bring anything out a servant called him forth. When he was gone the pedlar assured Joseph that his parents were persons of much greater circumstances than those he had hitherto mistaken for such; for that he had been stolen from a gentleman's house by those whom they call gypsies, and had been kept by them during a whole year, when, looking on him as in a dying condition, they had exchanged him for the other healthier child, in the manner before related. He said, As to the name of his father, his wife had either never known or forgot it; but that she had acquainted him he lived about forty miles from the place where the exchange had been made, and which way, promising to spare no pains in endeavouring with him to discover the place. But Fortune, which seldom doth good or ill, or makes men happy or miserable, by halves, resolved to spare him this labour. The reader may please to recollect that Mr Wilson had intended a journey to the west, in which he was to pass through Mr Adams's parish, and had promised to call on him. He was now arrived at the Lady Booby's gates for that purpose, being directed thither from the parson's house, and had sent in the servant whom we have above seen call Mr Adams forth. This had no sooner mentioned the discovery of a stolen child, and had uttered the word strawberry, than Mr Wilson, with wildness in his looks, and the utmost eagerness in his words, begged to be shewed into the room, where he entered without the least regard to any of the company but Joseph, and, embracing him with a complexion all pale and trembling, desired to see the mark on his breast; the parson followed him capering, rubbing his hands, and crying out, _Hic est quem quaeris; inventus est, &c_. Joseph complied with the request of Mr Wilson, who no sooner saw the mark than, abandoning himself to the most extravagant rapture of passion, he embraced Joseph with inexpressible ecstasy, and cried out in tears of joy, "I have discovered my son, I have him again in my arms!" Joseph was not sufficiently apprized yet to taste the same delight with his father (for so in reality he was); however, he returned some warmth to his embraces: but he no sooner perceived, from his father's account, the agreement of every circumstance, of person, time, and place, than he threw himself at his feet, and, embracing his knees, with tears begged his blessing, which was given with much affection, and received with such respect, mixed with such tenderness on both sides, that it affected all present; but none so much as Lady Booby, who left the room in an agony, which was but too much perceived, and not very charitably accounted for by some of the company. CHAPTER XVI. _Being the last in which this true history is brought to a happy conclusion._ Fanny was very little behind her Joseph in the duty she exprest towards her parents, and the joy she evidenced in discovering them. Gammar Andrews kissed her, and said, She was heartily glad to see her; but for her part, she could never love any one better than Joseph. Gaffar Andrews testified no remarkable emotion: he blessed and kissed her, but complained bitterly that he wanted his pipe, not having had a whiff that morning. Mr Booby, who knew nothing of his aunt's fondness, imputed her abrupt departure to her pride, and disdain of the family into which he was married; he was therefore desirous to be gone with the utmost celerity; and now, having congratulated Mr Wilson and Joseph on the discovery, he saluted Fanny, called her sister, and introduced her as such to Pamela, who behaved with great decency on the occasion. He now sent a message to his aunt, who returned that she wished him a good journey, but was too disordered to see any company: he therefore prepared to set out, having invited Mr Wilson to his house; and Pamela and Joseph both so insisted on his complying, that he at last consented, having first obtained a messenger from Mr Booby to acquaint his wife with the news; which, as he knew it would render her completely happy, he could not prevail on himself to delay a moment in acquainting her with. The company were ranged in this manner: the two old people, with their two daughters, rode in the coach; the squire, Mr Wilson, Joseph, parson Adams, and the pedlar, proceeded on horseback. In their way, Joseph informed his father of his intended match with Fanny; to which, though he expressed some reluctance at first, on the eagerness of his son's instances he consented; saying, if she was so good a creature as she appeared, and he described her, he thought the disadvantages of birth and fortune might be compensated. He however insisted on the match being deferred till he had seen his mother; in which, Joseph perceiving him positive, with great duty obeyed him, to the great delight of parson Adams, who by these means saw an opportunity of fulfilling the Church forms, and marrying his parishioners without a licence. Mr Adams, greatly exulting on this occasion (for such ceremonies were matters of no small moment with him), accidentally gave spurs to his horse, which the generous beast disdaining--for he was of high mettle, and had been used to more expert riders than the gentleman who at present bestrode him, for whose horsemanship he had perhaps some contempt--immediately ran away full speed, and played so many antic tricks that he tumbled the parson from his back; which Joseph perceiving, came to his relief. This accident afforded infinite merriment to the servants, and no less frighted poor Fanny, who beheld him as he passed by the coach; but the mirth of the one and terror of the other were soon determined, when the parson declared he had received no damage. The horse having freed himself from his unworthy rider, as he probably thought him, proceeded to make the best of his way; but was stopped by a gentleman and his servants, who were travelling the opposite way, and were now at a little distance from the coach. They soon met; and as one of the servants delivered Adams his horse, his master hailed him, and Adams, looking up, presently recollected he was the justice of peace before whom he and Fanny had made their appearance. The parson presently saluted him very kindly; and the justice informed him that he had found the fellow who attempted to swear against him and the young woman the very next day, and had committed him to Salisbury gaol, where he was charged with many robberies. Many compliments having passed between the parson and the justice, the latter proceeded on his journey; and the former, having with some disdain refused Joseph's offer of changing horses, and declared he was as able a horseman as any in the kingdom, remounted his beast; and now the company again proceeded, and happily arrived at their journey's end, Mr Adams, by good luck, rather than by good riding, escaping a second fall. The company, arriving at Mr Booby's house, were all received by him in the most courteous and entertained in the most splendid manner, after the custom of the old English hospitality, which is still preserved in some very few families in the remote parts of England. They all passed that day with the utmost satisfaction; it being perhaps impossible to find any set of people more solidly and sincerely happy. Joseph and Fanny found means to be alone upwards of two hours, which were the shortest but the sweetest imaginable. In the morning Mr Wilson proposed to his son to make a visit with him to his mother; which, notwithstanding his dutiful inclinations, and a longing desire he had to see her, a little concerned him, as he must be obliged to leave his Fanny; but the goodness of Mr Booby relieved him; for he proposed to send his own coach and six for Mrs Wilson, whom Pamela so very earnestly invited, that Mr Wilson at length agreed with the entreaties of Mr Booby and Joseph, and suffered the coach to go empty for his wife. On Saturday night the coach returned with Mrs Wilson, who added one more to this happy assembly. The reader may imagine much better and quicker too than I can describe the many embraces and tears of joy which succeeded her arrival. It is sufficient to say she was easily prevailed with to follow her husband's example in consenting to the match. On Sunday Mr Adams performed the service at the squire's parish church, the curate of which very kindly exchanged duty, and rode twenty miles to the Lady Booby's parish so to do; being particularly charged not to omit publishing the banns, being the third and last time. At length the happy day arrived which was to put Joseph in the possession of all his wishes. He arose, and drest himself in a neat but plain suit of Mr Booby's, which exactly fitted him; for he refused all finery; as did Fanny likewise, who could be prevailed on by Pamela to attire herself in nothing richer than a white dimity nightgown. Her shift indeed, which Pamela presented her, was of the finest kind, and had an edging of lace round the bosom. She likewise equipped her with a pair of fine white thread stockings, which were all she would accept; for she wore one of her own short round-eared caps, and over it a little straw hat, lined with cherry-coloured silk, and tied with a cherry-coloured ribbon. In this dress she came forth from her chamber, blushing and breathing sweets; and was by Joseph, whose eyes sparkled fire, led to church, the whole family attending, where Mr Adams performed the ceremony; at which nothing was so remarkable as the extraordinary and unaffected modesty of Fanny, unless the true Christian piety of Adams, who publickly rebuked Mr Booby and Pamela for laughing in so sacred a place, and on so solemn an occasion. Our parson would have done no less to the highest prince on earth; for, though he paid all submission and deference to his superiors in other matters, where the least spice of religion intervened he immediately lost all respect of persons. It was his maxim, that he was a servant of the Highest, and could not, without departing from his duty, give up the least article of his honour or of his cause to the greatest earthly potentate. Indeed, he always asserted that Mr Adams at church with his surplice on, and Mr Adams without that ornament in any other place, were two very different persons. When the church rites were over Joseph led his blooming bride back to Mr Booby's (for the distance was so very little they did not think proper to use a coach); the whole company attended them likewise on foot; and now a most magnificent entertainment was provided, at which parson Adams demonstrated an appetite surprizing as well as surpassing every one present. Indeed the only persons who betrayed any deficiency on this occasion were those on whose account the feast was provided. They pampered their imaginations with the much more exquisite repast which the approach of night promised them; the thoughts of which filled both their minds, though with different sensations; the one all desire, while the other had her wishes tempered with fears. At length, after a day passed with the utmost merriment, corrected by the strictest decency, in which, however, parson Adams, being well filled with ale and pudding, had given a loose to more facetiousness than was usual to him, the happy, the blest moment arrived when Fanny retired with her mother, her mother-in-law, and her sister. She was soon undrest; for she had no jewels to deposit in their caskets, nor fine laces to fold with the nicest exactness. Undressing to her was properly discovering, not putting off, ornaments; for, as all her charms were the gifts of nature, she could divest herself of none. How, reader, shall I give thee an adequate idea of this lovely young creature? the bloom of roses and lilies might a little illustrate her complexion, or their smell her sweetness; but to comprehend her entirely, conceive youth, health, bloom, neatness, and innocence, in her bridal bed; conceive all these in their utmost perfection, and you may place the charming Fanny's picture before your eyes. Joseph no sooner heard she was in bed than he fled with the utmost eagerness to her. A minute carried him into her arms, where we shall leave this happy couple to enjoy the private rewards of their constancy; rewards so great and sweet, that I apprehend Joseph neither envied the noblest duke, nor Fanny the finest duchess, that night. The third day Mr Wilson and his wife, with their son and daughter, returned home; where they now live together in a state of bliss scarce ever equalled. Mr Booby hath, with unprecedented generosity, given Fanny a fortune of two thousand pounds, which Joseph hath laid out in a little estate in the same parish with his father, which he now occupies (his father having stocked it for him); and Fanny presides with most excellent management in his dairy; where, however, she is not at present very able to bustle much, being, as Mr Wilson informs me in his last letter, extremely big with her first child. Mr Booby hath presented Mr Adams with a living of one hundred and thirty pounds a year. He at first refused it, resolving not to quit his parishioners, with whom he had lived so long; but, on recollecting he might keep a curate at this living, he hath been lately inducted into it. The pedlar, besides several handsome presents, both from Mr Wilson and Mr Booby, is, by the latter's interest, made an exciseman; a trust which he discharges with such justice, that he is greatly beloved in his neighbourhood. As for the Lady Booby, she returned to London in a few days, where a young captain of dragoons, together with eternal parties at cards, soon obliterated the memory of Joseph. Joseph remains blest with his Fanny, whom he doats on with the utmost tenderness, which is all returned on her side. The happiness of this couple is a perpetual fountain of pleasure to their fond parents; and, what is particularly remarkable, he declares he will imitate them in their retirement, nor will be prevailed on by any booksellers, or their authors, to make his appearance in high life. THE END. 1.D. 1.E. 1.E.4. 1.E.6. 1.E.7. 1.E.9. 1.F. 1.F.1. 1.F.2. 1.F.3. 1.F.4. 1.F.5. 1.F.6. Section 2.
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ORIENTAL LITERATURE THE LITERATURE OF ARABIA With Critical and Biographical Sketches by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M. 1900 CONTENTS THE ROMANCE OF ANTAR Introduction The Early Fortunes of Antar Khaled and Djaida The Absians and Fazareans ARABIAN POETRY Introduction SELECTIONS.-- An Elegy The Tomb of Mano Tomb of Sayid On the Death of His Mistress On Avarice The Battle of Sabla Verses to My Enemies On His Friends On Temper The Song of Maisuna To My Father On Fatalism To the Caliph Harun-al-Rashid Lines to Harun and Yahia The Ruin of Barmecides To Taher Ben Hosien The Adieu To My Mistress To a Female Cup-bearer Mashdud on the Monks of Khabbet Rakeek to His Female Companions Dialogue by Rais To a Lady Weeping On a Valetudinarian On a Miser To Cassim Obio Allah A Friend's Birthday To a Cat An Epigram upon Ebn Naphta-Wah Fire To a Lady Blushing On the Vicissitudes of Life To a Dove On a Thunder Storm To My Favorite Mistress Crucifixion of Ebn Bakiah Caprices of Fortune On Life Extempore Verses On the Death of a Son To Leila On Moderation in our Pleasures The Vale of Bozaa To Adversity On the Incompatibility of Pride and True Glory The Death of Nedham Almolk Lines to a Lover Verses to My Daughters Serenade to My Sleeping Mistress The Inconsistent The Capture of Jerusalem To a Lady An Epigram On a Little Man with a Very Large Beard Lamiat Alajem To Youth On Love A Remonstrance with a Drunkard Verses On Procrastination The Early Death of Abou Alhassan Aly The Interview ARABIAN NIGHTS THE SEVEN VOYAGES OF SINDBAD First Voyage Second Voyage Third Voyage Fourth Voyage Fifth Voyage Sixth Voyage Seventh and Last Voyage ALADDIN'S WONDERFUL LAMP THE ROMANCE OF ANTAR INTRODUCTION The romantic figure of Antar, or Antarah, takes the same place in Arabian literature as that of Achilles among the Greeks. The Cid in Spain, Orlando in Italy, and Arthur in England, are similar examples of national ideals put forth by poets and romance writers as embodiments of a certain half-mythic age of chivalry, when personal valor, prudence, generosity, and high feeling gave the warrior an admitted preeminence among his fellows. The literature of Arabia is indeed rich in novels and tales. The "Thousand and One Nights" is of world-wide reputation, but the "Romance of Antar" is much less artificial, more expressive of high moral principles, and certainly superior in literary style to the fantastic recitals of the coffee house and bazaar, in which Sindbad and Morgiana figure. A true picture of Bedouin society, in the centuries before Mohammed had conquered the Arabian peninsula, is given us in the charming episodes of Antar. We see the encampments of the tribe, the camels yielding milk and flesh for food, the women friends and councillors of their husbands, the boys inured to arms from early days, the careful breeding of horses, the songs of poet and minstrel stirring all hearts, the mail-clad lines of warriors with lance and sword, the supreme power of the King--often dealing out justice with stern, sudden, and inflexible ferocity. Among these surroundings Antar appears, a dazzling and irresistible warrior and a poet of wonderful power. The Arab classics, in years long before Mohammed had taken the Kaaba and made it the talisman of his creed, were hung in the little shrine where the black volcanic stone was kept. They were known as Maallakat, or Suspended Books, which had the same meaning among Arabian literati as the term classic bore among the Italian scholars of the Renaissance. Numbered with these books of the Kaaba were the poems of Antar, who was thus the Taliessin of Arabian chivalry. It is indeed necessary to recollect that in reading the episodes of Antar we have been taken back to the heroic age in the Arabian peninsula. War is considered the noblest occupation of a man, and Khaled despises the love of a noble maiden "from pride in his passion for war." Antar has his famous horse as the Cid had his Babicca, and his irresistible sword as Arthur his Excalibur. The wealth of chiefs and kings consists in horses and camels; there is no mention of money or jewelry. When a wager is made the stakes are a hundred camels. The commercial spirit of the Arabian Nights is wanting in this spirited romance of chivalry. The Arabs had sunk to a race of mere traders when Aladdin became possessed of his lamp, and the trickery, greed, and avarice of peddlers and merchants are exhibited in incident after incident of the "Thousand and One Nights." War is despised or feared, courage less to be relied upon than astute knavery, and one of the facts that strikes us is the general frivolity, dishonesty, and cruelty which prevail through the tales of Bagdad. The opposite is the case with Antar. Natural passion has full play, but nobility of character is taken seriously, and generosity and sensibility of heart are portrayed with truthfulness and naivete. Of course the whole romance is a collection of many romantic stories: it has no epic unity. It will remind the reader of the "Morte d'Arthur" of Sir Thomas Malory, rather than of the "Iliad." We have chosen the most striking of these episodes as best calculated to serve as genuine specimens of Arabian literature. They will transport the modern reader into a new world--which is yet the old, long vanished world of pastoral simplicity and warlike enthusiasm, in primitive Arabia. But the novelty lies in the plot of the tales. Djaida and Khaled, Antar and Ibla, and the race between Shidoub and the great racers Dahir and Ghabra, bring before our eyes with singular freshness the character of a civilization, a domestic life, a political system, which were not wanting in refinement, purity, and justice. The conception of such a dramatic personage as Antar would be original in the highest degree, if it were not based upon historic fact. Antar is a more real personage than Arthur, and quite as real and historic as the Cid. Yet his adventures remind us very much of those which run through the story of the Round Table. The Arabs, in the days of romance, were a collection of tribes and families whose tents and villages were spread along the Red Sea, between Egypt and the Indian Ocean. There were some tribes more powerful than others, and the result of their tyranny was often bitter war. There was no central monarchy, no priesthood, and no written law. The only stable and independent unit was the family. Domestic life with its purest virtues constituted the strong point amongst the Arabian tribes, where gentleness, free obedience, and forbearance were conspicuous. Each tribe bore the name of its first ancestor, and from him and his successors came down a traditionary, unwritten law, the violation of which was considered the most heinous of offences. There was no settled religion before the conquest of Mohammed; each tribe and each family worshipped whom they would--celestial spirits, sun and moon, or certain idols. In the account given in Antar of the Council of War, the ancients, or old men of the tribe, came forth with idols or amulets round their necks, and the whole account of the council, in which the bard as well as the orator addressed the people, is strictly accurate in historic details. The custom of infanticide in the case of female children was perfectly authorized among the Arabs, and illustrates the motive of the pretty episode of Khaled and Djaida. War was individual and personal among the Arabs, and murder was atoned for by murder, or by the price of a certain number of camels. Raising of horses, peaceful contests in arms, or poetic competitions where each bard recited in public his compositions, formed their amusements. They were very sensible to the charms of music, poetry and oratory, and as a general rule the Arab chieftain was brave, generous, and munificent. All these historic facts are fully reflected in the highly emotional tale of "Antar," which is the greatest of all the national romances of Arabia. It would scarcely be possible to fix upon any individual writer as its author, for it has been edited over and over again by Arabian scribes, each adding his own glosses and enriching it with incidents. Its original date may have been the sixth century of our era, about five hundred years before the production of the "Thousand and One Nights." E.W. THE EARLY FORTUNES OF ANTAR At the time the "Romance of Antar" opens, the most powerful and the best governed of the Bedouin tribes were those of the Absians and the Adnamians. King Zoheir, chief of the Absians, was firmly established upon his throne, so that the kings of other nations, who were subject to him, paid him tribute. The whole of Arabia in short became subject to the Absians, so that all the chiefs of other tribes and all inhabitants of the desert dreaded their power and depredations. Under these circumstances, and as a consequence of a flagrant act of tyranny on the part of Zoheir, several chieftains, among whom was Shedad, a son of Zoheir, seceded from the Absian tribe, and set out to seek adventures, to attack other tribes, and to carry off their cattle and treasure. These chieftains arrived at the dwelling-place of a certain tribe, named Djezila, whom they fought with and pillaged. Amongst their booty was a black woman of extraordinary beauty, the mother of two children. Her name was Zebiba; her elder son was Djaris; her younger Shidoub. Shedad became passionately enamoured of this woman, and yielded all the rest of his share in the booty in order to obtain possession of her and her two children. He dwelt in the fields with this negress, whose sons took care of the cattle. In course of time Zebiba bore a son to Shedad. This child was born tawny as an elephant; his eyes were bleared, his head thick with hair, his features hard and fixed. The corners of his mouth drooped, his eyes started from his head, his bones were hard, his feet long; he had ears of prodigious size, and his glance flashed like fire. In other respects he resembled Shedad, who was transported with delight at the sight of his son, whom he named Antar. Meanwhile the child waxed in strength, and his name soon became known. Then the companions of Shedad wished to dispute the possession of the boy with him, and King Zoheir was informed of the matter. He demanded that the boy should be brought into his presence, and Shedad complied. As soon as the king caught sight of this extraordinary child, he uttered a cry of astonishment, and flung him a piece of goat's flesh. At the same moment a dog, who happened to be in the tent, seized the meat and ran off with it. But Antar, filled with rage, pursued the animal, and, violently taking hold of him, drew his jaws apart, splitting the throat down to the shoulders, and thus recovered the meat. King Zoheir, in amazement, deferred the matter to the Cadi, who confirmed Shedad's possession of Zebiba, and her three children, Djaris, Shidoub, and Antar. Shedad therefore provided a home for Zebiba, in order that his sons might be educated in their business of tending the herds. It was at this time that Antar began to develop his strength of body, his courage, and intelligence. When he was ten years of age he slew a wolf which threatened to attack the herds committed to his charge. Although brutal, headstrong, and passionate, he early exhibited a love of justice, and a disposition to protect the weak, especially women. He put to death a slave who beat an old woman, his slave and companion; and this action, although at first misunderstood, eventually gained the admiration of King Zoheir, who treated Antar with distinction, because of his nobility of character. In consequence of this action, which had been so much applauded by King Zoheir, the young Arab women and their mothers hung round Antar to learn the details of this courageous deed, and to congratulate him on his magnanimity. Among the young women was Ibla, daughter of Malek, the son of Zoheir. Ibla, fair as the full moon, was somewhat younger than Antar. She was accustomed to banter him in a familiar way, feeling that he was her slave. "And you," she said to him, "you, born so low, how dared you kill the slave of a prince? What provocation can you have against him?" "Mistress," replied Antar, "I struck that slave because he deserved it, for he had insulted a poor woman. He knocked her down, and made her the laughing stock of all the servants." "Of course you were right," answered Ibla, with a smile, "and we were all delighted that you escaped from the adventure safe and sound. Because of the service you have rendered us by your conduct, our mothers look upon you as a son, and we as a brother." From that moment Antar made the service of women his special duty above all others. At that time the Arabian ladies had the habit of drinking camel's milk morning and evening, and it was especially the duty of those who waited upon them to milk the camels, and to cool it in the wind before offering it to them. Antar had been for some time released from this duty, when one morning he entered the dwelling of his uncle Malek, and found there his aunt, engaged in combing the hair of her daughter Ibla, whose ringlets, black as the night, floated over her shoulders. Antar was struck with surprise, and Ibla, as soon as she knew that he had seen her, fled and left him with his eyes fixed abstractedly on her disappearing form. It was from this incident that the love of Antar for the daughter of his uncle took its origin. He saw how Ibla shone in society, and his passion grew to such an extent that he ventured to sound her praises, and to express the feeling she excited in him by writing verses which, while they gained the admiration of the multitude, incurred also the envy of the chieftains. Moreover his father could not pardon the presumption of Antar, who, born a slave, had dared to cast eyes on his free-born cousin. When therefore he slew a slave who had slandered him, his father ordered him to be flogged, and sent away to watch over the cattle in the pastures. He had now before him a fresh opportunity for exhibiting his prodigious strength and invincible courage. A lion attempted to attack the herds committed to his care. He killed it at the very moment that his father Shedad, enraged against him, had come, accompanied by his brother, to do him ill. But a mingled feeling of admiration and fear held their hands, and in the evening, when Antar returned from the pastures, his father and his uncle made him seat himself at dinner with them, while the rest of the attendants stood behind them. Meanwhile King Zoheir was called upon a warlike expedition against the tribe of Temin. All his warriors followed him; the women alone remained behind. Shedad entrusted them to the protection of Antar, who pledged his life for their safety. During the absence of the warriors, Semiah, the lawful wife of Shedad, conceived the idea of giving an entertainment on the bank of the lake Zatoulizard. Ibla attended it with her mother, and Antar witnessed all the amusements in which his beloved took part. His passion for her became intensified. He was once tempted to violate the modesty of love by the violence of desire, but, at that moment, he saw a great cloud of dust rise in the distance; the shouts of war were heard; and suddenly the warriors of the tribe of Cathan appeared on the scene, and, descending on the pleasure-seekers, carried off the women, including Ibla. Antar, being unarmed, ran after one of the horsemen, seized him, strangled and threw him to the ground. Then he put on the armor of the vanquished foe, attacked and put to flight the tribe of Cathan, rescued the women, and obtained a booty of twenty-five horses. From that moment Semiah, the wife of Shedad, who hitherto had a pronounced aversion to Antar, conceived a sincere affection for him. King Zoheir, meantime, had returned victorious from his expedition. Shedad returned at the same moment, and went to visit his herds. Seeing Antar surrounded by horses which he did not know, and mounted upon a fine black courser, he asked, "Where did these animals, and particularly this superb horse, come from?" Then Antar, not willing to betray the imprudence of Semiah, declared that, as the Cathanians had left their horses behind them, he had seized them. Shedad was indignant, and treated Antar as a robber, reproached him for his wickedness, and after repeatedly telling him how wrong it was to rouse discord among the Arabs, struck him with his whip, with such violence as to draw blood. Then Semiah, distressed by the sight of this unjust treatment, took off her veil, letting her hair fall over her shoulders, took Antar into her arms and told all that had happened and how she and all the other women of her tribe were indebted to this hero for their honor and liberty. Shedad could not restrain his tenderness on learning the magnanimity of his son's silence. Soon afterwards King Zoheir, to whom this incident had been related, summoned Antar into his presence, and declared that a man who could exhibit such courage and generosity was bound to become preeminent among his companions. All the chieftains who surrounded the king congratulated Antar, and one of his friends, in order to give the court a complete idea of this young man's remarkable gifts, asked him to recite some of his verses. In compliance with this request he recited a poem in praise of warriors and war, and the king and all the court manifested their delight. Zoheir bade Antar approach, gave him a robe of honor, and thanked him. That evening Antar departed with his father Shedad, his heart full of joy over the honors which had been lavished on him, and his love for Ibla still more heightened. In spite of the indisputable virtues of Antar, in spite of the great services he had rendered the Absians, the chieftains of this tribe still regarded him as merely a common slave and tender of cattle. The beginning of his rise to favor excited a feeling of keen hatred, and caused many plots to be laid against him. A series of intrigues was entered upon, the aim of which was the death of the hero. But each attack upon his reputation and his life redounded to his benefit, and furnished him with an opportunity of putting his enemies to silence and defeat. For by his generosity and magnanimity, even his envious foes felt themselves under obligation to him. On each of his triumphs the mutual love between himself and Ibla went on increasing. After the performance of many feats as a horseman, Antar came into possession of a famous horse named Abjer, and a sword of marvellous temper, Djamy--and every time he appeared on the field of combat, as well as when he returned victorious from the fight, he made a poetic address, finishing with the words, "I am the lover of Ibla." At the conclusion of a war in which he had performed prodigies of valor, King Zoheir gave him the surname of Alboufauris, which means, "The Father of Horsemen." The greater grew his name, the more highly he was honored by King Zoheir, so much the more did the hatred of the chieftains and the love of Ibla towards him increase. But it came to pass that Ibla was asked in marriage by Amarah, a stupid youth, puffed up by his wealth and lineage. Antar, on hearing the news, was transported with rage, and attacked his young rival with such violence that all the Arabian chiefs begged of Zoheir to punish the aggressor. The king left to Shedad, Antar's father, the pronouncing of sentence. Shedad had, like the others, viewed the rise of Antar, the black slave, to favor, with jealous eye, and sent him back to the pastures to keep the herds. It was at this point that the greatness of Antar's character appeared in its full dimensions. The hero submitted with resignation to the orders of his father, "to whom," he said, "he owed obedience as to his master, since he was his slave"; and he swore to him, in the presence of witnesses, not to mount horse, nor engage in battle, without his permission. Tears flowed from his eyes, and before departing for the pastures he went to see his mother Zebiba, and to talk with her concerning Ibla. "Ibla?" said his mother--"but a moment ago she was here beside me, and said to me, 'Comfort the heart of Antar, and tell him from me, that even should my father torture me to death in trying to change my mind, I would not desire nor ask for other husband than Antar.'" These words of Ibla filled with rapture the heart of Antar, as he started for the pastures in company with his brothers, Djaris and Shidoub. At this time the tribe of Abs, which Zoheir ruled over, was at war with that of Tex, on account of the carrying off of Anima, daughter of the chief of the Tex, a man known as "The Drinker of Blood." Animated by the desire to take vengeance and recover his daughter, this chief and his army fell upon the Absians like a thunderbolt. The Absians were defeated, and their women, among whom was Ibla, taken prisoners. All pride was then, in this time of need, laid aside, and to their assistance Antar was summoned. But before acting Antar laid down his conditions, and stipulated that, in case he succeeded in subduing the foe and recovering the women, Ibla should be given him in marriage. Malek, the father of Ibla, and Shedad, the father of Antar, assented, and bound themselves by an oath to fulfil these conditions and to reinstate Antar in all the honors and dignities belonging to him. Antar was victorious. He rescued Ibla, and received grateful expressions of gratitude from his beloved, while King Zoheir gave him the kiss of royal honor. Everything seemed to unite in fulfilling the hopes of Antar. But at the very moment in which he was honored by royal felicitations, several chieftains, indignant at the elevation of a black slave, employed every means to prevent his marriage with Ibla, and to force him to undertake enterprises which would prove fatal to him. Shedad, his father, and Malek, the father of Ibla, connived at these plots. They demanded of Antar, who was of that trusting disposition which belongs to generous and brave men, that he give as a wedding present to his bride, a thousand camels, of a particular breed, not to be found excepting on the borders of the Persian kingdom. The hero made no remark on hearing this treacherous demand, and was so eager to please Ibla, that he took no count of the difficulties to be undergone. He set off and soon found himself engaged in conflict with a large army of Persians, who made him prisoner, and led him off with the view of bringing him into the presence of their king. There he was taken, bound and on horseback, when at that instant, the news came that a fierce lion of extraordinary size was ravaging the country. It was alleged that even armed men fled before it. Antar, who was on the point of being put to death, asked the King of Persia to cause his arms at least to be unbound, and to let him confront the lion. His prayer was granted; he rushed upon the savage creature, and transfixed it with his lance. Nor was this the only service he did the King of Persia, who in gratitude for many others, not only gave Antar the thousand camels he was looking for, but loaded him with treasures, with which to do homage to Ibla. On his return Antar was received with a rapturous welcome by the Absian tribe. But the hostile and the envious continued to plot against him. They still aimed at preventing his marriage, and compassing his death. Amarah, who aspired to Ibla's hand, backed by all the chieftains hostile to Antar, renewed his suit and pretensions. Ibla was carried off from her house among the Absians, and taken to another tribe. Then Antar set out in search of her, and at length rescued her: their mutual love was intensified by this reunion. By a series of wiles and intrigues skilfully conducted, the chiefs who surrounded Ibla persuaded her to demand still further dowry from Antar. She spoke of Khaled and Djaida, whose history has already been related; she said, in presence of Antar, that that young warrior girl would not consent to marry Khaled, saving on the condition that her camel's bridle be held by the daughter of Moawich. This word was sufficient for Antar, and he promised to Ibla that Djaida should hold the bridle of her camel on her wedding day; and more than that, the head of Khaled should be slung round the neck of the warrior girl. Thus the hero, constantly loving and beloved by Ibla, incessantly deceived by the cunningly devised obstacles raised by his foes, sustained his reputation for greatness of character and strength of arm, submitted with resignation to the severest tests, and passed victoriously through them all. After the death of King Zoheir, whom he avenged, he undertook to assist Cais, Zoheir's son, in all his enterprises, and after a long series of adventures which tired the patience, love, and courage of Antar, this hero, recognized as chief among Arabian chieftains, obtained the great reward of his long struggles and mighty toils, by marriage to his well-loved Ibla. KHALED AND DJAIDA Moharib and Zahir were brothers, of the same father and mother; the Arabs call them "brothers germane." Both were, renowned for courage and daring. But Moharib was chief of the tribe, and Zahir, being subject to his authority, was no more than his minister, giving him counsel and advice. Now it happened that a violent dispute arose between them. Zahir subsequently retired to his tent, in profound sorrow, and not knowing what course to take. asked his wife, "Why are you so troubled? What has happened to you? Has any one displeased or insulted you--the greatest of Arab chiefs?" "What am I to do?" replied Zahir; "the man who has injured me is one whom I cannot lay hands on, or do him wrong; he is my companion in the bosom of my family, my brother in the world. Ah, if it had been any one but he, I would have shown him what sort of a man he was at odds with, and have made an example of him before all the chiefs of our tribes!" "Leave him; let him enjoy his possessions alone," cried his wife, and, in order to persuade her husband to take this course, she recited verses from a poet of the time, which dissuade a man from tolerating an insult even at the hands of his parents. Zahir assented to the advice of his wife. He made all preparations for departure, struck his tents, loaded his camels, and started off on the road towards the camp of the Saad tribe, with whom he was in alliance. Yet in spite of all, he felt a keen pang at separating himself from his brother--and thus he spoke: "On starting on a journey which removes me from you, I shall be a thousand years on the way, and each year will carry me a thousand leagues.... Even though the favors you heap upon me be worth a thousand Egypts, and each of these Egypts had a thousand Niles, all those favors would be despised. I shall be contented with little so long as I am far from you. Away from you, I shall recite this distich, which is worth more than a necklace of fine pearls: 'When a man is wronged on the soil of his tribe, there is nothing left him but to leave it; you, who have so wickedly injured me, before long shall feel the power of the kindly divinity, for he is your judge and mine, he is unchangeable and eternal." Zahir continued his journey, until he reached the Saad tribe, when he dismounted from his horse. He was cordially received and was pressed to take up his abode with them. His wife was at that time soon to become a mother, and he said to her: "If a son is given to us, he will be right welcome; but if it be a daughter, conceal her sex and let people think we have a male child, so that my brother may have no reason to crow over us." When her time came Zahir's wife brought into the world a daughter. They agreed that her name should be actually Djaida, but that publicly she should be known as Djonder, that people might take her for a boy. In order to promote this belief, they kept up feasting and entertainment early and late for many days. About the same time Moharib, the other brother, had a son born to him, whom he named Khaled (The Eternal). He chose this name in gratitude to God, because, since his brother's departure, his affairs had prospered well. The two children eventually reached full age, and their renown was widespread among the Arabs. Zahir had taught his daughter to ride on horseback, and had trained her in all the accomplishments fitting to a warrior bold and daring. He accustomed her to the severest toils, and the most perilous enterprises. When he went to war, he put her among the other Arabs of the tribe, and in the midst of these horsemen she soon took her rank as one of the most valiant of them. Thus it came to pass that she eclipsed all her comrades, and would even attack the lions in their dens. At last her name became an object of terror; when she had overcome a champion she never failed to cry out: "I am Djonder, son of Zahir, horseman of the tribes." Her cousin Khaled, on the other hand, distinguished himself equally by his brilliant courage. His father Moharib, a wise and prudent chief, had built houses of entertainment for strangers; all horsemen found a welcome there. Khaled had been brought up in the midst of warriors. In this school his spirit had been formed, here he had learned to ride, and at last had become an intrepid warrior, and a redoubtable hero. It was soon perceived by the rest of the army that his spirit and valor were unconquerable. Eventually he heard tell of his cousin Djonder, and his desire to see and know him and to witness his skill in arms became extreme. But he could not satisfy this desire because of the dislike which his father showed for his cousin, the son of his uncle. This curiosity of Khaled continued unsatisfied until the death of his father Moharib, which put him in possession of rank, wealth, and lands. He followed the example of his father in entertaining strangers, protecting the weak and unfortunate, and giving raiment to the naked. He continued also to scour the plains on horseback with his warriors, and in this way waxed greater in bodily strength and courage. After some time, gathering together a number of rich gifts, he started, in company with his mother, to visit his uncle. He did not draw rein until he reached the dwelling of Zahir, who was delighted to see him, and made magnificent preparations for his entertainment; for the uncle had heard tell on many occasions of his nephew's worth and valor. Khaled also visited his cousin. He saluted her, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her forehead, thinking she was a young man. He felt the greatest pleasure in her company, and remained ten days with his uncle, regularly taking part in the jousts and contests of the horsemen and warriors. As for his cousin, the moment she had seen how handsome and valiant Khaled was, she had fallen violently in love with him. Her sleep left her; she could not eat; and her love grew to such a pitch that feeling her heart completely lost to him, she spoke to her mother and said: "O mother, should my cousin leave without taking me in his company, I shall die of grief at his absence." Then her mother was touched with pity for her, and uttered no reproaches, feeling that they would be in vain. "Djaida," she said, "conceal your feelings, and restrain yourself from grief. You have done nothing improper, for your cousin is the man of your choice, and is of your own blood. Like him, you are fair and attractive; like him, brave and skilful in horsemanship. Tomorrow morning, when his mother approaches us, I will reveal to her the whole matter; we will soon afterwards give you to him in marriage, and finally we will all return to our own country." The wife of Zahir waited patiently until the following morning, when the mother of Khaled arrived. She then presented her daughter, whose head she uncovered, so as to allow the hair to fall to her shoulders. At the sight of such charms the mother of Khaled was beyond measure astonished, and exclaimed: "What! is not this your son Djonder?" "No! it is Djaida--she the moon of beauty, at last has risen." Then she told her all that had passed between herself and her husband, and how and why they had concealed the sex of their child. "Dear kinswoman," replied the mother of Khaled, still quite surprised, "among all the daughters of Arabia who have been celebrated for their beauty I have never seen one more lovely than this one. What is her name?" "I have already told you that it is Djaida, and my especial purpose in telling you the secret is to offer you all these charms, for I ardently desire to marry my daughter to your son, so that we may all be able to return to our own land." The mother of Khaled at once assented to this proposal, and said: "The possession of Djaida will doubtless render my son very happy." She at once rose and went out to look for Khaled, and communicated to him all she had seen and learned, not failing to extol especially the charms of Djaida. "By the faith of an Arab," said she, "never, my son, have I seen in the desert, or in any city, a girl such as your cousin; I do not except the most beautiful. Nothing is so perfect as she is, nothing more lovely and attractive. Make haste, my son, to see your uncle and ask him for his daughter in marriage. You will be happy indeed if he grants your prayer: Go, my son, and do not waste time in winning her." When Khaled had heard these words, he cast his eyes to the ground, and remained for some time thoughtful and gloomy. Then he replied: "My mother, I cannot remain here any longer. I must return home amid my horsemen and troops. I have no intention of saying anything more to my cousin; I am convinced that she is a person whose temper and ideas of life are uncertain; her character and manner of speech are utterly destitute of stability and propriety. I have always been accustomed to live amid warriors, on whom I spend my wealth, and with whom I win a soldier's renown. As for my cousin's love for me, it is the weakness of a woman, of a young girl." He then donned his armor, mounted his horse, bade his uncle farewell, and announced his intention of leaving at once. "What means this haste?" cried Zahir. "I can remain here no longer," answered Khaled, and, putting his horse to a gallop, he flung himself into the depths of the wilderness. His mother, after relating to Djaida the conversation she held with her son, mounted a camel and made her way towards her own country. The soul of Djaida felt keenly this indignity. She brooded over it--sleepless and without appetite. Some days afterwards, as her father was preparing with his horsemen to make a foray against his foes, his glance fell on Djaida, and seeing how altered she was in face, and dejected in spirit, he refrained from saying anything, thinking and hoping that she would surely become herself again after a short time. Scarcely was Zahir out of sight of his tents, when Djaida, who felt herself like to die, and whose frame of mind was quite unsupportable, said to her mother: "Mother, I feel that I am dying, and that this miserable Khaled is still in the vigor of life. I should like, if God gives me the power, to make him taste the fury of death, the bitterness of its pang and torture." So saying, she rose like a lioness, put on her armor, and mounted her horse, telling her mother she was going on a hunting expedition. Swiftly, and without stopping, she traversed rocks and mountains, her excitement increasing as she approached the dwelling-place of her cousin. As she was disguised, she entered, unrecognized, into the tent where strangers were received. Her visor was, however, lowered, like that of a horseman of Hijaz. Slaves and servants received her, offered her hospitality, comporting themselves towards her as to one of the guests, and the most noble personages of the land. That night Djaida took rest; but the following day she joined the military exercises, challenged many cavaliers, and exhibited so much address and bravery, that she produced great astonishment among the spectators. Long before noon the horsemen of her cousin were compelled to acknowledge her superiority over themselves. Khaled wished to witness her prowess, and, surprised at the sight of so much skill, he offered to match himself with her. Djaida entered the contest with him, and then both of them joining in combat tried, one after another, all the methods of attack and defence, until the shadows of night came on. When they separated both were unhurt, and none could say who was the victor. Thus Djaida, while rousing the admiration of the spectators, saw the annoyance they felt on finding their chief equalled in fight by so skilful an opponent. Khaled ordered his antagonist to be treated with all the care and honor imaginable, then retired to his tent, his mind filled with thoughts of his conflict. Djaida remained three days at her cousin's habitation. Every morning she presented herself on the ground of combat, and remained under arms until night. She enjoyed it greatly, still keeping her _incognito_, whilst Khaled, on the other hand, made no enquiries, and asked no questions of her, as to who she was and to what tribe she might belong. On the morning of the fourth day, while Khaled, according to his custom, rode over the plain, and passed close to the tents reserved for strangers, he saw Djaida mounting her horse. He saluted her, and she returned his salute. "Noble Arab," said Khaled, "I should like to ask you one question. Up to this moment I have failed in courtesy towards you, but, I now beg of you, in the name of that God who has endowed you with such great dexterity in arms, tell me, who are you, and to what noble princes are you allied? For I have never met your equal among brave cavaliers. Answer me, I beseech you, for I am dying to learn." Djaida smiled, and raising her visor, replied: "Khaled, I am a woman, and not a warrior. I am your cousin Djaida, who offered herself to you, and wished to give herself to you; but you refused her--from the pride you felt in your passion for arms." As she spoke she turned her horse suddenly, stuck spurs into him, and dashed off at full gallop towards her own country. Khaled filled with confusion withdrew to his tent, not knowing what to do, nor what would be the end of the passionate love which he suddenly felt rise within him. He was seized with disgust for all these warlike habits and tastes, which had reduced him to the melancholy plight in which he found himself. His distaste for women was changed into love. He sent for his mother and related to her all that had occurred. "My son," she said, "all these circumstances should render Djaida still dearer to you. Wait patiently a little, until I have been able to go and ask her of her mother." She straightway mounted her camel, and started through the desert on the tracks of Djaida, who immediately on her arrival home had told her mother all that had happened. As soon as the mother of Khaled had arrived, she flung herself into the arms of her kinswoman and demanded Djaida in marriage for her son, for Zahir had not yet returned from his foray. When Djaida heard from her mother the request of Khaled, she said, "This shall never be, though I be forced to drink the cup of death. That which occurred at his tents was brought about by me to quench the fire of my grief and unhappiness, and soothe the anguish of my heart." At these words the mother of Khaled, defeated of her object, went back to her son, who was tortured by the most cruel anxiety. He rose suddenly to his feet, for his love had reached the point of desperation, and asked with inquietude what were the feelings of his cousin. When he learned the answer of Djaida his distress became overwhelming, for her refusal only increased his passion. "What is to be done, my mother," he exclaimed. "I see no way of escaping from this embarrassment," she replied, "excepting you assemble all your horsemen from among the Arab sheiks, and from among those with whom you are on friendly terms. Wait until your uncle returns from the campaign, and then, surrounded by your followers, go to him, and in the presence of the assembled warriors, demand of him his daughter in marriage. If he deny that he has a daughter, tell him all that has happened, and urge him until he gives way to your demand." This advice, and the plan proposed moderated the grief of Khaled. As soon as he learned that his uncle had returned home, he assembled all the chiefs of his family and told his story to them. All of them were very much astonished, and Madi Kereb. one of the Khaled's bravest companions, could not help saying: "This is a strange affair; we have always heard say that your uncle had a son named Djonder, but now the truth is known. You are certainly the man who has most right to the daughter of your uncle. It is therefore our best course to present ourselves in a body and prostrate ourselves before him, asking him to return to his family and not to give his daughter to a stranger." Khaled, without hearing any more, took with him a hundred of his bravest horsemen, being those who had been brought up with Moharib and Zahir from their childhood, and, having provided themselves with presents even more costly than those they had taken before, they started off, and marched on until they came to the tribe of Saad. Khaled began by complimenting his uncle on his happy return from war, but no one could be more astonished than Zahir at this second visit, especially when he saw his nephew accompanied by all the chieftains of his family. It never for a moment occurred to him that his daughter Djaida had anything to do with Khaled's return, but thought that his nephew merely wished to persuade him to return to his native territory. He offered them every hospitality, provided them with tents and entertained them magnificently. He ordered camels and sheep to be killed, and gave a banquet; he furnished his guests with all things needful and proper for three days. On the fourth day Khaled arose, and after thanking his uncle for all his attentions, asked him for his daughter in marriage, and begged him to return to his own land. Zahir denied that he had any child but his son Djonder, but Khaled told him all that he had learned, and all that had passed between himself and Djaida. At these words Zahir was overcome with shame and turned his eyes to the ground. He remained for some moments plunged in thought, and after reflecting that the affair must needs proceed from bad to worse, he addressed those present in the following words: "Kinsmen, I will no longer delay acknowledging this secret; therefore to end the matter, she shall be married to her cousin as soon as possible, for, of all the men I know, he is most worthy of her." He offered his hand to Khaled, who immediately clasped it in presence of the chiefs who were witnesses to the contract. The dowry was fixed at five hundred brown black-eyed camels, and a thousand camels loaded with the choicest products of Yemen. The tribe of Saad, in the midst of which Zahir had lived, were excluded from all part in this incident. But when Zahir had asked his daughter's consent to this arrangement, Djaida was overwhelmed with confusion at the course her father had taken. Since he let his daughter clearly understand that he did not wish her to remain unmarried, she at last replied: "My father, if my cousin desires to have me in marriage, I shall not enter into his tent until he undertakes to slaughter at my wedding a thousand camels, out of those which belong to Gheshem, son of Malik, surnamed 'The Brandisher of Spears.'" Kahled agreed to this condition; but the sheiks and the warriors did not leave Zahir before he had collected all his possessions for transportation to his own country. No sooner were these preparations completed than Khaled marched forth at the head of a thousand horsemen, with whose assistance he subdued the tribe of Aamir. Having thrice wounded "The Brandisher of Spears," and slain a great number of his champions, he carried off their goods and brought back from their country even a richer spoil than Djaida had demanded. Loaded with booty he returned, and was intoxicated with success. But when he asked that a day should be fixed for the wedding, Djaida begged him to approach, and said to him: "If you desire that I become your wife, fulfil first of all my wishes, and keep the engagement I make with you. This is my demand: I wish that on the day of my marriage, some nobleman's daughter, a free-born woman, hold the bridle of my camel; she must be the daughter of a prince of the highest rank, so that I may be the most honored of all the daughters of Arabia." Khaled consented, and prepared to carry out her wishes. That very day he started with his horsemen, and traversed plains and valleys, searching the land of Ymer, even till he reached the country of Hijar and the hills of Sand. In this place he attacked the tribe-family of Moawich, son of Mizal. He burst upon them like a rain-storm, and cutting a way with his sword through the opposing horsemen, he took prisoner Amima, daughter of Moawich, at the very moment when she was betaking herself to flight. After having accomplished feats which rendered futile the resistance of the most experienced heroes, after having scattered all the tribes in flight, and carried off all the wealth of all the Arabs in that country, he returned home. But he did not wish to come near his tents until he had first gathered in all the wealth which he had left at different points and places in the desert. The young maidens marched before him sounding their cymbals and other instruments of music. All the tribe rejoiced; and when Khaled appeared, he distributed clothing to the widows and orphans, and invited his companions and friends to the feast he was preparing for his wedding. All the Arabs of the country came in a crowd to the marriage. He caused them to be regaled with abundance of flesh and wine. But while all the guests abandoned themselves to feasting and pleasure, Khaled, accompanied by ten slaves, prepared to scour the wild and marshy places of the land, in order to attack hand to hand in their caverns the lions and lionesses and their cubs, and bear them slain to the tents, in order to provide meat for all those who attended the festival. Djaida had been informed of this design. She disguised herself in coat of mail, mounted her horse, and left the tents; as three days of festivities still remained, she hastily followed Khaled into the desert, and met him face to face in a cavern. She flung herself upon him with the impetuosity of a wild beast, and attacked him furiously, crying aloud, "Arab! dismount from your horse, take off your coat of mail, and your armor; if you hesitate to do so, I will run this lance through your heart." Khaled was resolved at once to resist her in this demand. They engaged in furious combat. The struggle lasted for more than an hour, when the warrior saw in the eyes of his adversary an expression which alarmed him. He remounted his horse, and having wheeled round his steed from the place of combat, exclaimed: "By the faith of an Arab, I adjure you to tell me what horseman of the desert you are; for I feel that your attack and the violence of your blows are irresistible. In fact, you have prevented me from accomplishing that which I had intended, and all that I had eagerly desired to do." At these words Djaida raised her visor, thus permitting him to see her face. "Khaled," she cried, "is it necessary for the girl you love to attack wild beasts, in order that the daughters of Arabia may learn that this is not the exclusive privilege of a warrior?" At this cutting rebuke Khaled was overcome with shame. "By the faith of an Arab," he replied, "no one but you can overcome me; but is there anyone in this country who has challenged you, or are you come hither merely to prove to me the extent of your valor?" "By the faith of an Arab," replied Djaida, "I came into this desert solely for the purpose of helping you to hunt wild beasts, and in order that your warriors might not reproach you for choosing me as your wife." At these words Khaled felt thrilled with surprise and admiration, that such spirit and resolution should have been exhibited in the conduct of Djaida. Then both of them dismounted from their horses and entered into a cavern. There Khaled seized two ferocious wild beasts, and Djaida attacked and carried off a lion and two lionesses. After these exploits they exchanged congratulations, and Djaida felt happy to be with Khaled. "Meanwhile," she said, "I shall not permit you to leave our tents until after our marriage." She immediately left him in haste and betook herself to her own dwelling. Khaled proceeded to rejoin the slaves whom he had left a little way off, and ordered them to carry to the tents the beasts he had slain. Trembling with fright at the view of what Khaled had done, they extolled him with admiration above all other champions of the land. The feasts meanwhile went on, and all who came were welcomed with magnificence. The maidens sounded their cymbals; the slaves waved their swords in the air, and the young girls sang from morn till evening. It was in the midst of such rejoicings that Djaida and Khaled were married. Amima, the daughter of Moawich, held the reins of the young bride's camel, and men and women alike extolled the glory of Djaida. THE ABSIANS AND FAZAREANS King Cais, chief of the Absians, distrusting the evil designs of Hadifah, the chief of the tribe of Fazarah, had sent out his slaves in every direction to look after Antar. One of these slaves on his return said to the king: "As for Antar, I have not even heard his name; but as I passed by the tribe of Tenim, I slept one night in the tents of the tribe Byah. There I saw a colt of remarkable beauty. He belonged to a man named Jahir, son of Awef. I have never seen a colt so fine and swift." This recital made a profound impression upon Cais. And in truth this young animal was the wonder of the world, and never had a handsomer horse been reared among the Arabs. He was in all points high-bred and renowned for race and lineage, for his sire was Ocab and his dam Helweh, and these were horses regarded by the Arabs as quicker than lightning. All the tribes admired their points, and the tribe of Byah had become celebrated above all others, because of the mare and stallion which pertained to it. As for this fine colt, one day, when his sire Ocab had been put out on pasture, he was being led by the daughter of Jahir along the side of a lake at noonday, and there he saw the mare Helweh, who was tethered close to the tent of her master. He immediately began to neigh, and slipped his halter. The young girl in her embarrassment let him go, and for modesty took refuge in the tent of a friend. The stallion remained on the spot until the girl returned. She seized the halter and took him to the stables. But her father discerned the anxiety which she could not conceal. He questioned her, and she told him what had happened. He became furious with rage on hearing her story, for he was naturally choleric; he ran among the tents, flinging off his turban, and crying at the top of his voice, while all the Arabs crowded round him, "Tribe of Byah, tribe of Byah! Kinsmen and friends, hear me." Then he related what his daughter had told him. "I cannot permit," he added, "that the blood of my horse should be blended with that of Helweh; yet I am not willing to sell him for the most costly sheep and camels; and if I cannot otherwise prevent Helweh from bearing a colt to my stallion, I shall be glad if some one will put the mare to death." "By all means," cried his listeners, "do as you please, for we can have no objection." Such were the usual terms of Arabian courtesy. Nevertheless, Helweh, in course of time, bore a fine colt, whose birth brought great joy to her master. He named the young horse Dahir. The colt waxed in strength and beauty, until he actually excelled his sire Ocab. His chest was broad, his neck long, his hoofs hard, his nostrils widely expanded. His tail swept the ground, and he was of the gentlest temper; in short, he was the most perfect creature ever seen. Being reared with the greatest care, his shape was perfect as the archway of a royal palace. When the mare Helweh, followed by her colt, was one day moving along the shore of a lake, Ocab's owner chanced to see them. He seized the young horse, and took him home with him, leaving his mother in grief for his difference. "As for Jahir," he said, "this colt belongs to me, and I have more right to him than anyone else." The news of the colt's disappearance soon reached his owner's ears. He assembled the chiefs of the tribe, and told them what had happened. They sent to Jahir, and he was reproached bitterly. "Jahir," they said, "you have not suffered, yet have done injustice, in that you carried off that which belonged to another man." "Say no more," answered Jahir, "and spare me these reproaches, for, by the faith of an Arab, I will not return the colt, unless compelled by main force. I will declare war against you first." At that moment the tribe was not prepared for a quarrel; and several of them said to Jahir: "We are too much attached to you to push things to such an extreme as that; we are your allies and kinsmen. We will not fight with you, though an idol of gold were at stake." Then Kerim, son of Wahrab (the latter being the owner of the mare and colt, a man renowned among the Arabs for his generosity), seeing the obstinacy of Jahir, said to him: "Cousin, the colt is certainly yours, and belongs to you; as for the mare here, accept her as a present from my hand, so that mother and colt will not be separated, and no one will ever be able to accuse me of wronging a kinsman." The tribe highly applauded this act, and Jahir was so humiliated by the generosity with which he had been treated, that he returned mare and colt to Kerim, adding to the gift a pair of male and a pair of female camels. Dahir soon became a horse of absolute perfection in every point, and when his master Kerim undertook to race him with another horse, he rode the animal himself, and was in the habit of saying to his antagonist, "Even should you pass me like an arrow, I could catch you up, and distance you," and in fact this always happened. As soon as King Cais heard tell of this horse, he became beside himself with longing and mortification, and his sleep left him. He sent to Kerim, offering to buy the horse for as much gold or silver as the owner demanded, and adding that the price would be forwarded without delay. This message enraged Kerim. "Is not this Cais a fool, or a man of no understanding?" he exclaimed. "Does he think I am a man of traffic--a horse-dealer, who cannot mount the horses he owns? I swear by the faith of an Arab that if he had asked for Dahir, as a present, I would have sent the horse, and a troop of camels besides: but if he thinks of obtaining him by bidding a price, he will never have him; even were I bound to drink the cup of death." The messenger returned to Cais, and gave him the answer of Kerim, at which the latter was much annoyed. "Am I a king over the tribes of Abs, of Adnan, of Fazarah, and of Dibyan," he exclaimed, "and yet a common Arab dares to oppose me!" He summoned his people and his warriors. Immediately there was the flash of armor, of coats of mail, and swords and helmets appeared amid the tents; the champions mounted their steeds, shook their spears, and marched forth against the tribe of Byah. As soon as they reached their enemy's territory they overran the pastures, and gathered an immense booty in cattle, which Cais divided among his followers. They next made for the tents and surprised the dwellers there, who were not prepared for such an attack: Kerim being absent with his warriors on an expedition of the same sort. Cais at the head of the Absians, pushing his way into the dwellings, carried off the wives and daughters of his foe. As for Dahir, he was tethered to one of the tent-pegs, for Kerim never used him as a charger, for fear some harm might befall him, or he might be killed. One of the slaves who had been left in the encampment, and had been among the first to see the approach of the Absians, went up to Dahir for the purpose of breaking the line by which he was hobbled. This he failed to accomplish, but mounting him, and digging his heels into his flanks, he forced the horse, although he was hobbled, to rush off prancing like a fawn, until he reached the desert. It was in vain that the Absians pursued him; they could not even catch up with the trail of dust that he left behind him. As soon as Cais perceived Dahir, he recognized him, and the desire of possessing him became intensified. He hurried on, but his chagrin was great, as he perceived that, do what he would, he never could catch up with him. At last the slave, perceiving that he had quite out-distanced the Absians, dismounted, untied the feet of Dahir, leapt again into the saddle, and galloped off. Cais, who had kept up the pursuit, gained ground during this stop, and coming within ear-shot of the slave, shouted out, "Stop, Arab, there is no cause for fear; you have my protection; by the faith of a noble Arab, I swear it." At these words the slave stopped. "Do you intend to sell that horse?" said King Cais to him, "for in that case you have the most eager buyer of all the Arabian tribesmen." "I do not wish to sell him, sire," replied the slave, "excepting at one price, the restoration of all the booty." "I will buy him then," the King answered, and he clasped the hand of the Arab as pledge of the bargain. The slave dismounted from the young horse, and delivered him over to King Cais, and the latter overjoyed at having his wish, leapt on to his back, and set out to rejoin the Absians, whom he commanded to restore all the booty which they had taken. His order was executed to the letter. King Cais, enchanted at the success of his enterprise, and at the possession of Dahir, returned home. So great was his fondness for the horse that he groomed and fed him with his own hands. Soon as Hadifah, chief of the tribe of Fazarah, heard that Cais had possession of Dahir, jealousy filled his heart. In concert with other chiefs he plotted the death of this beautiful horse. Now it came to pass that at this time Hadifah gave a great feast, and Carwash, kinsman of King Cais, was present. At the end of the meal, and while the wine circulated freely the course of conversation turned to the most famous chiefs of the time. The subject being exhausted, the guests began to speak about their most celebrated horses, and next, of the journeys made by them in the desert. "Kinsmen," said Carwash, "none of you ever saw a horse like Dahir, which belongs to my ally Cais. It is vain to seek his equal; his pace is absolutely terrifying. He chases away sorrow from the heart of him who beholds him, and protects like a strong tower the man who mounts him." Carwash did not stop here, but continued to praise, in the highest and most distinguished language, the horse Dahir, until all of the tribe of Fazarah and of the family of Zyad, felt their hearts swell with rage. "Do you hear him, brother?" said Haml to Hadifah; "come, that is enough," he added, turning towards Carwash. "All that you have said about Dahir is absolute nonsense--for at present there are no horses better or finer than mine, and those of my brother." With these words he ordered his slaves to bring his horses and parade them before Carwash. This was done. "Come, Carwash, look at that horse." "He is not worth the hay you feed him on," said the other. Then those of Hadifah were led out; among them was a mare, named Ghabra, and a stallion called Marik. "Now look at these," said Hadifah. "They are not worth the hay they eat," replied Carwash. Hadifah, filled with indignation at these words: "What, not even Ghabra?" "Not even Ghabra, or all the horses in the world," repeated Carwash. "Would you like to make a bet for us with King Cais?" "Certainly," answered Carwash--"I will wager that Dahir will beat all the horses of the tribe of Fazarah, even if he carries a hundred weight of stone on his back." They discussed the matter for a long time, the one affirming the other denying the statements, until Hadifah closed the altercation by saying, "I hold to the wager, on condition that the winner takes from the loser as many male and female camels as he chooses." "You are going to play me a nice trick," said Carwash, "and for my part I tell you plainly that I won't bet more than twenty camels; the man whose horse loses shall pay this forfeit." The matter was arranged accordingly. They sat at table until nightfall, and then rested. The next day Carwash left his tent at early morn, went to the tribe of Abs, to find Cais, whom he told about the wager. "You were wrong," said Cais. "You might have made a bet with anyone excepting Hadifah, who is a man of tricks and treachery. If you have made the wager, you will have to declare it off." Cais waited until certain persons who were with him had retired, then he at once took horse, and repaired to the tribe of Fazarah, where everybody was taking their morning meal in their tents. Cais dismounted, took off his arms, and seating himself among them began to eat with them, like a noble Arab. "Cousin," said Hadifah to him jokingly, "What large mouthfuls you take; heaven preserve me from having an appetite like yours." "It is true," said Cais, "that I am dying of hunger, but by Him who abides always, and will abide forever, I came not here merely to eat your victuals. My intention is to annul the wager which was yesterday made between you and my kinsman Carwash, I beg of you to cancel this bet, for all that is uttered over cups and flagons is of no serious account, and ought to be forgotten." "I would have you to know," was the answer, "that I will not withdraw from the challenge, unless you forfeit the camels which are staked. If you accept this condition, I shall be perfectly indifferent to everything else. Nevertheless, if you wish it, I will seize the camels by force, or, if it be your good pleasure, I will waive every claim, save as a debt of honor." In spite of all that Cais could say, Hadifah remained firm in his resolution, and as his brother began to deride Cais, the latter lost his temper, and with a face blazing with wrath he asked of Hadifah, "What stake did you offer in your wager with my cousin?" "Twenty she-camels," said Hadifah. "As for this first wager," answered Cais, "I cancel it, and propose another one in its stead: I will bet thirty camels." "And I forty," replied Hadifah, "I make it fifty," was the retort of Cais. "Sixty," quickly added the other; and they continued raising the terms of the wager, until the number of camels staked was one hundred. The contract of the bet was deposited in the hands of a man named Sabic, son of Wahhab, and in the presence of a crowd of youths and old men. "What shall be the length of the race?" asked Hadifah of Cais. "One hundred bow-shots," replied Cais, "and we have an archer here, Ayas, the son of Mansour, who will measure the ground." Ayas was in fact the strongest and most accomplished archer then living among the Arabs. King Cais, by choosing Ayas, wished the course to be made long, knowing the endurance of his horse, and the longer distance Dahir had to travel, the more he gained speed, from the increased excitement of his spirit. "Well now, we had better fix the day for the race," said Cais to Hadifah. "Forty days will be required," replied Hadifah, "to bring the horses into condition." "You are right," said Cais, and they agreed that the horses should be trained for forty days, that the race should take place by the lake Zatalirsad, and that the horse that first reached the goal should be declared winner. All these preliminaries having been arranged, Cais returned to his tents. Meanwhile one of the horsemen of the tribe of Fazarah said to his neighbors: "Kinsmen, you may rest assured that there is going to be a breach between the tribe of Abs and that of Fazarah, as a result of this race between Dahir and Ghabra. The two tribes, you must know, will be mutually estranged, for King Cais has been there in person; now he is a prince and the son of a prince. He has made every effort to cancel the bet, but Hadifah would by no means consent. All this is the beginning of a broil, which may be followed by a war, possibly lasting fifty years, and many a one will fall in the struggle." Hadifah hearing this prediction, said: "I don't trouble myself much about the matter, and your suggestion seems to me absurd." "O Hadifah," exclaimed Ayas, "I am going to tell you what will be the result of all your obstinacy towards Cais." Then he recited some verses, with the following meaning: "In thee, O Hadifah, there is no beauty; and in the purity of Cais there is not a single blot. How sincere and honest was his counsels, although they were lacking in prudence and dignity. Make a wager with a man who does not possess even an ass, and whose father has never been rich enough to buy a horse. Let Cais alone; he has wealth, lands, horses, a proud spirit, and he is the owner of this Dahir, who is always first on the day of a race, whether he is resting or running--this Dahir, a steed whose feet even appear through the obscurity of night like burning brands." "Ayas," replied Hadifah, "do you think I would break my word? I will take the camels of Cais, and will not permit my name to be inscribed among the number of those who have been vanquished. Let things run their course." As soon as King Cais had regained his tents he hastened to tell his slaves to begin the training of his horses, and to pay especial attention to Dahir. Then he told his kinsmen all that had taken place between himself and Hadifah. Antar was present at this recital, and as he took great interest in all that concerned the king, he said, "Cais, calm your fears, keep your eyes well open, run the race, and have no fear. For, by the faith of an Arab, if Hadifah makes any trouble or misunderstanding, I will kill him, as well as the whole tribe of Fazarah." The conversation on this subject continued until they reached the tents, which Antar declined to enter before seeing Dahir. He walked several times round this animal, and saw at a glance that the horse actually possessed qualities which astonished any one who saw him. Hadifah quickly learned the return of Antar, and knew that the hero was encouraging King Cais to run the race. Haml, Hadifah's brother, had also heard the news, and in the distress which he felt remarked to Hadifah, "I fear lest Antar should fall upon me, or some one of the family of Beder, and kill us, and thus render us disgraced. Give up this race, or we are ruined. Let me go to King Cais, and I will not leave him until he promises to come to you and cancel the contract." "Do as you please," answered Hadifah. Thereupon Haml took horse, and went immediately to King Cais. He found him with his uncle Assyed, a wise and prudent man. Haml approached Cais, saluted him by kissing his hand, and after saying that he was the bearer of an important message, added: "Kinsman, you know that my brother Hadifah is a low fellow, whose mind is full of intrigues. I have spent the last three days in trying to persuade him to cancel this wager. At last he has said: 'Very good, if Cais comes to me, and wishes to be released from the contract, I will annul it; but do not let any Arab think that I abandon the bet through fear of Antar.' Now you, Cais, are aware that the greatest proof of attachment between kinsmen is their willingness to give way to one another. So I am here to beg that you will come to the dwelling of my brother Hadifah and ask him to give up the race, before it causes trouble, and the tribe be utterly driven away from its territories." At this address of Haml, Cais became flushed with shame, for he was trusting and generous. He at once arose, and leaving his uncle Assyed in charge of his domestic business, he accompanied Haml to the land of Fazarah. When they were midway on their journey Haml began to utter lavish praises of Cais to the latter's face, and to blame his own brother's faults, in the following terms: "O Cais, do not let your wrath be stirred up against Hadifah, for he is verily a man headstrong and unjust in his actions. O Cais, if you persist in holding to the bet, great disasters will follow. Both you and he are impulsive and passionate, and this is what causes me to feel anxiety about you, Cais. Put aside your private feelings, be kind and generous, and it will come to pass that the oppressor himself will become the oppressed." Haml continued to abuse his brother, and to flatter Cais with expressions of admiration all the way, until in the evening they arrived at the tribe of Fazarah. Hadifah, who at the moment was surrounded by many powerful chiefs, upon whose aid he depended in the hour of need, had changed his mind since his brother Haml's departure, and in place of coming to terms and making peace with Cais he had determined to yield in nothing, but to maintain rigorously the conditions of the coming race. He was speaking of this very matter with one of the chiefs at the moment when Cais and Haml presented themselves before him. As soon as Hadifah saw Cais, he resolved to cover him with shame. Turning therefore to his brother, he asked: "Who ordered you to go to this man? By the faith of a noble Arab, even if all the men who cover the surface of the earth were to come and importune me, saying, 'O Hadifah, give up one hair of these camels,' I would not yield until a lance had pierced my heart and a sword stricken the head from my shoulders." Cais crimsoned, and immediately remounted his horse, bitterly reproaching Haml. He returned home with the utmost haste, and found his uncle and brothers waiting for him in extreme anxiety. "O my son!" said his uncle Assyed as soon as he saw him, "you have had a disastrous journey, for it has caused you to be disgraced." "If Hadifah had not been surrounded by certain chiefs, who gave him treacherous counsels, I could have arranged the whole affair," answered Cais. "There is now nothing left but to carry out the race and the bet." King Cais did not sleep the whole of that night. On the morrow he thought of nothing but the training of his horses during the forty days' interval before the race. All the Arabs of the land agreed to come to the pastures and see the race, and when the forty days had expired the horsemen of the two tribes came in a crowd to the banks of lake Zatalirsud. Next arrived the archer Ayas, who, turning his back to the lake at the point where the horses were to start, drew his bow as he walked toward the north a hundred times, and measured out to the goal the course of a hundred bow-shots. Soon the horsemen of Ghitfan and Dibyan arrived, for they were of the same territory, and because of their friendly relations and kinship were comprised as one tribe under the name of Adnan. King Cais had begged Antar not to show himself on this occasion, fearing that his appearance might cause dissension. Antar listened to this advice, but was unable to rest quiet in the tents. The interest he felt in Cais, and the deep distrust with which the falseness of the Fazareans--who were always ready for treason--inspired him, induced him to show himself. Girding on his sword Dhami, and mounting his famous charger, Abjer, he took with him his brother Shidoub, and reached the spot fixed upon for the race, in order that he might watch over the safety of King Zoheir's sons. On his arrival he seemed to excel all that crowd, like a lion clad in coat of mail. He carried his naked sword, and his eyes flashed like blazing coals. As soon as he had reached the middle of the crowd, he cried out with a loud voice, that struck terror to all hearts: "Hearken, noble Arabian chieftains and men of renown assembled here--all of you know that I was supported and favored by King Zoheir, father of King Cais, that I am a slave bound to him, by his goodness and munificence; that it is he who caused my parents to acknowledge me, and gave me my rank, making me to be numbered among Arab chiefs. Although he is no longer living, I wish to show my gratitude to him, and bring the kings of the land into subjection to him, even after his death. He has left a son, whom his brothers have acknowledged, and have set on the throne of his father. This son is Cais, whom they have thus distinguished, because of his wisdom, rectitude, and noble heart. I am the slave of Cais, and am his property; I intend to be the supporter of him whom I love, and the enemy of whosoever resists him. It shall never be said, as long as I live, that I have suffered an enemy to affront him. As to the conditions of this wager, it is our duty to see them observed. The best thing, accordingly, to do is to let the horses race unobstructed, for victory comes from the creator of day and night. I make an oath, therefore, by the holy house at Mecca, by the temple, by the eternal God, who never forgets his servants and never sleeps, that if Hadifah commits any act of violence, I will make him drink the cup of vengeance and of death; and will make the whole tribe of Fazarah the byword of all the world. And you, Arab chieftains, if you sincerely desire the race to take place, conduct yourselves with justice and impartiality; otherwise, by the eyes of my dear Ibla, I will make the horses run the race in blood." "Antar is right," the horsemen shouted on all sides. Hadifah chose, as the rider of Ghabra, a groom of the tribe of Dibyan. This man had passed all his days and many of his nights in rearing and tending horses. Cais, on the other hand, chose as rider of Dahir a groom of the tribe of Abs, much better trained and experienced in his profession than was the Dibyanian. When the two contestants had mounted their horses King Cais gave this parting instruction to his groom: "Do not let the reins hang too loosely in managing Dahir; if you see him flag, stand up in your stirrups, and press his flanks gently with your legs. Do not urge him too much, or you will break his spirit." Hadifah heard this advice and repeated it, word for word, to his rider. Antar began to laugh. "By the faith of an Arab," he said to Hadifah, "you will be beaten. Are words so scarce that you are obliged to use exactly those of Cais? But as a matter of fact Cais is a king, the son of a king; he ought always to be imitated by others, and since you have followed, word by word, his speech, it is a proof that your horse will follow his in the desert." At these words the heart of Hadifah swelled with rage and indignation, and he swore with an oath that he would not let his horse run that day, but that he wished the race to take place at sunrise, next morning. This delay was indispensable to him in preparing the act of perfidy which he meditated, for he had no sooner seen Dahir than he was speechless with astonishment at the beauty and perfections of the horse. The judges had already dismounted and the horsemen of the various tribes were preparing to return home, when Shidoub began to cry out with a loud voice, "Tribes of Abs, of Adnan, of Fazarah and of Dibyan, and all here present attend to me for an instant, and listen to words which shall be repeated from generation to generation." All the warriors stood motionless. "Speak on," they cried, "what is your will? Perhaps there may be something good in your words." "Illustrious Arabs," continued Shidoub, "you know what happened in consequence of the match between Dahir and Ghabra: I assure you on my life that I will outstrip both of them in running, even were they swifter than the wind. But listen to the condition I offer; if I am the winner, I am to take the hundred camels which are at stake; but if I am beaten, I am to forfeit fifty." Upon this one of the Sheiks of Fazarah exclaimed, "What is that you are saying, vile slave? Why should you receive a hundred camels if you win and only forfeit fifty if you lose?" "Do you ask why, ancient mire of a dunghill," replied Shidoub, "because I have but two legs to run on and a horse has four, not counting his tail." All the Arabs burst out laughing; yet as they were astonished at the conditions proposed by Shidoub, and extremely curious to see him run the race, they agreed that he should make the hazardous experiment. When all had returned to the tents Antar said to Shidoub: "Come, now, thou son of a cursed mother, how dared thou say that thou couldst outstrip these two horses, whose race all horsemen of our tribes have assembled to see, and who all the world admits have no equals in speed, not even among the birds of the air?" "By him who created the springs in the rocks and who knows all things," replied Shidoub, "I will outstrip those two horses, be they fleet as the winds. Yes, and my victory will have an advantageous result, for when the Arabs hear of it, they will give up all idea of pursuing me, when I run across the desert." Antar laughed, for he was in doubt about Shidoub's plan. The latter went to find King Cais and his brothers, and the other witnesses of the race, and made oath on his life that he would outstrip the two horses. All present acknowledged themselves witnesses of the oath, and left the spot, filled with astonishment at the proposition. As for the trickster Hadifah, in the evening he summoned one of his slaves named Dames, a rascal, if ever there was one. "O Dames," he said, "you frequently boast of your cunning, but hitherto I have had no opportunity of putting it to the proof." "My Lord," answered the slave, "tell me in what way I can be useful to you." "I desire," said Hadifah, "that you go and post yourself in the great pass. Remain in this place, and go and hide yourself there in the morning. Watch the horses well, and see if Dahir is in advance. If he is, show yourself suddenly, strike him on the head, and cause him to stop, so that Ghabra may outstrip him, and we may not incur the disgrace of defeat. For I confess that since I have seen Dahir, his excellent points have made me doubt the superiority of Ghabra, and I fear my mare will be beaten, and we shall become the laughing stock of all the Arabs." "But, sir, how shall I distinguish Dahir from Ghabra when they advance, both of them wrapped in a cloud of dust?" Hadifah replied, "I am going to give you a sign, and to explain how the matter may be free from difficulty." As he spoke he picked up some stones from the ground and said: "Take these stones with you at sunrise, begin to count them, and throw them to the earth, four at a time. You must repeat the operation five times, and the last time Ghabra will arrive. That is the calculation I have made, so that if a cloud of dust presents itself to you, and some of the stones, a third or a half of them, still remain in your hand, you may be sure that Dahir has gained first place, and is before your eyes. You must then hurl a stone at his head, as I said, and stop his running, so that my mare may gain the lead." The slave agreed to do so. He provided himself with stones and went to hide himself at the great pass, and Hadifah felt confident of gaining the wager. At the dawn of day, the Arabs, coming from all quarters, were assembled on the race ground. The judges gave the signal for the start, and the two riders uttered loud shouts. The racers started like flashes of lightning which dazzle the sight and seemed like the wind when, as it blows, it increases in fury. Ghabra passed ahead of Dahir and distanced him. "Now you are lost, my brother of the tribe of Abs," cried the Fazarean groom to the Absian, "try and console yourself for this defeat." "You lie," retorted the Absian, "and in a few moments you will see how completely you are mistaken. Wait till we have passed this uneven ground. Mares always travel faster on rough roads than on smooth country." And so it happened, for when they arrived in the plain, Dahir shot forward like a giant, leaving a trail of dust behind him. It seemed as if he went on wings, not legs; in the twinkling of an eye he had outstripped Ghabra. "Here," cried the Absian to the Fazarean groom, "send a messenger from me to the family of Beder, and you yourself drink the bitter cup of patience behind me." Meanwhile Shidoub, swift as the north wind, kept ahead of Dahir, bounding like a fawn and running like an ostrich, until he reached the defile where Dames was hidden. The slave had only thrown down less than a third of his pebbles, when he looked up and saw Dahir approaching. He waited till the horse passed close by him, and suddenly showed himself with a shout, and hit the racer violently between the eyes with a stone. The horse reared, stopped one moment, and the rider was on the point of being unseated. Shidoub was a witness to the incident, and having looked at the slave, recognized him as belonging to the treacherous Hadifah. In the violence of his rage he flung himself upon Dames, and struck him dead with his sword: then he approached Dahir for the purpose of speaking soothingly to him, and starting him again on the race; but, alas, the mare Ghabra rushed up like the wind. Then Shidoub, fearing defeat, thinking of the camels he would forfeit, set out running at full speed towards the lake, where he arrived two bow-shots in advance of the horses. Ghabra followed, then Dahir last, bearing on his forehead the mark of the missile; his cheeks were covered with blood and tears. All the spectators were astounded on seeing the agility and endurance of Shidoub; but as soon as Ghabra had reached the finish the Fazareans uttered loud shouts of joy. Dahir was led home all bleeding, and his rider told the men of the tribe of Abs what the slave had done. Cais examined the wound of his horse and asked for full details of the occurrence. Antar grew crimson with anger, and laid his hand upon his invincible sword, as if impatient to annihilate the tribe of the Fazareans. But the sheiks restrained him, although with difficulty, after which they went to Hadifah to cover him with shame, and to reproach him with the infamous deed he had done. Hadifah denied it, with false oaths, affirming that he knew nothing of the blow dealt to Dahir; then he added, "I demand the camels which are due to me, and I do not admit the treacherous pretext on which they are being withheld." "That blow is doubtless of evil augury for the tribe of Fazarah," said Cais. "God will certainly give us victory and triumph, and destroy them. For Hadifah only desired this race to take place in order that it might cause trouble and discord, and the disturbance which this contest is sure to excite will stir up one tribe against another, so that there will be many men killed, and children made orphans." The conversation which followed among the tribesmen became more and more excited, confusion followed, shouts rang out on all sides, and drawn swords flashed. Bloodshed would have resulted had not the sheiks and wise men dismounted and with bared heads mingled with the crowd, with humble mien, imploring them, until at last the matter was settled as harmoniously as possible. It was agreed that Shidoub should receive the amount of the wager--a hundred camels from the tribe of Fazarah, and that Hadifah should abandon his claims and refrain from all dispute. Such were the measures taken to extinguish the hostility and disorder which threatened to burst out among the tribes. Then the different families retired to their own dwellings, but the hearts of all were filled with bitter hatred. One whose resentment seemed keenest was Hadifah, especially when he learned of the slave Dames's death. As for Cais, he was also filled with mute rage and intense hatred. Yet Antar tried to reassure him. "King," he said to him, "do not let your heart be a prey to mortification; for I swear by the tomb of King Zoheir, your father, that I will cause disgrace and infamy to fall on Hadifah, and it is only from regard for you that I have up to this time delayed action." Soon after all returned to their tents. The following morning Shidoub killed twenty of the camels he had won the day before, and caused the meat to be distributed among the widows and those who had been wounded and crippled in war. He slaughtered twenty others, which he used in entertaining the tribe of Abs, including women and slaves. Finally, the next day, he killed the rest of the camels and made a great feast near the lake Zatalirsad, to which he invited the sons of King Zoheir and his noblest chieftains. At the end of this banquet, when the wine circulated among the guests, all praised the behavior of Shidoub. But the news of the camel slaughter and of all the feasting was soon known to the tribe of Fazarah. All the enraged tribesmen hastened to seek Hadifah. "What," said they, "while we were first in the race, slaves and traitorous Absians have eaten our camels! Send for an equal number of camels, by all means; but if he refuses them let us make a terrible war upon the Absians." Hadifah raised his eyes upon his son Abou-Firacah. "Mount horse at once," he said to him, "and go and say to Cais: my father says that you must this instant pay the wager, or he will come and seize the amount by main force, and will bring trouble upon you." There was then present a chief among the sheiks, who, hearing the order that Hadifah had given to his son, said: "O Hadifah, are you not ashamed to send such a message to the tribe of the Absians? Are they not our kindred and allies? Does this proposal harmonize with the counsel and desire of allaying dissensions? The genuine man shows gratitude for generosity and kindness. I think it quite reasonable to expect that you desist from this perverse mood, which will end in our total extermination. Cais has shown himself quite impartial and has done wrong to no one; cherish, therefore, peace with the horsemen of the tribe of Abs. Take warning from what happened to the slave Dames; he struck Dahir, the horse of King Cais, and God punished him at once; he is left bathed in his slavish blood. I beg you to listen to none but wise counsels; act nobly, and abandon base designs. While you are thus forewarned as to your situation, keep a prudent eye on your affairs." This discourse rendered Hadifah furious. "Contemptible sheik! Dog of a traitor!" he exclaimed. "What! Must I be in fear of Cais and the whole tribe of the Absians? By the faith of an Arab, I will let all men of honor know that if Cais refuse to send the camels I will not leave one of his tents standing." The sheik was indignant, and to increase the fear he would cast into the heart of Hadifah he spoke to him in verses, to the following effect: "Insult is cowardliness, for it takes by surprise him who is not expecting it, as the night enwraps those who wander in the desert. When the sword shall once be drawn look out for blows. Be just and do not clothe thyself with dishonor. Enquire of those who know the fate of Themond and his tribe, when they committed acts of rebellion and tyranny. They will tell you that a command of God from on high destroyed them in one night, and on the morrow they lay scattered on the ground, their eyes turned towards the sky." Hadifah dissembled his contempt for these verses and the sheik who had pronounced them, but he ordered his son to go at once to Cais. Abou-Firacah started for the tribe of Abs, and as soon as he arrived there repaired to the home of Cais, who was absent. The messenger asked then for his wife Modelilah, the daughter of Rebia. "What do you desire of my husband?" she asked. "I demand my due, the prize of the horse race." "Misfortune take you and that which you demand," she replied. "Son of Hadifah! Do you not fear the consequences of such perfidy? If Cais were here he would send you to your death, instantly." Abou-Firacah returned to his father, to whom he told all that the wife of Cais had said "What, you coward," shouted Hadifah, "do you come back without completing your errand? Are you afraid of the daughter of Rebia? Go to him again." As Abou-Firacah reminded his father that it was now near night-fall, the message was postponed until the next day. As for Cais, when he re-entered his home, he learned from his wife that Abou-Firacah had come to ask for the camels. "By the faith of an Arab," he said, "if I had been here I would have slain him. But the matter is closed; let us think no more of it." Yet King Cais passed the night in grief and annoyance until sunrise, at which time he betook himself to his tent Antar came to see him. Cais rose, and making him take a seat, mentioned the name of Hadifah. "Would you believe he had the shamelessness to send his son to demand the camels of me? Ah, if I had been present I would have slain the messenger." Scarcely had he finished uttering these words when Abou-Firacah presented himself on horseback. Without dismounting, and uttering no word of salutation or preface, he said: "Cais, my father desires that you send him that which is his due; by so doing your conduct will be that of a generous man; but if you refuse, my father will come against you, carry off his property by force, and plunge you into misfortune." On hearing these words Cais felt the light change to darkness before his eyes. "O thou son of a vile coward," he exclaimed "how is it that you are not more respectful in your address to me?" He seized a javelin and plunged it into the breast of Abou-Firacah. Pierced through, the young messenger lost control of his horse.--Antar dragged him down and flung him on the ground. Then, turning the horse's head away from the direction of Fazarah, he struck him on the flank with a holly-stick, and the horse took the road towards the pastures, and finally entered his stable, all covered with blood. The shepherds at once led him to the tents, crying out, "Misfortune! Misfortune!" Hadifah became furious. He smote upon his breast, repeating the words: "Tribe of Fazarah, to arms, to arms, to arms!" and all the disaffected came to Hadifah once more, begging him to declare war on the Absians, and to take vengeance on them. "Kinsmen!" replied Hadifah, with alacrity, "let none of us sleep to-night without our armor on." And so it happened. At break of day Hadifah was on horseback; the warriors were ready, and only women and children and the feeble were left in the tents. Cais, on the other hand, after slaying Abou-Firacah, expected that the Fazareans would come and attack himself and his warriors; he therefore prepared for battle. Antar was charged with taking the necessary reconnoitre. He left in the tents only women, children, and those too feeble to bear the sword; then he put himself in command of the heroes of Carad. Nothing could be more brilliant than the ranks of the Absians in their coats of mail and gleaming weapons. These preparations caused an anxious moment for both parties. They marched forth against each other, and the sun had scarcely appeared, before scimitars flashed, and the whole country was in a turmoil. Antar was impatient to press forward, and satisfy his thirst for battle; but, lo! Hadifah, dressed in a black robe, advances, his heart broken by the death of his son. "Son of Zoheir," he cried to Cais, "it is a base action to slay a child; but it is good to meet in battle, to decide with these lances which shall predominate, you or me." These words cut Cais to the quick. Hurried along by passion he left his standard and rushed against Hadifah. Then the two chiefs, spurred on by mutual hatred, fought together on their noble chargers, until nightfall. Cais was mounted on Dahir, and Hadifah on Ghabra. In the course of this combat the exploits of the past were eclipsed. Each tribe despaired of his chieftain's safety, and they were eager to make a general attack, in order to stop the struggle of the chieftains and the fury with which they contended. Cries began to be heard in the air. Scimitars were drawn, and lances advanced over the ears of Arabian chargers. Antar approached certain Absian chiefs and said, "Let us attack the traitors." He prepared to charge, when the ancients of the two tribes came forth into the middle of the plain, with heads uncovered, their feet bared, and their idols hung from their shoulders. Standing between the two armies they spoke as follows: "Kinsmen and allies, in the name of that harmony which has hitherto prevailed among us, let us do nothing that will make us the byword of our slaves. Let us not furnish our enemies with ground for reproaching us. Let us forget all matter of dispute and dissension. Let us not turn wives into widows and our children into orphans. Satisfy your warlike ardor by attacking those among the Arabs who are your real foes; and you, kinsmen of Fazarah, show yourselves more humble and less haughty, towards your brethren the Absians. Above all, forget not that insolent wrong has often caused the destruction of many tribes, which have had sore reason to regret their impious actions; in this way many men have been deprived of their possessions, and a vast number been plunged into the gulf of despair and regret. Expect the fatal hour of death, the day of dissolution, for it is upon you. You will be rent asunder by the threatening eagles of destruction, and enclosed in the dark prison-house of the tomb. Take care, that when your bodies are separated from life, men may think about you without any other memory than that of your virtues." The sheiks talked together for a long time, and meanwhile the flame of passion which had been kindled in the soul of the two heroes, Cais and Hadifah, became quenched. Hadifah withdrew from the fight, and it was agreed that Cais should pay as the price of Abou-Firacah's blood a quantity of cattle and a string of camels. The sheiks did not wish even then to quit the field of battle until Cais and Hadifah embraced each other and had agreed to all the arrangements. Antar was crimson with rage. "O King Cais," he exclaimed, "what have you done? What! while our swords flash in our hands shall the tribe of Fazarah exact a price for the blood of its dead? And we never be able to obtain retaliation excepting with our spear points! The blood of our dead is shed, and shall we not avenge it?" Hadifah was beside himself on hearing these words. "And you, vile bastard," said Antar to him, "you son of a vile mother, must your honor be purchased at the expense of our disgrace? But for the presence of these noble sheiks I would annihilate you and all your people this very instant." Then Hadifah's indignation and anger overleaped all bounds. "By the faith of an Arab," he said to the sheiks, "I wish to hear no talk of peace at the moment that the enemy is ready to spear me." "Do not talk in that way, dear son of my mother," said Haml to his brother. "Do not dart away on the path of imprudence; abandon these gloomy resolutions. Remain in peace with the allies of the Absians, for they are shining stars: the burnished sun that guides all Arabs who love glory. It was but the other day that you wronged them by causing the horse Dahir to be wounded, and thus erred from the path of justice. As for your son, he was justly slain, for you had sent him to demand something that was not due you. After all, nothing is so proper as to make peace, for he who would seek and stir up war is a tyrant, and an oppressor. Accept therefore the compensation offered you, or you are likely to call up around us a fire which will burn us in the flames of hell." Haml concluded with verses of the following import: "By the truth of him who has rooted firm the mountains, without foundations, if you decline to accept the compensation offered by the Absians, you are in the wrong. They acknowledge Hadifah as their chief; be a chief in very deed, and be content with the cattle and camels offered you. Dismount from the horse of outrage, and mount it not again, for it will carry you to the sea of grief and calamity. Hadifah, renounce like a generous man, all violence, but particularly the idea of contending with the Absians. Make of them and of their leader a powerful rampart against the enemies that may attack us. Make of them friends that will remain faithful, for they are men of the noblest intentions. Such are the Absians, and if Cais has acted unjustly towards you, it is you who first set him the example some days ago." When Haml finished these verses, the chiefs of the different tribes thanked him, and Hadifah having consented to accept the compensation offered, all the Arabs renounced violence and war. All who carried arms remained at home. Cais sent to Hadifah two hundred camels, six men-slaves, ten women-slaves, and ten horses. Thus peace was reestablished and every one rested in tranquillity throughout the land. SELECTIONS FROM ARABIAN POETRY INTRODUCTION The essential qualities of Arabian poetry appear in the "Romance of Antar," and the tales of the "Thousand and One Nights." For such a blending of prose and verse is the favorite form of Arabian literature in its highest and severest form, even in the drama. But the character of the people is most clearly shown in the lyrical poems of the Bedouin country. The pastoral poetry of the peninsula is so local in its allusions that it cannot adequately be translated into English. It is in the lyrics that we find that "touch of nature which makes the whole world kin." The gorgeousness of Hindoo literature, with its lavish description of jewelry and gold, precious stones and marbles, hideous demons, and mighty gods, is not to be looked for in Arabia. There the horizon is clear, and the plain has nothing but human occupants. The common passions of men are the only powers at work; love, war, sorrow, and wine, are the subjects of these little songs, some of which might have been written by "Anacreon" Moore, and others by Catullus. The influence of Greek poetry is indeed manifest in these light and sometimes frivolous effusions. The sweetness and grace which distinguish some are only equalled by the wit of others. For wit is the prevailing characteristic of Arabian poetry, which is attractive for its cleverness, its brightness, the alternate smiles and tears which shine through it, and make the present selections so refreshing and interesting a revelation of the national heart and intellect. I use the word refreshing, because some of the imagery of these lyrics is new to me, and quite unparalleled in European literature. What can be more novel, and at the same time more charming than the following simile, with which a short elegy concludes:-- "But though in dust thy relics lie, Thy virtues, Mano, ne'er shall die; Though Nile's full stream be seen no more, That spread his waves from shore to shore, Still in the verdure of the plain His vivifying smiles remain." The praise of a humble lot has been sung from Hafiz to Horace, but never illustrated by a prettier conceit than the Arabic poet has recourse to in this stanza:-- "Not always wealth, not always force A splendid destiny commands; The lordly vulture gnaws the corse That rots upon yon barren sands. "Nor want nor weakness still conspires To bind us to a sordid state; The fly that with a touch expires, Sips honey from the royal plate." This is undoubtedly a very original way of stating the philosophic axiom of the Augustan poet, "The lord of boundless revenues, Do not salute as happy." I have spoken of the wit of these verses, which is certainly one of their distinguishing qualities. It is quite Attic in its flavor and exquisitely delicate in its combined good-humor and freedom from rancor. An epigram, according to the old definition, should be like a bee; it should carry the sweetness of honey, although it bears a sting at the end. Sometimes the end has a point which does not sting, as in the following quatrain of an Arabic poet:-- "When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn, They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow; When I offered myself, whom those graces adorn, You flouted, and called me an ugly old fellow." Martial himself could not have excelled the wit of an epigram addressed to a very little man who wore a very big beard, which thus concludes:-- "Surely thou cherishest thy beard In hope to hide thyself behind it." To study a literature like that of the Arabians, even partially and in a translation, is one of those experiences which enlarge and stimulate the mind and expand its range of impressions with a distinctly elevating and liberalizing effect. It has the result of genuine education, in that it increases our capacity for sympathy for other peoples, making us better acquainted with the language in which they reveal that common human heart which they share with us. E.W. AN ELEGY Those dear abodes which once contain'd the fair, Amidst Mitata's wilds I seek in vain, Nor towers, nor tents, nor cottages are there, But scatter'd ruins and a silent plain. The proud canals that once Rayana grac'd, Their course neglected and their waters gone, Among the level'd sands are dimly trac'd, Like moss-grown letters on a mouldering stone. Rayana say, how many a tedious year Its hallow'd circle o'er our heads hath roll'd, Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear, And fondly listened to the tale I told? How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours A never-failing stream, hath drenched thy head? How oft, the summer cloud in copious showers Or gentle drops its genial influence shed? How oft since then, the hovering mist of morn Hath caus'd thy locks with glittering gems to glow? How oft hath eve her dewy treasures borne To fall responsive to the breeze below? The matted thistles, bending to the gale, Now clothe those meadows once with verdure gay; Amidst the windings of that lonely vale The teeming antelope and ostrich stray. The large-eyed mother of the herd that flies Man's noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat, Here watches o'er her young, till age supplies Strength to their limbs and swiftness to their feet. Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls And giv'n their deep foundations to the light (As the retouching pencil that recalls A long-lost picture to the raptur'd sight). Save where the rains have wash'd the gathered sand And bared the scanty fragments to our view, (As the dust sprinkled on a punctur'd hand Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue). No mossy record of those once lov'd seats Points out the mansion to inquiring eyes; No tottering wall, in echoing sounds, repeats Our mournful questions and our bursting sighs. Yet, midst those ruin'd heaps, that naked plain, Can faithful memory former scenes restore, Recall the busy throng, the jocund train, And picture all that charm'd us there before. Ne'e shall my heart the fatal morn forget That bore the fair ones from these seats so dear-- I see, I see the crowding litters yet, And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear. I see the maids with timid steps descend, The streamers wave in all their painted pride, The floating curtains every fold extend, And vainly strive the charms within to hide. What graceful forms those envious folds enclose! What melting glances thro' those curtains play! Sure Weira's antelopes, or Tudah's roes Thro' yonder veils their sportive young survey! The band mov'd on--to trace their steps I strove, I saw them urge the camel's hastening flight, Till the white vapor, like a rising grove, Snatch'd them forever from my aching sight. Nor since that morn have I Nawara seen, The bands are burst which held us once so fast, Memory but tells me that such things have been, And sad Reflection adds, that they are past. _Lebid Ben Rabiat Alamary_. The author of this poem was a native of Yemen. He was contemporary with Mohammed and was already celebrated as a poet when the prophet began to promulgate his doctrines. Lebid embraced Islamism and was one of the most aggressive helpers in its establishment. He fixed his abode in the city of Cufa, where he died at a very advanced age. This elegy, as is evident, was written previous to Lebid's conversion to Islamism. Its subject is one that must be ever interesting to the feeling mind--the return of a person after a long absence to the place of his birth--in fact it is the Arabian "Deserted Village." THE TOMB OF MANO Friends of my heart, who share my sighs! Go seek the turf where Mano lies, And woo the dewy clouds of spring, To sweep it with prolific wing. Within that cell, beneath that heap, Friendship and Truth and Honor sleep, Beneficence, that used to clasp The world within her ample grasp. There rests entomb'd--of thought bereft-- For were one conscious atom left New bliss, new kindness to display, 'Twould burst the grave, and seek the day. But tho' in dust thy relics lie, Thy virtues, Mano, ne'er shall die; Tho' Nile's full stream be seen no more, That spread his waves from shore to shore, Still in the verdure of the plain His vivifying smiles remain. _Hassan Alasady_. TOMB OF SAYID Blest are the tenants of the tomb! With envy I their lot survey! For Sayid shares the solemn gloom, And mingles with their mouldering clay. Dear youth! I'm doom'd thy loss to mourn When gathering ills around combine; And whither now shall Malec turn, Where look for any help but thine? At this dread moment when the foe My life with rage insatiate seeks, In vain I strive to ward the blow, My buckler falls, my sabre breaks. Upon thy grassy tomb I knelt, And sought from pain a short relief-- Th' attempt was vain--I only felt Intenser pangs and livelier grief. The bud of woe no more represt, Fed by the tears that drench'd it there, Shot forth and fill'd my laboring breast Soon to expand and shed despair. But tho' of Sayid I'm bereft, From whom the stream of bounty came, Sayid a nobler meed has left-- Th' exhaustless heritage of fame. Tho' mute the lips on which I hung, Their silence speaks more loud to me Than any voice from mortal tongue, "What Sayid was let Malec be." _Abd Almalec Alharithy_. Abd Almalec was a native of Arabia Felix. The exact period when he flourished is unknown, but as this production is taken from the Hamasa it is most probable that he was anterior to Mohammedanism. THE DEATH OF HIS MISTRESS Dost thou wonder that I flew Charm'd to meet my Leila's view? Dost thou wonder that I hung Raptur'd on my Leila's tongue? If her ghost's funereal screech Thro' the earth my grave should reach, On that voice I lov'd so well My transported ghost would dwell:-- If in death I can descry Where my Leila's relics lie, Saher's dust will flee away, There to join his Leila's clay. _Abu Saher Alhedily_. The sentiment contained in this production determines its antiquity. It was the opinion of the Pagan Arabs that upon the death of any person a bird, by them called Manah, issued from his brain, which haunted the sepulchre of the deceased, uttering a lamentable scream. ON AVARICE How frail are riches and their joys? Morn builds the heap which eve destroys; Yet can they have one sure delight-- The thought that we've employed them right. What bliss can wealth afford to me When life's last solemn hour I see, When Mavia's sympathizing sighs Will but augment my agonies? Can hoarded gold dispel the gloom That death must shed around his tomb? Or cheer the ghost which hovers there, And fills with shrieks the desert air? What boots it, Mavia, in the grave, Whether I lov'd to waste or save? The hand that millions now can grasp, In death no more than mine shall clasp. Were I ambitious to behold Increasing stores of treasured gold, Each tribe that roves the desert knows I might be wealthy if I chose:-- But other joys can gold impart, Far other wishes warm my heart-- Ne'er may I strive to swell the heap, Till want and woe have ceas'd to weep. With brow unalter'd I can see The hour of wealth or poverty: I've drunk from both the cups of fate, Nor this could sink, nor that elate. With fortune blest, I ne'er was found To look with scorn on those around; Nor for the loss of paltry ore, Shall Hatem seem to Hatem poor. _Hatem Tai_. Hatem Tai was an Arabian chief, who lived a short time prior to the promulgation of Mohammedanism. He has been so much celebrated through the East for his generosity that even to this day the greatest encomium which can be given to a generous man is to say that he is as liberal as Hatem. Hatem was also a poet; but his talents were principally exerted in recommending his favorite virtue. THE BATTLE OF SABLA Sabla, them saw'st th' exulting foe In fancied triumphs crown'd; Thou heard'st their frantic females throw These galling taunts around:-- "Make now your choice--the terms we give, Desponding victims, hear; These fetters on your hands receive, Or in your hearts the spear." "And is the conflict o'er," we cried, "And lie we at your feet? And dare you vauntingly decide The fortune we must meet? "A brighter day we soon shall see, Tho' now the prospect lowers, And conquest, peace, and liberty Shall gild our future hours." The foe advanc'd:--in firm array We rush'd o'er Sabla's sands, And the red sabre mark'd our way Amidst their yielding bands. Then, as they writh'd in death's cold grasp, We cried, "Our choice is made, These hands the sabre's hilt shall clasp, Your hearts shall have the blade." _Jaafer Ben Alba_. This poem and the one following it are both taken from the Hamasa and afford curious instances of the animosity which prevailed amongst the several Arabian clans, and of the rancor with which they pursued each other, when once at variance. VERSES TO MY ENEMIES Why thus to passion give the rein? Why seek your kindred tribe to wrong? Why strive to drag to light again The fatal feud entomb'd so long? Think not, if fury ye display, But equal fury we can deal; Hope not, if wrong'd, but we repay Revenge for every wrong we feel. Why thus to passion give the rein? Why seek the robe of peace to tear? Rash youths desist, your course restrain, Or dread the wrath ye blindly dare. Yet friendship we not ask from foes, Nor favor hope from you to prove, We lov'd you not, great Allah knows, Nor blam'd you that ye could not love. To each are different feelings given, This slights, and that regards his brother; 'Tis ours to live--thanks to kind heav'n-- Hating and hated by each other. _Alfadhel Ibn Alabas_. ON HIS FRIENDS With conscious pride I view the band Of faithful friends that round me stand, With pride exult that I alone Can join these scatter'd gems in one:-- For they're a wreath of pearls, and I The silken cord on which they lie. 'Tis mine their inmost souls to see, Unlock'd is every heart to me, To me they cling, on me they rest, And I've a place in every breast:-- For they're a wreath of pearls, and I The silken cord on which they lie. _Meskin Aldaramy_. These lines are also from the Hamasa. ON TEMPER Yes, Leila, I swore by the fire of thine eyes, I ne'er could a sweetness unvaried endure; The bubbles of spirit, that sparkling arise, Forbid life to stagnate and render it pure. But yet, my dear maid, tho' thy spirit's my pride, I'd wish for some sweetness to temper the bowl; If life be ne'er suffer'd to rest or subside, It may not be flat, but I fear 'twill be foul. _Nabegat Beni Jaid_. There have been several Arabian poets of the name of Nabegat. The author of these verses was descended from the family of Jaid. As he died in the fortieth year of the Hegira, aged one hundred and twenty, he must have been fourscore at the promulgation of Islamism; he, however, declared himself an early convert to the new faith. THE SONG OF MAISUNA The russet suit of camel's hair, With spirits light, and eye serene, Is dearer to my bosom far Than all the trappings of a queen. The humble tent and murmuring breeze That whistles thro' its fluttering wall, My unaspiring fancy please Better than towers and splendid halls. Th' attendant colts that bounding fly And frolic by the litter's side, Are dearer in Maisuna's eye Than gorgeous mules in all their pride. The watch-dog's voice that bays whene'er A stranger seeks his master's cot, Sounds sweeter in Maisuna's ear Than yonder trumpet's long-drawn note. The rustic youth unspoilt by art, Son of my kindred, poor but free, Will ever to Maisuna's heart Be dearer, pamper'd fool, than thee. Maisuma was a daughter of the tribe of Calab; a tribe, according to Abulfeda, remarkable both for the purity of dialect spoken in it, and for the number of poets it had produced. She was married, whilst very young, to the Caliph Mowiah. But this exalted situation by no means suited the disposition of Maisuna, and amidst all the pomp and splendor of Damascus, she languished for the simple pleasures of her native desert. TO MY FATHER Must then my failings from the shaft Of anger ne'er escape? And dost thou storm because I've quaff'd The water of the grape? That I can thus from wine be driv'n Thou surely ne'er canst think-- Another reason thou hast giv'n Why I resolve to drink. 'Twas sweet the flowing cup to seize, 'Tis sweet thy rage to see; And first I drink myself to please; And next--to anger thee. _Yezid_. Yezid succeeded Mowiah in the Caliphate A.H. 60; and in most respects showed himself to be of a very different disposition from his predecessor. He was naturally cruel, avaricious, and debauched; but instead of concealing his vices from the eyes of his subjects, he seemed to make a parade of those actions which he knew no good Mussulman could look upon without horror; he drank wine in public, he caressed his dogs, and was waited upon by his eunuchs in sight of the whole court. ON FATALISM Not always wealth, not always force A splendid destiny commands; The lordly vulture gnaws the corse That rots upon yon barren sands. _Imam Shafay Mohammed Ben Idris_. Shafay, the founder of one of the four orthodox sects into which the Mohammedans are divided, was a disciple of Malek Ben Ans, and master to Ahmed Ebn Hanbal; each of whom, like himself, founded a sect which is still denominated from the name of its author. The fourth sect is that of Abou Hanifah. This differs in tenets considerably from the three others, for whilst the Malekites, the Shafaites, and the Hanbalites are invariably bigoted to tradition in their interpretations of the Koran, the Hanifites consider themselves as at liberty in any difficulty to make use of their own reason. TO THE CALIPH HARUN-AL-RASHID Religion's gems can ne'er adorn The flimsy robe by pleasure worn; Its feeble texture soon would tear, And give those jewels to the air. Thrice happy they who seek th' abode Of peace and pleasure, in their God! Who spurn the world, its joys despise, And grasp at bliss beyond the skies. _Ibrahim Ben Adham_. The author of this poem was a hermit of Syria, equally celebrated for his talents and piety. He was son to a prince of Khorasan, and born about the ninety-seventh year of the Hegira. This poem was addressed to the Caliph upon his undertaking a pilgrimage to Mecca. LINES TO HARUN AND YAHIA Th' affrighted sun ere while he fled, And hid his radiant face in night; A cheerless gloom the world overspread-- But Harun came, and all was bright. Again the sun shoots forth his rays, Nature is deck'd in beauty's robe-- For mighty Harun's sceptre sways, And Yahia's arm sustains the globe. _Isaac Almousely_. Isaac Almousely is considered by the Orientals as the most celebrated musician that ever flourished in the world. He was born in Persia, but having resided almost entirely at Mousel, he is generally supposed to have been a native of that place. THE RUIN OF BARMECIDES No, Barmec! Time hath never shown So sad a change of wayward fate; Nor sorrowing mortals ever known A grief so true, a loss so great. Spouse of the world! Thy soothing breast Did balm to every woe afford; And now no more by thee caress'd, The widow'd world bewails her Lord. The family of Barmec was one of the most illustrious in the East. They were descended from the ancient kings of Persia, and possessed immense property in various countries; they derived still more consequence from the favor which they enjoyed at the court of Bagdad, where, for many years, they filled the highest offices of the state with universal approbation. TO TAHER BEN HOSIEN A pair of right hands and a single dim eye Must form not a man, but a monster, they cry:-- Change a hand to an eye, good Taher, if you can, And a monster perhaps may be chang'd to man. Taher Ben Hosien was ambidexter and one-eyed and, strange to say, the most celebrated general of his time. THE ADIEU The boatmen shout, "Tis time to part, No longer we can stay"-- 'Twas then Maimnna taught my heart How much a glance could say. With trembling steps to me she came; "Farewell," she would have cried, But ere her lips the word could frame In half-form'd sounds it died. Then bending down with looks of love, Her arms she round me flung, And, as the gale hangs on the grove, Upon my breast she hung. My willing arms embraced the maid, My heart with raptures beat; While she but wept the more and said, "Would we had never met!" _Abou Mohammed_. This was sung before the Caliph Wathek, by Abou Mohammed, a musician of Bagdad, as a specimen of his musical talents; and such were its effects upon the Caliph, that he immediately testified his approbation of the performance by throwing his own robe over the shoulders of Abou Mohammed, and ordering him a present of an hundred thousand dirhems. TO MY MISTRESS Ungenerous and mistaken maid, To scorn me thus because I'm poor! Canst thou a liberal hand upbraid For dealing round some worthless ore? To spare's the wish of little souls, The great but gather to bestow; Yon current down the mountain rolls, And stagnates in the swamp below. _Abou Teman Habib_. Abou Teman is considered the most excellent of all the Arabian poets. He was born near Damascus A.H. 190, and educated in Egypt; but the principal part of his life was spent at Bagdad, under the patronage of the Abasside Caliphs. TO A FEMALE CUP-BEARER Come, Leila, fill the goblet up, Reach round the rosy wine, Think not that we will take the cup From any hand but thine. A draught like this 'twere vain to seek, No grape can such supply; It steals its tint from Leila's cheek, Its brightness from her eye. _Abd Alsalam Ben Ragban_. Abd Alsalam was a poet more remarkable for abilities than morality. We may form an idea of the nature of his compositions from the nickname he acquired amongst his contemporaries of Cock of the Evil Genii. He died in the 236th year of the Hegira, aged near eighty. MASHDUD ON THE MONKS OF KHABBET Tenants of yon hallow'd fane! Let me your devotions share, There increasing raptures reign-- None are ever sober there. Crowded gardens, festive bowers Ne'er shall claim a thought of mine; You can give in Khabbet's towers-- Purer joys and brighter wine. Tho' your pallid faces prove How you nightly vigils keep, 'Tis but that you ever love Flowing goblets more than sleep. Tho' your eye-balls dim and sunk Stream in penitential guise, 'Tis but that the wine you've drunk Bubbles over from your eyes. The three following songs were written by Mashdud, Rakeek, and Rais, three of the most celebrated improvisators in Bagdad, at an entertainment given by Abou Isy. RAKEEK TO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS Tho' the peevish tongues upbraid, Tho' the brows of wisdom scowl, Fair ones here on roses laid, Careless will we quaff the bowl. Let the cup, with nectar crown'd, Thro' the grove its beams display, It can shed a lustre round, Brighter than the torch of day. Let it pass from hand to hand, Circling still with ceaseless flight, Till the streaks of gray expand O'er the fleeting robe of night. As night flits, she does but cry, "Seize the moments that remain"-- Thus our joys with yours shall vie, Tenants of yon hallow'd fane! DIALOGUE BY RAIS _Rais_: Maid of sorrow, tell us why Sad and drooping hangs thy head? Is it grief that bids thee sigh? Is it sleep that flies thy bed? _Lady_: Ah! I mourn no fancied wound, Pangs too true this heart have wrung, Since the snakes which curl around Selim's brows my bosom stung. Destin'd now to keener woes, I must see the youth depart, He must go, and as he goes Rend at once my bursting heart. Slumber may desert my bed, Tis not slumber's charms I seek-- 'Tis the robe of beauty spread O'er my Selim's rosy cheek. TO A LADY WEEPING When I beheld thy blue eyes shine Thro' the bright drop that pity drew, I saw beneath those tears of thine A blue-ey'd violet bath'd in dew. The violet ever scents the gale, Its hues adorn the fairest wreath, But sweetest thro' a dewy veil Its colors glow, its odors breathe. And thus thy charms in brightness rise-- When wit and pleasure round thee play, When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes, Who but admires their sprightly ray? But when thro' pity's flood they gleam, Who but must love their soften'd beam? _Ebn Alrumi_. Ebn Alrumi is reckoned by the Arabian writers as one of the most excellent of all their poets. He was by birth a Syrian, and passed the greatest part of his time at Emessa, where he died A.H. 283. ON A VALETUDINARIAN So careful is Isa, and anxious to last, So afraid of himself is he grown, He swears thro' two nostrils the breath goes too fast, And he's trying to breathe thro' but one. _Ebn Alrumi_. ON A MISER "Hang her, a thoughtless, wasteful fool, She scatters corn where'er she goes"-- Quoth Hassan, angry at his mule, That dropt a dinner to the crows. _Ebn Alrumi_. TO CASSIM OBIO ALLAH Poor Cassim! thou art doom'd to mourn By destiny's decree; Whatever happens it must turn To misery for thee. Two sons hadst thou, the one thy pride, The other was thy pest; Ah, why did cruel death decide To snatch away the best? No wonder thou shouldst droop with woe, Of such a child bereft; But now thy tears must doubly flow, For, ah! the other's left. _Aly Ben Ahmed Ben Mansour_. Aly Ben Ahmed distinguished himself in prose as well as poetry, and an historical work of considerable reputation, of which he was the author, is still extant. But he principally excelled in satire, and so fond was he of indulging this dangerous talent that no one escaped his lash; if he could only bring out a sarcasm, it was matter of indifference to him whether an enemy or a brother smarted under its severity. He died at Bagdad A.H. 302. A FRIEND'S BIRTHDAY When born, in tears we saw thee drown'd, While thine assembled friends around, With smiles their joy confest; So live, that at thy parting hour, They may the flood of sorrow pour, And thou in smiles be drest! The thought contained in these lines, appears so natural and so obvious, that one wonders it did not occur to all who have attempted to write upon a birthday or a death. TO A CAT Poor Puss is gone! 'Tis fate's decree-- Yet I must still her loss deplore, For dearer than a child was she, And ne'er shall I behold her more. With many a sad presaging tear This morn I saw her steal away, While she went on without a fear Except that she should miss her prey. I saw her to the dove-house climb, With cautious feet and slow she stept Resolv'd to balance loss of time By eating faster than she crept. Her subtle foes were on the watch, And mark'd her course, with fury fraught, And while she hoped the birds to catch, An arrow's point the huntress caught. In fancy she had got them all, And drunk their blood and suck'd their breath; Alas! she only got a fall, And only drank the draught of death. Why, why was pigeons' flesh so nice, That thoughtless cats should love it thus? Hadst thou but liv'd on rats and mice, Thou hadst been living still, poor Puss. Curst be the taste, howe'er refined, That prompts us for such joys to wish, And curst the dainty where we find Destruction lurking in the dish. _Ibn Alalaf Alnaharwany_. AN EPIGRAM UPON EBN NAPHTA-WAH By the former with ruin and death we are curst, In the latter we grieve for the ills of the first; And as for the whole, where together they meet, It's a drunkard, a liar, a thief, and a cheat. _Mohammed Ben Zeid Almotakalam_. Mohammed Ben Arfa, here called Naphta-Wah, was descended from a noble family in Khorasan. He applied himself to study with indefatigable perseverance, and was a very voluminous author in several branches of literature, but he is chiefly distinguished as a grammarian. He died in the year of the Hegira 323. FIRE _A Riddle_. The loftiest cedars I can eat, Yet neither paunch nor mouth have I, I storm whene'er you give me meat, Whene'er you give me drink, I die. This composition seems a fit supplement to the preceding one; notwithstanding its absurdity, however. It is inserted merely to show that this mode of trifling was not unknown to the Orientals. It is taken from the Mostatraf, where a great number of similar productions on various subjects are preserved. TO A LADY BLUSHING Leila, whene'er I gaze on thee My altered cheek turns pale, While upon thine, sweet maid, I see A deep'ning blush prevail. Leila, shall I the cause impart Why such a change takes place? The crimson stream deserts my heart, To mantle on thy face. _The Caliph Radhi Billah_. Radhi Billah, son to Moctader, was the twentieth Caliph of the house of Abbas, and the last of these princes who possessed any substantial power. ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE Mortal joys, however pure, Soon their turbid source betray; Mortal bliss, however sure, Soon must totter and decay. Ye who now, with footsteps keen, Range through hope's delusive field, Tell us what the smiling scene To your ardent grasp can yield? Other youths have oft before Deem'd their joys would never fade, Till themselves were seen no more Swept into oblivion's shade. Who, with health and pleasure gay, E'er his fragile state could know, Were not age and pain to say Man is but the child of woe? TO A DOVE The Dove to ease an aching breast, In piteous murmurs vents her cares; Like me she sorrows, for opprest, Like me, a load of grief she bears. Her plaints are heard in every wood, While I would fain conceal my woes; But vain's my wish, the briny flood, The more I strive, the faster flows. Sure, gentle Bird, my drooping heart Divides the pangs of love with thine, And plaintive murm'rings are thy part, And silent grief and tears are mine. _Serage Alwarak_. ON A THUNDER STORM Bright smil'd the morn, till o'er its head The clouds in thicken'd foldings spread A robe of sable hue; Then, gathering round day's golden king, They stretch'd their wide o'ershadowing wing, And hid him from our view. The rain his absent beams deplor'd, And, soften'd into weeping, pour'd Its tears in many a flood; The lightning laughed with horrid glare; The thunder growl'd, in rage; the air In silent sorrow stood. _Ibrahim Ben Khiret Abou Isaac_. TO MY FAVORITE MISTRESS I saw their jealous eyeballs roll, I saw them mark each glance of mine, I saw thy terrors, and my soul Shar'd ev'ry pang that tortur'd thine. In vain to wean my constant heart, Or quench my glowing flame, they strove; Each deep-laid scheme, each envious art, But wak'd my fears for her I love. 'Twas this compelled the stern decree, That forc'd thee to those distant towers, And left me nought but love for thee, To cheer my solitary hours. Yet let not Abla sink deprest, Nor separation's pangs deplore; We meet not--'tis to meet more blest; We parted--'tis to part no more. _Saif Addaulet, Sultan of Aleppe_. CRUCIFIXION OF EBN BAKIAH Whatever thy fate, in life and death, Thou'rt doom'd above us still to rise, Whilst at a distance far beneath We view thee with admiring eyes. The gazing crowds still round thee throng, Still to thy well-known voice repair, As when erewhile thy hallow'd tongue Pour'd in the Mosque the solemn prayer. Still, generous Vizir, we survey Thine arms extended o'er our head, As lately, in the festive day, When they were stretch'd thy gifts to shed. Earth's narrow boundaries strove in vain To limit thy aspiring mind, And now we see thy dust disdain Within her breast to be confin'd. The earth's too small for one so great, Another mansion thou shalt have-- The clouds shall be thy winding sheet, The spacious vault of heaven thy grave. _Abou Hassan Alanbary_. Ebn Bakiah was vizir to Azzad Addaulet or Bachteir, Emir Alomra of Bagdad, under the Caliphs Moti Lillah and Tay Lillah; but Azzad Addaulet being deprived of his office, and driven from Bagdad by Adhed Addaulet, Sultan of Persia, Ebn Bakiah was seized and crucified at the gates of the city, by order of the conqueror. CAPRICES OF FORTUNE Why should I blush that Fortune's frown Dooms me life's humble paths to tread? To live unheeded, and unknown? To sink forgotten to the dead? 'Tis not the good, the wise, the brave, That surest shine, or highest rise; The feather sports upon the wave, The pearl in ocean's cavern lies. Each lesser star that studs the sphere Sparkles with undiminish'd light: Dark and eclips'd alone appear The lord of day, the queen of night. _Shems Almaali Cabus_. History can show few princes so amiable and few so unfortunate as Shems Almaali Cabus. He is described as possessed of almost every virtue and every accomplishment: his piety, justice, generosity, and humanity, are universally celebrated; nor was he less conspicuous for intellectual powers; his genius was at once penetrating, solid, and brilliant, and he distinguished himself equally as an orator, a philosopher, and a poet. ON LIFE Like sheep, we're doom'd to travel o'er The fated track to all assign'd, These follow those that went before, And leave the world to those behind. As the flock seeks the pasturing shade, Man presses to the future day, While death, amidst the tufted glade, Like the dun robber, waits his prey. The wolf. EXTEMPORE VERSES Lowering as Barkaidy's face The wintry night came in, Cold as the music of his bass, And lengthen'd as his chin. Sleep from my aching eyes had fled, And kept as far apart, As sense from Ebn Fahdi's head, Or virtue from his heart. The dubious paths my footsteps balk'd, I slipp'd along the sod, As if on Jaber's faith I'd walk'd, Or on his truth had trod. At length the rising King of day Burst on the gloomy wood, Like Carawash's eye, whose ray Dispenses every good. _Ebn Alramacram_. The occasion of the following composition is thus related by Abulfeda. Carawash, Sultan of Mousel, being one wintry evening engaged in a party of pleasure along with Barkaidy, Ebn Fahdi, Abou Jaber, and the improvisatore poet, Ebn Alramacram, resolved to divert himself at the expense of his companions. He therefore ordered the poet to give a specimen of his talents, which at the same time should convey a satire upon the three courtiers, and a compliment to himself. Ebn Alramacram took his subject from the stormy appearance of the night, and immediately produced these verses. ON THE DEATH OF A SON Tyrant of man! Imperious Fate! I bow before thy dread decree, Nor hope in this uncertain state To find a seat secure from thee. Life is a dark, tumultuous stream, With many a care and sorrow foul, Yet thoughtless mortals vainly deem That it can yield a limpid bowl. Think not that stream will backward flow, Or cease its destin'd course to keep; As soon the blazing spark shall glow Beneath the surface of the deep. Believe not Fate at thy command Will grant a meed she never gave; As soon the airy tower shall stand, That's built upon a passing wave. Life is a sleep of threescore years, Death bids us wake and hail the light, And man, with all his hopes and fears, Is but a phantom of the night. _Aly Ben Mohammed Altahmany_. Aly Ben Mohammed was a native of that part of Arabia called Hejaz; and was celebrated not only as a poet, but as a politician. TO LEILA Leila, with too successful art, Has spread for me love's cruel snare; And now, when she has caught my heart, She laughs, and leaves it to despair. Thus the poor sparrow pants for breath, Held captive by a playful boy, And while it drinks the draught of death, The thoughtless child looks on with joy. Ah! were its flutt'ring pinions free, Soon would it bid its chains adieu, Or did the child its suff'rings see, He'd pity and relieve them too. ON MODERATION IN OUR PLEASURES How oft does passion's grasp destroy The pleasure that it strives to gain? How soon the thoughtless course of joy Is doom'd to terminate in pain? When prudence would thy steps delay, She but restrains to make thee blest; Whate'er from joy she lops away, But heightens and secures the rest. Wouldst thou a trembling flame expand, That hastens in the lamp to die? With careful touch, with sparing hand, The feeding stream of life supply. But if thy flask profusely sheds A rushing torrent o'er the blaze, Swift round the sinking flame it spreads, And kills the fire it fain would raise. _Abou Alcassim Ebn Tabataba_. Tabataba deduced his pedigree from Ali Ben Abou Taleb, and Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed. He was born at Ispahan, but passed the principal part of his life in Egypt, where he was appointed chief of the sheriffs, i.e. the descendants of the Prophet, a dignity held in the highest veneration by every Mussulman. He died in the year of the Hegira 418, with the reputation of being one of the most excellent poets of his time. THE VALE OF BOZAA The intertwining boughs for thee Have wove, sweet dell, a verdant vest, And thou in turn shalt give to me A verdant couch upon thy breast. To shield me from day's fervid glare Thine oaks their fostering arms extend, As anxious o'er her infant care I've seen a watchful mother bend. A brighter cup, a sweeter draught, I gather from that rill of thine, Than maddening drunkards ever quaff'd, Than all the treasures of the vine. So smooth the pebbles on its shore, That not a maid can thither stray, But counts her strings of jewels o'er, And thinks the pearls have slipp'd away. _Ahmed Ben Yousef Almenazy_. Ben Yousef for many years acted as vizir to Abou Nasser, Sultan of Diarbeker. His political talents are much praised, and he is particularly celebrated for the address he displayed while upon an embassy to the Greek Emperor at Constantinople. Yousef's poetry must be looked upon merely as a jeu d'esprit suggested by the beauties of the vale of Bozaa, as he passed through it. TO ADVERSITY Hail, chastening friend Adversity! 'Tis thine The mental ore to temper and refine, To cast in virtue's mould the yielding heart, And honor's polish to the mind impart. Without thy wakening touch, thy plastic aid, I'd lain the shapeless mass that nature made; But form'd, great artist, by thy magic hand, I gleam a sword to conquer and command. _Abou Menbaa Carawash_. The life of this prince was checkered with various adventures; he was perpetually engaged in contests either with the neighboring sovereigns, or the princes of his own family. After many struggles he was obliged to submit to his brother, Abou Camel, who immediately ordered him to be seized, and conveyed to a place of security. ON THE INCOMPATIBILITY OF PRIDE AND TRUE GLORY Think not, Abdallah, pride and fame Can ever travel hand in hand; With breast oppos'd, and adverse aim, On the same narrow path they stand. Thus youth and age together meet, And life's divided moments share; This can't advance till that retreat, What's here increas'd, is lessen'd there. And thus the falling shades of night Still struggle with the lucid ray, And e'er they stretch their gloomy flight Must win the lengthen'd space from day. _Abou Alola_. Abou Alola is esteemed as one of the most excellent of the Arabian poets. He was born blind, but this did not deter him from the pursuit of literature. Abou Alola died at Maara in the year 449, aged eighty-six. THE DEATH OF NEDHAM ALMOLK Thy virtues fam'd thro' every land, Thy spotless life, in age and youth, Prove thee a pearl, by nature's hand, Form'd out of purity and truth. Too long its beams of Orient light Upon a thankless world were shed; Allah has now reveng'd the slight, And call'd it to its native bed. _Shebal Addaulet_. LINES TO A LOVER When you told us our glances soft, timid and mild, Could occasion such wounds in the heart, Can ye wonder that yours, so ungovern'd and wild, Some wounds to our cheeks should impart? The wounds on our cheeks are but transient, I own, With a blush they appear and decay; But those on the heart, fickle youths, ye have shown To be even more transient than they. _Waladata_. VERSES TO MY DAUGHTERS With jocund heart and cheerful brow I used to hail the festal morn-- How must Mohammed greet it now?-- A prisoner helpless and forlorn. While these dear maids in beauty's bloom, With want opprest, with rags o'erspread, By sordid labors at the loom Must earn a poor, precarious bread. Those feet that never touched the ground, Till musk or camphor strew'd the way, Now bare and swoll'n with many a wound. Must struggle thro' the miry clay. Those radiant cheeks are veil'd in woe, A shower descends from every eye, And not a starting tear can flow, That wakes not an attending sigh. Fortune, that whilom own'd my sway, And bow'd obsequious to my nod, Now sees me destin'd to obey, And bend beneath oppression's rod. Ye mortals with success elate, Who bask in hope's delusive beam, Attentive view Mohammed's fate, And own that bliss is but a dream. _Mohammed Bed Abad_. Seville was one of those small sovereignties into which Spain had been divided after the extinction of the house of Ommiah. It did not long retain its independence, and the only prince who ever presided over it as a separate kingdom seems to have been Mohammed Ben Abad, the author of these verses. For thirty-three years he reigned over Seville and the neighboring districts with considerable reputation, but being attacked by Joseph, son to the Emperor of Morocco, at the head of a numerous army of Africans, was defeated, taken prisoner, and thrown into a dungeon, where he died in the year 488. SERENADE TO MY SLEEPING MISTRESS Sure Harut's potent spells were breath'd Upon that magic sword, thine eye; For if it wounds us thus while sheath'd, When drawn, 'tis vain its edge to fly. How canst thou doom me, cruel fair, Plung'd in the hell of scorn to groan? No idol e'er this heart could share, This heart has worshipp'd thee alone. _Aly Ben Abd_. This author was by birth an African; but having passed over to Spain, he was much patronized by Mohammed, Sultan of Seville. After the fall of his master, Ben Abd returned to Africa, and died at Tangier, A.H. 488. A wicked angel who is permitted to tempt mankind by teaching them magic; see the legend respecting him in the Koran. The poet here alludes to the punishments denounced in the Koran against those who worship a plurality of Gods: "their couch shall be in hell, and over them shall be coverings of fire." THE INCONSISTENT When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn, They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow; When I offer'd myself, whom those graces adorn, You flouted, and call'd me an ugly old fellow. Written to a lady upon her refusal of a present of melons, and her rejection of the addresses of an admirer. THE CAPTURE OF JERUSALEM From our distended eyeballs flow A mingled stream of tears and blood; No care we feel, nor wish to know, But who shall pour the largest flood. But what defense can tears afford? What aid supply in this dread hour? When kindled by the sparkling sword War's raging flames the land devour. No more let sleep's seductive charms Upon your torpid souls be shed: A crash like this, such dire alarms, Might burst the slumbers of the dead. Think where your dear companions lie-- Survey their fate, and hear their woes-- How some thro' trackless deserts fly, Some in the vulture's maw repose; While some more wretched still, must bear The tauntings of a Christian's tongue-- Hear this--and blush ye not to wear The silken robe of peace so long? Remember what ensanguin'd showers The Syrian plains with crimson dyed, And think how many blooming flowers In Syrian forts their beauties hide. Arabian youths! In such a cause Can ye the voice of glory slight? Warriors of Persia! Can ye pause, Or fear to mingle in the fight? If neither piety nor shame Your breasts can warm, your souls can move, Let emulation's bursting flame Wake you to vengeance and to love. _Almodhafer Alabiwerdy_. The capture of Jerusalem took place in the 492d year of the Hegira, A.D. 1099. Alabiwerdy, who wrote these verses, was a native of Khorasan; he died A.H. 507. TO A LADY No, Abla, no--when Selim tells Of many an unknown grace that dwells In Abla's face and mien, When he describes the sense refin'd, That lights thine eye and fills thy mind, By thee alone unseen. Tis not that drunk with love he sees Ideal charms, which only please Thro' passion's partial veil, 'Tis not that flattery's glozing tongue Hath basely fram'd an idle song, But truth that breath'd the tale. Thine eyes unaided ne'er could trace Each opening charm, each varied grace, That round thy person plays; Some must remain conceal'd from thee, For Selim's watchful eye to see, For Selim's tongue to praise. One polish'd mirror can declare That eye so bright, that face so fair, That cheek which shames the rose; But how thy mantle waves behind, How float thy tresses on the wind, Another only shows. AN EPIGRAM Whoever has recourse to thee Can hope for health no more, He's launched into perdition's sea, A sea without a shore. Where'er admission thou canst gain, Where'er thy phiz can pierce, At once the Doctor they retain, The mourners and the hearse. _George_. Written to Abou Alchair Selamu, an Egyptian physician. The author was a physician of Antioch. ON A LITTLE MAN WITH A VERY LARGE BEARD How can thy chin that burden bear? Is it all gravity to shock? Is it to make the people stare? And be thyself a laughing stock? When I behold thy little feet After thy beard obsequious run, I always fancy that I meet Some father followed by his son. A man like thee scarce e'er appear'd-- A beard like thine--where shall we find it? Surely thou cherishest thy beard In hope to hide thyself behind it. _Isaai, Ben Khalif_. LAMIAT ALAJEM No kind supporting hand I meet, But Fortitude shall stay my feet; No borrow'd splendors round me shine, But Virtue's lustre all is mine; A Fame unsullied still I boast, Obscur'd, conceal'd, but never lost-- The same bright orb that led the day Pours from the West his mellow'd ray. Zaura, farewell! No more I see Within thy walls, a home for me; Deserted, spurn'd, aside I'm toss'd, As an old sword whose scabbard's lost: Around thy walls I seek in vain Some bosom that will soothe my pain-- No friend is near to breathe relief, Or brother to partake my grief. For many a melancholy day Thro' desert vales I've wound my way; The faithful beast, whose back I press, In groans laments her lord's distress; In every quiv'ring of my spear A sympathetic sigh I hear; The camel bending with his load, And struggling thro' the thorny road, 'Midst the fatigues that bear him down, In Hassan's woes forgets his own; Yet cruel friends my wanderings chide, My sufferings slight, my toils deride. Once wealth, I own, engrossed each thought, There was a moment when I sought The glitt'ring stores Ambition claims To feed the wants his fancy frames; But now 'tis past--the changing day Has snatch'd my high-built hopes away, And bade this wish my labors close-- Give me not riches, but repose. 'Tis he--that mien my friend declares, That stature, like the lance he bears; I see that breast which ne'er contain'd A thought by fear or folly stain'd, Whose powers can every change obey, In business grave, in trifles gay, And, form'd each varying taste to please, Can mingle dignity with ease. What, tho' with magic influence, sleep, O'er every closing eyelid creep: Tho' drunk with its oblivious wine Our comrades on their bales recline, My Selim's trance I sure can break-- Selim, 'tis I, 'tis I who speak. Dangers on every side impend, And sleep'st thou, careless of thy friend? Thou sleep'st while every star on high, Beholds me with a wakeful eye-- Thou changest, ere the changeful night Hath streak'd her fleeting robe with white. 'Tis love that hurries me along-- I'm deaf to fear's repressive song-- The rocks of Idham I'll ascend, Tho' adverse darts each path defend, And hostile sabres glitter there, To guard the tresses of the fair. Come, Selim, let us pierce the grove, While night befriends, to seek my love. The clouds of fragrance as they rise Shall mark the place where Abla lies. Around her tent my jealous foes, Like lions, spread their watchful rows; Amidst their bands, her bow'r appears Embosom'd in a wood of spears-- A wood still nourish'd by the dews, Which smiles, and softest looks diffuse. Thrice happy youths! who midst yon shades Sweet converse hold with Idham's maids, What bliss, to view them gild the hours, And brighten wit and fancy's powers, While every foible they disclose New transport gives, new graces shows. 'Tis theirs to raise with conscious art The flames of love in every heart; 'Tis yours to raise with festive glee The flames of hospitality: Smit by their glances lovers lie, And helpless sink and hopeless die; While slain by you the stately steed To crown the feast, is doom'd to bleed, To crown the feast, where copious flows The sparkling juice that soothes your woes, That lulls each care and heals each wound, As the enlivening bowl goes round. Amidst those vales my eager feet Shall trace my Abla's dear retreat, A gale of health may hover there, To breathe some solace to my care. I fear not love--I bless the dart Sent in a glance to pierce the heart: With willing breast the sword I hail That wounds me thro' an half-clos'd veil: Tho' lions howling round the shade, My footsteps haunt, my walks invade, No fears shall drive me from the grove, If Abla listen to my love. Ah, Selim! shall the spells of ease Thy friendship chain, thine ardor freeze! Wilt thou enchanted thus, decline Each gen'rous thought, each bold design? Then far from men some cell prepare; Or build a mansion in the air-- But yield to us, ambition's tide, Who fearless on its waves can ride; Enough for thee if thou receive The scattered spray the billows leave. Contempt and want the wretch await Who slumbers in an abject state-- 'Midst rushing crowds, by toil and pain The meed of Honor we must gain; At Honor's call, the camel hastes Thro' trackless wilds and dreary wastes, Till in the glorious race she find The fleetest coursers left behind: By toils like these alone, he cries, Th' adventurous youths to greatness rise; If bloated indolence were fame, And pompous ease our noblest aim, The orb that regulates the day Would ne'er from Aries' mansion stray. I've bent at Fortune's shrine too long-- Too oft she heard my suppliant tongue-- Too oft has mock'd my idle prayers, While fools and knaves engross'd her cares, Awake for them, asleep to me, Heedless of worth she scorn'd each plea. Ah! had her eyes, more just survey'd The diff'rent claims which each display'd, Those eyes from partial fondness free Had slept to them, and wak'd for me. But, 'midst my sorrows and my toils, Hope ever sooth'd my breast with smiles; Her hand remov'd each gathering ill, And oped life's closing prospects still. Yet spite of all her friendly art The specious scene ne'er gain'd my heart; I lov'd it not altho' the day Met my approach, and cheer'd my way; I loath it now the hours retreat, And fly me with reverted feet. My soul from every tarnish free May boldly vaunt her purity, But ah, how keen, however bright, The sabre glitter to the sight, Its splendor's lost, its polish vain, Till some bold hand the steel sustain. Why have my days been stretch'd by fate, To see the vile and vicious great-- While I, who led the race so long, Am last and meanest of the throng? Ah, why has death so long delay'd To wrap me in his friendly shade, Left me to wander thus alone, When all my heart held dear is gone! But let me check these fretful sighs-- Well may the base above me rise, When yonder planets as they run Mount in the sky above the sun. Resigned I bow to Fate's decree, Nor hope his laws will change for me; Each shifting scene, each varying hour, But proves the ruthless tyrants' power. But tho' with ills unnumber'd curst, We owe to faithless man the worst; For man can smile with specious art, And plant a dagger in the heart. He only's fitted for the strife Which fills the boist'rous paths of life, Who, as he treads the crowded scenes, Upon no kindred bosom leans. Too long my foolish heart had deem'd Mankind as virtuous as they seem'd; The spell is broke, their faults are bare, And now I see them as they are; Truth from each tainted breast has flown, And falsehood marks them all her own. Incredulous I listen now To every tongue, and every vow, For still there yawns a gulf between Those honeyed words, and what they mean; With honest pride elate, I see The sons of falsehood shrink from me, As from the right line's even way The biass'd curves deflecting stray-- But what avails it to complain? With souls like theirs reproof is vain; If honor e'er such bosoms share The sabre's point must fix it there. But why exhaust life's rapid bowl, And suck the dregs with sorrow foul, When long ere this my youth has drain'd Whatever zest the cup contain'd? Why should we mount upon the wave, And ocean's yawning horrors brave, When we may swallow from the flask Whatever the wants of mortals ask? Contentment's realms no fears invade, No cares annoy, no sorrows shade, There plac'd secure, in peace we rest, Nor aught demand to make us blest. While pleasure's gay fantastic bower, The splendid pageant of an hour, Like yonder meteor in the skies, Flits with a breath no more to rise. As thro' life's various walks we're led, May prudence hover o'er our head! May she our words, our actions guide, Our faults correct, our secrets hide! May she, where'er our footsteps stray, Direct our paths, and clear the way! Till, every scene of tumult past, She bring us to repose at last, Teach us to love that peaceful shore, And roam thro' folly's wilds no more! _Mauid Eddin Alhassan Abou Ismael Altograi_. Abou Ismael was a native of Ispahan. He devoted himself to the service of the Seljuk Sultans of Persia, and enjoyed the confidence of Malec Shah, and his son and grandson, Mohammed and Massoud, by the last of whom he was raised to the dignity of vizir. Massoud, however, was not long in a condition to afford Abou Ismael any protection, for, being attacked by his brother Mahmoud, he was defeated, and driven from Mousel, and upon the fall of his master the vizir was seized and thrown into prison, and at length in the year 515 sentenced to be put to death. TO YOUTH Yes, youth, thou'rt fled, and I am left, Like yonder desolated bower, By winter's ruthless hand bereft Of every leaf and every flower. With heaving heart and streaming eyes I woo'd thee to prolong thy stay, But vain were all my tears and sighs, Thou only fled'st more fast away. Yet tho' thou fled'st away so fast, I can recall thee if I will; For I can talk of what is past, And while I talk, enjoy thee still. _Ebn Alrabia_. ON LOVE I never knew a sprightly fair That was not dear to me, And freely I my heart could share, With every one I see. It is not this or that alone On whom my choice would fall, I do not more incline to one Than I incline to all. The circle's bounding line are they, Its centre is my heart, My ready love the equal ray That flows to every part. _Abou Aly_. Abou Aly flourished in Egypt about the year 530, and was equally celebrated as a mathematician and as a poet. A REMONSTRANCE WITH A DRUNKARD As drench'd in wine, the other night, Zeid from the banquet sallied, Thus I reprov'd his drunken plight, Thus he my prudence rallied; "In bev'rage so impure and vile, How canst thou thus delight?" -- "My cups," he answer'd with a smile, "Are generous and bright." "Beware those dang'rous draughts," I cried, "With love the goblet flows"-- "And curst is he," the youth replied, "Who hatred only knows." "Those cups too soon with sickness fraught Thy stomach shall deplore"-- "Then soon," he cried, "the noxious draught And all its ills are o'er." "Rash youth, thy guilty joys resign." "I will," at length he said, "I vow I'll bid adieu to wine As soon as I am dead." _Yahia Ben Salamet_. This author was a native of Syria, and died at Miafarakir in the year of the Hegira 553. VERSES Tho' such unbounded love you swear, 'Tis only art I see; Can I believe that one so fair Should ever dote on me? Say that you hate, and freely show That age displeases youth; And I may love you when I know That you can tell the truth. _Caliph Almonklafi Laimrillah_. Almonklafi was the thirty-first Caliph of the house of Abbas, and the only one who possessed any real authority since the reign of Radhi. These lines were addressed to a lady who pretended a passion for him in his old age. ON PROCRASTINATION Youth is a drunken noisy hour, With every folly fraught; But man, by age's chast'ning power, Is sober'd into thought. Then we resolve our faults to shun, And shape our course anew; But ere the wise reform's begun Life closes on our view. The travellers thus who wildly roam, Or heedlessly delay, Are left, when they should reach their home, Benighted on the way. _Hebat Allah Ibn Altalmith_. Ibn Altalmith died in the 560th year of the Hegira, at the advanced age of one hundred. THE EARLY DEATH OF ABOU ALHASSAN ALY Soon hast thou run the race of life, Nor could our tears thy speed control-- Still in the courser's gen'rous strife The best will soonest reach the goal. As Death upon his hand turns o'er The different gems the world displays, He seizes first to swell his store The brightest jewel he surveys. Thy name, by every breath convey'd, Stretch'd o'er the globe its boundless flight; Alas! in eve the lengthening shade But lengthens to be lost in night! If gracious Allah bade thee close Thy youthful eyes so soon on day, 'Tis that he readiest welcomes those Who love him best and best obey. _Alnassar Ledin Allah_. Alnassar Ledin Allah was the thirty-fourth Abasside Caliph, and the last excepting three who enjoyed this splendid title, which was finally abolished by the Tartars in the year 656. THE INTERVIEW _A Song_ Darkness clos'd around, loud the tempest drove, When thro' yonder glen I saw my lover rove, Dearest youth! Soon he reach'd our cot--weary, wet, and cold, But warmth, wine, and I, to cheer his spirits strove, Dearest youth! How my love, cried I, durst thou hither stray Thro' the gloom, nor fear the ghosts that haunt the grove? Dearest youth! In this heart, said he, fear no seat can find, When each thought is fill'd alone with thee and love, Dearest maid! ARABIAN NIGHTS THE SEVEN VOYAGES OF SINDBAD In the times of the Caliph Harun-al-Rashid there lived in Bagdad a poor porter named Hindbad, who, on a very hot day, was sent to carry a heavy load from one end of the city to the other. Before he had accomplished half the distance he was so tired that, finding himself in a quiet street where the pavement was sprinkled with rose-water, and a cool breeze was blowing, he set his burden upon the ground, and sat down to rest in the shade of a grand house. Very soon he decided that he could not have chosen a pleasanter place; a delicious perfume of aloes-wood and pastilles came from the open windows and mingled with the scent of the rose-water which steamed up from the hot pavement. Within the palace he heard some music, as of many instruments cunningly played, and the melodious warble of nightingales and other birds, and by this, and the appetizing smell of many dainty dishes of which he presently became aware, he judged that feasting and merry-making were going on. He wondered who lived in this magnificent house which he had never seen before, the street in which it stood being one which he seldom had occasion to pass. To satisfy his curiosity he went up to some splendidly dressed servants who stood at the door, and asked one of them the name of the master of the mansion. "What," replied he, "do you live in Bagdad, and not know that here lives the noble Sindbad the Sailor, that famous traveller who sailed over every sea upon which the sun shines?" The porter, who had often heard people speak of the immense wealth of Sindbad, could not help feeling envious of one whose lot seemed to be as happy as his own was miserable. Casting his eyes up to the sky he exclaimed aloud:-- "Consider, Mighty Creator of all things, the difference between Sindbad's life and mine. Every day I suffer a thousand hardships and misfortunes, and have hard work to get even enough bad barley bread to keep myself and my family alive, while the lucky Sindbad spends money right and left and lives upon the fat of the land! What has he done that you should give him this pleasant life--what have I done to deserve so hard a fate?" So saying he stamped upon the ground like one beside himself with misery and despair. Just at this moment a servant came out of the palace, and taking him by the arm said, "Come with me, the noble Sindbad, my master, wishes to speak to you." Hindbad was not a little surprised at this summons, and feared that his unguarded words might have drawn upon him the displeasure of Sindbad, so he tried to excuse himself upon the pretext that he could not leave the burden which had been intrusted to him in the street. However the lackey promised him that it should be taken care of, and urged him to obey the call so pressingly that at last the porter was obliged to yield. He followed the servant into a vast room, where a great company was seated round a table covered with all sorts of delicacies. In the place of honor sat a tall, grave man, whose long white beard gave him a venerable air. Behind his chair stood a crowd of attendants eager to minister to his wants. This was the famous Sindbad himself. The porter, more than ever alarmed at the sight of so much magnificence, tremblingly saluted the noble company. Sindbad, making a sign to him to approach, caused him to be seated at his right hand, and himself heaped choice morsels upon his plate, and poured out for him a draught of excellent wine, and presently, when the banquet drew to a close, spoke to him familiarly, asking his name and occupation. "My lord," replied the porter, "I am called Hindbad." "I am glad to see you here," continued Sindbad. "And I will answer for the rest of the company that they are equally pleased, but I wish you to tell me what it was that you said just now in the street." For Sindbad, passing by the open window before the feast began, had heard his complaint and therefore had sent for him. At this question Hindbad was covered with confusion, and hanging down his head, replied, "My lord, I confess that, overcome by weariness and ill-humor, I uttered indiscreet words, which I pray you to pardon me." "Oh!" replied Sindbad, "do not imagine that I am so unjust as to blame you. On the contrary, I understand your situation and can pity you. Only you appear to be mistaken about me, and I wish to set you right. You doubtless imagine that I have acquired all the wealth and luxury that you see me enjoy without difficulty or danger, but this is far indeed from being the case. I have only reached this happy state after having for years suffered every possible kind of toil and danger. "Yes, my noble friends," he continued, addressing the company, "I assure you that my adventures have been strange enough to deter even the most avaricious men from seeking wealth by traversing the seas. Since you have, perhaps, heard but confused accounts of my Seven Voyages, and the dangers and wonders that I have met with by sea and land, I will now give you a full and true account of them, which I think you will be well pleased to hear." As Sindbad was relating his adventures chiefly on account of the porter, he ordered, before beginning his tale, that the burden which had been left in the street should be carried by some of his own servants to the place for which Hindbad had set out at first, while he remained to listen to the story. FIRST VOYAGE I had inherited considerable wealth from my parents, and being young and foolish I at first squandered it recklessly upon every kind of pleasure, but presently, finding that riches speedily take to themselves wings if managed as badly as I was managing mine, and remembering also that to be old and poor is misery indeed, I began to bethink me of how I could make the best of what still remained to me. I sold all my household goods by public auction, and joined a company of merchants who traded by sea, embarking with them at Balsora in a ship which we had fitted out between us. We set sail and took our course towards the East Indies by the Persian Gulf, having the coast of Persia upon our left hand and upon our right the shores of Arabia Felix. I was at first much troubled by the uneasy motion of the vessel, but speedily recovered my health, and since that hour have been no more plagued by sea-sickness. From time to time we landed at various islands, where we sold or exchanged our merchandise, and one day, when the wind dropped suddenly, we found ourselves becalmed close to a small island like a green meadow, which only rose slightly above the surface of the water. Our sails were furled, and the captain gave permission to all who wished to land for a while and amuse themselves. I was among the number, but when after strolling about for some time we lighted a fire and sat down to enjoy the repast which we had brought with us, we were startled by a sudden and violent trembling of the island, while at the same moment those left upon the ship set up an outcry bidding us come on board for our lives, since what we had taken for an island was nothing but the back of a sleeping whale. Those who were nearest to the boat threw themselves into it, others sprang into the sea, but before I could save myself the whale plunged suddenly into the depths of the ocean, leaving me clinging to a piece of the wood which we had brought to make our fire. Meanwhile a breeze had sprung up, and in the confusion that ensued on board our vessel in hoisting the sails and taking up those who were in the boat and clinging to its sides, no one missed me and I was left at the mercy of the waves. All that day I floated up and down, now beaten this way, now that, and when night fell I despaired for my life; but, weary and spent as I was, I clung to my frail support, and great was my joy when the morning light showed me that I had drifted against an island. The cliffs were high and steep, but luckily for me some tree-roots protruded in places, and by their aid I climbed up at last, and stretched myself upon the turf at the top, where I lay, more dead than alive, till the sun was high in the heavens. By that time I was very hungry, but after some searching I came upon some eatable herbs, and a spring of clear water, and much refreshed I set out to explore the island. Presently I reached a great plain where a grazing horse was tethered, and as I stood looking at it I heard voices talking apparently underground, and in a moment a man appeared who asked me how I came upon the island. I told him my adventures, and heard in return that he was one of the grooms of Mihrage, the King of the island, and that each year they came to feed their master's horses in this plain. He took me to a cave where his companions were assembled, and when I had eaten of the food they set before me, they bade me think myself fortunate to have come upon them when I did, since they were going back to their master on the morrow, and without their aid I could certainly never have found my way to the inhabited part of the island. Early the next morning we accordingly set out, and when we reached the capital I was graciously received by the King, to whom I related my adventures, upon which he ordered that I should be well cared for and provided with such things as I needed. Being a merchant I sought out men of my own profession, and particularly those who came from foreign countries, as I hoped in this way to hear news from Bagdad, and find out some means of returning thither, for the capital was situated upon the sea-shore, and visited by vessels from all parts of the world. In the meantime I heard many curious things, and answered many questions concerning my own country, for I talked willingly with all who came to me. Also to while away the time of waiting I explored a little island named Cassel, which belonged to King Mihrage, and which was supposed to be inhabited by a spirit named Deggial. Indeed, the sailors assured me that often at night the playing of timbals could be heard upon it. However, I saw nothing strange upon my voyage, saving some fish that were full two hundred cubits long, but were fortunately more in dread of us than even we were of them, and fled from us if we did but strike upon a board to frighten them. Other fishes there were only a cubit long which had heads like owls. One day after my return, as I went down to the quay, I saw a ship which had just cast anchor, and was discharging her cargo, while the merchants to whom it belonged were busily directing the removal of it to their warehouses. Drawing nearer I presently noticed that my own name was marked upon some of the packages, and after having carefully examined them, I felt sure that they were indeed those which I had put on board our ship at Balsora. I then recognized the captain of the vessel, but as I was certain that he believed me to be dead, I went up to him and asked who owned the packages that I was looking at. "There was on board my ship," he replied, "a merchant of Bagdad named Sindbad. One day he and several of my other passengers landed upon what we supposed to be an island, but which was really an enormous whale floating asleep upon the waves. No sooner did it feel upon its back the heat of the fire which had been kindled, than it plunged into the depths of the sea. Several of the people who were upon it perished in the waters, and among others this unlucky Sindbad. This merchandise is his, but I have resolved to dispose of it for the benefit of his family if I should ever chance to meet with them." "Captain," said I, "I am that Sindbad whom you believe to be dead, and these are my possessions!" When the captain heard these words he cried out in amazement, "Lackaday! and what is the world coming to? In these days there is not an honest man to be met with. Did I not with my own eyes see Sindbad drown, and now you have the audacity to tell me that you are he! I should have taken you to be a just man, and yet for the sake of obtaining that which does not belong to you, you are ready to invent this horrible falsehood." "Have patience, and do me the favor to hear my story," said I. "Speak then," replied the captain, "I am all attention." So I told him of my escape and of my fortunate meeting with the king's grooms, and how kindly I had been received at the palace. Very soon I began to see that I had made some impression upon him, and after the arrival of some of the other merchants, who showed great joy at once more seeing me alive, he declared that he also recognized me. Throwing himself upon my neck he exclaimed, "Heaven be praised that you have escaped from so great a danger. As to your goods, I pray you take them, and dispose of them as you please." I thanked him, and praised his honesty, begging him to accept several bales of merchandise in token of my gratitude, but he would take nothing. Of the choicest of my goods I prepared a present for King Mihrage, who was at first amazed, having known that I had lost my all. However, when I had explained to him how my bales had been miraculously restored to me, he graciously accepted my gifts, and in return gave me many valuable things. I then took leave of him, and exchanging my merchandise for sandal and aloes-wood, camphor, nutmegs, cloves, pepper, and ginger, I embarked upon the same vessel and traded so successfully upon our homeward voyage that I arrived in Balsora with about one hundred thousand sequins. My family received me with as much joy as I felt upon seeing them once more. I bought land and slaves, and built a great house in which I resolved to live happily, and in the enjoyment of all the pleasures of life to forget my past sufferings. Here Sindbad paused, and commanded the musicians to play again, while the feasting continued until evening. When the time came for the porter to depart, Sindbad gave him a purse containing one hundred sequins, saying, "Take this, Hindbad, and go home, but to-morrow come again and you shall hear more of my adventures." The porter retired quite overcome by so much generosity, and you may imagine that he was well received at home, where his wife and children thanked their lucky stars that he had found such a benefactor. The next day Hindbad, dressed in his best, returned to the voyager's house, and was received with open arms. As soon as all the guests had arrived the banquet began as before, and when they had feasted long and merrily, Sindbad addressed them thus:-- "My friends, I beg that you will give me your attention while I relate the adventures of my second voyage, which you will find even more astonishing than the first." SECOND VOYAGE I had resolved, as you know, on my return from my first voyage, to spend the rest of my days quietly in Bagdad, but very soon I grew tired of such an idle life and longed once more to find myself upon the sea. I procured, therefore, such goods as were suitable for the places I intended to visit, and embarked for the second time in a good ship with other merchants whom I knew to be honorable men. We went from island to island, often making excellent bargains, until one day we landed at a spot which, though covered with fruit-trees and abounding in springs of excellent water, appeared to possess neither houses nor people. While my companions wandered here and there gathering flowers and fruit I sat down in a shady place, and, having heartily enjoyed the provisions and the wine I had brought with me, I fell asleep, lulled by the murmur of a clear brook which flowed close by. How long I slept I know not, but when I opened my eyes and started to my feet I perceived with horror that I was alone and that the ship was gone. I rushed to and fro like one distracted, uttering cries of despair, and when from the shore I saw the vessel under full sail just disappearing upon the horizon, I wished bitterly enough that I had been content to stay at home in safety. But since wishes could do me no good, I presently took courage and looked about me for a means of escape. When I had climbed a tall tree I first of all directed my anxious glances towards the sea; but, finding nothing hopeful there, I turned landward, and my curiosity was excited by a huge dazzling white object, so far off that I could not make out what it might be. Descending from the tree I hastily collected what remained of my provisions and set off as fast as I could go towards it. As I drew near it seemed to me to be a white ball of immense size and height, and when I could touch it, I found it marvellously smooth and soft. As it was impossible to climb it--for it presented no foothold--I walked round about it seeking some opening, but there was none. I counted, however, that it was at least fifty paces round. By this time the sun was near setting, but quite suddenly it fell dark, something like a huge black cloud came swiftly over me, and I saw with amazement that it was a bird of extraordinary size which was hovering near. Then I remembered that I had often heard the sailors speak of a wonderful bird called a roc, and it occurred to me that the white object which had so puzzled me must be its egg. Sure enough the bird settled slowly down upon it, covering it with its wings to keep it warm, and I cowered close beside the egg in such a position that one of the bird's feet, which was as large as the trunk of a tree, was just in front of me. Taking off my turban I bound myself securely to it with the linen in the hope that the roc, when it took flight next morning, would bear me away with it from the desolate island. And this was precisely what did happen. As soon as the dawn appeared the bird rose into the air carrying me up and up till I could no longer see the earth, and then suddenly it descended so swiftly that I almost lost consciousness. When I became aware that the roc had settled and that I was once again upon solid ground, I hastily unbound my turban from its foot and freed myself, and that not a moment too soon; for the bird, pouncing upon a huge snake, killed it with a few blows from its powerful beak, and seizing it rose up into the air once more and soon disappeared from my view. When I had looked about me I began to doubt if I had gained anything by quitting the desolate island. The valley in which I found myself was deep and narrow, and surrounded by mountains which towered into the clouds, and were so steep and rocky that there was no way of climbing up their sides. As I wandered about, seeking anxiously for some means of escaping from this trap, I observed that the ground was strewed with diamonds, some of them of an astonishing size. This sight gave me great pleasure, but my delight was speedily dampened when I saw also numbers of horrible snakes so long and so large that the smallest of them could have swallowed an elephant with ease. Fortunately for me they seemed to hide in caverns of the rocks by day, and only came out by night, probably because of their enemy the roc. All day long I wandered up and down the valley, and when it grew dusk I crept into a little cave, and having blocked up the entrance to it with a stone, I ate part of my little store of food and lay down to sleep, but all through the night the serpents crawled to and fro, hissing horribly, so that I could scarcely close my eyes for terror. I was thankful when the morning light appeared, and when I judged by the silence that the serpents had retreated to their dens I came tremblingly out of my cave and wandered up and down the valley once more, kicking the diamonds contemptuously out of my path, for I felt that they were indeed vain things to a man in my situation. At last, overcome with weariness, I sat down upon a rock, but I had hardly closed my eyes when I was startled by something which fell to the ground with a thud close beside me. It was a huge piece of fresh meat, and as I stared at it several more pieces rolled over the cliffs in different places. I had always thought that the stories the sailors told of the famous valley of diamonds, and of the cunning way which some merchants had devised for getting at the precious stones, were mere travellers' tales invented to give pleasure to the hearers, but now I perceived that they were surely true. These merchants came to the valley at the time when the eagles, which keep their eyries in the rocks, had hatched their young. The merchants then threw great lumps of meat into the valley. These, falling with so much force upon the diamonds, were sure to take up some of the precious stones with them, when the eagles pounced upon the meat and carried it off to their nests to feed their hungry broods. Then the merchants, scaring away the parent birds with shouts and outcries, would secure their treasures. Until this moment I had looked upon the valley as my grave, for I had seen no possibility of getting out of it alive, but now I took courage and began to devise a means of escape. I began by picking up all the largest diamonds I could find and storing them carefully in the leathern wallet which had held my provisions; this I tied securely to my belt. I then chose the piece of meat which seemed most suited to my purpose, and with the aid of my turban bound it firmly to my back; this done I laid down upon my face and awaited the coming of the eagles. I soon heard the flapping of their mighty wings above me, and had the satisfaction of feeling one of them seize upon my piece of meat, and me with it, and rise slowly towards his nest, into which he presently dropped me. Luckily for me the merchants were on the watch, and setting up their usual outcries, they rushed to the nest, scaring away the eagle. Their amazement was great when they discovered me, and also their disappointment, and with one accord they fell to abusing me for having robbed them of their usual profit. Addressing myself to the one who seemed most aggrieved, I said:-- "I am sure, if you knew all that I have suffered, you would show more kindness towards me, and as for diamonds, I have enough here of the very best for you and me and all your company." So saying I showed them to him. The others all crowded around me, wondering at my adventures and admiring the device by which I had escaped from the valley, and when they had led me to their camp and examined my diamonds, they assured me that in all the years that they had carried on their trade they had seen no stones to be compared with them for size and beauty. I found that each merchant chose a particular nest, and took his chance of what he might find in it. So I begged the one who owned the nest to which I had been carried to take as much as he would of my treasure, but he contented himself with one stone, and that by no means the largest, assuring me that with such a gem his fortune was made, and he need toil no more. I stayed with the merchants several days, and then as they were journeying homewards I gladly accompanied them. Our way lay across high mountains infested with frightful serpents, but we had the good luck to escape them and came at last to the seashore. Thence we sailed to the isle of Roha, where the camphor-trees grow to such a size that a hundred men could shelter under one of them with ease. The sap flows from an incision made high up in the tree into a vessel hung there to receive it, and soon hardens into the substance called camphor, but the tree itself withers up and dies when it has been so treated. In this same island we saw the rhinoceros, an animal which is smaller than the elephant and larger than the buffalo. It has one horn about a cubit long which is solid, but has a furrow from the base to the tip. Upon it is traced in white lines the figure of a man. The rhinoceros fights with the elephant, and transfixing him with his horn carries him off upon his head, but becoming blinded with the blood of his enemy, he falls helpless to the ground, and then comes the roc, and clutches them both up in his talons and takes them to feed his young. This doubtless astonishes you, but if you do not believe my tale go to Roha and see for yourself. For fear of wearying you I pass over in silence many other wonderful things which we saw in this island. Before we left I exchanged one of my diamonds for much goodly merchandise by which I profited greatly on our homeward way. At last we reached Balsora, whence I hastened to Bagdad, where my first action was to bestow large sums of money upon the poor, after which I settled down to enjoy tranquilly the riches I had gained with so much toil and pain. Having thus related the adventures of his second voyage, Sindbad again bestowed a hundred sequins upon Hindbad, inviting him to come again on the following day and hear how he fared upon his third voyage. The other guests also departed to their homes, but all returned at the same hour next day, including the porter, whose former life of hard work and poverty had already begun to seem to him like a bad dream. Again after the feast was over did Sindbad claim the attention of his guests and began the account of his third voyage. THIRD VOYAGE After a very short time the pleasant easy life I led made me quite forget the perils of my two voyages. Moreover, as I was still in the prime of life, it pleased me better to be up and doing. So once more providing myself with the rarest and choicest merchandise of Bagdad, I conveyed it to Balsora, and set sail with other merchants of my acquaintance for distant lands. We had touched at many ports and made much profit, when one day upon the open sea we were caught by a terrible wind which blew us completely out of our reckoning, and lasting for several days finally drove us into harbor on a strange island. "I would rather have come to anchor anywhere than here," quoth our captain. "This island and all adjoining it are inhabited by hairy savages, who are certain to attack us, and whatever these dwarfs may do we dare not resist, since they swarm like locusts, and if one of them is killed the rest will fall upon us, and speedily make an end of us." These words caused great consternation among all the ship's company, and only too soon we were to find out that the captain spoke truly. There appeared a vast multitude of hideous savages, not more than two feet high and covered with reddish fur. Throwing themselves into the waves they surrounded our vessel. Chattering meanwhile in a language we could not understand, and clutching at ropes and gangways, they swarmed up the ship's side with such speed and agility that they almost seemed to fly. You may imagine the rage and terror that seized us as we watched them, neither daring to hinder them nor able to speak a word to deter them from their purpose, whatever it might be. Of this we were not left long in doubt. Hoisting the sails, and cutting the cable of the anchor, they sailed our vessel to an island which lay a little further off, where they drove us ashore; then taking possession of her, they made off to the place from which they had come, leaving us helpless upon a shore avoided with horror by all mariners for a reason which you will soon learn. Turning away from the sea we wandered miserably inland, finding as we went various herbs and fruits which we ate, feeling that we might as well live as long as possible though we had no hope of escape. Presently we saw in the far distance what seemed to us to be a splendid palace, towards which we turned our weary steps, but when we reached it we saw that it was a castle, lofty, and strongly built. Pushing back the heavy ebony doors we entered the courtyard, but upon the threshold of the great hall beyond it we paused, frozen with horror, at the sight which greeted us. On one side lay a huge pile of bones--human bones; and on the other numberless spits for roasting! Overcome with despair we sank trembling to the ground, and lay there without speech or motion. The sun was setting when a loud noise aroused us, the door of the hall was violently burst open and a horrible giant entered. He was as tall as a palm tree, and perfectly black, and had one eye, which flamed like a burning coal in the middle of his forehead. His teeth were long and sharp and grinned horribly, while his lower lip hung down upon his chest, and he had ears like elephant's ears, which covered his shoulders, and nails like the claws of some fierce bird. At this terrible sight our senses left us and we lay like dead men. When at last we came to ourselves the giant sat examining us attentively with his fearful eye. Presently when he had looked at us enough he came towards us, and stretching out his hand took me by the back of the neck, turning me this way and that, but feeling that I was mere skin and bone he set me down again and went on to the next, whom he treated in the same fashion; at last he came to the captain, and finding him the fattest of us all, he took him up in one hand and stuck him upon a spit and proceeded to kindle a huge fire at which he presently roasted him. After the giant had supped he lay down to sleep, snoring like the loudest thunder, while we lay shivering with horror the whole night through, and when day broke he awoke and went out, leaving us in the castle. When we believed him to be really gone we started up bemoaning our horrible fate, until the hall echoed with our despairing cries. Though we were many and our enemy was alone it did not occur to us to kill him, and indeed we should have found that a hard task, even if we had thought of it, and no plan could we devise to deliver ourselves. So at last, submitting to our sad fate, we spent the day in wandering up and down the island eating such fruits as we could find, and when night came we returned to the castle, having sought in vain for any other place of shelter. At sunset the giant returned, supped upon one of our unhappy comrades, slept and snored till dawn, and then left us as before. Our condition seemed to us so frightful that several of my companions thought it would be better to leap from the cliffs and perish in the waves at once, rather than await so miserable an end; but I had a plan of escape which I now unfolded to them, and which they at once agreed to attempt. "Listen, my brothers," I added. "You know that plenty of driftwood lies along the shore. Let us make several rafts, and carry them to a suitable place. If our plot succeeds, we can wait patiently for the chance of some passing ship which would rescue us from this fatal island. If it fails, we must quickly take to our rafts; frail as they are, we have more chance of saving our lives with them than we have if we remain here." All agreed with me, and we spent the day in building rafts, each capable of carrying three persons. At nightfall we returned to the castle, and very soon in came the giant, and one more of our number was sacrificed. But the time of our vengeance was at hand! As soon as he had finished his horrible repast he lay down to sleep as before, and when we heard him begin to snore I, and nine of the boldest of my comrades, rose softly, and took each a spit, which we made red-hot in the fire, and then at a given signal we plunged it with one accord into the giant's eye, completely blinding him. Uttering a terrible cry, he sprang to his feet clutching in all directions to try to seize one of us, but we had all fled different ways as soon as the deed was done, and thrown ourselves flat upon the ground in corners where he was not likely to touch us with his feet. After a vain search he fumbled about till he found the door, and fled out of it howling frightfully. As for us, when he was gone we made haste to leave the fatal castle, and, stationing ourselves beside our rafts, we waited to see what would happen. Our idea was that if, when the sun rose, we saw nothing of the giant, and no longer heard his howls, which still came faintly through the darkness, growing more and more distant, we should conclude that he was dead, and that we might safely stay upon the island and need not risk our lives upon the frail rafts. But alas! morning light showed us our enemy approaching us, supported on either hand by two giants nearly as large and fearful as himself, while a crowd of others followed close upon their heels. Hesitating no longer we clambered upon our rafts and rowed with all our might out to sea. The giants, seeing their prey escaping them, seized up huge pieces of rock, and wading into the water hurled them after us with such good aim that all the rafts except the one I was upon were swamped, and their luckless crews drowned, without our being able to do anything to help them. Indeed I and my two companions had all we could do to keep our own raft beyond the reach of the giants, but by dint of hard rowing we at last gained the open sea. Here we were at the mercy of the winds and waves, which tossed us to and fro all that day and night, but the next morning we found ourselves near an island, upon which we gladly landed. There we found delicious fruits, and having satisfied our hunger we presently lay down to rest upon the shore. Suddenly we were aroused by a loud rustling noise, and starting up, saw that it was caused by an immense snake which was gliding towards us over the sand. So swiftly it came that it had seized one of my comrades before he had time to fly, and in spite of his cries and struggles speedily crushed the life out of him in its mighty coils and proceeded to swallow him. By this time my other companion and I were running for our lives to some place where we might hope to be safe from this new horror, and seeing a tall tree we climbed up into it, having first provided ourselves with a store of fruit off the surrounding bushes. When night came I fell asleep, but only to be awakened once more by the terrible snake, which after hissing horribly round the tree at last reared itself up against it, and finding my sleeping comrade who was perched just below me, it swallowed him also, and crawled away leaving me half dead with terror. When the sun rose I crept down from the tree with hardly a hope of escaping the dreadful fate which had overtaken my comrades; but life is sweet, and I determined to do all I could to save myself. All day long I toiled with frantic haste and collected quantities of dry brushwood, reeds and thorns, which I bound with fagots, and making a circle of them under my tree I piled them firmly one upon another until I had a kind of tent in which I crouched like a mouse in a hole when she sees the cat coming. You may imagine what a fearful night I passed, for the snake returned eager to devour me, and glided round and round my frail shelter seeking an entrance. Every moment I feared that it would succeed in pushing aside some of the fagots, but happily for me they held together, and when it grew light my enemy retired, baffled and hungry, to his den. As for me I was more dead than alive! Shaking with fright and half suffocated by the poisonous breath of the monster, I came out of my tent and crawled down to the sea, feeling that it would be better to plunge from the cliffs and end my life at once than pass such another night of horror. But to my joy and relief I saw a ship sailing by, and by shouting wildly and waving my turban I managed to attract the attention of her crew. A boat was sent to rescue me, and very soon I found myself on board surrounded by a wondering crowd of sailors and merchants eager to know by what chance I found myself in that desolate island. After I had told my story they regaled me with the choicest food the ship afforded, and the captain, seeing that I was in rags, generously bestowed upon me one of his own coats. After sailing about for some time and touching at many ports we came at last to the island of Salahat, where sandal-wood grows in great abundance. Here we anchored, and as I stood watching the merchants disembarking their goods and preparing to sell or exchange them, the captain came up to me and said:-- "I have here, brother, some merchandise belonging to a passenger of mine who is dead. Will you do me the favor to trade with it, and when I meet with his heirs I shall be able to give them the money, though it will be only just that you shall have a portion for your trouble." I consented gladly, for I did not like standing by idle. Whereupon he pointed the bales out to me, and sent for the person whose duty it was to keep a list of the goods that were upon the ship. When this man came he asked in what name the merchandise was to be registered. "In the name of Sindbad the Sailor," replied the captain. At this I was greatly surprised, but looking carefully at him I recognized him to be the captain of the ship upon which I had made my second voyage, though he had altered much since that time. As for him, believing me to be dead it was no wonder that he had not recognized me. "So, captain," said I, "the merchant who owned those bales was called Sindbad?" "Yes," he replied. "He was so named. He belonged to Bagdad, and joined my ship at Balsora, but by mischance he was left behind upon a desert island where we had landed to fill up our water-casks, and it was not until four hours later that he was missed. By that time the wind had freshened, and it was impossible to put back for him." "You suppose him to have perished then?" said I. "Alas! yes," he answered. "Why, captain!" I cried, "look well at me. I am that Sindbad who fell asleep upon the island and awoke to find himself abandoned!" The captain stared at me in amazement, but was presently convinced that I was indeed speaking the truth, and rejoiced greatly at my escape. "I am glad to have that piece of carelessness off my conscience at any rate," said he. "Now take your goods, and the profit I have made for you upon them, and may you prosper in future." I took them gratefully, and as we went from one island to another I laid in stores of cloves, cinnamon, and other spices. In one place I saw a tortoise which was twenty cubits long and as many broad, also a fish that was like a cow and had skin so thick that it was used to make shields. Another I saw that was like a camel in shape and color. So by degrees we came back to Balsora, and I returned to Bagdad with so much money that I could not myself count it, besides treasures without end. I gave largely to the poor, and bought much land to add to what I already possessed, and thus ended my third voyage. When Sindbad had finished his story he gave another hundred sequins to Hindbad, who then departed with the other guests, but next day when they had all reassembled, and the banquet was ended, their host continued his adventures. FOURTH VOYAGE Rich and happy as I was after my third voyage, I could not make up my mind to stay at home altogether. My love of trading, and the pleasure I took in anything that was new and strange, made me set my affairs in order, and begin my journey through some of the Persian provinces, having first sent off stores of goods to await my coming in the different places I intended to visit. I took ship at a distant seaport, and for some time all went well, but at last, being caught in a violent hurricane, our vessel became a total wreck in spite of all our worthy captain could do to save her, and many of our company perished in the waves. I, with a few others, had the good fortune to be washed ashore clinging to pieces of the wreck, for the storm had driven us near an island, and scrambling up beyond the reach of the waves we threw ourselves down quite exhausted, to wait for morning. At daylight we wandered inland, and soon saw some huts, to which we directed our steps. As we drew near their black inhabitants swarmed out in great numbers and surrounded us, and we were led to their houses, and as it were divided among our captors. I with five others was taken into a hut, where we were made to sit upon the ground, and certain herbs were given to us, which the blacks made signs to us to eat. Observing that they themselves did not touch them, I was careful only to pretend to taste my portion; but my companions, being very hungry, rashly ate up all that was set before them, and very soon I had the horror of seeing them become perfectly mad. Though they chattered incessantly I could not understand a word they said, nor did they heed when I spoke to them. The savages now produced large bowls full of rice prepared with cocoanut oil, of which my crazy comrades ate eagerly, but I only tasted a few grains, understanding clearly that the object of our captors was to fatten us speedily for their own eating, and this was exactly what happened. My unlucky companions having lost their reason, felt neither anxiety nor fear, and ate greedily all that was offered them. So they were soon fat and there was an end of them, but I grew leaner day by day, for I ate but little, and even that little did me no good by reason of my fear of what lay before me. However, as I was so far from being a tempting morsel, I was allowed to wander about freely, and one day, when all the blacks had gone off upon some expedition leaving only an old man to guard me, I managed to escape from him and plunged into the forest, running faster the more he cried to me to come back, until I had completely distanced him. For seven days I hurried on, resting only when the darkness stopped me, and living chiefly upon cocoanuts, which afforded me both meat and drink, and on the eighth day I reached the sea-shore and saw a party of white men gathering pepper, which grew abundantly all about. Reassured by the nature of their occupation, I advanced towards them and they greeted me in Arabic, asking who I was and whence I came. My delight was great on hearing this familiar speech, and I willingly satisfied their curiosity, telling them how I had been shipwrecked, and captured by the blacks. "But these savages devour men!" said they. "How did you escape?" I repeated to them what I have just told you, at which they were mightily astonished. I stayed with them until they had collected as much pepper as they wished, and then they took me back to their own country and presented me to their King, by whom I was hospitably received. To him also I had to relate my adventures, which surprised him much, and when I had finished he ordered that I should be supplied with food and raiment and treated with consideration. The island on which I found myself was full of people, and abounded in all sorts of desirable things, and a great deal of traffic went on in the capital, where I soon began to feel at home and contented. Moreover, the King treated me with special favor, and in consequence of this everyone, whether at the court or in the town, sought to make life pleasant to me. One thing I remarked which I thought very strange; this was that, from the greatest to the least, all men rode their horses without bridle or stirrups. I one day presumed to ask his Majesty why he did not use them, to which he replied, "You speak to me of things of which I have never before heard!" This gave me an idea. I found a clever workman and made him cut out under my direction the foundation of a saddle, which I wadded and covered with choice leather, adorning it with rich gold embroidery. I then got a locksmith to make me a bit and a pair of spurs after a pattern that I drew for him, and when all these things were completed I presented them to the King and showed him how to use them. When I had saddled one of his horses he mounted it and rode about quite delighted with the novelty, and to show his gratitude he rewarded me with large gifts. After this I had to make saddles for all the principal officers of the King's household, and as they all gave me rich presents I soon became very wealthy and quite an important person in the city. One day the King sent for me and said, "Sindbad, I am going to ask a favor of you. Both I and my subjects esteem you, and wish you to end your days amongst us. Therefore I desire that you will marry a rich and beautiful lady whom I will find for you, and think no more of your own country." As the King's will was law I accepted the charming bride he presented to me, and lived happily with her. Nevertheless I had every intention of escaping at the first opportunity, and going back to Bagdad. Things were thus going prosperously with me when it happened that the wife of one of my neighbors, with whom I had struck up quite a friendship, fell ill, and presently died. I went to his house to offer my consolations, and found him in the depths of woe. "Heaven preserve you," said I, "and send you a long life!" "Alas!" he replied, "what is the good of saying that when I have but an hour left to live!" "Come, come!" said I, "surely it is not so bad as all that. I trust that you may be spared to me for many years." "I hope," answered he, "that your life may be long, but as for me, all is finished. I have set my house in order, and to-day I shall be buried with my wife. This has been the law upon our island from the earliest ages--the living husband goes to the grave with his dead wife, the living wife with her dead husband. So did our fathers, and so must we do. The law changes not, and all must submit to it!" As he spoke the friends and relations of the unhappy pair began to assemble. The body, decked in rich robes and sparkling with jewels, was laid upon an open bier, and the procession started, taking its way to a high mountain at some distance from the city, the wretched husband, clothed from head to foot in a black mantle, following mournfully. When the place of interment was reached the corpse was lowered, just as it was, into a deep pit. Then the husband, bidding farewell to all his friends, stretched himself upon another bier, upon which were laid seven little loaves of bread and a pitcher of water, and he also was let down-down-down to the depths of the horrible cavern, and then a stone was laid over the opening, and the melancholy company wended its way back to the city. You may imagine that I was no unmoved spectator of these proceedings; to all the others it was a thing to which they had been accustomed from their youth up; but I was so horrified that I could not help telling the King how it struck me. "Sire," I said, "I am more astonished than I can express to you at the strange custom which exists in your dominions of burying the living with the dead. In all my travels I have never before met with so cruel and horrible a law." "What would you have, Sindbad?" he replied. "It is the law for everybody. I myself should be buried with the Queen if she were the first to die." "But, your Majesty," said I, "dare I ask if this law applies to foreigners also?" "Why, yes," replied the king smiling, in what I could but consider a very heartless manner: "they are no exception to the rule if they have married in the country." When I heard this I went home much cast down, and from that time forward my mind was never easy. If only my wife's little finger ached I fancied she was going to die, and sure enough before very long she fell really ill and in a few days breathed her last. My dismay was great, for it seemed to me that to be buried alive was even a worse fate than to be devoured by cannibals, nevertheless there was no escape. The body of my wife, arrayed in her richest robes and decked with all her jewels, was laid upon the bier. I followed it, and after me came a great procession, headed by the king and all his nobles, and in this order we reached the fatal mountain, which was one of a lofty chain bordering the sea. Here I made one more frantic effort to excite the pity of the King and those who stood by, hoping to save myself even at this last moment, but it was of no avail. No one spoke to me, they even appeared to hasten over their dreadful task, and I speedily found myself descending into the gloomy pit, with my seven loaves and pitcher of water beside me. Almost before I reached the bottom the stone was rolled into its place above my head, and I was left to my fate. A feeble ray of light shone into the cavern through some chink, and when I had the courage to look about me I could see that I was in a vast vault, bestrewn with bones and bodies of the dead. I even fancied that I heard the expiring sighs of those who, like myself, had come into this dismal place alive. All in vain did I shriek aloud with rage and despair, reproaching myself for the love of gain and adventure which had brought me to such a pass, but at length, growing calmer, I took up my bread and water, and wrapping my face in my mantle I groped my way towards the end of the cavern, where the air was fresher. Here I lived in darkness and misery until my provisions were exhausted, but just as I was nearly dead from starvation the rock was rolled away overhead and I saw that a bier was being lowered into the cavern, and that the corpse upon it was a man. In a moment my mind was made up, the woman who followed had nothing to expect but a lingering death; I should be doing her a service if I shortened her misery. Therefore when she descended, already insensible from terror, I was ready armed with a huge bone, one blow from which left her dead, and I secured the bread and water which gave me a hope of life. Several times did I have recourse to this desperate expedient, and I know not how long I had been a prisoner when one day I fancied that I heard something near me, which breathed loudly. Turning to the place from which the sound came I dimly saw a shadowy form which fled at my movement, squeezing itself through a cranny in the wall. I pursued it as fast as I could, and found myself in a narrow crack among the rocks, along which I was just able to force my way. I followed it for what seemed to me many miles, and at last saw before me a glimmer of light which grew clearer every moment until I emerged upon the sea-shore with a joy which I cannot describe. When I was sure that I was not dreaming, I realized that it was doubtless some little animal which had found its way into the cavern from the sea, and when disturbed had fled, showing me a means of escape which I could never have discovered for myself. I hastily surveyed my surroundings, and saw that I was safe from all pursuit from the town. The mountains sloped sheer down to the sea, and there was no road across them. Being assured of this I returned to the cavern, and amassed a rich treasure of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and jewels of all kinds, which strewed the ground. These I made up into bales, and stored them into a safe place upon the beach, and then waited hopefully for the passing of a ship. I had looked out for two days, however, before a single sail appeared, so it was with much delight that I at last saw a vessel not very far from the shore, and by waving my arms and uttering loud cries succeeded in attracting the attention of her crew. A boat was sent off to me, and in answer to the questions of the sailors as to how I came to be in such a plight, I replied that I had been shipwrecked two days before, but had managed to scramble ashore with the bales which I pointed out to them. Luckily for me they believed my story, and without even looking at the place where they found me, took up my bundles, and rowed me back to the ship. Once on board, I soon saw that the captain was too much occupied with the difficulties of navigation to pay much heed to me, though he generously made me welcome, and would not even accept the jewels with which I offered to pay my passage. Our voyage was prosperous, and after visiting many lands, and collecting in each place great store of goodly merchandise, I found myself at last in Bagdad once more with unheard-of riches of every description. Again I gave large sums of money to the poor, and enriched all the mosques in the city, after which I gave myself up to my friends and relations, with whom I passed my time in feasting and merriment. Here Sindbad paused, and all his hearers declared that the adventures of his fourth voyage had pleased them better than anything they had heard before. They then took their leave, followed by Hindbad, who had once more received a hundred sequins, and with the rest had been bidden to return next day for the story of the fifth voyage. When the time came all were in their places, and when they had eaten and drunk of all that was set before them Sindbad began his tale. FIFTH VOYAGE Not even all that I had gone through could make me contented with a quiet life. I soon wearied of its pleasures, and longed for change and adventure. Therefore I set out once more, but this time in a ship of my own, which I built and fitted out at the nearest seaport. I wished to be able to call at whatever port I chose, taking my own time; but as I did not intend carrying enough goods for a full cargo, I invited several merchants of different nations to join me. We set sail with the first favorable wind, and after a long voyage upon the open seas we landed upon an unknown island which proved to be uninhabited. We determined, however, to explore it, but had not gone far when we found a roc's egg, as large as the one I had seen before and evidently very nearly hatched, for the beak of the young bird had already pierced the shell. In spite of all I could say to deter them, the merchants who were with me fell upon it with their hatchets, breaking the shell, and killing the young roc. Then lighting a fire upon the ground they hacked morsels from the bird, and proceeded to roast them while I stood by aghast. Scarcely had they finished their ill-omened repast, when the air above us was darkened by two mighty shadows. The captain of my ship, knowing by experience what this meant, cried out to us that the parent birds were coming, and urged us to get on board with all speed. This we did, and the sails were hoisted, but before we had made any way the rocs reached their despoiled nest and hovered about it, uttering frightful cries when they discovered the mangled remains of their young one. For a moment we lost sight of them, and were flattering ourselves that we had escaped, when they reappeared and soared into the air directly over our vessel, and we saw that each held in its claws an immense rock ready to crush us. There was a moment of breathless suspense, then one bird loosed its hold and the huge block of stone hurtled through the air, but thanks to the presence of mind of the helmsman, who turned our ship violently in another direction, it fell into the sea close beside us, cleaving it asunder till we could nearly see the bottom. We had hardly time to draw a breath of relief before the other rock fell with a mighty crash right in the midst of our luckless vessel, smashing it into a thousand fragments, and crushing, or hurling into the sea, passengers and crew. I myself went down with the rest, but had the good fortune to rise unhurt, and by holding on to a piece of driftwood with one hand and swimming with the other I kept myself afloat and was presently washed up by the tide on to an island. Its shores were steep and rocky, but I scrambled up safely and threw myself down to rest upon the green turf. When I had somewhat recovered I began to examine the spot in which I found myself, and truly it seemed to me that I had reached a garden of delights. There were trees everywhere, and they were laden with flowers and fruit, while a crystal stream wandered in and out under their shadow. When night came I slept sweetly in a cosey nook, though the remembrance that I was alone in a strange land made me sometimes start up and look around me in alarm, and then I wished heartily that I had stayed at home at ease. However, the morning sunlight restored my courage, and I once more wandered among the trees, but always with some anxiety as to what I might see next. I had penetrated some distance into the island when I saw an old man bent and feeble sitting upon the river bank, and at first I took him to be some shipwrecked mariner like myself. Going up to him I greeted him in a friendly way, but he only nodded his head at me in reply. I then asked what he did there, and he made signs to me that he wished to get across the river to gather some fruit, and seemed to beg me to carry him on my back. Pitying his age and feebleness, I took him up, and wading across the stream I bent down that he might more easily reach the bank, and bade him get down. But instead of allowing himself to be set upon his feet (even now it makes me laugh to think of it! ), this creature who had seemed to me so decrepit leaped nimbly upon my shoulders, and hooking his legs round my neck gripped me so tightly that I was well-nigh choked, and so overcome with terror that I fell insensible to the ground. When I recovered my enemy was still in his place, though he had released his hold enough to allow me breathing space, and seeing me revive he prodded me adroitly first with one foot and then with the other, until I was forced to get up and stagger about with him under the trees while he gathered and ate the choicest fruits. This went on all day, and even at night, when I threw myself down half dead with weariness, the terrible old man held on tight to my neck, nor did he fail to greet the first glimmer of morning light by drumming upon me with his heels, until I perforce awoke and resumed my dreary march with rage and bitterness in my heart. It happened one day that I passed a tree under which lay several dry gourds, and catching one up I amused myself with scooping out its contents and pressing into it the juice of several bunches of grapes which hung from every bush. When it was full I left it propped in the fork of a tree, and a few days later, carrying the hateful old man that way, I snatched at my gourd as I passed it and had the satisfaction of a draught of excellent wine so good and refreshing that I even forgot my detestable burden, and began to sing and caper. The old monster was not slow to perceive the effect which my draught had produced and that I carried him more lightly than usual, so he stretched out his skinny hand and seizing the gourd first tasted its contents cautiously, then drained them to the very last drop. The wine was strong and the gourd capacious, so he also began to sing after a fashion, and soon I had the delight of feeling the iron grip of his goblin legs unclasp, and with one vigorous effort I threw him to the ground, from which he never moved again. I was so rejoiced to have at last got rid of this uncanny old man that I ran leaping and bounding down to the sea-shore, where, by the greatest good luck, I met with some mariners who had anchored off the island to enjoy the delicious fruits, and to renew their supply of water. They heard the story of my escape with amazement, saying, "You fell into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and it is a mercy that he did not strangle you as he has everyone else upon whose shoulders he has managed to perch himself. This island is well-known as the scene of his evil deeds, and no merchant or sailor who lands upon it cares to stray far away from his comrades." After we had talked for awhile they took me back with them on board their ship, where the captain received me kindly, and we soon set sail, and after several days reached a large and prosperous-looking town where all the houses were built of stone. Here we anchored, and one of the merchants, who had been very friendly to me on the way, took me ashore with him and showed me a lodging set apart for strange merchants. He then provided me with a large sack, and pointed out to me a party of others equipped in like manner. "Go with them," said he, "and do as they do, but beware of losing sight of them, for if you strayed your life would be in danger." With that he supplied me with provisions, and bade me farewell, and I set out with my new companions. I soon learnt that the object of our expedition was to fill our sacks with cocoa-nuts, but when at length I saw the trees and noted their immense height and the slippery smoothness of their slender trunks, I did not at all understand how we were to do it. The crowns of the cocoa-palms were all alive with monkeys, big and little, which skipped from one to the other with surprising agility, seeming to be curious about us and disturbed at our appearance, and I was at first surprised when my companions after collecting stones began to throw them at the lively creatures, which seemed to me quite harmless. But very soon I saw the reason of it and joined them heartily, for the monkeys, annoyed and wishing to pay us back in our own coin, began to tear the nuts from the trees and cast them at us with angry and spiteful gestures, so that after very little labor our sacks were filled with the fruit which we could not otherwise have obtained. As soon as we had as many as we could carry we went back to the town, where my friend bought my share and advised me to continue the same occupation until I had earned money enough to carry me to my own country. This I did, and before long had amassed a considerable sum. Just then I heard that there was a trading ship ready to sail, and taking leave of my friend I went on board, carrying with me a goodly store of cocoanuts; and we sailed first to the islands where pepper grows, then to Comari where the best aloes-wood is found, and where men drink no wine by an unalterable law. Here I exchanged my nuts for pepper and good aloes-wood, and went a-fishing for pearls with some of the other merchants, and my divers were so lucky that very soon I had an immense number, and those very large and perfect. With all these treasures I came joyfully back to Bagdad, where I disposed of them for large sums of money, of which I did not fail as before to give the tenth part to the poor, and after that I rested from my labors and comforted myself with all the pleasures that my riches could give me. Having thus ended his story, Sindbad ordered that one hundred sequins should be given to Hindbad, and the guests then withdrew; but after the next day's feast he began the account of his sixth voyage as follows. SIXTH VOYAGE It must be a marvel to you how, after having five times met with shipwreck and unheard-of perils, I could again tempt fortune and risk fresh trouble. I am even surprised myself when I look back, but evidently it was my fate to rove, and after a year of repose I prepared to make a sixth voyage, regardless of the entreaties of my friends and relations, who did all they could to keep me at home. Instead of going by the Persian Gulf, I travelled a considerable way overland, and finally embarked from a distant Indian port with a captain who meant to make a long voyage. And truly he did so, for we fell in with stormy weather which drove us completely out of our course, so that for many days neither captain nor pilot knew where we were, nor where we were going. When they did at last discover our position we had small ground for rejoicing, for the captain, casting his turban upon the deck and tearing his beard, declared that we were in the most dangerous spot upon the whole wide sea, and had been caught by a current which was at that moment sweeping us to destruction. It was too true! In spite of all the sailors could do we were driven with frightful rapidity towards the foot of a mountain, which rose sheer out of the sea, and our vessel was dashed to pieces upon the rocks at its base, not, however, until we had managed to scramble on shore, carrying with us the most precious of our possessions. When we had done this the captain said to us:-- "Now we are here we may as well begin to dig our graves at once, since from this fatal spot no shipwrecked mariner has ever returned." This speech discouraged us much, and we began to lament over our sad fate. The mountain formed the seaward boundary of a large island, and the narrow strip of rocky shore upon which we stood was strewn with the wreckage of a thousand gallant ships, while the bones of the luckless mariners shone white in the sunshine, and we shuddered to think how soon our own would be added to the heap. All around, too, lay vast quantities of the costliest merchandise, and treasures were heaped in every cranny of the rocks, but all these things only added to the desolation of the scene. It struck me as a very strange thing that a river of clear fresh water, which gushed out from the mountain not far from where we stood, instead of flowing into the sea as rivers generally do, turned off sharply, and flowed out of sight under a natural archway of rock, and when I went to examine it more closely I found that inside the cave the walls were thick with diamonds, rubies, and masses of crystal, and the floor was strewn with ambergris. Here, then, upon this desolate shore we abandoned ourselves to our fate, for there was no possibility of scaling the mountain, and if a ship had appeared it could only have shared our doom. The first thing our captain did was to divide equally amongst us all the food we possessed, and then the length of each man's life depended on the time he could make his portion last. I myself could live upon very little. Nevertheless, by the time I had buried the last of my companions my stock of provisions was so small that I hardly thought I should live long enough to dig my own grave, which I set about doing, while I regretted bitterly the roving disposition which was always bringing me into such straits, and thought longingly of all the comfort and luxury that I had left. But luckily for me the fancy took me to stand once more beside the river where it plunged out of sight in the depths of the cavern, and as I did so an idea struck me. This river which hid itself underground doubtless emerged again at some distant spot. Why should I not build a raft and trust myself to its swiftly flowing waters? If I perished before I could reach the light of day once more I should be no worse off than I was now, for death stared me in the face, while there was always the possibility that, as I was born under a lucky star, I might find myself safe and sound in some desirable land. I decided at any rate to risk it, and speedily built myself a stout raft of drift-wood with strong cords, of which enough and to spare lay strewn upon the beach. I then made up many packages of rubies, emeralds, rock crystal, ambergris, and precious stuffs, and bound them upon my raft, being careful to preserve the balance, and then I seated myself upon it, having two small oars that I had fashioned laid ready to my hand, and loosed the cord which held it to the bank. Once out in the current my raft flew swiftly under the gloomy archway, and I found myself in total darkness, carried smoothly forward by the rapid river. On I went as it seemed to me for many nights and days. Once the channel became so small that I had a narrow escape of being crushed against the rocky roof, and after that I took the precaution of lying flat upon my precious bales. Though I only ate what was absolutely necessary to keep myself alive, the inevitable moment came when, after swallowing my last morsel of food, I began to wonder if I must after all die of hunger. Then, worn out with anxiety and fatigue, I fell into a deep sleep, and when I again opened my eyes I was once more in the light of day; a beautiful country lay before me, and my raft, which was tied to the river bank, was surrounded by friendly looking black men. I rose and saluted them, and they spoke to me in return, but I could not understand a word of their language. Feeling perfectly bewildered by my sudden return to life and light, I murmured to myself in Arabic, "Close thine eyes, and while thou sleepest Heaven will change thy fortune from evil to good." One of the natives, who understood this tongue, then came forward saying:-- "My brother, be not surprised to see us; this is our land, and as we came to get water from the river we noticed your raft floating down it, and one of us swam out and brought you to the shore. We have waited for your awakening; tell us now whence you come and where you were going by that dangerous way?" I replied that nothing would please me better than to tell them, but that I was starving, and would fain eat something first. I was soon supplied with all I needed, and having satisfied my hunger I told them faithfully all that had befallen me. They were lost in wonder at my tale when it was interpreted to them, and said that adventures so surprising must be related to their King only by the man to whom they had happened. So, procuring a horse, they mounted me upon it, and we set out, followed by several strong men carrying my raft just as it was upon their shoulders. In this order we marched into the city of Serendib, where the natives presented me to their King, whom I saluted in the Indian fashion, prostrating myself at his feet and kissing the ground; but the monarch bade me rise and sit beside him, asking first what was my name. "I am Sindbad," I replied, "whom men call 'the Sailor,' for I have voyaged much upon many seas." "And how came you here?" asked the King. I told my story, concealing nothing, and his surprise and delight were so great that he ordered my adventures to be written in letters of gold and laid up in the archives of his kingdom. Presently my raft was brought in and the bales opened in his presence, and the king declared that in all his treasury there were no such rubies and emeralds as those which lay in great heaps before him. Seeing that he looked at them with interest, I ventured to say that I myself and all that I had were at his disposal, but he answered me smiling:-- "Nay, Sindbad. Heaven forbid that I should covet your riches; I will rather add to them, for I desire that you shall not leave my kingdom without some tokens of my good-will." He then commanded his officers to provide me with a suitable lodging at his expense, and sent slaves to wait upon me and carry my raft and my bales to my new dwelling-place. You may imagine that I praised his generosity and gave him grateful thanks, nor did I fail to present myself daily in his audience-chamber, and for the rest of my time I amused myself in seeing all that was most worthy of attention in the city. The island of Serendib being situated on the equinoctial line, the days and nights there are of equal length. The chief city is placed at the end of a beautiful valley, formed by the highest mountain in the world, which is in the middle of the island. I had the curiosity to ascend to its very summit, for this was the place to which Adam was banished out of Paradise. Here are found rubies and many precious things, and rare plants grow abundantly, with cedar-trees and cocoa-palms. On the sea-shore and at the mouths of the rivers the divers seek for pearls, and in some valleys diamonds are plentiful. After many days I petitioned the King that I might return to my own country, to which he graciously consented. Moreover, he loaded me with rich gifts, and when I went to take leave of him he intrusted me with a royal present and a letter to the Commander of the Faithful, our sovereign lord, saying, "I pray you give these to the Caliph Harun-al-Rashid, and assure him of my friendship." I accepted the charge respectfully, and soon embarked upon the vessel which the King himself had chosen for me. The King's letter was written in blue characters upon a rare and precious skin of yellowish color, and these were the words of it: "The King of the Indies, before whom walk a thousand elephants, who lives in a palace, of which the roof blazes with a hundred thousand rubies, and whose treasure-house contains twenty thousand diamond crowns, to the Caliph Harun-al-Rashid sends greeting. Though the offering we present to you is unworthy of your notice, we pray you to accept it as a mark of the esteem and friendship which we cherish for you, and of which we gladly send you this token, and we ask of you a like regard if you deem us worthy of it. Adieu, brother." The present consisted of a vase carved from a single ruby, six inches high and as thick as my finger; this was filled with the choicest pearls, large, and of perfect shape and lustre; secondly, a huge snake-skin, with scales as large as a sequin, which would preserve from sickness those who slept upon it. Then quantities of aloes-wood, camphor, and pistachio-nuts; and lastly, a beautiful slave-girl, whose robes glittered with precious stones. After a long and prosperous voyage we landed at Balsora, and I made haste to reach Bagdad, and taking the King's letter I presented myself at the palace gate, followed by the beautiful slave, and various members of my own family, bearing the treasure. As soon as I had declared my errand I was conducted into the presence of the Caliph, to whom, after I had made my obeisance, I gave the letter and the King's gift, and when he had examined them he demanded of me whether the Prince of Serendib was really as rich and powerful as he claimed to be. "Commander of the Faithful," I replied, again bowing humbly before him, "I can assure your Majesty that he has in no way exaggerated his wealth and grandeur. Nothing can equal the magnificence of his palace. When he goes abroad his throne is prepared upon the back of an elephant, and on either side of him ride his ministers, his favorites, and courtiers. On his elephant's neck sits an officer, his golden lance in his hand, and behind him stands another bearing a pillar of gold, at the top of which is an emerald as long as my hand. A thousand men in cloth of gold, mounted upon richly caparisoned elephants, go before him, and as the procession moves onward the officer who guides his elephant cries aloud, 'Behold the mighty monarch, the powerful and valiant Sultan of the Indies, whose palace is covered with a hundred thousand rubies, who possesses twenty thousand diamond crowns. Behold a monarch greater than Solomon and Mihrage in all their glory!' "Then the one who stands behind the throne answers: 'This king, so great and powerful, must die, must die, must die!' "And the first takes up the chant again, 'All praise to Him who lives for evermore.' "Further, my lord, in Serendib no judge is needed, for to the King himself his people come for justice." The Caliph was well satisfied with my report. "From the King's letter," said he, "I judged that he was a wise man. It seems that he is worthy of his people, and his people of him." So saying he dismissed me with rich presents, and I returned in peace to my own house. When Sindbad had done speaking his guests withdrew, Hindbad having first received a hundred sequins, but all returned next day to hear the story of the seventh voyage. SEVENTH AND LAST VOYAGE After my sixth voyage I was quite determined that I would go to sea no more. I was now of an age to appreciate a quiet life, and I had run risks enough. I only wished to end my days in peace. One day, however, when I was entertaining a number of my friends, I was told that an officer of the Caliph wished to speak to me, and when he was admitted he bade me to follow him into the presence of Harun-al-Rashid, which I accordingly did. After I had saluted him, the Caliph said:-- "I have sent for you, Sindbad, because I need your services. I have chosen you to bear a letter and a gift to the King of Serendib in return for his message of friendship." The Caliph's commandment fell upon me like a thunderbolt. "Commander of the Faithful," I answered, "I am ready to do all that your Majesty commands, but I humbly pray you to remember that I am utterly disheartened by the unheard-of sufferings I have undergone. Indeed, I have made a vow never again to leave Bagdad." With this I gave him a long account of some of my strangest adventures, to which he listened patiently. "I admit," said he, "that you have indeed had some extraordinary experiences, but I do not see why they should hinder you from doing as I wish. You have only to go straight to Serendib and give my message, then you are free to come back and do as you will. But go you must; my honor and dignity demand it." Seeing that there was no help for it, I declared myself willing to obey; and the Caliph, delighted at having got his own way, gave me a thousand sequins for the expenses of the voyage. I was soon ready to start, and taking the letter and the present I embarked at Balsora, and sailed quickly and safely to Serendib. Here, when I had disclosed my errand, I was well received, and brought into the presence of the king, who greeted me with joy. "Welcome, Sindbad," he cried. "I have thought of you often, and rejoice to see you once more." After thanking him for the honor that he did me, I displayed the Caliph's gifts. First a bed with complete hangings all cloth of gold, which cost a thousand sequins, and another like to it of crimson stuff. Fifty robes of rich embroidery, a hundred of the finest white linen from Cairo, Suez, Cufa, and Alexandria. Then more beds of different fashion, and an agate vase carved with the figure of a man aiming an arrow at a lion, and finally a costly table, which had once belonged to King Solomon. The King of Serendib received with satisfaction the assurance of the Caliph's friendliness towards him, and now my task being accomplished I was anxious to depart, but it was some time before the king would think of letting me go. At last, however, he dismissed me with many presents, and I lost no time in going on board a ship, which sailed at once, and for four days all went well. On the fifth day we had the misfortune to fall in with pirates, who seized our vessel, killing all who resisted, and making prisoners of those who were prudent enough to submit at once, of whom I was one. When they had despoiled us of all we possessed, they forced us to put on vile raiment, and sailing to a distant island there sold us for slaves. I fell into the hands of a rich merchant, who took me home with him, and clothed and fed me well, and after some days sent for me and questioned me as to what I could do. I answered that I was a rich merchant who had been captured by pirates, and therefore I knew no trade. "Tell me," said he, "can you shoot with a bow?" I replied that this had been one of the pastimes of my youth, and that doubtless with practice my skill would come back to me. Upon this he provided me with a bow and arrows, and mounting me with him upon his own elephant took the way to a vast forest which lay far from the town. When we had reached the wildest part of it we stopped, and my master said to me: "This forest swarms with elephants. Hide yourself in this great tree, and shoot at all that pass you. When you have succeeded in killing one come and tell me." So saying he gave me a supply of food, and returned to the town, and I perched myself high up in the tree and kept watch. That night I saw nothing, but just after sunrise the next morning a large herd of elephants came crashing and trampling by. I lost no time in letting fly several arrows, and at last one of the great animals fell to the ground dead, and the others retreated, leaving me free to come down from my hiding-place and run back to tell my master of my success, for which I was praised and regaled with good things. Then we went back to the forest together and dug a mighty trench in which we buried the elephant I had killed, in order that when it became a skeleton my master might return and secure its tusks. For two months I hunted thus, and no day passed without my securing an elephant. Of course I did not always station myself in the same tree, but sometimes in one place, sometimes in another. One morning as I watched the coming of the elephants I was surprised to see that, instead of passing the tree I was in, as they usually did, they paused, and completely surrounded it, trumpeting horribly, and shaking the very ground with their heavy tread, and when I saw that their eyes were fixed upon me I was terrified, and my arrows dropped from my trembling hand. I had indeed good reason for my terror when, an instant later, the largest of the animals wound his trunk round the stem of my tree, and with one mighty effort tore it up by the roots, bringing me to the ground entangled in its branches. I thought now that my last hour was surely come, but the huge creature, picking me up gently enough, set me upon its back, where I clung more dead than alive, and followed by the whole herd turned and crashed off into the dense forest. It seemed to me a long time before I was once more set upon my feet by the elephant, and I stood as if in a dream watching the herd, which turned and trampled off in another direction, and were soon hidden in the dense underwood. Then, recovering myself, I looked about me, and found that I was standing upon the side of a great hill, strewn as far as I could see on either hand with bones and tusks of elephants. "This then must be the elephants' burying-place," I said to myself, "and they must have brought me here that I might cease to persecute them, seeing that I want nothing but their tusks, and here lie more than I could carry away in a lifetime." Whereupon I turned and made for the city as fast as I could go, not seeing a single elephant by the way, which convinced me that they had retired deeper into the forest to leave the way open to the Ivory Hill, and I did not know how sufficiently to admire their sagacity. After a day and a night I reached my master's house, and was received by him with joyful surprise. "Ah! poor Sindbad," he cried, "I was wondering what could have become of you. When I went to the forest I found the tree newly uprooted, and the arrows lying beside it, and I feared I should never see you again. Pray tell me how you escaped death." I soon satisfied his curiosity, and the next day we went together to the Ivory Hill, and he was overjoyed to find that I had told him nothing but the truth. When we had loaded our elephant with as many tusks as it could carry and were on our way back to the city, he said:-- "My brother--since I can no longer treat as a slave one who has enriched me thus--take your liberty, and may Heaven prosper you. I will no longer conceal from you that these wild elephants have killed numbers of our slaves every year. No matter what good advice we gave them, they were caught sooner or later. You alone have escaped the wiles of these animals, therefore you must be under the special protection of Heaven. Now through you the whole town will be enriched without further loss of life, therefore you shall not only receive your liberty, but I will also bestow a fortune upon you." To which I replied, "Master, I thank you, and wish you all prosperity. For myself I only ask liberty to return to my own country." "It is well," he answered, "the monsoon will soon bring the ivory ships hither, then I will send you on your way with somewhat to pay your passage." So I stayed with him till the time of the monsoon, and every day we added to our store of ivory till all his warehouses were overflowing with it. By this time the other merchants knew the secret, but there was enough and to spare for all. When the ships at last arrived my master himself chose the one in which I was to sail, and put on board for me a great store of choice provisions, also ivory in abundance, and all the costliest curiosities of the country, for which I could not thank him enough, and so we parted. I left the ship at the first port we came to, not feeling at ease upon the sea after all that had happened to me by reason of it, and having disposed of my ivory for much gold, and bought many rare and costly presents, I loaded my pack animals, and joined a caravan of merchants. Our journey was long and tedious, but I bore it patiently, reflecting that at least I had not to fear tempests, nor pirates, nor serpents, nor any of the other perils from which I had suffered before, and at length we reached Bagdad. My first care was to present myself before the Caliph, and give him an account of my embassy. He assured me that my long absence had disquieted him much, but he had nevertheless hoped for the best. As to my adventure among the elephants he heard it with amazement, declaring that he could not have believed it had not my truthfulness been well-known to him. By his orders this story and the others I had told him were written by his scribes in letters of gold, and laid up among his treasures. I took my leave of him, well satisfied with the honors and rewards he bestowed upon me; and since that time I have rested from my labors, and given myself up wholly to my family and my friends. Thus Sindbad ended the story of his seventh and last voyage, and turning to Hindbad he added:-- "Well, my friend, and what do you think now? Have you ever heard of anyone who has suffered more, or had more narrow escapes than I have? Is it not just that I should now enjoy a life of ease and tranquillity?" Hindbad drew near, and kissing his hand respectfully, replied, "Sir, you have indeed known fearful perils; my troubles have been nothing compared to yours. Moreover, the generous use you make of your wealth proves that you deserve it. May you live long and happily in the enjoyment of it." Sindbad then gave him a hundred sequins, and henceforward counted him among his friends; also he caused him to give up his profession as a porter, and to eat daily at his table that he might all his life remember Sindbad the Sailor. ALADDIN'S WONDERFUL LAMP There once lived a poor tailor, who had a son called Aladdin, a careless, idle boy, who would do nothing but play all day long in the streets with little idle boys like himself. This so grieved the father that he died; yet, in spite of his mother's tears and prayers, Aladdin did not mend his ways. One day, when he was playing in the streets as usual, a stranger asked him his age, and if he were not the son of Mustapha the tailor. "I am, sir," replied Aladdin; "but he died a long while ago." On this the stranger, who was a famous African magician, fell on his neck and kissed him, saying: "I am your uncle, and knew you from your likeness to my brother. Go to your mother and tell her I am coming." Aladdin ran home, and told his mother of his newly-found uncle. "Indeed, child," she said, "your father had a brother, but I always thought he was dead." However, she prepared supper, and bade Aladdin seek his uncle, who came laden with wine and fruit. He presently fell down and kissed the place where Mustapha used to sit, bidding Aladdin's mother not to be surprised at not having seen him before, as he had been forty years out of the country. He then turned to Aladdin and asked him his trade, at which the boy hung his head, while his mother burst into tears. On learning that Aladdin was idle and would learn no trade, he offered to take a shop for him and stock it with merchandise. Next day he bought Aladdin a fine suit of clothes, and took him all over the city, showing him the sights, and brought him home at nightfall to his mother, who was overjoyed to see her son so fine. Next day the magician led Aladdin into some beautiful gardens a long way outside the city gates. They sat down by a fountain, and the magician pulled a cake from his girdle, which he divided between them. They then journeyed onwards till they almost reached the mountains. Aladdin was so tired that he begged to go back, but the magician beguiled him with pleasant stories, and led him on in spite of himself. At last they came to two mountains divided by a narrow valley. "We will go no farther," said the false uncle. "I will show you something wonderful; only do you gather up sticks while I kindle a fire." When it was lit the magician threw on it a powder he had about him, at the same time saying some magical words. The earth trembled a little and opened in front of them, disclosing a square flat stone with a brass ring in the middle to raise it by. Aladdin tried to run away, but the magician caught him and gave him a blow that knocked him down. "What have I done, uncle?" he said piteously; whereupon the magician said more kindly: "Fear nothing, but obey me. Beneath this stone lies a treasure which is to be yours, and no one else may touch it, so you must do exactly as I tell you." At the word treasure, Aladdin forgot his fears, and grasped the ring as he was told, saying the names of his father and grandfather. The stone came up quite easily and some steps appeared. "Go down," said the magician; "at the foot of those steps you will find an open door leading into three large halls. Tuck up your gown and go through them without touching anything, or you will die instantly. These halls lead into a garden of fine fruit-trees. Walk on till you come to a niche in a terrace where stands a lighted lamp. Pour out the oil it contains and bring it to me." He drew a ring from his finger and gave it to Aladdin, bidding him prosper. Aladdin found everything as the magician had said, gathered some fruit off the trees, and, having got the lamp, arrived at the mouth of the cave. The magician cried out in a great hurry:-- "Make haste and give me the lamp." This Aladdin refused to do until he was out of the cave. The magician flew into a terrible passion, and throwing some more powder on the fire, he said something, and the stone rolled back into its place. The magician left Persia forever, which plainly showed that he was no uncle of Aladdin's, but a cunning magician who had read in his magic books of a wonderful lamp, which would make him the most powerful man in the world. Though he alone knew where to find it, he could only receive it from the hand of another. He had picked out the foolish Aladdin for this purpose, intending to get the lamp and kill him afterwards. For two days Aladdin remained in the dark, crying and lamenting. At last he clasped his hands in prayer, and in so doing rubbed the ring, which the magician had forgotten to take from him. Immediately an enormous and frightful genie rose out of the earth, saying:-- "What wouldst thou with me? I am the Slave of the Ring, and will obey thee in all things." Aladdin fearlessly replied: "Deliver me from this place!" whereupon the earth opened, and he found himself outside. As soon as his eyes could bear the light he went home, but fainted on the threshold. When he came to himself he told his mother what had passed, and showed her the lamp and the fruits he had gathered in the garden, which were in reality precious stones. He then asked for some food. "Alas! child," she said, "I have nothing in the house, but I have spun a little cotton and will go and sell it." Aladdin bade her keep her cotton, for he would sell the lamp instead. As it was very dirty she began to rub it, that it might fetch a higher price. Instantly a hideous genie appeared, and asked what she would have. She fainted away, but Aladdin, snatching the lamp, said boldly:-- "Fetch me something to eat!" The genie returned with a silver bowl, twelve silver plates containing rich meats, two silver cups, and two bottles of wine. Aladdin's mother, when she came to herself, said:-- "Whence comes this splendid feast?" "Ask not, but eat," replied Aladdin. So they sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and Aladdin told his mother about the lamp. She begged him to sell it, and have nothing to do with devils. "No," said Aladdin, "since chance has made us aware of its virtues, we will use it and the ring likewise, which I shall always wear on my finger." When they had eaten all the genie had brought, Aladdin sold one of the silver plates, and so on till none was left. He then had recourse to the genie, who gave him another set of plates, and thus they lived for many years. One day Aladdin heard an order from the Sultan proclaimed that everyone was to stay at home and close his shutters while the princess, his daughter, went to and from the bath. Aladdin was seized by a desire to see her face, which was very difficult, as she always went veiled. He hid himself behind the door of the bath, and peeped through a chink. The princess lifted her veil as she went in, and looked so beautiful that Aladdin fell in love with her at first sight. He went home so changed that his mother was frightened. He told her he loved the princess so deeply that he could not live without her, and meant to ask her in marriage of her father. His mother, on hearing this, burst out laughing, but Aladdin at last prevailed upon her to go before the Sultan and carry his request. She fetched a napkin and laid in it the magic fruits from the enchanted garden, which sparkled and shone like the most beautiful jewels. She took these with her to please the Sultan, and set out, trusting in the lamp. The grand-vizir and the lords of council had just gone in as she entered the hall and placed herself in front of the Sultan. He, however, took no notice of her. She went every day for a week, and stood in the same place. When the council broke up on the sixth day the Sultan said to his vizir: "I see a certain woman in the audience-chamber every day carrying something in a napkin. Call her next time, that I may find out what she wants." Next day, at a sign from the vizir, she went up to the foot of the throne, and remained kneeling till the Sultan said to her: "Rise, good woman, and tell me what you want." She hesitated, so the Sultan sent away all but the vizir, and bade her speak freely, promising to forgive her beforehand for anything she might say. She then told him of her son's violent love for the princess. "I prayed him to forget her," she said, "but in vain; he threatened to do some desperate deed if I refused to go and ask your Majesty for the hand of the princess. Now I pray you to forgive not me alone, but my son Aladdin." The Sultan asked her kindly what she had in the napkin, whereupon she unfolded the jewels and presented them. He was thunderstruck, and turning to the vizir said: "What sayest thou? Ought I not to bestow the princess on one who values her at such a price?" The vizir, who wanted her for his own son, begged the Sultan to withhold her for three months, in the course of which he hoped his son would contrive to make him a richer present. The Sultan granted this, and told Aladdin's mother that, though he consented to the marriage, she must not appear before him again for three months. Aladdin waited patiently for nearly three months, but after two had elapsed his mother, going into the city to buy oil, found everyone rejoicing, and asked what was going on. "Do you not know," was the answer, "that the son of the grand-vizir is to marry the Sultan's daughter to-night?" Breathless, she ran and told Aladdin, who was overwhelmed at first, but presently bethought him of the lamp. He rubbed it, and the genie appeared, saying: "What is thy will?" Aladdin replied: "The Sultan, as thou knowest, has broken his promise to me, and the vizir's son is to have the princess. My command is that to-night you bring hither the bride and bridegroom." "Master, I obey," said the genie. Aladdin then went to his chamber, where, sure enough at midnight the genie transported the bed containing the vizir's son and the princess. "Take this new-married man," he said, "and put him outside in the cold, and return at daybreak." Whereupon the genie took the vizir's son out of bed, leaving Aladdin with the princess. "Fear nothing," Aladdin said to her; "you are my wife, promised to me by your unjust father, and no harm shall come to you." The princess was too frightened to speak, and passed the most miserable night of her life, while Aladdin lay down beside her and slept soundly. At the appointed hour the genie fetched in the shivering bridegroom, laid him in his place, and transported the bed back to the palace. Presently the Sultan came to wish his daughter good-morning. The unhappy vizir's son jumped up and hid himself, while the princess would not say a word, and was very sorrowful. The Sultan sent her mother to her, who said: "How comes it, child, that you will not speak to your father? What has happened?" The princess sighed deeply, and at last told her mother how, during the night, the bed had been carried into some strange house, and what had passed there. Her mother did not believe her in the least, but bade her rise and consider it an idle dream. The following night exactly the same thing happened, and next morning, on the princess's refusing to speak, the Sultan threatened to cut off her head. She then confessed all, bidding him ask the vizir's son if it were not so. The Sultan told the vizir to ask his son, who owned the truth, adding that, dearly as he loved the princess, he had rather die than go through another such fearful night, and wished to be separated from her. His wish was granted, and there was an end of feasting and rejoicing. When the three months were over, Aladdin sent his mother to remind the Sultan of his promise. She stood in the same place as before, and the Sultan, who had forgotten Aladdin, at once remembered him, and sent for her. On seeing her poverty the Sultan felt less inclined than ever to keep his word, and asked the vizir's advice, who counselled him to set so high a value on the princess that no man living could come up to it. The Sultan then turned to Aladdin's mother, saying: "Good woman, a Sultan must remember his promises, and I will remember mine, but your son must first send me forty basins of gold brimful of jewels, carried by forty black slaves, led by as many white ones, splendidly dressed. Tell him that I await his answer." The mother of Aladdin bowed low and went home, thinking all was lost. She gave Aladdin the message, adding: "He may wait long enough for your answer!" "Not so long, mother, as you think," her son replied. "I would do a great deal more than that for the princess." He summoned the genie, and in a few moments the eighty slaves arrived, and filled up the small house and garden. Aladdin made them set out to the palace, two and two, followed by his mother. They were so richly dressed, with such splendid jewels in their girdles, that everyone crowded to see them and the basins of gold they carried on their heads. They entered the palace, and, after kneeling before the Sultan, stood in a half-circle round the throne with their arms crossed, while Aladdin's mother presented them to the Sultan. He hesitated no longer, but said: "Good woman, return and tell your son that I wait for him with open arms." She lost no time in telling Aladdin, bidding him make haste. But Aladdin first called the genie. "I want a scented bath," he said, "a richly embroidered habit, a horse surpassing the Sultan's, and twenty slaves to attend me. Besides this, six slaves, beautifully dressed, to wait on my mother; and lastly, ten thousand pieces of gold in ten purses." No sooner said than done. Aladdin mounted his horse and passed through the streets, the slaves strewing gold as they went. Those who had played with him in his childhood knew him not, he had grown so handsome. When the Sultan saw him he came down from his throne, embraced him, and led him into a hall where a feast was spread, intending to marry him to the princess that very day. But Aladdin refused, saying, "I must build a palace fit for her," and took his leave. Once home he said to the genie: "Build me a palace of the finest marble, set with jasper, agate, and other precious stones. In the middle you shall build me a large hall with a dome, its four walls of massy gold and silver, each side having six windows, whose lattices, all except one, which is to be left unfinished, must be set with diamonds and rubies. There must be stables and horses and grooms and slaves; go and see about it!" The palace was finished by next day, and the genie carried him there and showed him all his orders faithfully carried out, even to the laying of a velvet carpet from Aladdin's palace to the Sultan's. Aladdin's mother then dressed herself carefully, and walked to the palace with her slaves, while he followed her on horseback. The Sultan sent musicians with trumpets and cymbals to meet them, so that the air resounded with music and cheers. She was taken to the princess, who saluted her and treated her with great honor. At night the princess said good-by to her father, and set out on the carpet for Aladdin's palace, with his mother at her side, and followed by the hundred slaves. She was charmed at the sight of Aladdin, who ran to receive her. "Princess," he said, "blame your beauty for my boldness if I have displeased you." She told him that, having seen him, she willingly obeyed her father in this matter. After the wedding had taken place Aladdin led her into the hall, where a feast was spread, and she supped with him, after which they danced till midnight. Next day Aladdin invited the Sultan to see the palace. On entering the hall with the four-and-twenty windows, with their rubies, diamonds, and emeralds, he cried:-- "It is a world's wonder! There is only one thing that surprises me. Was it by accident that one window was left unfinished?" "No, sir, by design," returned Aladdin. "I wished your Majesty to have the glory of finishing this palace." The Sultan was pleased, and sent for the best jewellers in the city. He showed them the unfinished window, and bade them fit it up like the others. "Sir," replied their spokesman, "we cannot find jewels enough." The Sultan had his own fetched, which they soon used, but to no purpose, for in a month's time the work was not half done. Aladdin, knowing that their task was vain, bade them undo their work and carry the jewels back, and the genie finished the window at his command. The Sultan was surprised to receive his jewels again and visited Aladdin, who showed him the window finished. The Sultan embraced him, the envious vizir meanwhile hinting that it was the work of enchantment. Aladdin had won the hearts of the people by his gentle bearing. He was made captain of the Sultan's armies, and won several battles for him, but remained modest and courteous as before, and lived thus in peace and content for several years. But far away in Africa the magician remembered Aladdin, and by his magic arts discovered that Aladdin, instead of perishing miserably in the cave, had escaped, and had married a princess, with whom he was living in great honor and wealth. He knew that the poor tailor's son could only have accomplished this by means of the lamp, and travelled night and day till he reached the capital of China, bent on Aladdin's ruin. As he passed through the town he heard people talking everywhere about a marvellous palace. "Forgive my ignorance," he asked, "what is this palace you speak of?" "Have you not heard of Prince Aladdin's palace," was the reply, "the greatest wonder of the world? I will direct you if you have a mind to see it." The magician thanked him who spoke, and having seen the palace knew that it had been raised by the genie of the lamp, and became half mad with rage. He determined to get hold of the lamp, and again plunge Aladdin into the deepest poverty. Unluckily, Aladdin had gone a-hunting for eight days, which gave the magician plenty of time. He bought a dozen copper lamps, put them into a basket, and went to the palace, crying: "New lamps for old!" followed by a jeering crowd. The princess, sitting in the hall of four-and-twenty windows, sent a slave to find out what the noise was about, who came back laughing, so that the princess scolded her. "Madam," replied the slave, "who can help laughing to see an old fool offering to exchange fine new lamps for old ones?" Another slave, hearing this, said: "There is an old one on the cornice there which he can have." Now this was the magic lamp, which Aladdin had left there, as he could not take it out hunting with him. The princess, not knowing its value, laughingly bade the slave take it and make the exchange. She went and said to the magician: "Give me a new lamp for this." He snatched it and bade the slave take her choice, amid the jeers of the crowd. Little he cared, but left off crying his lamps, and went out of the city gates to a lonely place, where he remained till nightfall, when he pulled out the lamp and rubbed it. The genie appeared, and at the magician's command carried him, together with the palace and the princess in it, to a lonely place in Africa. Next morning the Sultan looked out of the window towards Aladdin's palace and rubbed his eyes, for it was gone. He sent for the vizir, and asked what had become of the palace. The vizir looked out too, and was lost in astonishment. He again put it down to enchantment, and this time the Sultan believed him, and sent thirty men on horseback to fetch Aladdin in chains. They met him riding home, bound him, and forced him to go with them on foot. The people, however, who loved him, followed, armed, to see that he came to no harm. He was carried before the Sultan, who ordered the executioner to cut off his head. The executioner made Aladdin kneel down, bandaged his eyes, and raised his scimitar to strike. At that instant the vizir, who saw that the crowd had forced their way into the courtyard and were scaling the walls to rescue Aladdin, called to the executioner to stay his hand. The people, indeed, looked so threatening that the Sultan gave way and ordered Aladdin to be unbound, and pardoned him in the sight of the crowd. Aladdin now begged to know what he had done. "False wretch!" said the Sultan, "come hither," and showed him from the window the place where his palace had stood. Aladdin was so amazed that he could not say a word. "Where is my palace and my daughter?" demanded the Sultan. "For the first I am not so deeply concerned, but my daughter I must have, and you must find her or lose your head." Aladdin begged for forty days in which to find her, promising if he failed, to return and suffer death at the Sultan's pleasure. His prayer was granted, and he went forth sadly from the Sultan's presence. For three days he wandered about like a madman, asking everyone what had become of his palace, but they only laughed and pitied him. He came to the banks of a river, and knelt down to say his prayers before throwing himself in. In so doing he rubbed the magic ring he still wore. The genie he had seen in the cave appeared, and asked his will. "Save my life, genie," said Aladdin, "and bring my palace back." "That is not in my power," said the genie; "I am only the Slave of the Ring; you must ask the Slave of the Lamp." "Even so," said Aladdin, "but thou canst take me to the palace, and set me down under my dear wife's window." He at once found himself in Africa, under the window of the princess, and fell asleep out of sheer weariness. He was awakened by the singing of the birds, and his heart was lighter. He saw plainly that all his misfortunes were owing to the loss of the lamp, and vainly wondered who had robbed him of it. That morning the princess rose earlier than she had done since she had been carried into Africa by the magician, whose company she was forced to endure once a day. She, however, treated him so harshly that he dared not live there altogether. As she was dressing, one of her women looked out and saw Aladdin. The princess ran and opened the window, and at the noise she made Aladdin looked up. She called to him to come to her, and great was the joy of these lovers at seeing each other again. After he had kissed her Aladdin said: "I beg of you, Princess, in God's name, before we speak of anything else, for your own sake and mine, tell me what has become of an old lamp I left on the cornice in the hall of four-and-twenty windows, when I went a-hunting." "Alas!" she said, "I am the innocent cause of our sorrows," and told him of the exchange of the lamp. "Now I know," cried Aladdin, "that we have to thank the African magician for this! Where is the lamp?" "He carries it about with him," said the princess, "I know, for he pulled it out of his breast to show me. He wishes me to break my faith with you and marry him, saying that you were beheaded by my father's command. He is forever speaking ill of you, but I only reply by my tears. If I persist, I doubt not that he will use violence." Aladdin comforted her, and left her for awhile. He changed clothes with the first person he met in the town, and having bought a certain powder returned to the princess, who let him in by a little side door. "Put on your most beautiful dress," he said to her, "and receive the magician with smiles, leading him to believe that you have forgotten me. Invite him to sup with you, and say you wish to taste the wine of his country. He will go for some, and while he is gone I will tell you what to do." She listened carefully to Aladdin, and when he left her arrayed herself gayly for the first time since she left China. She put on a girdle and head-dress of diamonds, and seeing in a glass that she looked more beautiful than ever, received the magician, saying to his great amazement: "I have made up my mind that Aladdin is dead, and that all my tears will not bring him back to me, so I am resolved to mourn no more, and have therefore invited you to sup with me; but I am tired of the wines of China, and would fain taste those of Africa." The magician flew to his cellar, and the princess put the powder Aladdin had given her in her cup. When he returned she asked him to drink her health in the wine of Africa, handing him her cup in exchange for his as a sign she was reconciled to him. Before drinking the magician made her a speech in praise of her beauty, but the princess cut him short, saying:-- "Let me drink first, and you shall say what you will afterwards." She set her cup to her lips and kept it there, while the magician drained his to the dregs and fell back lifeless. The princess then opened the door to Aladdin, and flung her arms round his neck, but Aladdin put her away, bidding her to leave him, as he had more to do. He then went to the dead magician, took the lamp out of his vest, and bade the genie carry the palace and all in it back to China. This was done, and the princess in her chamber only felt two little shocks, and little thought she was at home again. The Sultan, who was sitting in his closet, mourning for his lost daughter, happened to look up, and rubbed his eyes, for there stood the palace as before! He hastened thither, and Aladdin received him in the hall of the four-and-twenty windows, with the princess at his side. Aladdin told him what had happened, and showed him the dead body of the magician, that he might believe. A ten days' feast was proclaimed, and it seemed as if Aladdin might now live the rest of his life in peace; but it was not to be. The African magician had a younger brother, who was, if possible, more wicked and more cunning than himself. He travelled to China to avenge his brother's death, and went to visit a pious woman called Fatima, thinking she might be of use to him. He entered her cell and clapped a dagger to her breast, telling her to rise and do his bidding on pain of death. He changed clothes with her, colored his face like hers, put on her veil and murdered her, so that she might tell no tales. Then he went towards the palace of Aladdin, and all the people thinking he was the holy woman, gathered round him, kissing his hands and begging his blessing. When he got to the palace there was such a noise going on round him that the princess bade her slave look out of the window and ask what was the matter. The slave said it was the holy woman, curing people by her touch of their ailments, whereupon the princess, who had long desired to see Fatima, sent for her. On coming to the princess the magician offered up a prayer for her health and prosperity. When he had done the princess made him sit by her, and begged him to stay with her always. The false Fatima, who wished for nothing better, consented, but kept his veil down for fear of discovery. The princess showed him the hall, and asked him what he thought of it. "It is truly beautiful," said the false Fatima. "In my mind it wants but one thing." "And what is that?" said the princess. "If only a roc's egg," replied he, "were hung up from the middle of this dome, it would be the wonder of the world." After this the princess could think of nothing but a roc's egg, and when Aladdin returned from hunting he found her in a very ill humor. He begged to know what was amiss, and she told him that all her pleasure in the hall was spoilt for the want of a roc's egg hanging from the dome. "If that is all," replied Aladdin, "you shall soon be happy." He left her and rubbed the lamp, and when the genie appeared commanded him to bring a roc's egg. The genie gave such a loud and terrible shriek that the hall shook. "Wretch!" he said, "is it not enough that I have done everything for you, but you must command me to bring my master and hang him up in the midst of this dome? You and your wife and your palace deserve to be burnt to ashes; but this request does not come from you, but from the brother of the African magician whom you destroyed. He is now in your palace disguised as the holy woman--whom he murdered. He it was who put that wish into your wife's head. Take care of yourself, for he means to kill you." So saying the genie disappeared. Aladdin went back to the princess, saying his head ached, and requesting that the holy Fatima should be fetched to lay her hands on it. But when the magician came near, Aladdin, seizing his dagger, pierced him to the heart. "What have you done?" cried the princess. "You have killed the holy woman!" "Not so," replied Aladdin, "but a wicked magician," and told her of how she had been deceived. After this Aladdin and his wife lived in peace. He succeeded the Sultan when he died, and reigned for many years, leaving behind him a long line of kings.
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LAUREL-CROWNED LETTERS CHARLES LAMB It may well be that the "Essays of Elia" will be found to have kept their perfume, and the LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB to retain their old sweet savor, when "Sartor Resartus" has about as many readers as Bulwer's "Artificial Changeling," and nine tenths even of "Don Juan" lie darkening under the same deep dust that covers the rarely troubled pages of the "Secchia Rapita." A.C. SWINBURNE No assemblage of letters, parallel or kindred to that in the hands of the reader, if we consider its width of range, the fruitful period over which it stretches, and its typical character, has ever been produced. W.C. HAZLITT ON LAMB'S LETTERS. THE BEST LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB Edited with an Introduction BY EDWARD GILPIN JOHNSON A.D. 1892. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION LETTER I. To Samuel Taylor Coleridge II. To Coleridge III. To Coleridge IV. To Coleridge V. To Coleridge VI. To Coleridge VII. To Coleridge VIII. To Coleridge IX. To Coleridge X. To Coleridge XI. To Coleridge XII. To Coleridge XIII. To Coleridge XIV. To Coleridge XV. To Robert Southey XVI. To Southey XVII. To Southey XVIII. To Southey XIX. To Thomas Manning XX. To Coleridge XXI. To Manning XXII. To Coleridge XXIII. To Manning XXIV. To Manning XXV. To Coleridge XXVI. To Manning XXVII. To Coleridge XXVIII. To Coleridge XXIX. To Manning XXX. To Manning XXXI. To Manning XXXII. To Manning XXXIII. To Coleridge XXXIV. To Wordsworth XXXV. To Wordsworth XXXVI. To Manning XXXVII. To Manning XXXVIII. To Manning XXXIX. To Coleridge XL. To Manning XLI. To Manning XLII. To Manning XLIII. To William Godwin XLIV. To Manning XLV. To Miss Wordsworth XLVI. To Manning XLVII. To Wordsworth XLVIII. To Manning XLIX. To Wordsworth L. To Manning LI. To Miss Wordsworth LII. To Wordsworth LIII. To Wordsworth LIV. To Wordsworth LV. To Wordsworth LVI. To Southey LVII. To Miss Hutchinson LVIII. To Manning LIX. To Manning LX. To Wordsworth LXI. To Wordsworth LXII. To H. Dodwell LXIII. To Mrs. Wordsworth LXIV. To Wordsworth LXV. To Manning LXVI. To Miss Wordsworth LXVII. To Coleridge LXVIII. To Wordsworth LXIX. To John Clarke LXX. To Mr. Barren Field LXXI. To Walter Wilson LXXII. To Bernard Barton LXXIII. To Miss Wordsworth LXXIV. To Mr. and Mrs. Bruton LXXV. To Bernard Barton LXXVI. To Miss Hutchinson LXXVII. To Bernard Barton LXXVIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt LXXIX. To Bernard Barton LXXX. To Bernard Barton LXXXI. To Bernard Barton LXXXII. To Bernard Barton LXXXIII. To Bernard Barton LXXXIV. To Bernard Barton LXXXV. To Bernard Barton LXXXVI. To Wordsworth LXXXVII. To Bernard Barton LXXXVIII. To Bernard Barton LXXXIX. To Bernard Barton XC. To Southey XCI. To Bernard Barton XCII. To J.B. Dibdin XCIII. To Henry Crabb Robinson XCIV. To Peter George Patmore XCV. To Bernard Barton XCVI. To Thomas Hood XCVII. To P.G. Patmore XCVIII. To Bernard Barton XCIX. To Procter C. To Bernard Barton CI. To Mr. Gilman CII. To Wordsworth CIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt CIV. To George Dyer CV. To Dyer CVI. To Mr. Moxon CVII. To Mr. Moxon INTRODUCTION. No writer, perhaps, since the days of Dr. Johnson has been oftener brought before us in biographies, essays, letters, etc., than Charles Lamb. His stammering speech, his gaiter-clad legs,--"almost immaterial legs," Hood called them,--his frail wisp of a body, topped by a head "worthy of Aristotle," his love of punning, of the Indian weed, and, alas! of the kindly production of the juniper-berry (he was not, he owned, "constellated under Aquarius"), his antiquarianism of taste, and relish of the crotchets and whimsies of authorship, are as familiar to us almost as they were to the group he gathered round him Wednesdays at No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, where "a clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the game" awaited them. Talfourd has unctuously celebrated Lamb's "Wednesday Nights." He has kindly left ajar a door through which posterity peeps in upon the company,--Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, "Barry Cornwall," Godwin, Martin Burney, Crabb Robinson (a ubiquitous shade, dimly suggestive of that figment, "Mrs. Harris"), Charles Kemble, Fanny Kelly ("Barbara S."), on red-letter occasions Coleridge and Wordsworth,--and sees them discharging the severer offices of the whist-table ("cards were cards" then), and, later, unbending their minds over poetry, criticism, and metaphysics. Elia was no Barmecide host, and the serjeant dwells not without regret upon the solider business of the evening,--"the cold roast lamb or boiled beef, the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the vast jug of porter, often replenished from the foaming pots which the best tap of Fleet Street supplied," hospitably presided over by "the most quiet, sensible, and kind of women," Mary Lamb. The _terati_ Talfourd's day were clearly hardier of digestion than their descendants are. Roast lamb, boiled beef, "heaps of smoking roasted potatoes," pots of porter,--a noontide meal for a hodman,--and the hour midnight! One is reminded, _a propos_ of Miss Lamb's robust viands, that Elia somewhere confesses to "an occasional nightmare;" "but I do not," he adds, "keep a whole stud of them." To go deeper into this matter, to speculate upon the possible germs, the first vague intimations to the mind of Coleridge of the weird spectra of "The Ancient Mariner," the phantasmagoria of "Kubla Khan," would be, perhaps, over-refining. "Barry Cornwall," too, Lamb tells us, "had his tritons and his nereids gambolling before him in nocturnal visions." No wonder! It is not intended here to re-thresh the straw left by Talfourd, Fitzgerald, Canon Ainger, and others, in the hope of discovering something new about Charles Lamb. In this quarter, at least, the wind shall be tempered to the reader,--shorn as he is by these pages of a charming letter or two. So far as fresh facts are concerned, the theme may fairly be considered exhausted. Numberless writers, too, have rung the changes upon "poor Charles Lamb," "dear Charles Lamb," "gentle Charles Lamb," and the rest,--the final epithet, by the way being one that Elia, living, specially resented: "For God's sake," he wrote to Coleridge. "don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in better verses. It did well enough five years ago, when I came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at the time you wrote the lines to feed upon such epithets; but besides that the meaning of 'gentle' is equivocal at best, and almost always means poor-spirited, the very quality of gentleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings. My sentiment is long since vanished. I hope my _virtues_ have done _sucking_. I can scarce think but you meant it in joke. I hope you did, for I should be ashamed to believe that you could think to gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green-sick sonneteer." The indulgent pity conventionally bestowed upon Charles Lamb--one of the most manly, self-reliant of characters, to say nothing of his genius--is absurdly' misplaced. Still farther be it from us to blunt the edge of appetite by sapiently essaying to "analyze" and account for Lamb's special zest and flavor, as though his writings, or any others worth the reading, were put together upon principles of clockwork. We are perhaps over-fond of these arid pastimes nowadays. It is not the "sweet musk-roses," the "apricocks and dewberries" of literature that please us best; like Bottom the Weaver, we prefer the "bottle of hay." What a mockery of right enjoyment our endless prying and sifting, our hunting of riddles in metaphors, innuendoes in tropes, ciphers in Shakspeare! Literature exhausted, we may turn to art, and resolve, say, the Sistine Madonna (I deprecate the Manes of the "Divine Painter") into some ingenious and recondite rebus. For such critical chopped-hay--sweeter to the modern taste than honey of Hybla--Charles Lamb had little relish. "I am, sir," he once boasted to an analytical, unimaginative proser who had insisted upon _explaining_ some quaint passage in Marvell or Wither, "I am, sir, a matter-of-lie man." It was his best warrant to sit at the Muses' banquet. Charles Lamb was blessed with an intellectual palate as fine as Keats's, and could enjoy the savor of a book (or of that dainty, "in the whole _mundus edibilis_ the most delicate," Roast Pig, for that matter) without pragmatically asking, as the king did of the apple in the dumpling, "how the devil it got there." His value as a critic is grounded in this capacity of _naive_ enjoyment (not of pig, but of literature), of discerning beauty and making _us_ discern it,--thus adding to the known treasures and pleasures of mankind. Suggestions not unprofitable for these later days lurk in these traits of Elia the student and critic. How worthy the imitation, for instance, of those disciples who band together to treat a fine poem (of Browning, say, or Shelley) as they might a chapter in the Revelation,--speculating sagely upon the import of the seven seals and the horns of the great beast, instead of enjoying the obvious beauties of their author. To the schoolmaster--whose motto would seem too often to be the counsel of the irate old lady in Dickens, "Give him a meal of chaff!" --Charles Lamb's critical methods are rich in suggestion. How many ingenuous boys, lads in the very flush and hey-day of appreciativeness of the epic virtues, have been parsed, declined, and conjugated into an utter detestation of the melodious names of Homer and Virgil! Better far for such victims had they, instead of aspiring to the vanities of a "classical education," sat, like Keats, unlearnedly at the feet of quaint Chapman, or Dryden, or even of Mr. Pope. Perhaps, by way of preparative to the reading of Charles Lamb's letters, it will be well to run over once more the leading facts of his life. First let us glance at his outward appearance. Fortunately there are a number of capital pieces of verbal portraiture of Elia. Referring to the year 1817, "Barry Cornwall" wrote: "Persons who had been in the habit of traversing Covent Garden at that time of night, by extending their walk a few yards into Russell Street have noticed a small, spare man clothed in black, who went out every morning, and returned every afternoon as the hands of the clock moved toward certain hours. You could not mistake him. He was somewhat stiff in his manner, and almost clerical in dress, which indicated much wear. He had a long, melancholy face, with keen, penetrating eyes; and he walked with a short, resolute step citywards. He looked no one in the face for more than a moment, yet contrived to see everything as he went on. No one who ever studied the human features could pass him by without recollecting his countenance; it was full of sensibility, and it came upon you like new thought, which you could not help dwelling upon afterwards: it gave rise to meditation, and did you good. This small, half-clerical man was--Charles Lamb." His countenance is thus described by Thomas Hood: "His was no common face, none of those willow-pattern ones which Nature turns out by thousands at her potteries, but more like a chance specimen of the Chinese ware,--one to the set; unique, antique, quaint, you might have sworn to it piecemeal,--a separate affidavit to each feature." Mrs. Charles Mathews, wife of the comedian, who met Lamb at a dinner, gives an amusing account of him:-- "Mr. Lamb's first appearance was not prepossessing. His figure was small and mean, and no man was certainly ever less beholden to his tailor. His 'bran' new suit of black cloth (in which he affected several times during the day to take great pride, and to cherish as a novelty that he had looked for and wanted) was drolly contrasted with his very rusty silk stockings, shown from his knees, and his much too large, thick shoes, without polish. His shirt rejoiced in a wide, ill-plaited frill, and his very small, tight, white neckcloth was hemmed to a fine point at the ends that formed part of a little bow. His hair was black and sleek, but not formal, and his face the gravest I ever saw, but indicating great intellect, and resembling very much the portraits of Charles I." From this sprightly and not too flattering sketch we may turn to Serjeant Talfourd's tender and charming portrait,--slightly idealized, no doubt; for the man of the coif held a brief for his friend, and was a poet besides:-- "Methinks I see him before me now as he appeared then, and as he continued without any perceptible alteration to me, during the twenty years of intimacy which followed, and were closed by his death. A light frame, so fragile that it seemed as if a breath would overthrow it, clad in clerk-like black, was surmounted by a head of form and expression the most noble and sweet. His black hair curled crisply about an expanded forehead; his eyes, softly brown, twinkled with varying expression, though the prevalent expression was sad; and the nose, slightly curved, and delicately carved at the nostril, with the lower outline of the face delicately oval, completed a head which was finely placed upon the shoulders, and gave importance and even dignity to a diminutive and shadowy stem. Who shall describe his countenance, catch its quivering sweetness, and fix it forever in words? There are none, alas! to answer the vain desire of friendship. Deep thought, striving with humor; the lines of suffering wreathed into cordial mirth, and a smile of painful sweetness, present an image to the mind it can as little describe as lose. His personal appearance and manner are not unjustly characterized by what he himself says in one of his letters to Manning, 'a compound of the Jew, the gentleman, and the angel.'" The writings of Charles Lamb abound in passages of autobiography. "I was born," he tells us in that delightful sketch, "The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple," "and passed the first seven years of my life in the Temple. Its church, its halls, its gardens, its fountain, its river, I had almost said,--for in those young years what was this king of rivers to me but a stream that watered our pleasant places?--these are of my oldest recollections." His father, John Lamb, the "Lovel" of the essay cited, had come up a little boy from Lincolnshire to enter the service of Samuel Salt,--one of those "Old Benchers" upon whom the pen of Elia has shed immortality, a stanch friend and patron to the Lambs, the kind proprietor of that "spacious closet of good old English reading" upon whose "fair and wholesome pasturage" Charles and his sister, as children, "browsed at will." John Lamb had married Elizabeth Field, whose mother was for fifty years housekeeper at the country-seat of the Plumers, Blakesware, in Hertfordshire, the "Blakesmoor" of the Essays, frequent scene of Lamb's childish holiday sports,--a spacious mansion, with its park and terraces and "firry wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel and day-long murmuring wood-pigeon;" an Eden it must have seemed to the London-bred child, in whose fancy the dusty trees and sparrows and smoke-grimed fountain of Temple Court had been a pastoral. Within the cincture of its excluding garden-walls, wrote Elia in later years, "I could have exclaimed with that garden-loving poet, -- "'Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines; Curl me about, ye gadding vines; And oh, so close your circles lace That I may never leave this place: But lest your fetters prove too weak, Ere I your silken bondage break, Do you, O brambles, chain me too, And, courteous briers, nail me through.'" At Blakesware, too, was the room whence the spirit of Sarah Battle--that "gentlewoman born"--winged its flight to a region where revokes and "luke-warm gamesters" are unknown. To John and Elizabeth Lamb were born seven children, only three of whom, John, Mary, and Charles, survived their infancy. Of the survivors, Charles was the youngest, John being twelve and Mary ten years his senior,--a fact to be weighed in estimating the heroism of Lamb's later life. At the age of seven, Charles Lamb, "son of John Lamb, scrivener, and Elizabeth, his wife," was entered at the school of Christ's Hospital,--"the antique foundation of that godly and royal child King Edward VI." Of his life at this institution he has left us abundant and charming memorials in the Essays, "Recollections of Christ's Hospital," and "Christ's Hospital Five-and-thirty Years Ago,"--the latter sketch corrective of the rather optimistic impressions of the former. With his schoolfellows Charles seems to have been, despite his timid and retiring disposition (he said of himself, "while the others were all fire and play, he stole along with all the self-concentration of a young monk"), a decided favorite. "Lamb," wrote C. V. Le Grice, a schoolmate often mentioned in essay and letter, "was an amiable, gentle boy, very sensible and keenly observing, indulged by his schoolfellows and by his master on account of his infirmity of speech.... I never heard his name mentioned without the addition of Charles, although, as there was no other boy of the name of Lamb, the addition was unnecessary; but there was an implied kindness in it, and it was a proof that his gentle manners excited that kindness." For us the most important fact of the Christ's Hospital school-days is the commencement of Lamb's life-long friendship with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, two years his senior, and the object of his fervent hero-worship. Most of us, perhaps, can find the true source of whatever of notable good or evil we have effected in life in the moulding influence of one of these early friendships or admirations. It is the boy's hero, the one he loves and reverences among his schoolfellows,-- not his taskmaster,--that is his true teacher, the setter of the broader standards by which he is to abide through life. Happy the man the feet of whose early idols have not been of clay. It was under the quickening influence of the eloquent, precocious genius of the "inspired charity boy" that Charles Lamb's ideals and ambitions shaped themselves out of the haze of a child's conceptions. Coleridge at sixteen was already a poet, his ear attuned to the subtlest melody of verse, and his hand rivalling, in preluding fragments, the efforts of his maturer years; he was already a philosopher, rapt in Utopian, schemes and mantling hopes as enchanting--and as chimerical--as the pleasure-domes and caves of ice decreed by Kubla Khan; and the younger lad became his ardent disciple. Lamb quitted Christ's Hospital, prematurely, in November, 1787, and the companionship of the two friends was for a time interrupted. To part with Coleridge, to exchange the ease and congenial scholastic atmosphere of the Hospital for the _res angusta domi_, for the intellectual starvation of a life of counting-house drudgery, must have been a bitter trial for him. But the shadow of poverty was upon the little household in the Temple; on the horizon of the future the blackening clouds of anxieties still graver were gathering; and the youngest child was called home to share the common burden. Charles Lamb was first employed in the South Sea House, where his brother John --a cheerful optimist, a _dilettante_ in art, genial, prosperous, thoroughly selfish, in so far as the family fortunes were concerned an outsider--already held a lucrative post. It was not long before Charles obtained promotion in the form of a clerkship with the East India Company,--one of the last kind services of Samuel Salt, who died in the same year, 1792,--and with the East India Company he remained for the rest of his working life. Upon the death of their generous patron the Lambs removed from the Temple and took lodgings in Little Queen Street, Holborn; and for Charles the battle of life may be said to have fairly begun. His work as a junior clerk absorbed, of course, the greater part of his day and of his year. Yet there were breathing-spaces: there were the long evenings with the poets; with Marlowe, Drayton, Drummond of Hawthornden, and Cowley,--"the sweetest names, which carry a perfume in the mention;" there were the visits to the play, the yearly vacation jaunts to sunny Hertfordshire. The intercourse with Coleridge, too, was now occasionally renewed. The latter had gone up to Cambridge early in 1791, there to remain--except the period of his six months' dragooning--for the nest four years. During his visits to London it was the habit of the two schoolfellows to meet at a tavern near Smithfield, the "Salutation and Cat" to discuss the topics dear to both: and it was about this time that Lamb's sonnet to Mrs Siddons, his first appearance in print, was published in the "Morning Chronicle." The year 1796 was a terribly eventful one for the Lambs. There was a taint of insanity in the family on the father's side, and on May 27, 1796, we find Charles writing to Coleridge these sad words,--doubly sad for the ring of mockery in them:-- "My life has been somewhat diversified of late. The six weeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse at Hoxton. I am got somewhat rational now and don't bite any one. But mad I was!" Charles, thanks to the resolution with which he combated the tendency, and to the steadying influence of his work at the desk,--despite his occasional murmurs, his best friend and sheet-anchor in life,--never again succumbed to the family malady; but from that moment, over his small household, Madness--like Death in Milton's vision--continually "shook its dart," and at best only "delayed to strike." It was in the September of 1796 that the calamity befell which has tinged the story of Charles and Mary Lamb with the sombrest hues of the Greek tragedy. The family were still in the Holborn lodgings,--the mother an invalid, the father sinking into a second childhood. Mary, in addition to the burden of ministering to her parents, was working for their support with her needle. At this point it will be well to insert a prefatory word or two as to the character of Mary Lamb; and here the witnesses are in accord. There is no jarring of opinion, as in her brother's case; for Charles Lamb has been sorely misjudged,--often, it must be admitted, with ground of reason; sometimes by persons who might and should have looked deeper. In a notable instance, the heroism of his life has been meanly overlooked by one who preached to mankind with the eloquence of the Prophets the prime need and virtue of recognizing the hero. If self-abnegation lies at the root of true heroism, Charles Lamb--that "sorry phenomenon" with an "insuperable proclivity to gin" --was a greater hero than was covered by the shield of Achilles. The character of Mary Lamb is quickly summed Up. She was one of the most womanly of women. "In all its essential sweetness," says Talfourd, "her character was like her brother's; while, by a temper more placid, a spirit of enjoyment more serene, she was enabled to guide, to counsel, to cheer him, and to protect him on the verge of the mysterious calamity, from the depths of which she rose so often unruffled to his side. To a friend in any difficulty she was the most comfortable of advisers, the wisest of consolers." Hazlitt said that "he never met with a woman who could reason, and had met with only one thoroughly reasonable,--Mary Lamb." The writings of Elia are strewn, as we know, with the tenderest tributes to her worth. "I wish," he says, "that I could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division." The psychology of madness is a most subtle inquiry. How slight the mysterious touch that throws the smooth-running human mechanism into a chaos of jarring elements, that transforms, in the turn of an eyelash, the mild humanity of the gentlest of beings into the unreasoning ferocity of the tiger. The London "Times" of September 26, 1796, contained the following paragraph:-- "On Friday afternoon the coroner and a jury sat on the body of a lady in the neighborhood of Holborn, who died in consequence of a wound from her daughter the preceding day. It appeared by the evidence adduced that while the family were preparing for dinner, the young lady seized a case-knife lying on the table, and in a menacing manner pursued a little girl, her apprentice, round the room. On the calls of her infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and with loud shrieks approached her parent. The child, by her cries, quickly brought up the landlord of the house, but too late. The dreadful scene presented him the mother lifeless, pierced to the heart, on a chair, her daughter yet wildly standing over her with the fatal knife, and the old man, her father, weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead from the effects of a severe blow he received from one of the forks she had been madly hurling about the room. "For a few days prior to this, the family had observed some symptoms of insanity in her, which had so much increased on the Wednesday evening that her brother, early the next morning, went to Dr. Pitcairn; but that gentleman was not at home. "The jury of course brought in their verdict,--_Lunacy_." I need not supply the omitted names of the actors in this harrowing scene. Mary Lamb was at once placed in the Asylum at Hoxton, and the victim of her frenzy was laid to rest in the churchyard of St. Andrew's, Holborn. It became necessary for Charles and his father to make an immediate change of residence, and they took lodgings at Pentonville. There is a pregnant sentence in one of Lamb's letters that flashes with the vividness of lightning into the darkest recesses of those early troubles and embarrassments. "We are," he wrote to Coleridge, "_in a manner marked_." Charles Lamb after some weeks obtained the release of his sister from the Hoxton Asylum by formally undertaking her future guardianship,--a charge which was borne, until Death released the compact, with a steadfastness, a cheerful renunciation of what men regard as the crowning blessings of manhood, that has shed a halo more radiant even than that of his genius about the figure--it was "small and mean," said sprightly Mrs. Mathews--of the India House clerk. As already stated, the mania that had once attacked Charles never returned; but from the side of Mary Lamb this grimmest of spectres never departed. "Mary A is again _from home_;" "Mary is _fallen ill_ again:" how often do such tear-fraught phrases--tenderly veiled, lest! some chance might bring them to the eye of the blameless sufferer--recur in the Letters! Brother and sister were ever on the watch for the symptoms premonitory of the return of this "their sorrow's crown of sorrows." Upon their little holiday excursions, says Talfourd, a strait-waistcoat, carefully packed by Miss Lamb herself, was their constant companion. Charles Lloyd relates that he once met them slowly pacing together a little footpath in Hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly, and found on joining them that they were taking their solemn way to the old asylum. Thus, upon this guiltless pair were visited the sins of their fathers. With the tragical events just narrated, the storm of calamity seemed to have spent its force, and there were thenceforth plenty of days of calm and of sunshine for Charles Lamb. The stress of poverty was lightened and finally removed by successive increases of salary at the India House; the introductions of Coleridge and his own growing repute in the world of letters gathered about him a circle of friends--Southey, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Manning, Barton, and the rest--more congenial, and certainly more profitable, than the vagrant _intimados_, "to the world's eye a ragged regiment," who had wasted his substance and his leisure in the early Temple days. Lamb's earliest avowed appearance as an author was in Coleridge's first volume of poems, published by Cottle, of Bristol, in 1796. "The effusions signed C.L.," says Coleridge in the preface, "were written by Mr. Charles Lamb, of the India House. Independently of the signature, their superior merit would have sufficiently distinguished them." The "effusions" were four sonnets, two of them--the most noteworthy-- touching upon the one love-romance of Lamb's life, --his early attachment to the "fair-haired" Hertfordshire girl, the "Anna" of the Sonnets, the "Alice W---n" of the Essays. We remember that Ella in describing the gallery of old family portraits, in the essay, "Blakesmoor in H---shire," dwells upon "that beauty with the cool, blue, pastoral drapery, and a lamb, that hung next the great bay window, with the bright yellow Hertfordshire hair, _so like my Alice_." In 1797 Cottle issued a second edition of Coleridge's poems, this time with eleven additional pieces by Lamb,--making fifteen of his in all,--and containing verses by their friend Charles Lloyd. "It is unlikely," observes Canon Ainger, "that this little venture brought any profit to its authors, or that a subsequent volume of blank verse by Lamb and Lloyd in the following year proved more remunerative." In 1798 Lamb, anxious for his sister's sake to add to his slender income, composed his "miniature romance," as Talfourd calls it, "Rosamund Gray;" and this little volume, which has not yet lost its charm, proved a moderate success. Shelley, writing from Italy to Leigh Hunt in 1819, said of it: "What a lovely thing is his 'Rosamund Gray'! How much knowledge of the sweetest and deepest part of our nature in it! When I think of such a mind as Lamb's, when I see how unnoticed remain things of such exquisite and complete perfection, what should I hope for myself if I had not higher objects in view than fame?" It is rather unpleasant, in view of this generous--if overstrained-- tribute, to find the object of it referring later to the works of his encomiast as "thin sown with profit or delight." In 1802 Lamb published in a small duodecimo his blank-verse tragedy, "John Woodvil,"--it had previously been declined by John Kemble as unsuited to the stage,--and in 1806 was produced at the Drury Lane Theatre his farce "Mr. H.," the summary failure of which is chronicled with much humor in the Letters. The "Tales from Shakspeare," by Charles and Mary Lamb, were published by Godwin in 1807, and a second edition was called for in the following year. Lamb was now getting on surer--and more remunerative--ground; and in 1808 he prepared for the firm of Longmans his masterly "Specimens of the English Dramatic Poets contemporary with Shakspeare." Concerning this work he wrote to Manning:-- "Specimens are becoming fashionable. We have Specimens of Ancient English Poets, Specimens of Modern English Poets, Specimens of Ancient English Prose Writers, without end. They used to be called 'Beauties.' You have seen Beauties of Shakspeare? so have many people that never saw any beauties _in_ Shakspeare," From Charles Lamb's "Specimens" dates, as we know, the revival of the study of the old English dramatists other than Shakespeare. He was the first to call attention to the neglected beauties of those great Elizabethans, Webster, Marlowe, Ford, Dekker, Massinger,--no longer accounted mere "mushrooms that sprang up in a ring under the great oak of Arden." The opportunity that was to call forth Lamb's special faculty in authorship came late in life. In January, 1820, Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, the publishers, brought out the first number of a new monthly journal under the name of an earlier and extinct periodical, the "London Magazine," and in the August number appeared an article, "Recollections of the South Sea House." over the signature _Elia_. With this delightful sketch the essayist Elia may be said to have been born. In none of Lamb's previous writings had there been, more than a hint of that unique vein,--wise, playful, tender, fantastic, "everything by starts, and nothing long," exhibited with a felicity of phrase certainly unexcelled in English prose literature,--that we associate with his name. The careful reader of the Letters cannot fail to note that it is _there_ that Lamb's peculiar quality in authorship is first manifest. There is a letter to Southey, written as early as 1798, that has the true Elia ring. With the "London Magazine," which was discontinued in 1826. Elia was born, and with it he may be said to have died,--although some of his later contributions to the "New Monthly" and to the "Englishman's Magazine" were included in the "Last Essays of Elia," collected and published in 1833. The first series of Lamb's essays under the title of Elia had been published in a single volume by Taylor and Hessey, of the "London Magazine," in 1823. The story of Lamb's working life--latterly an uneventful one, broken chiefly by changes of abode and by the yearly holiday jaunts, "migrations from the blue bed to the brown"--from 1796, when the correspondence with Coleridge begins, is told in the letters. For thirty-three years he served the East India Company, and he served it faithfully and steadily. There is, indeed, a tradition that having been reproved on one occasion for coming to the office late in the morning, he pleaded that he always left it "so very early in the evening." Poets, we know, often "heard the chimes at midnight" in Elia's day, and the plea has certainly a most Lamb-like ring. That the Company's directors, however, were more than content with the service of their literate clerk, the sequel shows. It is manifest in certain letters, written toward the close of 1824 and in the beginning of 1825, that Lamb's confinement was at last telling upon him, and that he was thinking of a release from his bondage to the "desk's dead wood." In February, 1825, he wrote to Barton,-- "Your gentleman brother sets my mouth watering after liberty. Oh that I were kicked out of Leadenhall with every mark of indignity, and a competence in my fob! The birds of the air would not be so free as I should. How I would prance and curvet it, and pick up cowslips, and ramble about purposeless as an idiot!" Later in March we learn that he had signified to the directors his willingness to resign, "I am sick of hope deferred. The grand wheel is in agitation that is to turn up my fortune; but round it rolls, and will turn up nothing, I have a glimpse of freedom, of becoming a gentleman at large, but I am put off from day to day. I have offered my resignation, and it is neither accepted nor rejected. Eight weeks am I kept in this fearful suspense. Guess what an absorbing state I feel it. I am not conscious of the existence of friends, present or absent. The East India directors alone can be that thing to me. I have just learned that nothing will be decided this week. Why the next? Why any week?" But the "grand wheel" was really turning, to some purpose, and a few days later, April 6, 1825, he joyfully wrote to Barton,-- "My spirits are so tumultuary with the novelty of my recent emancipation that I have scarce steadiness of hand, much more mind, to compose a letter, I am free, B.B.,--free as air! "'The little bird that wings the sky Knows no such liberty,' I was set free on Tuesday in last week at four o'clock. I came home forever!" The quality of the generosity of the East India directors was not strained in Lamb's case. It should be recorded as an agreeable commercial phenomenon that these officials, men of business acting in "a business matter,"--words too often held to exclude all such Quixotic matters as sentiment, gratitude, and Christian equity between man and man,--were not only just, but munificent. From the path of Charles and Mary Lamb--already beset with anxieties grave enoughthey removed forever the shadow of want. Lamb's salary at the time of his retirement was nearly seven hundred pounds a year, and the offer made to him was a pension of four hundred and fifty, with a deduction of nine pounds a year for his sister, should she survive him. Lamb lived to enjoy his freedom and the Company's bounty nearly nine years. Soon after his retirement he settled with his sister at Enfield, within easy reach of his loved London, removing thence to the neighboring parish of Edmonton,--his last change of residence. Coleridge's death, in July, 1834, was a heavy blow to him. "When I heard of the death of Coleridge," he wrote, "it was without grief. It seemed to me that he had long been on the confines of the next world, that he had a hunger for eternity. I grieved then that I could not grieve; but since, I feel how great a part he was of me. His great and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot think a thought, I cannot make a criticism on men or books, without an ineffectual turning and reference to him. He was the proof and touchstone of all my cogitations." Lamb did not long outlive his old schoolfellow. Walking in the middle of December along the London road, he stumbled and fell, inflicting a slight wound upon his face. The injury at first seemed trivial; but soon after, erysipelas appearing, it became evident that his general health was too feeble to resist. On the 27th of December, 1834, he passed quietly away, whispering in his last moments the names of his dearest friends. Mary Lamb survived her brother nearly thirteen years, dying, at the advanced age of eighty-two, on May 20, 1847. With increasing years her attacks had become more frequent and of longer duration, till her mind became permanently weakened. After leaving Edmonton, she lived chiefly in a pleasant house in St. John's Wood, surrounded by old books and prints, under the care of a nurse. Her pension, together with the income from her brother's savings, was amply sufficient for her support. Talfourd, who was present at the burial of Mary Lamb, has eloquently described the earthly reunion of the brother and sister:-- "A few survivors of the old circle, then sadly thinned, attended her remains to the spot in Edmnonton churchyard where they were laid above those of her brother. In accordance with Lamb's own feeling, so far as it could be gathered from his expressions on a subject to which he did not often or willingly refer, he had been interred in a deep grave, simply dug and wattled round, but without any affectation of stone or brickwork to keep the human dust from its kindred earth. So dry, however, is the soil of the quiet churchyard that the excavated earth left perfect walls of stiff clay, and permitted us just to catch a glimpse of the still untarnished edges of the coffin, in which all the mortal part of one of the most delightful persons who ever lived was contained, and on which the remains of her he had loved with love 'passing the love of woman' were henceforth to rest,--the last glances we shall ever have even of that covering,--concealed from us as we parted by the coffin of the sister. We felt, I believe, after a moment's strange shuddering, that the reunion was well accomplished; although the true-hearted son of Admiral Burney, who had known and loved the pair we quitted from a child, and who had been among the dearest objects of existence to him, refused to be comforted." There are certain handy phrases, the legal-tender of conversation, that people generally use without troubling themselves to look into their title to currency. It is often said, for instance, with an air of deploring a phase of general mental degeneracy, that "letter-writing is a lost art." And so it is,---not because men nowadays, if they were put to it, could not, on the average, write as good letters as ever (the average although we certainly have no Lambs, and perhaps no Walpoles or Southeys to raise it, would probably be higher), but because the conditions that call for and develop the epistolary art have largely passed away. With our modern facility of communication, the letter has lost the pristine dignity of its function. The earth has dwindled strangely since the advent of steam and electricity, and in a generation used to Mr. Edison's devices, Puck's girdle presents no difficulties to the imagination. In Charles Lamb's time the expression "from Land's End to John O'Groat's" meant something; to-day it means a few comfortable hours by rail, a few minutes by telegraph. Wordsworth in the North of England was to Lamb, so far as the chance of personal contact was concerned, nearly as remote as Manning in China. Under such conditions a letter was of course a weighty matter; it was a thoughtful summary of opinion, a rarely recurring budget of general intelligence, expensive to send, and paid for by the recipient; and men put their minds and energies into composing it. "One wrote at that time," says W.C. Hazlitt, "a letter to an acquaintance in one of the home counties which one would only write nowadays to a settler in the Colonies or a relative in India." But to whatever conditions or circumstances we may owe the existence of Charles Lamb's letters, their quality is of course the fruit of the genius and temperament of the writer. Unpremeditated as the strain of the skylark, they have almost to excess (were that possible) the prime epistolary merit of spontaneity. From the brain of the writer to the sheet before him flows an unbroken Pactolian stream. Lamb, at his best, ranges with Shakspearian facility the gamut of human emotion, exclaiming, as it were at one moment, with Jaques, "Motley's the only wear!" --in the next probing the source of tears. He is as ejaculatory with his pen as other men are with their tongues. Puns, quotations, conceits, critical estimates of the rarest insight and suggestiveness, chase each other over his pages like clouds over a summer sky; and the whole is leavened with the sterling ethical and aesthetic good sense that renders Charles Lamb one of the wholesomest of writers. As to the plan on which the selections for this volume have been made, it needs only to be said that, in general, the editor has aimed to include those letters which exhibit most fully the writer's distinctive charm and quality. This plan leaves, of course, a residue of considerable biographical and critical value; but it is believed that to all who really love and appreciate him, Charles Lamb's "Best Letters" are those which are most uniquely and unmistakably Charles Lamb's. E. G. J. _September_, 1891. Letter L. Cowley. The James Elia of the essay "My Relations." Letter I. Talfourd's Memoir. Carlyle. It would seem from Lamb's letter to Coleridge (Letter IV.) that it was _he_, not the landlord, who appeared thus too late, and who snatched the knife from the unconscious hand. The reader is referred to Lamb's beautiful essay, "Dream Children." If we except his passing tenderness for the young Quakeress, Hester Savory, Lamb admitted that he had never spoken to the lady in his life. Letter LXXXIII. Letters LXV IL., LXVIII., LXIX. W. S. Landor. In assuming this pseudonym Lamb borrowed the name of a fellow-clerk who had served with him thirty years before in the South Sea House,--an Italian named Elia. The name has probably never been pronounced as Lamb intended. "_Call him Ellia_," he said in a letter to J. Taylor, concerning this old acquaintance. Letter XVII. The rather unimportant series, "Popular Fallacies," appeared in the "New Monthly." In the essay "The Superannuated Man" Lamb describes, with certain changes and modifications, his retirement from the India House. I. TO SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. _May_ 27, 1796. Dear Coleridge,--Make yourself perfectly easy about May. I paid his bill when I sent your clothes. I was flush of money, and am so still to all the purposes of a single life; so give yourself no further concern about it. The money would be superfluous to me if I had it. When Southey becomes as modest as his predecessor, Milton, and publishes his Epics in duodecimo, I will read 'em; a guinea a book is somewhat exorbitant, nor have I the opportunity of borrowing the work. The extracts from it in the "Monthly Review," and the short passages in your "Watchman," seem to me much superior to anything in his partnership account with Lovell. Your poems I shall procure forthwith. There were noble lines in what you inserted in one of your numbers from "Religious Musings," but I thought them elaborate. I am somewhat glad you have given up that paper; it must have been dry, unprofitable, and of dissonant mood to your disposition. I wish you success in all your undertakings, and am glad to hear you are employed about the "Evidences of Religion." There is need of multiplying such books a hundred-fold in this philosophical age, to _prevent_ converts to atheism, for they seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterwards.... Coleridge, I know not what suffering scenes you have gone through at Bristol. My life has been somewhat diversified of late. But mad I was and many a vagary my imagination played with me,--enough to make a volume, if all were told. My sonnets I have extended to the number of nine since I saw you, and will some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poem in blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish. White is on the eve of publishing (he took the hint from Vortigern) "Original Letters of Falstaff, Shallow," etc. ; a copy you shall have when it comes out. They are without exception the best imitations I ever saw. Coleridge, it may convince you of my regards for you when I tell you my head ran on you in my madness as much almost as on another person, who I am inclined to think was the more immediate cause of my temporary frenzy. The sonnet I send you has small merit as poetry; but you will be curious to read it when I tell you it was written in my prison-house in one of my lucid intervals. TO MY SISTER. If from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'T was but the error of a sickly mind And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well And waters clear of Reason; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be,-- My verse, which thou to praise wert e'er inclined Too highly, and with partial eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest affection; and wouldst oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend. With these lines, and with that sister's kindest remembrances to Cottle, I conclude. Yours sincerely, LAMB. Southey had just published his "Joan of Arc," in quarto. He and Lovell had published jointly, two years before, "Poems by Bion and Moschus." A Christ's Hospital schoolfellow, the "Jem" White of the Elia essay, "The Praise of Chimney-Sweepers." II. TO COLERIDGE. (_No month_) 1796. _Tuesday night_.--Of your "Watchman," the review of Burke was the best prose. I augured great things from the first number. There is some exquisite poetry interspersed. I have re-read the extract from the "Religious Musings," and retract whatever invidious there was in my censure of it as elaborate. There are times when one is not in a disposition thoroughly to relish good writing. I have re-read it in a more favorable moment, and hesitate not to pronounce it sublime. If there be anything in it approaching to tumidity (which I meant not to infer; by "elaborate" I meant simply "labored"), it is the gigantic hyperbole by which you describe the evils of existing society: "snakes, lions, hyenas, and behemoths," is carrying your resentment beyond bounds. The pictures of "The Simoom," of "Frenzy and Ruin," of "The Whore of Babylon," and "The Cry of Foul Spirits disinherited of Earth," and "The Strange Beatitude" which the good man shall recognize in heaven, as well as the particularizing of the children of wretchedness (I have unconsciously included every part of it), form a variety of uniform excellence. I hunger and thirst to read the poem complete. That is a capital line in your sixth number,-- "This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month." They are exactly such epithets as Burns would have stumbled on, whose poem on the ploughed-up daisy you seem to have had in mind. Your complaint that of your readers some thought there was too much, some too little, original matter in your numbers, reminds me of poor dead Parsons in the "Critic." "Too little incident! Give me leave to tell you, sir, there is too much incident." I had like to have forgot thanking you for that exquisite little morsel, the first Sclavonian Song. The expression in the second, "more happy to be unhappy in hell," is it not very quaint? Accept my thanks, in common with those of all who love good poetry, for "The Braes of Yarrow." I congratulate you on the enemies you must have made by your splendid invective against the barterers in human flesh and sinews. Coleridge, you will rejoice to hear that Cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and is employed on his translation of the Italian, etc., poems of Milton for an edition where Fuseli presides as designer. Coleridge, to an idler like myself, to write and receive letters are both very pleasant; but I wish not to break in upon your valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently from you. Reserve that obligation for your moments of lassitude, when you have nothing else to do; for your loco-restive and all your idle propensities, of course, have given way to the duties of providing for a family. The mail is come in, but no parcel; yet this is Tuesday. Farewell, then, till to-morrow; for a niche and a nook I must leave for criticisms. By the way, I hope you do not send your own only copy of "Joan of Arc;" I will in that case return it immediately. Your parcel _is_ come; you have been _lavish_ of your presents. Wordsworth's poem I have hurried through, not without delight. Poor Lovell! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner I lately spoke of him, not dreaming of his death. My heart bleeds for your accumulated troubles; God send you through 'em with patience. I conjure you dream not that I will ever think of being repaid; the very word is galling to the ears. I have read all your "Religious Musings" with uninterrupted feelings of profound admiration. You may safely rest your fame on it. The best remaining things are what I have before read, and they lose nothing by my recollection of your manner of reciting 'em, for I too bear in mind "the voice, the look," of absent friends, and can occasionally mimic their manner for the amusement of those who have seen 'em. Your impassioned manner of recitation I can recall at any time to mine own heart and to the ears of the bystanders. I rather wish you had left the monody on Chatterton concluding, as, it did, abruptly. It had more of unity. The conclusion of your "Religious Musicgs," I fear, will entitle you to the reproof of your beloved woman, who wisely will not suffer your fancy to run riot, but bids you walk humbly with your God. The very last words, "I exercise my young novitiate thought in ministeries of heart-stirring song," though not now new to me, cannot be enough admired. To speak politely, they are a well-turned compliment to poetry. I hasten to read "Joan of Arc," etc. I have read your lines at the beginning of second book; they are worthy of Milton, but in my mind yield to your "Religious Musings." I shall read the whole carefully, and in some future letter take the liberty to particularize my opinions of it. Of what is new to me among your poems next to the "Musings," that beginning "My Pensive Sara" gave me most pleasure. The lines in it I just alluded to are most exquisite; they made my sister and self smile, as conveying a pleasing picture of Mrs. C. checking your wild wanderings, which we were so fond of hearing you indulge when among us. It has endeared us more than anything to your good lady, and your own self-reproof that follows delighted us. 'T is a charming poem throughout (you have well remarked that charming, admirable, exquisite are the words expressive of feelings more than conveying of ideas, else I might plead very well want of room in my paper as excuse for generalizing). I want room to tell you how we are charmed with your verses in the manner of Spenser, etc. I am glad you resume the "Watchman." Change the name; leave out all articles of news, and whatever things are peculiar to newspapers, and confine yourself to ethics, verse, criticism; or, rather, do not confine yourself. Let your plan be as diffuse as the "Spectator," and I 'll answer for it the work prospers. If I am vain enough to think I can be a contributor, rely on my inclinations. Coleridge, in reading your "Religious Musings," I felt a transient superiority over you. I _have_ seen Priestley. I love to see his name repeated in your writings. I love and honor him almost profanely. You would be charmed with his _Sermons_, if you never read 'em. You have doubtless read his books illustrative of the doctrine of Necessity. Prefixed to a late work of his in answer to Paine, there is a preface giving an account of the man and his services to men, written by Lindsey, his dearest friend, well worth your reading. _Tuesday Eve_.--Forgive my prolixity, which is yet too brief for all I could wish to say. God give you comfort, and all that are of your household! Our loves and best good-wishes to Mrs. C. C. LAMB. Coleridge contributed some four hundred lines to the second book of Southey's epic. III. TO COLERIDGE. _June_ 10, 1796. With "Joan of Arc" I have been delighted, amazed, I had not presumed to expect anything of such excellence from Southey. Why, the poem is alone sufficient to redeem the character of the age we live in from the imputation of degenerating in poetry, were there no such beings extant as Burns, and Bowles, Cowper, and ----, ---- fill up the blank how you please; I say nothing. The subject is well chosen; it opens well. To become more particular, I will notice in their order a few passages that chiefly struck me on perusal. Page 26: "Fierce and terrible Benevolence!" is a phrase full of grandeur and originality, The whole context made me feel _possessed_, even like Joan herself. Page 28: "It is most horrible with the keen sword to gore the finely fibred human frame," and what follows, pleased me mightily. In the second book, the first forty lines in particular are majestic and high-sounding. Indeed, the whole vision of the Palace of Ambition and what follows are supremely excellent. Your simile of the Laplander, "By Niemi's lake, or Balda Zhiok, or the mossy stone of Solfar-Kapper," will bear comparison with any in Milton for fulness of circumstance and lofty-pacedness of versification. Southey's similes, though many of 'em are capital, are all inferior. In one of his books, the simile of the oak in the storm occurs, I think, four times. To return: the light in which you view the heathen deities is accurate and beautiful. Southey's personifications in this book are so many fine and faultless pictures. I was much pleased with your manner of accounting for the reason why monarchs take delight in war. At the 447th line you have placed Prophets and Enthusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing for the dignity of the former. Necessarian-like-speaking, it is correct. Page 98: "Dead is the Douglas! cold thy warrior frame, illustrious Buchan," etc., are of kindred excellence with Gray's "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue," etc. How famously the Maid baffles the Doctors, Seraphic and Irrefragable, "with all their trumpery!" Page 126: the procession, the appearances of the Maid, of the Bastard Son of Orleans, and of Tremouille, are full of fire and fancy, and exquisite melody of versification. The personifications from line 303 to 309, in the heat of the battle, had better been omitted; they are not very striking, and only encumber. The converse which Joan and Conrade hold on the banks of the Loire is altogether beautiful. Page 313: the conjecture that in dreams "all things are that seem," is one of those conceits which the poet delights to admit into his creed,--a creed, by the way, more marvellous and mystic than ever Athanasius dreamed of. Page 315: I need only _mention_ those lines ending with "She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart!" They are good imitative lines: "he toiled and toiled, of toil to reap no end, but endless toil and never-ending woe." Page 347: Cruelty is such as Hogarth might have painted her. Page 361: all the passage about Love (where he seems to confound conjugal love with creating and preserving love) is very confused, and sickens me with a load of useless personifications; else that ninth book is the finest in the volume,--an exquisite combination of the ludicrous and the terrible. I have never read either, even in translation, but such I conceive to be the manner of Dante or Ariosto. The tenth book is the most languid. On the whole, considering the celerity wherewith the poem was finished, I was astonished at the unfrequency of weak lines, I had expected to find it verbose. Joan, I think, does too little in battle, Dunois perhaps the same; Conrade too much. The anecdotes interspersed among the battles refresh the mind very agreeably, and I am delighted with the very many passages of simple pathos abounding throughout the poem,--passages which the author of "Crazy Kate" might have written. Has not Master Southey spoke very slightingly in his preface and disparagingly of Cowper's Homer? What makes him reluctant to give Cowper his fame? And does not Southey use too often the expletives "did" and "does"? They have a good effect at times, but are too inconsiderable, or rather become blemishes when they mark a style. On the whole, I expect Southey one day to rival Milton; I already deem him equal to Cowper, and superior to all living poets besides. What says Coleridge? The "Monody on Henderson" is _immensely good_; the rest of that little volume is _readable and above mediocrity?_ I proceed to a more pleasant task,--pleasant because the poems are yours; pleasant because you impose the task on me; and pleasant, let me add, because it will confer a whimsical importance on me to sit in judgment upon your rhymes. First, though, let me thank you again and again, in my own and my sister's name, for your invitations. Nothing could give us more pleasure than to come; but (were there no other reasons) while my brother's leg is so bad, it is out of the question. Poor fellow! he is very feverish and light-headed; but Cruikshanks has pronounced the symptoms favourable, and gives us every hope that there will be no need of amputation. God send not! We are necessarily confined with him all the afternoon and evening till very late, so that I am stealing a few minutes to write to you. Thank you for your frequent letters; you are the only correspondent and, I might add, the only friend I have in the world. I go nowhere, and have no acquaintance. Slow of speech and reserved of manners, no one seeks or cares for my society, and I am left alone. Austin calls only occasionally, as though it were a duty rather, and seldom stays ten minutes. Then judge how thankful I am for your letters! Do not, however, burden yourself with the correspondence. I trouble you again so soon only in obedience to your injunctions. Complaints apart, proceed we to our task. I am called away to tea,--thence must wait upon my brother; so must delay till to-morrow. Farewell!--_Wednesday_. _Thursday_.--I will first notice what is new to me. Thirteenth page: "The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul" is a nervous line, and the six first lines of page 14 are very pretty, the twenty-first effusion a perfect thing. That in the manner of Spenser is very sweet, particularly at the close; the thirty-fifth effusion is most exquisite,--that line in particular, "And, tranquil, muse upon tranquillity." It is the very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquillity of a thinking being from that of a shepherd,--a modern one I would be understood to mean,--a Damoetas; one that keeps other people's sheep. Certainly, Coleridge, your letter from Shurton Bars has less merit than most things in your volume; personally it may chime in best with your own feelings, and therefore you love it best. It has, however, great merit. In your fourth epistle that is an exquisite paragraph, and fancy-full, of "A stream there is which rolls in lazy flow," etc. "Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers" is a sweet line, and so are the three next. The concluding simile is far-fetched; "tempest-honored" is a quaintish phrase. Yours is a poetical family. I was much surprised and pleased to see the signature of Sara to that elegant composition, the fifth epistle. I dare not _criticise_ the "Religious Musings;" I like not to _select_ any part, where all is excellent. I can only admire, and thank you for it in the name of a Christian, as well as a lover of good poetry; only let me ask, is not that thought and those words in Young, "stands in the sun,"--or is it only such as Young, in one of his _better moments,_ might have writ? "Believe thou, O my soul, Life is a vision shadowy of Truth; And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, Shapes of a dream!" I thank you for these lines in the name of a necessarian, and for what follows in next paragraph, in the name of a child of fancy. After all, you cannot nor ever will write anything with which I shall be so delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You came to town, and I saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed hope; you had "Many an holy lay That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way." I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and they yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. When I read in your little volume your nineteenth effusion, or the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth, or what you call the "Sigh," I think I hear _you_ again. I image to myself the little smoky room at the "Salutation and Cat," where we have sat together through the winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with poesy. When you left London, I felt a dismal void in my heart. I found myself cut off, at one and the same time, from two most dear to me, "How blest with ye the path could I have trod of quiet life!" In your conversation you had blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated me of my grief; but in your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in again, and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason. I have recovered, but feel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of this life. I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn of mind; but habits are strong things, and my religious fervours are confined, alas! to some fleeting moments of occasional solitary devotion, A correspondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from my lethargy and made me conscious of existence. Indulge me in it; I will not be very troublesome! At some future time I will amuse you with an account, as full as my memory will permit, of the strange turn my frenzy took. I look back upon it at times with, a gloomy kind of envy; for while it lasted, I had many, many hours of pure happiness. Dream not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad! All now seems to me vapid,--comparatively so. Excuse this selfish digression. Your "Monody" is so superlatively excellent that I can only wish it perfect, which I can't help feeling it is not quite. Indulge me in a few conjectures; what I am going to propose would make it more compressed and, I think, more energetic, though, I am sensible, at the expense of many beautiful lines. Let it begin, "Is this the land of song-ennobled line?" and proceed to "Otway's famished form;" then, "Thee, Chatterton," to "blaze of Seraphim;" then, "clad in Nature's rich array," to "orient day;" then, "but soon the scathing lightning," to "blighted land;" then, "sublime of thought," to "his bosom glows;" then "But soon upon his poor unsheltered head Did Penury her sickly mildew shed; Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal grace, And joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er his face." Then "youth of tumultuous soul" to "sigh," as before. The rest may all stand down to "gaze upon the waves below." What follows now may come next as detached verses, suggested by the "Monody," rather than a part of it. They are, indeed, in themselves, very sweet; "And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, Hanging enraptured on thy stately song!" in particular, perhaps. If I am obscure, you may understand me by counting lines. I have proposed omitting twenty-four lines; I feel that thus compressed it would gain energy, but think it most likely you will not agree with me; for who shall go about to bring opinions to the bed of Procrustes, and introduce among the sons of men a monotony of identical feelings? I only propose with diffidence. Reject you, if you please, with as little remorse as you would the color of a coat or the pattern of a buckle, where our fancies differed. The "Pixies" is a perfect thing, and so are the "Lines on the Spring." page 28. The "Epitaph on an Infant," like a Jack-o'-lantern, has danced about (or like Dr. Forster's scholars) out of the "Morning Chronicle" into the "Watchman," and thence back into your collection. It is very pretty, and you seem to think so, but, may be, overlooked its chief merit, that of filling up a whole page, I had once deemed sonnets of unrivalled use that way, but your Epitaphs, I find, are the more diffuse. "Edmund" still holds its place among your best verses, "Ah! fair delights" to "roses round," in your poem called "Absence," recall (none more forcibly) to my mind the tones in which you recited it, I will not notice, in this tedious (to you) manner, verses which have been so long delighful to me, and which you already know my opinion of. Of this kind are Bowles, Priestley, and that most exquisite and most Bowles-like of all, the nineteenth effusion. It would have better ended with "agony of care;" the last two lines are obvious and unnecessary; and you need not now make fourteen lines of it, now it is rechristened from a Sonnet to an Effusion. Schiller might have written the twentieth effusion; 't is worthy of him in any sense, I was glad to meet with those lines you sent me when my sister was so ill; I had lost the copy, and I felt not a little proud at seeing my name in your verse. The "Complaint of Ninathoma" (first stanza in particular) is the best, or only good, imitation of Ossian I ever saw, your "Restless Gale" excepted. "To an Infant" is most sweet; is not "foodful," though, very harsh? Would not "dulcet" fruit be less harsh, or some other friendly bi-syllable? In "Edmund," "Frenzy! fierce-eyed child" is not so well as "frantic," though that is an epithet adding nothing to the meaning. Slander _couching_ was better than "squatting." In the "Man of Ross" it _was_ a better line thus,-- "If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheered moments pass," than as it stands now. Time nor nothing can reconcile me to the concluding five lines of "Kosciusko;" call it anything you will but sublime. In my twelfth effusion I had rather have seen what I wrote myself, though they bear no comparison with your exquisite lines,-- "On rose-leaf beds amid your faery bowers," etc. I love my sonnets because they are the reflected images of my own feelings at different times. To instance, in the thirteenth,-- "How reason reeled," etc., are good lines, but must spoil the whole with me, who know it is only a fiction of yours, and that the "rude dashings" did in fact not "rock me to repose." I grant the same objection applies not to the former sonnet; but still I love my own feelings,--they are dear to memory, though they now and then wake a sigh or a tear, "Thinking on divers things fordone," I charge you, Coleridge, spare my ewe-lambs; and though a gentleman may borrow six lines in an epic poem (I should have no objection to borrow five hundred, and without acknowledging), still, in a sonnet, a personal poem, I do not ask my friend the aiding verse; I would not wrong your feelings by proposing any improvements (did I think myself capable of suggesting 'era) in such personal poems as "Thou bleedest, my poor heart,"--'od so,--I am caught,--I have already done it; but that simile I propose abridging would not change the feeling or introduce any alien ones. Do you understand me? In the twenty-eighth, however, and in the "Sigh," and that composed at Clevedon, things that come from the heart direct, not by the medium of the fancy, I would not suggest an alteration. When my blank verse is finished, or any long fancy poem, "propino tibi alterandum, cut-up-andum, abridgeandum," just what you will with, it: but spare my ewe-lambs! That to "Mrs. Siddons' now, you were welcome to improve, if it had been worth it; but I say unto you again, Coleridge, spare my ewe-lambs! I must confess, were the mine, I should omit, _in editione secunda_, effusions two and three, because satiric and below the dignity of the poet of "Religious Musings," fifth, seventh, half of the eighth, that "Written in early youth," as far as "thousand eyes,"--though I part not unreluctantly with that lively line,-- "Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes," and one or two just thereabouts. But I would substitute for it that sweet poem called "Recollection," in the fifth number of the "Watchman," better, I think, than the remainder of this poem, though not differing materially; as the poem now stands, it looks altogether confused. And do not omit those lines upon the "Early Blossom" in your sixth number of the "Watchman;" and I would omit the tenth effusion, or what would do better, alter and improve the last four lines. In fact, I suppose, if they were mine, I should _not_ omit 'em; but your verse is, for the most part, so exquisite that I like not to see aught of meaner matter mixed with it. Forgive my petulance and often, I fear, ill-founded criticisms, and forgive me that I have, by this time, made your eyes and head ache with my long letter; but I cannot forego hastily the pleasure and pride of thus conversing with you. You did not tell me whether I was to include the "Conciones ad Populum" in my remarks on your poems. They are not unfrequently sublime, and I think you could not do better than to turn 'em into verse,--if you have nothing else to do. Austin, I am sorry to say, is a _confirmed_ atheist. Stoddart, a cold-hearted, well-bred, conceited disciple of Godwin, does him no good. His wife has several daughters (one of 'em as old as himself). Surely there is something unnatural in such a marriage. How I sympathize with you on the dull duty of a reviewer, and heartily damn with you Ned Evans and the Prosodist! I shall, however, wait impatiently for the articles in the "Critical Review" next month, because they are _yours_. Young Evans (W. Evans, a branch of a family you were once so intimate with) is come into our office, and sends his love to you. Coleridge, I devoutly wish that Fortune, who lias made sport with you so long, may play one freak more, throw you into London or some spot near it, and there snug-ify you for life. 'Tis a selfish but natural wish for me, cast as I am on life's wide plain, friendless," Are you acquainted with Bowles? I see by his last Elegy (written at Bath) you are near neighbors,--_Thursday_. "And I can think I can see the groves again;" "Was it the voice of thee;" "Turns not the voice of thee, my buried friend;" "Who dries with her dark locks the tender tear,"--are touches as true to Nature as any in his other Elegy, written at the Hot Wells, about poor Kassell, etc. You are doubtless acquainted with it, I do not know that I entirely agree with you in your stricture upon my sonnet "To Innocence," To men whose hearts are not quite deadened by their commerce with the world, innocence (no longer familiar) becomes an awful idea. So I felt when I wrote it. Your other censures (qualified and sweetened, though, with praises somewhat extravagant) I perfectly coincide with: yet I choose to retain the word "lunar,"--indulge a "lunatic" in his loyalty to his mistress the moon! I have just been reading a most pathetic copy of verses on Sophia Pringle, who was hanged and burned for coining. One of the strokes of pathos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure) is, "She lifted up her guilty forger to heaven." A note explains, by "forger," her right hand, with which she forged or coined the base metal. For "pathos" read "bathos." You have put me out of conceit with my blank verse by your "Religious Musings." I think it will come to nothing. I do not like 'em enough to send 'em. I have just been reading a book, which I may be too partial to, as it was the delight of my childhood; but I will recommend it to you,--it is Izaak Walton's "Complete Angler." All the scientific part you may omit in reading. The dialogue is very simple, full of pastoral beauties, and will charm you. Many pretty old verses are interspersed. This letter, which would be a week's work reading only, I do not wish you to answer in less than a month. I shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in July; though, if you get anyhow _settled_ before then, pray let me know it immediately; 't would give me much satisfaction. Concerning the Unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scruple that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid. Concerning the tutorage, is not the salary low, and absence from your family unavoidable? London is the only fostering soil for genius. Nothing more occurs just now; so I will leave you, in mercy, one small white spot empty below, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they must be with the wilderness of words they have by this time painfully travelled through. God love you, Coleridge, and prosper you through life! though mine will be loss if your lot is to be cast at Bristol, or at Nottingham, or anywhere but London. Our loves to Mrs. C--. C. L. Lapland mountains. From Coleridge's "Destiny of Nations." The "Monody" referred to was by Cottle, and appeared in a volume of poems published by him at Bristol in 1795. Coleridge had forwarded the book to Lamb for his opinion. The Monody on Chatterton. Dr. Faustus's. IV. TO COLERIDGE, _June_ 14, 1796, I am not quite satisfied now with the Chatterton, and with your leave will try my hand at it again. A master-joiner, you know, may leave a cabinet to be finished, when his own hands are full. To your list of illustrative personifications, into which a fine imagination enters, I will take leave to add the following from Beaumont and Fletcher's "Wife for a Month;" 'tis the conclusion of a description of a sea-fight: "The game of _death_ was never played so nobly; the meagre thief grew wanton in his mischiefs, and his shrunk, hollow eyes smiled on his ruins." There is fancy in these of a lower order from "Bonduca": "Then did I see these valiant men of Britain, like boding owls creep into tods of ivy, and hoot their fears to one another nightly." Not that it is a personification, only it just caught my eye in a little extract-book I keep, which is full of quotations from B. and F. in particular, in which authors I can't help thinking there is a greater richness of poetical fancy than in any one, Shakspeare excepted. Are you acquainted with Massinger? At a hazard I will trouble you with a passage from a play of his called "A Very Woman." The lines are spoken by a lover (disguised) to his faithless mistress. You will remark the fine effect of the double endings. You will by your ear distinguish the lines, for I write 'em as prose. "Not far from where my father lives, _a lady_, a neighbor by, blest with as great a _beauty_ as Nature durst bestow without _undoing_, dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then, and blest the house a thousand times she _dwelt_ in. This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, when my first fire knew no adulterate _incense_, nor I no way to flatter but my _fondness_; in all the bravery my friends could _show me_, in all the faith my innocence could _give me_, in the best language my true tongue could _tell me_, and all the broken sighs my sick heart _lend me_, I sued and served; long did I serve this _lady_, long was my travail, long my trade to _win her_; with all the duty of my soul I SERVED HER." "Then she must love." "She did, but never me: she could not _love me_; she would not love, she hated,--more, she _scorned me_; and in so a poor and base a way _abused me_ for all my services, for all my _bounties_, so bold neglects flung on me." "What out of love, and worthy love, I _gave her_ (shame to her most unworthy mind! ), to fools, to girls, to fiddlers and her boys she flung, all in disdain of me." One more passage strikes my eye from B. and F.'s "Palamon and Arcite." One of 'em complains in prison: "This is all our world; we shall know nothing here but one another, hear nothing but the clock that tells us our woes; the vine shall grow, but we shall never see it," etc. Is not the last circumstance exquisite? I mean not to lay myself open by saying they exceed Milton, and perhaps Collins in sublimity. But don't you conceive all poets after Shakspeare yield to 'em in variety of genius? Massinger treads close on their heels; but you are most probably as well acquainted with his writings as your humble servant. My quotations, in that case, will only serve to expose my barrenness of matter. Southey in simplicity and tenderness is excelled decidedly only, I think, by Beaumont and F. in his "Maid's Tragedy," and some parts of "Philaster" in particular, and elsewhere occasionally; and perhaps by Cowper in his "Crazy Kate," and in parts of his translation, such as the speeches of Hecuba and Andromache. I long to know your opinion of that translation. The Odyssey especially is surely very Homeric. What nobler than the appearance of Phoebus at the beginning of the Iliad,--the lines ending with "Dread sounding, bounding on the silver bow!" I beg you will give me your opinion of the translation; it afforded me high pleasure. As curious a specimen of translation as ever fell into my hands, is a young man's in our office, of a French novel. What in the original was literally "amiable delusions of the fancy," he proposed, to render "the fair frauds of the imagination." I had much trouble in licking the book into any meaning at all. Yet did the knave clear fifty or sixty pounds by subscription and selling the copyright. The book itself not a week's work! To-day's portion of my journalizing epistle has been very dull and poverty-stricken. I will here end. _Tuesday night_, I have been drinking egg-hot and smoking Oronooko (associated circumstances, which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings and nights at the "Salutation"). My eyes and brain are heavy and asleep, but my heart is awake; and if words came as ready as ideas, and ideas as feelings, I could say ten hundred kind things. Coleridge, you know not my supreme happiness at having one on earth (though counties separate us) whom I can call a friend. Remember you those tender lines of Logan?-- "Our broken friendships we deplore, And loves of youth that are no more; No after friendships e'er can raise Th' endearments of our early days, And ne'er the heart such fondness prove, As when we first began to love." I am writing at random, and half-tipsy, what you may not _equally_ understand, as you will be sober when you read it; but _my_ sober and _my_ half-tipsy hours you are alike a sharer in. Good night. "Then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, Craigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink." BURNS. Coleridge's "Monody" on Chatterton. V. TO COLERIDGE. _September_ 27, 1796. My Dearest Friend,--White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. I will only give you the outlines: My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved to an hospital. God has preserved to me my senses,--I eat, and drink, and sleep, and have my judgment, I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr, Norris, of the Blue-coat School, has been very kind to us, and we have no other friend; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me "the former things are passed away," and I have something more to do than to feel. God Almighty have us all in his keeping! C. LAMB. Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish mine (I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me a book, I charge you. Your own judgment will convince you not to take any notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have my reason and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you, if you come, God Almighty love you and all of us! C. LAMB. VI. TO COLERIDGE. _October_ 3, 1796. My dearest friend,--Your letter was an inestimable treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat brighter. My poor dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the Almighty's judgments on our house, is restored to her senses, to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has past, awful to her mind and impressive (as it must be to the end of life), but tempered with religious resignation and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which in this early stage knows how to distinguish between a deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy, and the terrible guilt of a mother's murder. I have seen her. I found her, this morning, calm and serene; far, very, very far, from an indecent, forgetful serenity. She has a most affectionate and tender concern for what has happened. Indeed, from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I had confidence enough in her strength of mind and religious principle to look forward to a time when _even she_ might recover tranquillity. God be praised, Coleridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never once been otherwise than collected and calm; even on the dreadful day and in the midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquillity which bystanders may have construed into indifference,--a tranquillity not of despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say that it was a religious principle that _most_ supported me? I allow much to other favorable circumstances. I felt that I had something else to do than to regret. On that first evening my aunt was lying insensible, to all appearance like one dying; my father with his poor forehead plastered over, from a wound he had received from a daughter dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly; my mother a dead and murdered corpse in the next room,--yet was I wonderfully supported, I dosed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair, I have lost no sleep since, I had been long used not to rest in things of sense,--had endeavored after a comprehension of mind unsatisfied with the "ignorant present time;" and _this_ kept me up. I had the whole weight of the family thrown on me; for my brother, little disposed (I speak not without tenderness for him) at any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties; and I was now left alone. One little incident may serve to make you understand my way of managing my mind, Within a day or two after the fatal one, we dressed for dinner a tongue which we had had salted for some weeks in the house. As I sat down, a feeling like remorse struck me: this tongue poor Mary got for me, and can I partake of it now, when she is far away? A thought occurred and relieved me; if I give in to this way of feeling, there is not a chair, a room, an object in our rooms, that will not awaken the keenest griefs; I must rise above such weaknesses. I hope this was not want of true feeling. I did not let this carry me, though, too far. On the very second day (I date from the day of horrors), as is usual in such cases, there were a matter of twenty people, I do think, supping in our room; they prevailed on me to eat _with them_ (for to eat I never refused). They were all making merry in the room! Some had come from friendship, some from busy curiosity, and some from interest. I was going to partake with them, when my recollection came that my poor dead mother was lying in the next room,--the very next room; a mother who through life wished nothing but her children's welfare. Indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, rushed upon my mind. In an agony of emotion I found my, way mechanically to the adjoining room, and fell on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness of Heaven, and sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon. Tranquillity returned, and it was the only violent emotion that mastered me; and I think it did me good. I mention these things because I hate concealment, and love to give a faithful journal of what passes within me. Our friends have been very good. Sam Le Grice, who was then in town, was with me the three or four first days, and was as a brother to me, gave up every hour of his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in constant attendance and humoring my poor father; talked with him, read to him, played at cribbage with him (for so short is the old man's recollection that he was playing at cards, as though nothing had happened, while the coroner's inquest was sitting over the way!). Samuel wept tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a very severe letter on his loitering so long in town, and he was forced to go. Mr. Norris, of Christ's Hospital, has been as a father to me, Mrs. Norris as a mother, though we had few claims on them. A gentleman, brother to my god-mother, from whom we never had right or reason to expect any such assistance, sent my father twenty pounds; and to crown all these God's blessings to our family at such a time, an old lady, a cousin of my father and aunt's, a gentlewoman of fortune, is to take my aunt and make her comfortable for the short remainder of her days. My aunt is recovered, and as well as ever, and highly pleased at thoughts of going, and has generously given up the interest of her little money (which was formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and solely to my sister's use. Reckoning this, we have, Daddy and I, for oar two selves and an old maid-servant to look after him when I am out, which will be necessary, L170, or L180 rather, a year, out of which we can spare L50 or L60 at least for Mary while she stays at Islington, where she roust and shall stay during her father's life, for his and her comfort. I know John will make speeches about it, but she shall not go into an hospital. The good lady of the madhouse and her daughter, an elegant, sweet-behaved young lady, love her, and are taken with her amazingly; and I know from her own mouth she loves them, and longs to be with them as much. Poor thing, they say she was but the other morning saying she knew she must go to Bethlem for life; that one of her brothers would have it so, but the other would wish it not, but be obliged to go with the stream; that she had often, as she passed Bethlem, thought it likely, "here it may be my fate to end my days," conscious of a certain flightiness in her poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe illness of that nature before. A legacy of L100 which my father will have at Christmas, and this L20 I mentioned before, with what is in the house, will much more than set us clear. If my father, an old servant-maid, and I can't live, and live comfortably, on L130 or L120 a year, we ought to burn by slow fires; and I almost would, that Mary might not go into an hospital. Let me not leave one unfavorable impression on your mind respecting my brother. Since this has happened, he has been very kind and brotherly; but I fear for his mind. He has taken his ease in the world, and is not fit himself to struggle with difficulties, nor has much accustomed himself to throw himself into their way; and I know his language is already, "Charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used to," etc., and in that style of talking. But you, a necessarian, can respect a difference of mind, and love what _is amiable_ in a character not perfect. He has been very good, but I fear for his mind. Thank God, I can unconnect myself with him, and shall manage all my father's moneys in future myself, if I take charge of Daddy, which poor John has not even hinted a wish, at any future time even, to share with me. The lady at this madhouse assures me that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and apothecary, retaining occasionally a composing draught or so for a while; and there is a less expensive establishment in her house, where she will only not have a room and nurse to herself, for L50 or guineas a year,--the outside would be L60. You know, by economy, how much more even I shall be able to spare for her comforts. She will, I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family rather than of the patients; and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves dearly; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily, if it is extraordinary that people who see my sister should love her. Of all the people I ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness, I will enlarge upon her qualities, poor dear, dearest soul, in a future letter, for my own comfort, for I understand her thoroughly; and if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear, but humanly and foolishly speaking),--she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable. God keep her in her present mind, to whom be thanks and praise for all His dispensations to mankind! C. LAMB. These mentioned good fortunes and change of prospects had almost brought my mind over to the extreme the very opposite to despair. I was in danger of making myself too happy. Your letter brought me back to a view of things which I had entertained from the beginning. I hope (for Mary I can answer)--but I hope that _I_ shall through life never have less recollection, nor a fainter impression, of what has happened than I have now. 'T is not a light thing, nor meant by the Almighty to be received lightly. I must be serious, circumspect, and deeply religious through life; and by such means may _both_ of us escape madness in future, if it so please the Almighty! Send me word how it fares with Sara. I repeat it, your letter was, and will be, an inestimable treasure to me. You have a view of what my situation demands of me, like my own view, and I trust a just one. Coleridge, continue to write, but do not forever offend me by talking of sending me cash. Sincerely and on my soul, we do not want it. God love you both! I will write again very soon. Do you write directly. John Lamb, the "James Elia" of the essay "My Relations." A Christ's Hospital schoolfellow. VII. TO COLERIDGE, _October_ 17, 1796. My dearest friend,--I grieve from my very soul to observe you in your plans of life veering about from this hope to the other, and settling nowhere. Is it an untoward fatality (speaking humanly) that does this for you,--a stubborn, irresistible concurrence of events,--or lies the fault, as I fear it does, in your own mind? You seem to be taking up splendid schemes of fortune only to lay them down again; and your fortunes are an _ignis fatuus_ that has been conducting you in thought from Lancaster Court, Strand, to somewhere near Matlock; then jumping across to Dr. Somebody's, whose son's tutor you were likely to be; and would to God the dancing demon _may_ conduct you at last in peace and comfort to the "life and labours of a cottager"! You see from the above awkward playfulness of fancy that my spirits are not quite depressed. I should ill deserve God's blessings, which, since the late terrible event, have come down in mercy upon us, if I indulge in regret or querulousness. Mary continues serene and cheerful. I have not by me a little letter she wrote to me; for though I see her almost every day, yet we delight to write to one another, for we can scarce see each other but in company with some of the people of the house. I have not the letter by me, but will quote from memory what she wrote in it: "I have no bad, terrifying dreams. At midnight, when I happen to awake, the nurse sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad people around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my mother seems to descend and smile upon me, and bid me live to enjoy the life and reason which the Almighty has given me. I shall see her again in heaven; she will then understand me better. My grandmother, too, will understand me better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, 'Polly, what are those poor crazy, moythered brains of yours thinking of always?'" Poor Mary! my mother indeed _never understood_ her right. She loved her, as she loved us all, with a mother's love; but in opinion, in feeling and sentiment and disposition, bore so distant a resemblance to her daughter that she never understood her right,--never could believe how much _she_ loved her, but met her caresses, her protestations of filial affection, too frequently with coldness and repulse. Still, she was a good mother. God forbid I should think of her but _most_ respectfully, _most_ affectionately. Yet she would always love my brother above Mary, who was not worthy of one tenth of that affection which Mary had a right to claim. But it is my sister's gratifying recollection that every act of duty and of love she could pay, every kindness (and I speak true, when I say to the hurting of her health, and most probably in great part to the derangement of her senses) through a long course of infirmities and sickness she could show her, she ever did. I will some day, as I promised, enlarge to you upon my sister's excellences; 't will seem like exaggeration, but I will do it. At present, short letters suit my state of mind best. So take my kindest wishes for your comfort and establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and comforts with you. God love you; God love us all! C. LAMB. VIII. TO COLERIDGE. _November_ 14, 1796. Coleridge, I love you for dedicating your poetry to Bowles. Genius of the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand through all this valley of weeping, showed you the dark green yew-trees and the willow shades where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge in uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future,-- "When all the vanities of life's brief day Oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away, And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past." I have another sort of dedication in my head for my few things, which I want to know if you approve of and can insert. I mean to inscribe them to my sister. It will be unexpected, and it will gire her pleasure; or do you think it will look whimsical at all? As I have not spoke to her about it, I can easily reject the idea. But there is a monotony in the affections which people living together, or as we do now, very frequently seeing each other, are apt to give in to,--a sort of indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, which demands that we should sometimes call to our aid the trickery of surprise. Do you publish with Lloyd, or without him? In either case my little portion may come last, and after the fashion of orders to a country correspondent, I will give directions how I should like to have 'em done. The title-page to stand thus:-- POEMS BY CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE. Under this title the following motto, which, for want of room, I put over-leaf, and desire you to insert whether you like it or no. May not a gentleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial bearings the herald will give him leave, without consulting his republican friend, who might advise none? May not a publican put up the sign of the Saracen's Head, even though his undiscerning neighbor should prefer, as more genteel, the Cat and Gridiron? "This beauty, in the blossom of my youth, When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, In the best language my true tongue could tell me, And all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, I sued and served. Long did I love this lady." MASSINGER. THE DEDICATION. THE FEW FOLLOWING POEMS, CREATURES OF THE FANCY AND THE FEELING IN LIFE'S MORE VACANT HOURS, PRODUCED, FOR THE MOST PART, BY LOVE IN IDLENESS, ARE, WITH ALL A BROTHER'S FONDNESS, INSCRIBED TO MARY ANN LAMB, THE AUTHOR'S BEST FRIEND ANB SISTER. This is the pomp and paraphernalia of parting, with which I take my leave of a passion which has reigned so royally (so long) within me; thus, with its trappings of laureateship, I fling it off, pleased and satisfied with myself that the weakness troubles me no longer. I am wedded. Coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. Oh, my friend, I think sometimes, could I recall the days that are past, which among them should I choose? Not, those "merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid," which I have so often, and so feelingly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a _mother's_ fondness for her _schoolboy_. What would I give to call her back to earth for _one_ day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which from time to time have given her gentle spirit pain. And the day, my friend, I trust will come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love, if "Heaven's eternal year" be ours. Hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. Oh, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings, and let no man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relationship. These shall give him peace at the last; these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. I rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your relations. 'T is the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity. Send me an account of your health; _indeed_ I am solicitous about you. God love you and yours! C. LAMB. From "A Very Woman." An allusion to Lamb's first love,--the "Anna" of his sonnets, and the original, probably, of "Rosamund Gray" and of "Alice W---n" in the beautiful essay "Dream Children." The earliest sonnets of William Lisle Bowles were published in 1789, the year of Lamb's removal from Christ's Hospital. Alluding to the prospective joint volume of poems (by Coleridge, Lamb, and Charles Lloyd) to be published by Cottle in 1797. This was Lamb's second serious literary venture, he and Coleridge having issued a joint volume in 1796. IX. TO COLERIDGE. _Dec_. 5, 1796. At length I have done with verse-making,--not that I relish other people's poetry less: theirs comes from 'em without effort; mine is the difficult operation of a brain scanty of ideas, made more difficult by disuse. I have been reading "The Task" with fresh delight. I am glad you love Cowper. I could forgive a man for not enjoying Milton; but I would not call that man my friend who should be offended with the "divine chit-chat of Cowper." Write to me. C. L. X. TO COLERIDGE, _Dec_. 10, 1796. I had put my letter into the post rather hastily, not expecting to have to acknowledge another from you so soon. This morning's present has made me alive again. My last night's epistle was childishly querulous: but you have put a little life into me, and I will thank you for your remembrance of me, while my sense of it is yet warm; for if I linger a day or two, I may use the same phrase of acknowledgment, or similar, but the feeling that dictates it now will be gone; I shall send you a _caput mortuum_; not a _cor vivens_. Thy "Watchman's," thy bellman's verses, I do retort upon thee, thou libellous varlet,--why, you cried the hours yourself, and who made you so proud? But I submit, to show my humility, most implicitly to your dogmas, I reject entirely the copy of verses you reject. With regard to my leaving off versifying you have said so many pretty things, so many fine compliments, Ingeniously decked out in the garb of sincerity, and undoubtedly springing from a present feeling somewhat like sincerity, that you might melt the most un-muse-ical soul, did you not (now for a Rowland compliment for your profusion of Olivers),--did you not in your very epistle, by the many pretty fancies and profusion of heart displayed in it, dissuade and discourage me from attempting anything after you. At present I have not leisure to make verses, nor anything approaching to a fondness for the exercise. In the ignorant present time, who can answer for the future man? "At lovers' perjuries Jove laughs,"--and poets have sometimes a disingenuous way of forswearing their occupation. This, though, is not my case. The tender cast of soul, sombred with melancholy and subsiding recollections, is favorable to the Sonnet or the Elegy; but from-- "The sainted growing woof The teasing troubles keep aloof." The music of poesy may charm for a while the importunate, teasing cares of life; but the teased and troubled man is not in a disposition to make that music. You sent me some very sweet lines relative to Burns; but it was at a time when, in my highly agitated and perhaps distorted state of mind, I thought it a duty to read 'em hastily and burn 'em. I burned all my own verses, all my book of extracts from Beaumont and Fletcher and a thousand sources; I burned a little journal of my foolish passion which I had a long time kept,-- "Noting, ere they past away, The little lines of yesterday." I almost burned all your letters; I did as bad,--I lent 'em to a friend to keep out of my brother's sight, should he come and make inquisition into our papers; for much as he dwelt upon your conversation while you were among us, and delighted to be with you, it has been, his fashion, ever since to depreciate and cry you down,--you were the cause of my madness, you and your damned foolish sensibility and melancholy; and he lamented with a true brotherly feeling that we ever met,--even as the sober citizen, when his son went astray upon the mountains of Parnassus, is said to have cursed wit, and poetry, and Pope. I quote wrong, but no matter. These letters I lent to a friend to be out of the way for a season; but I have claimed them in vain, and shall not cease to regret their loss. Your packets posterior to the date of my misfortunes, commencing with that valuable consolatory epistle, are every day accumulating,--they are sacred things with me. Publish your _Burns_ when and how you like; it will "be new to me,"--my memory of it is very confused, and tainted with unpleasant associations. Burns was the god of my idolatry, as Bowles of yours. I am jealous of your fraternizing with Bowles, when I think you relish him more than Burns or my old favorite, Cowper, But you conciliate matters when you talk of the "divine chit-chat" of the latter; by the expression I see you thoroughly relish him. I love Mrs. Coleridge for her excuses an hundred-fold more dearly than if she heaped "line upon line," out-Hannah-ing Hannah More, and had rather hear you sing "Did a very little baby" by your family fireside, than listen to you when you were repeating one of Bowles's sweetest sonnets in your sweet manner, while we two were indulging sympathy, a solitary luxury, by the fireside at the "Salutation." Yet have I no higher ideas of heaven. Your company was one "cordial in this melancholy vale,"--the remembrance of it is a blessing partly, and partly a curse. When I can abstract myself from things present, I can enjoy it with a freshness of relish; but it more constantly operates to an unfavorable comparison with the uninteresting converse I always and _only_ can partake in. Not a soul loves Bowles here; scarce one has heard of Burns; few but laugh at me for reading my Testament,--they talk a language I understand not; I conceal sentiments that would be a puzzle to them. I can only converse with you by letter, and with the dead in their books. My sister, indeed, is all I can wish in a companion; but our spirits are alike poorly, our reading and knowledge from the selfsame sources, our communication with the scenes of the world alike narrow. Never having kept separate company, or any "company _together_;" never having read separate books, and few books _together_,--what knowledge have we to convey to each other? In our little range of duties and connections, how few sentiments can take place without friends, with few books, with a taste for religion rather than a strong religious habit! We need some support, some leading-strings to cheer and direct us. You talk very wisely; and be not sparing of _your advice_. Continue to remember us, and to show us you do remember us; we will take as lively an interest in what concerns you and yours. All I can add to your happiness will be sympathy. You can add to mine _more_; you can teach me wisdom. I am indeed an unreasonable correspondent: but I was unwilling to let my last night's letter go off without this qualifier: you will perceive by this my mind is easier, and you will rejoice. I do not expect or wish you to write till you are moved; and of course shall not, till you announce to me that event, think of writing myself. Love to Mrs. Coleridge and David Hartley, and my kind remembrance to Lloyd, if he is with you. C. LAMB. See preceding letter. Epistle to Arbuthnot:-- "Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope." The lines on him which Coleridge had sent to Lamb, and which the latter had burned. XI. TO COLERIDGE. _January_ 5, 1797. _Sunday Morning_.--You cannot surely mean to degrade the Joan of Arc into a pot-girl. You are not going, I hope, to annex to that most splendid ornament of Southey's poem all this cock-and-a-bull story of Joan, the publican's daughter of Neufchatel, with the lamentable episode of a wagoner, his wife, and six children. The texture will be most lamentably disproportionate. The first forty or fifty lines of these addenda are no doubt in their way admirable too; but many would prefer the Joan of Southey. Coleridge, in later years, indorsed Lamb's opinion of this portion of his contribution to "Joan of Arc." "I was really astonished," he said, "(1) at the schoolboy, wretched, allegoric machinery; (2) at the transmogrification of the fanatic virago into a modern novel-pawing proselyte of the "Age of Reason,"--a Tom Paine in petticoats; (3) at the utter want of all rhythm in the verse, the monotony and dead plumb-down of the pauses, and the absence of all bone, muscle, and sinew in the single lines." "On mightiest deeds to brood Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart Throb fast; anon I paused, and in a state Of half expectance listened to the wind." "They wondered at me, who had known me once A cheerful, careless damsel." "The eye, That of the circling throng and of the visible world, Unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy." I see nothing in your description of the Maid equal to these. There is a fine originality certainly in those lines,-- "For she had lived in this bad world As in a place of tombs, And touched not the pollutions of the dead;" but your "fierce vivacity" is a faint copy of the "fierce and terrible benevolence" of Southey; added to this, that it will look like rivalship in you, and extort a comparison with Southey,--I think to your disadvantage. And the lines, considered in themselves as an addition to what you had before written (strains of a far higher mood), are but such as Madame Fancy loves in some of her more familiar moods,--at such times as she has met Noll Goldsmith, and walked and talked with him, calling him "old acquaintance." Southey certainly has no pretensions to vie with you in the sublime of poetry; but he tells a plain tale better than you. I will enumerate some woful blemishes, some of 'em sad deviations from that simplicity which was your aim. "Hailed who might be near" (the "canvas-coverture moving," by the by, is laughable); "a woman and six children" (by the way, why not nine children? It would have been just half as pathetic again); "statues of sleep they seemed;" "frost-mangled wretch;" "green putridity;" "hailed him immortal" (rather ludicrous again); "voiced a sad and simple tale" (abominable! ); "unprovendered;" "such his tale;" "Ah, suffering to the height of what was sufffered" (a most _insufferable line_); "amazements of affright;" "The hot, sore brain attributes its own hues of ghastliness and torture" (what shocking confusion of ideas!). In these delineations of common and natural feelings, in the familiar walks of poetry, you seem to resemble Montauban dancing with Roubigne's tenants , "_much of his native loftiness remained in the execution_." I was reading your "Religious Musings" the other day, and sincerely I think it the noblest poem in the language next after the "Paradise Lost;" and even that was not made the vehicle of such grand truths. "There is one mind," etc., down to "Almighty's throne," are without a rival in the whole compass of my poetical reading. "Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze Views all creation." I wish I could have written those lines. I rejoice that I am able to relish them. The loftier walks of Pindus are your proper region. There you have no compeer in modern times. Leave the lowlands, unenvied, in possession of such men as Cowper and Southey. Thus am I pouring balsam into the wounds I may have been inflicting on my poor friend's vanity. In your notice of Southey's new volume you omit to mention the most pleasing of all, the "Miniature." "There were Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, Young Robert!" "Spirit of Spenser! was the wanderer wrong?" Fairfax I have been in quest of a long time. Johnson, in his "Life of Waller," gives a most delicious specimen of him, and adds, in the true manner of that delicate critic, as well as amiable man, "It may be presumed that this old version will not be much read after the elegant translation of my friend Mr. Hoole." I endeavored--I wished to gain some idea of Tasso from this Mr. Hoole, the great boast and ornament of the India House, but soon desisted. I found him more vapid than smallest small beer "sun-vinegared." Your "Dream," down to that exquisite line,-- "I can't tell half his adventures," is a most happy resemblance of Chaucer. The remainder is so-so. The best line, I think, is, "He belong'd, I believe, to the witch Melancholy." By the way, when will our volume come out? Don't delay it till you have written a new "Joan of Arc." Send what letters you please by me, and in any way you choose, single or double. The India Company is better adapted to answer the cost than the generality of my friend's correspondents,--such poor and honest dogs as John Thelwall particularly. I cannot say I know Coulson,--at least intimately; I once supped with him and Austin; I think his manners very pleasing. I will not tell you what I think of Lloyd, for he may by chance come to see this letter; and that thought puts a restraint on me. I cannot think what subject would suit your epic genius,--some philosophical subject, I conjecture, in which shall be blended the sublime of poetry and of science. Your proposed "Hymns" will be a fit preparatory study wherewith "to discipline your young novitiate soul." I grow dull; I'll go walk myself out of my dulness. _Sunday Night_,--You and Sara are very good to think so kindly and so favorably of poor Mary; I would to God all did so too. But I very much fear she must not think of coming home in my father's lifetime. It is very hard upon her, but our circumstances are peculiar, and we must submit to them, God be praised she is so well as she is. She bears her situation as one who has no right to complain. My poor old aunt, whom you have seen, the kindest, goodest creature to me when I was at school; who used to toddle there to bring me good things, when I, schoolboy-like, only despised her for it, and used to be ashamed to see her come and sit herself down on the old coal-hole steps as you went into the old grammar-school, and open her apron, and bring out her basin, with some nice thing she had caused to be saved for me, --the good old creature is now lying on her death-bed. I cannot bear to think on her deplorable state. To the shock she received on that our evil day, from which she never completely recovered, I impute her illness. She says, poor thing, she is glad she is come home to die with me. I was always her favourite; "No after friendship e'er can raise The endearments of our early days; Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, As when it first began to love." In Mackenzie's tale, "Julia de Roubigne." See the essay, "Christ's Hospital Five-and-Thirty Years Ago." XII. TO COLERIDGE. _January_ 10, 1797. I need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed _verbatim_ my last way. In particular, I fear lest you should prefer printing my first sonnet, as you have done more than once, "did the wand of Merlin wave," it looks so like Mr. Merlin, the ingenious successor of the immortal Merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and flourishing in magical reputation, in Oxford Street; and, on my life, one half who read it would understand it so. Do put 'em forth finally, as I have, in various letters, settled it; for first a man's self is to be pleased, and then his friends,--and of course the greater number of his friends, if they differ _inter se_. Thus taste may safely be put to the vote. I do long to see our names together,--not for vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether; for not a living soul I know, or am intimate with, will scarce read the book,--so I shall gain nothing, _quoad famam_; and yet there is a little vanity mixes in it, I cannot help denying.--I am aware of the unpoetical cast of the last six lines of my last sonnet, and think myself unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the sentiments of those six lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state of mind, and I wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to poor Mary. That it has no originality in its cast, nor anything in the feelings but what is common and natural to thousands, nor ought properly to be called poetry, I see; still, it will tend to keep present to my mind a view of things which I ought to indulge. These six lines, too, have not, to a reader, a connectedness with the foregoing. Omit it if you like,--What a treasure it is to my poor, indolent, and unemployed mind thus to lay hold on a subject to talk about, though 'tis but a sonnet, and that of the lowest order! How mournfully inactive I am!--'Tis night; good night. My sister, I thank God, is nigh recovered; she was seriously ill. Do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at Stowey. Is it a farm that you have got? and what does your worship know about farming? Coleridge, I want you to write an epic poem. Nothing short of it can satisfy the vast capacity of true poetic genius. Having one great end to direct all your poetical faculties to, and on which to lay out your hopes, your ambition will show you to what you are equal. By the sacred energies of Milton! by the dainty, sweet, and soothing phantasies of honey-tongued Spenser! I adjure you to attempt the epic, or do something more ample than the writing an occasional brief ode or sonnet; something "to make yourself forever known,--to make the age to come your own." But I prate; doubtless you meditate something. When you are exalted among the lords of epic fame, I shall recall with pleasure and exultingly the days of your humility, when you disdained not to put forth, in the same volume with mine, your "Religious Musings" and that other poem from the "Joan of Arc," those promising first-fruits of high renown to come. You have learning, you have fancy, you have enthusiasm, you have strength and amplitude of wing enow for flights like those I recommend. In the vast and unexplored regions of fairy-land there is ground enough unfound and uncultivated: search there, and realize your favorite Susquehanna scheme. In all our comparisons of taste, I do not know whether I have ever heard your opinion of a poet very dear to me,--the now-out-of-fashion Cowley. Favor me with your judgment of him, and tell me if his prose essays, in particular, as well as no inconsiderable part of his verse, be not delicious. I prefer the graceful rambling of his essays even to the courtly elegance and ease of Addison, abstracting from this the latter's exquisite humor. When the little volume is printed, send me three or four, at all events not more than six, copies, and tell me if I put you to any additional expense by printing with you, I have no thought of the kind, and in that case must reimburse you. Priestley, whom I sin in almost adoring, speaks of "such a choice of company as tends to keep up that, right bent and firmness of mind which a necessary intercourse with the world would otherwise warp and relax.... Such fellowship is the true balsam of life; its cement is infinitely more durable than that of the friendships of the world, and it looks for its proper fruit and complete gratification to the life beyond the grave." Is there a possible chance for such an one as I to realize in this world such friendships? Where am I to look for 'em? What testimonials shall I bring of my being worthy of such friendship? Alas! the great and good go together in separate herds, and leave such as I to lag far, far behind in all intellectual and, far more grievous to say, in all moral accomplishments. Coleridge, I have not one truly elevated character among my acquaintance,--not one Christian; not one but undervalues Christianity. Singly what am I to do? Wesley (have you read his life? ), was _he_ not an elevated character? Wesley has said, "Religion is not a solitary thing." Alas! it necessarily is so with me, or next to solitary. 'T is true you write to me. But correspondence by letter and personal intimacy are very widely different. Do, do write to me, and do some good to my mind, already how much "warped and relaxed" by the world! 'T is the conclusion of another evening. Good night; God have us all in His keeping! If you are sufficiently at leisure, oblige me with an account of your plan of life at Stowey; your literary occupations and prospects,--in short, make me acquainted with every circumstance which, as relating to you, can be interesting to me. Are you yet a Berkleyan? Make me one. I rejoice in being, speculatively, a necessarian. Would to God I were habitually a practical one! Confirm me in the faith of that great and glorious doctrine, and keep me steady in the contemplation of it. You some time since expressed an intention you had of finishing some extensive work on the Evidences of Natural and Revealed Religion. Have you let that intention go? Or are you doing anything towards it? Make to yourself other ten talents. My letter is full of nothingness. I talk of nothing. But I must talk. I love to write to you. I take a pride in it. It makes me think less meanly of myself. It makes me think myself not totally disconnected from the better part of mankind. I know I am too dissatisfied with the beings around me; but I cannot help occasionally exclaiming, "Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Meshech, and to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar." I know I am noways better in practice than my neighors, but I have a taste for religion, an occasional earnest aspiration after perfection, which they have not. I gain, nothing by being with such as myself,--we encourage one another in mediocrity, I am always longing to be with men more excellent than myself. All this must sound odd to you; but these are my predominant feelings when I sit down to write to you, and I should put force upon my mind, were I to reject them, Yet I rejoice, and feel my privilege with gratitude, when I have been reading some wise book, such as I have just been reading,--Priestley on Philosophical Necessity,--in the thought that I enjoy a kind of communion, a kind of friendship even, with the great and good. Books are to me instead of friends, I wish they did not resemble the latter in their scarceness. And how does little David Hartley? "Ecquid in antiquam virtutem?" Does his mighty name work wonders yet upon his little frame and opening mind? I did not distinctly understand you,--you don't mean to make an actual ploughman of him? Is Lloyd with you yet? Are you intimate with Southey? What poems is he about to publish? He hath a most prolific brain, and is indeed a most sweet poet. But how can you answer all the various mass of interrogation I have put to you in the course of the sheet? Write back just what you like, only write something, however brief. I have now nigh finished my page, and got to the end of another evening (Monday evening), and my eyes are heavy and sleepy, and my brain unsuggestive. I have just heart enough awake to say good night once more, and God love you, my dear friend; God love us all! Mary bears an affectionate remembrance of you. CHARLES LAMB. A well-known conjuror of the time. XIII. TO COLERIDGE. _February_ 13, 1797. Your poem is altogether admirable--parts of it are even exquisite; in particular your personal account of the Maid far surpasses anything of the sort in Southey. I perceived all its excellences, on a first reading, as readily as now you have been removing a supposed film from my eyes. I was only struck with a certain faulty disproportion in the matter and the _style_, which I still think I perceive, between these lines and the former ones. I had an end in view,--I wished to make you reject the poem, only as being discordant with the other; and, in subservience to that end, it was politically done in me to over-pass, and make no mention of, merit which, could you think me capable of _overlooking_, might reasonably damn forever in your judgment all pretensions in me to be critical. There, I will be judged by Lloyd whether I have not made a very handsome recantation. I was in the case of a man whose friend has asked him his opinion of a certain young lady; the deluded wight gives judgment against her _in toto_,--don't like her face, her walk, her manners; finds fault with her eyebrows; can see no wit in her. His friend looks blank; he begins to smell a rat; wind veers about; he acknowledges her good sense, her judgment in dress, a certain simplicity of manners and honesty of heart, something too in her manners which gains upon you after a short acquaintance;--and then her accurate pronunciation of the French language, and a pretty, uncultivated taste in drawing. The reconciled gentleman smiles applause, squeezes him by the hand, and hopes he will do him the honor of taking a bit of dinner with Mrs. ---- and him--a plain family dinner--some day next week; "for, I suppose, you never heard we were married. I'm glad to see you like my wife, however; you 'll come and see her, ha?" Now am I too proud to retract entirely? Yet I do perceive I am in some sort straitened; you are manifestly wedded, to this poem, and what fancy has joined, let no man separate, I turn me to the "Joan of Arc," second book. The solemn openings of it are with sounds which, Lloyd would say, "are silence to the mind." The deep preluding strains are fitted to initiate the mind, with a pleasing awe, into the sublimest mysteries of theory concerning man's nature and his noblest destination,--the philosophy of a first cause; of subordinate agents in creation superior to man; the subserviency of pagan worship and pagan faith to the introduction of a purer and more perfect religion, which you so elegantly describe as winning, with gradual steps, her difficult way northward from Bethabara. After all this cometh Joan, a _publican's_ daughter, sitting on an ale-house _bench_, and marking the _swingings_ of the _signboard_, finding a poor man, his wife and six children, starved to death with cold, and thence roused into a state of mind proper to receive visions emblematical of equality,--which, what the devil Joan had to do with, I don't know, or indeed with the French and American revolutions; though that needs no pardon, it is executed so nobly. After all, if you perceive no disproportion, all argument is vain; I do not so much object to parts. Again, when you talk of building your fame on these lines in preference to the "Religious Musings," I cannot help conceiving of you and of the author of that as two different persons, and I think you a very vain man. I have been re-reading your letter. Much of it I _could_ dispute; but with the latter part of it, in which you compare the two Joans with respect to their predispositions for fanaticism, I _toto corde_ coincide; only I think that Southey's strength rather lies in the description of the emotions of the Maid under the weight of inspiration. These (I see no mighty difference between _her_ describing them or _you_ describing them),--these if you only equal, the previous admirers of his poem, as is natural, will prefer his; if you surpass, prejudice will scarcely allow it, and I scarce think you will surpass, though your specimen at the conclusion (I am in earnest) I think very nigh equals them. And in an account of a fanatic or of a prophet the description of her _emotions_ is expected to be most highly finished. By the way, I spoke far too disparagingly of your lines, and, I am ashamed to say. purposely, I should like you to specify or particularize; the story of the "Tottering Eld," of "his eventful years all come and gone," is too general; why not make him a soldier, or some character, however, in which he has been witness to frequency of "cruel wrong and strange distress"? I think I should, When I laughed at the "miserable man crawling from beneath the coverture," I wonder I did not perceive it was a laugh of horror,--such as I have laughed at Dante's picture of the famished Ugolino. Without falsehood, I perceive an hundred, beauties in your narrative. Yet I wonder you do not perceive something out-of-the-way, something unsimple and artificial, in the expression, "voiced a sad tale." I hate made-dishes at the muses' banquet, I believe I was wrong in most of my other objections. But surely "hailed him immortal" adds nothing to the terror of the man's death, which it was your business to heighten, not diminish by a phrase which takes away all terror from it, I like that line, "They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas death," Indeed, there is scarce a line I do not like, "_Turbid_ ecstasy" is surely not so good as what you had written,--"troublous." "Turbid" rather suits the muddy kind of inspiration which London porter confers. The versification is throughout, to my ears, unexceptionable, with no disparagement to the measure of the "Religious Musings," which is exactly fitted to the thoughts. You were building your house on a rock when you rested your fame on that poem. I can scarce bring myself to believe that I am admitted to a familiar correspondence, and all the license of friendship, with a man who writes blank verse like Milton. Now, this is delicate flattery, _indirect_ flattery. Go on with your "Maid of Orleans," and be content to be second to yourself. I shall become a convert to it, when 'tis finished. This afternoon I attend the funeral of my poor old aunt, who died on Thursday. I own I am thankful that the good creature has ended all her days of suffering and infirmity. She was to me the "cherisher of infancy;" and one must fall on these occasions into reflections, which it would be commonplace to enumerate, concerning death, "of chance and change, and fate in human life." Good God, who could have foreseen all this but four months back! I had reckoned, in particular, on my aunt's living many years; she was a very hearty old woman. But she was a mere skeleton before she died; looked more like a corpse that had lain weeks in the grave, than one fresh dead. "Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun: but let a man live many days, and rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be many." Coleridge, why are we to live on after all the strength and beauty of existence are gone, when all the life of life is fled, as poor Burns expresses it? Tell Lloyd I have had thoughts of turning Quaker, and have been reading, or am rather just beginning to read, a most capital book, good thoughts in good language, William Penn's "No Cross, no Crown;" I like it immensely. Unluckily I went to one of his meetings, tell hire, in St. John Street, yesterday, and saw a man under all the agitations and workings of a fanatic, who believed himself under the influence of some "inevitable presence." This cured me of Quakerism: I love it in the books of Penn and Woolman, but I detest the vanity of a man thinking he speaks by the Spirit, when what he says an ordinary man might say without all that quaking and trembling. In the midst of his inspiration,--and the effects of it were most noisy,--was handed into the midst of the meeting a most terrible blackguard Wapping sailor; the poor man, I believe, had rather have been in the hottest part of an engagement, for the congregation of broad-brims, together with the ravings of the prophet, were too much for his gravity, though I saw even he had delicacy enough not to laugh out. And the inspired gentleman, though his manner was so supernatural, yet neither talked, nor professed to talk anything more than good sober sense, common morality, with, now and then a declaration of not speaking from himself. Among other things, looking back to this childhood and early youth, he told the meeting what a graceless young dog he had been, that in his youth he had a good share of wit. Reader, if thou hadst seen the gentleman, thou wouldst have sworn that it must indeed have been many years ago, for his rueful physiognomy would have scared away the playful goddess from the meeting, where he presided, forever, A wit! a wit! what could he mean? Lloyd, it minded me of Falkland in the "Rivals," "Am I full of wit and humor? No, indeed, you are not. Am I the life and soul of every company I come into? No, it cannot be said you are." That hard-faced gentleman a wit! Why, Nature wrote on his fanatic forehead fifty years ago, "Wit never comes, that comes to all." I should be as scandalized at a _bon-mot_ issuing from his oracle-looking mouth as to see Cato go down a country-dance. God love you all! You are very good to submit to be pleased with reading my nothings. 'T is the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense and to have her nonsense respected. Yours ever, C. LAMB. See Letter VIII. XIV. TO COLERIDGE. _January_ 28, 1798. You have writ me many kind letters, and I have answered none of them. I don't deserve your attentions. An unnatural indifference has been creeping on me since my last misfortunes, or I should have seized the first opening of a correspondence with _you_. To you I owe much under God. In my brief acquaintance with you in London, your conversations won me to the better cause, and rescued me from the polluting spirit of the world. I might have been a worthless character without you; as it is, I do possess a certain improvable portion of devotional feelings, though when I view myself in the light of divine truth, and not according to the common measures of human judgment. I am altogether corrupt and sinful. This is no cant. I am very sincere. These last afflictions, Coleridge, have failed to soften and bend my will. They found me unprepared. My former calamities produced in me a spirit of humility and a spirit of prayer. I thought they had sufficiently disciplined me; but the event ought to humble me. If God's judgments now fail to take away from the the heart of stone, what more grievous trials ought I not to expect? I have been very querulous, impatient under the rod, full of little jealousies and heartburnings. I had wellnigh quarrelled with Charles Lloyd, and for no other reason, I believe, than that the good creature did all he could to make me happy. The truth is, I thought he tried to force my mind from its natural and proper bent: he continually wished me to be from home; he was drawing me _from_ the consideration of my poor dear Mary's situation, rather than assisting me to gain a proper view of it with religious consolations. I wanted to be left to the tendency of my own mind in a solitary state which, in times past, I knew had led to quietness and a patient bearing of the yoke. He was hurt that I was not more constantly with him; but he was living with White,--a man to whom I had never been accustomed to impart my _dearest feelings_; though from long habits of friendliness, and many a social and good quality, I loved him very much, I met company there sometimes,--indiscriminate company. Any society almost, when I am in affliction, is sorely painful to me. I seem to breathe more freely, to think more collectedly, to feel more properly and calmly, when alone. All these things the good creature did with the kindest intentions in the world, but they produced in me nothing but soreness and discontent. I became, as he complained, "jaundiced" towards him.... But he has forgiven me; and his smile, I hope, will draw all such humors from me. I am recovering, God be praised for it, a healthiness of mind, something like calmness; but I want more religion, I am jealous of human helps and leaning-places. I rejoice in your good fortunes. May God at the last settle you! You have had many and painful trials; humanly speaking, they are going to end; but we should rather pray that discipline may attend us through the whole of our lives.... A careless and a dissolute spirit has advanced upon _me_ with large strides. Pray God that my present afflictions may be sanctified to me! Mary is recovering; but I see no opening yet of a situation for her. Your invitation went to my very heart; but you have a power of exciting interest, of leading all hearts captive, too forcible to admit of Mary's being with you. I consider her as perpetually on the brink of madness. I think you would almost make her dance within an inch of the precipice; she must be with duller fancies and cooler intellects. I know a young man of this description who has suited her these twenty years, and may live to do so still, if we are one day restored to each other. In answer to your suggestions of occupation for me, I must say that I do not think my capacity altogether suited for disquisitions of that kind.... I have read little; I have a very weak memory, and retain little of what I read; am unused to composition in which any methodizing is required. But I thank you sincerely for the hint, and shall receive it as far as I am able,--that is, endeavor to engage my mind in some constant and innocent pursuit. I know my capacities better than you do. Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, as ever. C. L. Mary Lamb had fallen ill again. XV. TO ROBERT SOUTHEY (No month, 1798.) Dear Southey,--I thank you heartily for the eclogue ; it pleases me mightily, being so full of picture-work and circumstances. I find no fault in it, unless perhaps that Joanna's ruin is a catastrophe too trite; and this is not the first or second time you have clothed your indignation, in verse, in a tale of ruined innocence. The old lady, spinning in the sun, I hope would not disdain to claim some kindred with old Margaret. I could almost wish you to vary some circumstances in the conclusion. A gentleman seducer has so often been described in prose and verse: what if you had accomplished Joanna's ruin by the clumsy arts and rustic gifts of some country fellow? I am thinking, I believe, of the song,-- "An old woman clothed in gray, Whose daughter was charming and young, And she was deluded away By Roger's false, flattering tongue." A Roger-Lothario would be a novel character; I think you might paint him very well. You may think this a very silly suggestion, and so indeed it is; but, in good truth, nothing else but the first words of that foolish ballad put me upon scribbling my "Rosamund." But I thank you heartily for the poem. Not having anything of my own to send you in return,--though, to tell truth, I am at work upon something which, if I were to cut away and garble, perhaps I might send you an extract or two that might not displease you; but I will not do that; and whether it will come to anything, I know not, for I am as slow as a Fleming painter when I compose anything. I will crave leave to put down a few lines of old Christopher Marlowe's; I take them from his tragedy, "The Jew of Malta." The Jew is a famous character, quite out of nature; but when we consider the terrible idea our simple ancestors had of a Jew, not more to be discommended for a certain discoloring (I think Addison calls it) than the witches and fairies of Marlowe's mighty successor. The scene is betwixt Barabas, the Jew, and Ithamore, a Turkish captive exposed to sale for a slave. BARABAS. (_A precious rascal_.) "As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights, And kill sick people groaning under walls; Sometimes I go about and poison wells; And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves, I am content to lose some of my crowns, That I may, walking in my gallery, See 'm go pinioned along by my door. Being young, I studied physic, and began To practise first upon the Italian; There I enriched the priests with burials, And always kept the sexton's arms in ure With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells. And after that, was I an engineer, And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany, Under pretence of serving Charles the Fifth, Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems. Then after that was I an usurer, And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting, And tricks belonging unto brokery, I fill'd the jails with bankrupts in a year, And with young orphans planted hospitals, And every moon made some or other mad; And now and then one hang'd himself for grief, Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll, How I with interest tormented him." Now hear Ithamore, the other gentle nature, explain how he has spent his time:-- ITHAMORE (_A Comical Dog_.) "Faith, master, in setting Christian villages on fire, Chaining of eunuchs, binding galley-slaves. One time I was an hostler in an inn, And in the night-time secret would I steal To travellers' chambers, and there cut their throats. Once at Jerusalem, where the pilgrims kneel'd, I strewed powder on the marble stones, And therewithal their knees would rankle so, That I have laugh'd a-good to see the <DW36>s Go limping home to Christendom on stilts." BARABAS. "Why, this is something." There is a mixture of the ludicrous and the terrible in these lines, brimful of genius and antique invention, that at first reminded me of your old description of cruelty in hell, which was in the true Hogarthian style. I need not tell _you_ that Marlowe was author of that pretty madrigal, "Come live with me, and be my Love," and of the tragedy of "Edward II.," in which are certain _lines_ unequalled in our English tongue. Honest Walton mentions the said madrigal under the denomination of "certain smooth verses made long since by Kit Marlowe." I am glad you have put me on the scent after old Quarles. If I do not put up those eclogues, and that shortly, say I am no true-nosed hound. I have had a letter from Lloyd; the young metaphysician of Caius is well, and is busy recanting the new heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma Greek. My sister, I thank you, is quite well. She had a slight attack the other day, which frightened me a good deal; but it went off unaccountably. Love and respects to Edith. Yours sincerely, C. LAMB. The eclogue was entitled "The Ruined Cottage." His romance. "Rosamund Gray." Use. XVI. TO SOUTHEY. _November_ 8, 1798. I perfectly accord with your opinion of old Wither. Quarles is a wittier writer, but Wither lays more hold of the heart. Quarles thinks of his audience when he lectures; Wither soliloquizes in company with a full heart. What wretched stuff are the "Divine Fancies" of Quarles! Religion appears to him no longer valuable than it furnishes matter for quibbles and riddles; he turns God's grace into wantonness. Wither is like an old friend, whose warm-heartedness and estimable qualities make us wish he possessed more genius, but at the same time make us willing to dispense with that want. I always love W., and sometimes admire Q. Still, that portrait is a fine one; and the extract from "The Shepherds' Hunting" places him in a starry height far above Quarles, If you wrote that review in "Crit. Rev.," I am sorry you are so sparing of praise to the "Ancient Marinere;" so far from calling it, as you do, with some wit but more severity, "A Dutch Attempt," etc., I call it a right English attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone German sublimity. You have selected a passage fertile in unmeaning miracles, but have passed by fifty passages as miraculous as the miracles they celebrate. I never so deeply felt the pathetic as in that part,-- "A spring of love gush'd from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware." It stung me into high pleasure through sufferings. Lloyd does not like it; his head is too metaphysical, and your taste too correct,--at least I must allege something against you both, to excuse my own dotage,-- But you allow some elaborate beauties; you should have extracted 'em. "The Ancient Marinere" plays more tricks with the mind than that last poem, which is yet one of the finest written. But I am getting too dogmatical; and before I degenerate into abuse, I will conclude with assuring you that I am, Sincerely yours, C. LAMB. The "Lyrical Ballads" of Wordsworth and Coleridge had just appeared. The volume contained four pieces, including the "Ancient Mariner," by Coleridge. XVII. TO SOUTHEY. _November_ 28, 1798. * * * * * I showed my "Witch" and "Dying Lover" to Dyer last night; but George could not comprehend how that could be poetry which did not go upon ten feet, as George and his predecessors had taught it to do; so George read me some lectures on the distinguishing qualities of the Ode, the Epigram, and the Epic, and went home to illustrate his doctrine by correcting a proof-sheet of his own Lyrics, George writes odes where the rhymes, like fashionable man and wife, keep a comfortable distance of six or eight lines apart, and calls that "observing the laws of verse," George tells you, before he recites, that you must listen with great attention, or you 'll miss the rhymes. I did so, and found them pretty exact, George, speaking of the dead Ossian, exclaimeth, "Dark are the poet's eyes," I humbly represented to him that his own eyes were dark, and many a living bard's besides, and recommended "Clos'd are the poet's eyes." But that would not do, I found there was an antithesis between the darkness of his eyes and the splendor of his genius, and I acquiesced. Your recipe for a Turk's poison is invaluable and truly Marlowish.... Lloyd objects to "shutting up the womb of his purse" in my Curse (which for a Christian witch in a Christian country is not too mild, I hope): do you object? I think there is a strangeness in the idea, as well as "shaking the poor like snakes from his door," which suits the speaker. Witches illustrate, as fine ladies do, from their own familiar objects, and snakes and shutting up of wombs are in their way. I don't know that this last charge has been before brought against 'em, nor either the sour milk or the mandrake babe; but I affirm these be things a witch would do if she could. My tragedy will be a medley (as I intend it to be a medley) of laughter and tears, prose and verse, and in some places rhyme, songs, wit, pathos, humor, and if possible, sublimity,--at least, it is not a fault in my intention if it does not comprehend most of these discordant colors. Heaven send they dance not the "Dance of Death!" I hear that the Two Noble Englishmen have parted no sooner than they set foot on German earth; but I have not heard the reason,--possibly to give novelists a handle to exclaim, "Ah me, what things are perfect!" I think I shall adopt your emendation in the "Dying Lover," though I do not myself feel the objection against "Silent Prayer." My tailor has brought me home a new coat lapelled, with a velvet collar. He assures me everybody wears velvet collars now. Some are born fashionable, some achieve fashion, and others, like your humble servant, have fashion thrust upon them. The rogue has been making inroads hitherto by modest degrees, foisting upon me an additional button, recommending gaiters; but to come upon me thus in a full tide of luxury, neither becomes him as a tailor or the ninth of a man. My meek gentleman was robbed the other day, coming with his wife and family in a one-horse shay from Hampstead; the villains rifled him of four guineas, some shillings and halfpence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which they swore were bank-notes. They did not shoot him, and when they rode off he addressed them with profound gratitude, making a congee: "Gentlemen, I wish you good-night; and we are very much obliged to you that you have not used us ill!" And this is the cuckoo that has the audacity to foist upon me ten buttons on a side and a black velvet collar,--a cursed ninth of a scoundrel! When you write to Lloyd, he wishes his Jacobin correspondents to address him as _Mr._ C. L. Love and respects to Edith. I hope she is well. This quaint scholar, a marvel of simplicity and universal optimism, is a constantly recurring and delightfully humorous character in the Letters. Lamb and Dyer had been schoolfellows at Christ's Hospital. John Woodvil. Coleridge and Wordsworth, who started for Germany together. XVIII. TO SOUTHEY. _March_ 20, 1799, I am hugely pleased with your "Spider," "your old freemason," as you call him. The three first stanzas are delicious; they seem to me a compound of Burns and. Old Quarles, those kind of home-strokes, where more is felt than strikes the ear,--a terseness, a jocular pathos which makes one feel in laughter. The measure, too, is novel and pleasing. I could almost wonder Rob Burns in his lifetime never stumbled upon it. The fourth stanza is less striking, as being less original. The fifth falls off. It has no felicity of phrase, no old-fashioned phrase or feeling. "Young hopes, and love's delightful dreams," savor neither of Burns nor Quarles; they seem more like shreds of many a modern sentimental sonnet. The last stanza hath nothing striking in it, if I except the two concluding lines, which are Burns all over. I wish, if you concur with me, these things could be looked to. I am sure this is a kind of writing which comes tenfold better recommended to the heart, comes there more like a neighbor or familiar, than thousands of Hamnels and Zillahs and Madelons. I beg you will send me the "Holly-tree," if it at all resemble this, for it must please me. I have never seen it. I love this sort of poems, that open a new intercourse with the most despised of the animal and insect race. I think this vein may be further opened; Peter Pindar hath very prettily apostrophized a fly; Burns hath his mouse and his louse; Coleridge, less successfully, hath made overtures of intimacy to a jackass,--therein only following at unresembling distance Sterne and greater Cervantes. Besides these, I know of no other examples of breaking down the partition between us and our "poor earth-born companions." It is sometimes revolting to be put in a track of feeling by other people, not one's own immediate thoughts, else I would persuade you, if I could (I am in earnest), to commence a series of these animal poems, which might have a tendency to rescue some poor creatures from the antipathy of mankind. Some thoughts come across me: for instance, to a rat, to a toad, to a cockchafer, to a mole,--people bake moles alive by a slow oven-fire to cure consumption. Rats are, indeed, the most despised and contemptible parts of God's earth, I killed a rat the other day by punching him to pieces, and feel a weight of blood upon me to this hour. Toads, you know, are made to fly, and tumble down and crush all to pieces. Cockchafers are old sport; then again to a worm, with an apostrophe to anglers,--those patient tyrants, meek inflictors of pangs intolerable, cool devils; to an owl; to all snakes, with an apology for their poison; to a cat in boots or bladders. Your own fancy, if it takes a fancy to these hints, will suggest many more. A series of such poems, suppose them accompanied with plates descriptive of animal torments,--cooks roasting lobsters, fishmongers crimping skates, etc.,--would take excessively, I will willingly enter into a partnership in the plan with you; I think my heart and soul would go with it too,--at least, give it a thought. My plan is but this minute come into my head; but it strikes me instantaneously as something new, good, and useful, full of pleasure and full of moral. If old Quarles and Wither could live again, we would invite them into our firm. Burns hath done his part. Poor Sam Le Grice! I am afraid the world and the camp and the university have spoiled him among them. 'Tis certain he had at one time a strong capacity of turning out something better. I knew him, and that not long since, when he had a most warm heart. I am ashamed of the indifference I have sometimes felt towards him. I think the devil is in one's heart. I am under obligations to that man for the warmest friendship and heartiest sympathy, even for an agony of sympathy expressed both by word and deed, and tears for me when I was in my greatest distress. But I have forgot that,--as, I fear, he has nigh forgot the awful scenes which were before his eyes when he served the office of a comforter to me. No service was too mean or troublesome for him to perform. I can't think what but the devil, "that old spider," could have suck'd my heart so dry of its sense of all gratitude. If he does come in your way, Southey, fail not to tell him that I retain a most affectionate remembrance of his old friendliness, and an earnest wish to resume our intercourse. In this I am serious. I cannot recommend him to your society, because I am afraid whether he be quite worthy of it. But I have no right to dismiss him from _my_ regard. He was at one time, and in the worst of times, my own familiar friend, and great comfort to me then. I have known him to play at cards with my father, meal-times excepted, literally all day long, in long days too, to save me from being teased by the old man when I was not able to bear it. God bless him for it, and God bless you, Southey! C. L. Leigh Hunt says: "Walton says that an angler does no hurt but to fish; and this he counts as nothing.... Now, fancy a Genius fishing for us. Fancy him baiting a great hook with pickled salmon, and, twitching up old Izaac Walton from the banks of the River Lee, with the hook through his ear. How he would go up, roaring and screaming, and thinking the devil had got him! "'Other joys Are but toys.' WALTON." See Letter VI. XIX. TO THOMAS MANNING . _March_ 1, 1800. I hope by this time you are prepared to say the "Falstaff's Letters" are a bundle of the sharpest, queerest, profoundest humors of any these juice-drained latter times have spawned. I should have advertised you that the meaning is frequently hard to be got at,--and so are the future guineas that now lie ripening and aurifying in the womb of some undiscovered Potosi; but dig, dig, dig, dig, Manning! I set to with an unconquerable propulsion to write, with a lamentable want of what to write. My private goings on are orderly as the movements of the spheres, and stale as their music to angels' ears. Public affairs, except as they touch upon me, and so turn into private, I cannot whip up my mind to feel any interest in, I grieve, indeed, that War and Nature and Mr. Pitt, that hangs up in Lloyd's best parlour, should have conspired to call up three necessaries, simple commoners as our fathers knew them, into the upper house of luxuries,--bread and beer and coals, Manning. But as to France and Frenchmen, and the Abbe Sieyes and his constitutions, I cannot make these present times present to me. I read histories of the past, and I live in them; although, to abstract senses, they are far less momentous than the noises which keep Europe awake. I am reading Burnet's "Own Times." Did you ever read that garrulous, pleasant history? He tells his story like an old man, past political service, bragging to his sons on winter evenings of the part he took in public transactions when "his old cap was new." Full of scandal, which all true history is. No palliatives; but all the stark wickedness that actually gives the _momentum_ to national actors. Quite the prattle of age and outlived importance. Truth and sincerity staring out upon you perpetually in _alto relievo_. Himself a party man, he makes you a party man. None of the cursed philosophical Humeian indifference, so cold and unnatural and inhuman! None of the cursed Gibbonian fine writing, so fine and composite. None of Dr. Robertson's periods with three members. None of Mr. Roscoe's sage remarks, all so apposite, and coming in so clever, lest the reader should have had the trouble of drawing an inference. Burnet's good old prattle I can bring present to my mind; I can make the Revolution present to me: the French Revolution, by a converse perversity in my nature, I fling as far _from_ me. To quit this tiresome subject, and to relieve you from two or three dismal yawns, which I hear in spirit, I here conclude my more than commonly obtuse letter,--dull up to the dulness of a Dutch commentator on Shakspeare. My love to Lloyd and Sophia. C. L. To this remarkable person we are largely indebted for some of the best of Lamb's letters. He was mathematical tutor at Caius College, Cambridge, and in later years became somewhat famous as an explorer of the remoter parts of China and Thibet. Lamb had been introduced to him, during a Cambridge visit, by Charles Lloyd, and afterwards told Crabb Robinson that he was the most "wonderful man" he ever met. An account of Manning will be found in the memoir prefixed to his "Journey to Lhasa," in 1811-12. (George Bogle and Thomas Manning's Journey to Thibet and Lhasa, by C.R. Markham, 1876.) XX. TO COLERIDGE, _May_ 12, 1800, My Dear Coleridge,--I don't know why I write, except from the propensity misery has to tell her griefs. Hetty died on Friday night, about eleven o'clock, after eight days' illness; Mary, in consequence of fatigue and anxiety, is fallen ill again, and I was obliged to remove her yesterday. I am left alone in a house with nothing but Hetty's dead body to keep me company. To-morrow I bury her, and then I shall be quite alone, with nothing but a cat to remind me that the house has been full of living beings like myself. My heart is quite sunk, and I don't know where to look for relief. Mary will get better again; but her constantly being liable to such relapses is dreadful; nor is it the least of our evils that her case and all our story is so well known around us. We are in a manner _marked_. Excuse my troubling you; but I have nobody by me to speak to me. I slept out last night, not being able to endure the change and the stillness. But I did not sleep well, and I must come back to my own bed. I am going to try and get a friend to come and be with me to-morrow. I am completely shipwrecked. My head is quite bad. I almost wish that Mary were dead. God bless you. Love to Sara and Hartley. C. LAMB. The Lambs' old servant. XXI. TO MANNING. Before _June_, 1800. Dear Manning,--I feel myself unable to thank you sufficiently for your kind letter. It was doubly acceptable to me, both for the choice poetry and the kind, honest prose which it contained. It was just such a letter as I should have expected from Manning. I am in much better spirits than when I wrote last. I have had a very eligible offer to lodge with a friend in town. He will have rooms to let at midsummer, by which time I hope my sister will be well enough to join me. It is a great object to me to live in town, where we shall be much more _private_, and to quit a house and neighborhood where poor Mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made us a sort of marked people. We can be nowhere private except in the midst of London. We shall be in a family where we visit very frequently; only my landlord and I have not yet come to a conclusion. He has a partner to consult. I am still on the tremble, for I do not know where we could go into lodgings that would not be, in many respects, highly exceptionable. Only God send Mary well again, and I hope all will be well! The prospect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I have just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give you pleasure. Farewell. C. LAMB. XXII. TO COLERIDGE, _August_, 6, 1800. Dear Coleridge,--I have taken to-day and delivered to Longman and Co., _Imprimis_: your books, viz., three ponderous German dictionaries, one volume (I can find no more) of German and French ditto, sundry other German books unbound, as you left them, Percy's Ancient Poetry, and one volume of Anderson's Poets. I specify them, that you may not lose any. _Secundo_: a dressing-gown (value, fivepence), in which you used to sit and look like a conjuror when you were translating "Wallenstein." A case of two razors and a shaving-box and strap. This it has cost me a severe struggle to part with. They are in a brown-paper parcel, which also contains sundry papers and poems, sermons, _some few Epic_ poems,--one about Cain and Abel, which came from Poole, etc., and also your tragedy; with one or two small German books, and that drama in which Got-fader performs. _Tertio_: a small oblong box containing _all your letters_, collected from all your waste papers, and which fill the said little box. All other waste papers, which I judged worth sending, are in the paper parcel aforesaid. But you will find _all_ your letters in the box by themselves. Thus have I discharged my conscience and my lumber-room of all your property, save and except a folio entitled Tyrrell's "Bibliotheca Politica," which you used to learn your politics out of when you wrote for the Post,--_mutatis mutandis, i. e._, applying past inferences to modern _data_. I retain that, because I am sensible I am very deficient in the politics myself; and I have torn up--don't be angry; waste paper has risen forty per cent, and I can't afford to buy it--all Bonaparte's Letters, Arthur Young's Treatise on Corn, and one or two more light-armed infantry, which I thought better suited the flippancy of London discussion than the dignity of Keswick thinking. Mary says you will be in a passion about them when you come to miss them; but you must study philosophy. Read Albertus Magnus de Chartis Amissis five times over after phlebotomizing,--'t is Burton's recipe,--and then be angry with an absent friend if you can. Sara is obscure. Am I to understand by her letter that she sends a _kiss_ to Eliza Buckingham? Pray tell your wife that a note of interrogation on the superscription of a letter is highly ungrammatical! She proposes writing my name _Lambe? Lamb_ is quite enough. I have had the Anthology, and like only one thing in it,--_Lewti_; but of that the last stanza is detestable, the rest most exquisite! The epithet _enviable_ would dash the finest poem. For God's sake (I never was more serious), don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print, or do it in better verses. My _sentiment_ is long since vanished. I hope you did, for I should be ashamed to think you could think to gratify me by such praise, fit only to be a cordial to some green-sick sonneteer. An allusion to Coleridge's lines, "This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison," wherein he styles Lamb "my gentle-hearted Charles." XXIII. TO MANNING. _August_, 1800. Dear Manning,--I am going to ask a favor of you, and am at a loss how to do it in the most delicate mariner. For this purpose I have been looking into Pliny's Letters, who is noted to have had the best grace in begging of all the ancients (I read him in the elegant translation of Mr. Melmoth); but not finding any case there exactly similar with mine, I am constrained to beg in my own barbarian way. To come to the point, then, and hasten into the middle of things, have you a copy of your Algebra to give away? I do not ask it for myself; I have too much reverence for the Black Arts ever to approach thy circle, illustrious Trismegist! But that worthy man and excellent poet, George Dyer, made me a visit yesternight on purpose to borrow one, supposing, rationally enough, I must say, that you had made me a present of one before this; the omission of which I take to have proceeded only from negligence: but it is a fault. I could lend him no assistance. You must know he is just now diverted from the pursuit of BELL LETTERS by a paradox, which he has heard his friend Frend (that learned mathematician) maintain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians were _merae nugae_,--things scarcely _in rerum natura_, and smacking too much of mystery for gentlemen of Mr. Frend's clear Unitarian capacity. However, the dispute, once set a-going, has seized violently on George's pericranick; and it is necessary for his health that he should speedily come to a resolution of his doubts. He goes about teasing his friends with his new mathematics; he even frantically talks of purchasing Manning's Algebra, which shows him far gone, for, to my knowledge, he has not been master of seven shillings a good time. George's pockets and ----'s brains are two things in nature which do not abhor a vacuum.... Now, if you could step in, in this trembling suspense of his reason, and he should find on Saturday morning, lying for him at the Porter's Lodge, Clifford's Inn.--his safest address,--Manning's Algebra, with a neat manuscriptum in the blank leaf, running thus, "FROM THE AUTHOR!" it might save his wits and restore the unhappy author to those studies of poetry and criticism which are at present suspended, to the infinite regret of the whole literary world. N.B.--Dirty books, smeared leaves, and dogs' ears will be rather a recommendation than otherwise. N.B.--He must have the book as soon as possible, or nothing can withhold him from madly purchasing the book on tick.... Then shall we see him sweetly restored to the chair of Longinus,--to dictate in smooth and modest phrase the laws of verse; to prove that Theocritus first introduced the Pastoral, and Virgil and Pope brought it to its perfection; that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in George's brain) have shown a great deal of poetical fire in their lyric poetry; that Aristotle's rules are not to be servilely followed, which George has shown to have imposed great shackles upon modern genius. His poems, I find, are to consist of two vols., reasonable octavo; and a third book will exclusively contain criticisms, in which he asserts he has gone _pretty deeply_ into the laws of blank verse and rhyme, epic poetry, dramatic and pastoral ditto,--all which is to come out before Christmas. But above all he has _touched_ most _deeply_ upon the Drama, comparing the English with the modern German stage, their merits and defects. Apprehending that his _studies_ (not to mention his _turn_, which I take to be chiefly towards the lyrical poetry) hardly qualified him for these disquisitions, I modestly inquired what plays he had read. I found by George's reply that he _had_ read Shakspeare, but that was a good while since: he calls him a great but irregular genius, which I think to be an original and just remark. (Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Ben Jonson, Shirley, Marlowe, Ford, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection,--he confessed he had read none of them, but professed his _intention_ of looking through them all, so as to be able to _touch_ upon them in his book.) So Shakspeare, Otway, and I believe Rowe, to whom he was naturally directed by Johnson's Lives, and these not read lately, are to stand him in stead of a general knowledge of the subject. God bless his dear absurd head! By the by, did I not write you a letter with something about an invitation in it?--but let that pass; I suppose it is not agreeable. N.B. It would not be amiss if you were to accompany your _present_ with a dissertation on negative quantities. C. L. Manning, while at Cambridge, published a work on Algebra. The Rev. William Frend, who was expelled from Cambridge for Unitarianism. XXIV. TO MANNING. 1800. George Dyer is an Archimedes and an Archimagus and a Tycho Brahe and a Copernicus; and thou art the darling of the Nine, and midwife to their wandering babe also! We take tea with that learned poet and critic on Tuesday night, at half-past five, in his neat library; the repast will be light and Attic, with criticism. If thou couldst contrive to wheel up thy dear carcase on the Monday, and after dining with us on tripe, calves' kidneys, or whatever else the Cornucopia of St. Clare may be willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not adjourn together to the Heathen's, thou with thy Black Backs, and I with some innocent volume of the Bell Letters,--Shenstone, or the like; it would make him wash his old flannel gown (that has not been washed, to my knowledge, since it has been _his_,--Oh, the long time!) with tears of joy. Thou shouldst settle his scruples, and unravel his cobwebs, and sponge off the sad stuff that weighs upon his dear wounded pia mater; thou shouldst restore light to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public; Parnassus should shower her civic crowns upon thee for saving the wits of a citizen! I thought I saw a lucid interval in George the other night: he broke in upon my studies just at tea-time, and brought with him Dr. Anderson, an old gentleman who ties his breeches' knees with packthread, and boasts that he has been disappointed by ministers. The Doctor wanted to see _me_; for, I being a poet, he thought I might furnish him with a copy of verses to suit his "Agricultural Magazine." The Doctor, in the course of the conversation, mentioned a poem, called the "Epigoniad," by one Wilkie, an epic poem, in which there is not one tolerable good line all through, but every incident and speech borrowed from Homer. George had been sitting inattentive seemingly to what was going on,--hatching of negative quantities,--when, suddenly, the name of his old friend Homer stung his pericranicks, and, jumping up, he begged to know where he could meet with Wilkie's work. "It was a curious fact that there should be such an epic poem and he not know of it; and he _must_ get a copy of it, as he was going to touch pretty deeply upon the subject of the epic,--and he was sure there must be some things good in a poem of eight thousand lines!" I was pleased with this transient return of his reason and recurrence to his old ways of thinking; it gave me great hopes of a recovery, which nothing but your book can completely insure. Pray come on Monday if you _can_, and stay your own time. I have a good large room, with two beds in it, in the handsomest of which thou shalt repose a-nights, and dream of spheroides. I hope you will understand by the nonsense of this letter that I am _not_ melancholy at the thoughts of thy coming; I thought it necessary to add this, because you love _precision_. Take notice that our stay at Dyer's will not exceed eight o'clock, after which our pursuits will be our own. But indeed I think a little recreation among the Bell Letters and poetry will do you some service in the interval of severer studies. I hope we shall fully discuss with George Dyer what I have never yet heard done to my satisfaction,--the reason of Dr. Johnson's malevolent strictures on the higher species of the Ode. C. LAMB. XXV. TO COLERIDGE. _August_ 14, 1800. My head is playing all the tunes in the world, ringing such peals! It has just finished the "Merry Christ Church Bells," and absolutely is beginning "Turn again, Whittington." Buz, buz, buz; bum, bum, bum; wheeze, wheeze, wheeze; fen, fen, fen; tinky, tinky, tinky; _cr'annch_. I shall certainly come to be condemned at last. I have been drinking too much for two days running. I find my moral sense in the last stage of a consumption, and my religion getting faint. This is disheartening, but I trust the devil will not overpower me. In the midst of this infernal torture Conscience is barking and yelping as loud as any of them. I have sat down to read over again, and I think I do begin to spy out something with beauty and design in it. I perfectly accede to all your alterations, and only desire that you had cut deeper, when your hand was in. * * * * * Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must announce to you, who, doubtless, in your remote part of the island, have not heard tidings of so great a blessing, that George Dyer hath prepared two ponderous volumes full of poetry and criticism. They impend over the town, and are threatened to fall in the winter. The first volume contains every sort of poetry except personal satire, which George, in his truly original prospectus, renounceth forever, whimsically foisting the intention in between the price of his book and the proposed number of subscribers. (If I can, I will get you a copy of his _handbill_.) He has tried his _vein_ in every species besides,--the Spenserian, Thomsonian, Masonic, and Akensidish more especially. The second volume is all criticism; wherein he demonstrates to the entire satisfaction of the literary world, in a way that must silence all reply forever, that the pastoral was introduced by Theocritus and polished by Virgil and Pope; that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in George's brain) have a good deal of poetical fire and true lyric genius; that Cowley was ruined by excess of wit (a warning to all moderns); that Charles Lloyd, Charles Lamb, and William Wordsworth, in later days, have struck the true chords of poesy. Oh, George, George, with a head uniformly wrong and a heart uniformly right, that I had power and might equal to my wishes; then would I call the gentry of thy native island, and they should come in troops, flocking at the sound of thy prospectus-trumpet, and crowding who shall be first to stand in thy list of subscribers! I can only put twelve shillings into thy pocket (which, I will answer for them, will not stick there long) out of a pocket almost as bare as thine. Is it not a pity so much fine writing should be erased? But, to tell the truth, I began to scent that I was getting into that sort of style which Longinus and Dionysius Halicarnassus fitly call "the affected." C. L. XXVI. TO MANNING. _August_ 22, 1800. Dear Manning,--You need not imagine any apology necessary. Your fine hare and fine birds (which just now are dangling by our kitchen blaze) discourse most eloquent music in your justification. You just nicked my palate; for, with all due decorum and leave may it be spoken, my worship hath taken physic to-day, and being low and puling, requireth to be pampered. Fob! how beautiful and strong those buttered onions come to my nose! For you must know we extract a divine spirit of gravy from those materials which, duly compounded with a consistence of bread and cream (yclept bread-sauce), each to each giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set off (as skilful gold-foils to rare jewels) your partridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, teal, widgeon, and the other lesser daughters of the ark. My friendship, struggling with my carnal and fleshly prudence (which suggests that a bird a man is the proper allotment in such cases), yearneth sometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. I question if your Norfolk sauces match our London culinarie. George Dyer has introduced me to the table of an agreeable old gentleman, Dr. Anderson, who gives hot legs of mutton and grape pies at his sylvan lodge at Isleworth, where, in the middle of a street, he has shot up a wall most preposterously before his small dwelling, which, with the circumstance of his taking several panes of glass out of bedroom windows (for air), causeth his neighbors to speculate strangely on the state of the good man's pericranicks. Plainly, he lives under the reputation of being deranged. George does not mind this circumstance; he rather likes him the better for it. The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural to poetical science, and has set George's brains mad about the old Scotch writers, Barbour, Douglas's AEneid, Blind Harry, etc. We returned home in a return postchaise (having dined with the Doctor); and George kept wondering and wondering, for eight or nine turnpike miles, what was the name, and striving to recollect the name, of a poet anterior to Barbour. I begged to know what was remaining of his works. "There is nothing _extant_ of his works, sir; but by all accounts he seems to have been a fine genius!" This fine genius, without anything to show for it or any title beyond George's courtesy, without even a name, and Barbour and Douglas and Blind Harry now are the predominant sounds in George's pia mater, and their buzzings exclude politics, criticism, and algebra,--the late lords of that illustrious lumber-room. Mark, he has never read any of these bucks, but is impatient till he reads them _all_, at the Doctor's suggestion. Poor Dyer! his friends should be careful what sparks they let fall into such inflammable matter. Could I have my will of the heathen, I would lock him up from all access of new ideas; I would exclude all critics that would not swear me first (upon their Virgil) that they would feed him with nothing but the old, safe, familiar notions and sounds (the rightful aborigines of his brain),--Gray, Akenside, and Mason. In these sounds, reiterated as often as possible, there could be nothing painful, nothing distracting. God bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot! All that is gross and unspiritual in me rises at the sight! Avaunt friendship and all memory of absent friends! C. LAMB. XXVII. TO COLERIDGE. _August_ 26, 1800. George Dyer is the only literary character I am happily acquainted with. The oftener I see him, the more deeply I admire him. He is goodness itself. If I could but calculate the precise date of his death, I would write a novel on purpose to make George the hero. I could hit him off to a hair. George brought a Dr. Anderson to see me. The Doctor is a very pleasant old man, a great genius for agriculture, one that ties his breeches-knees with packthread, and boasts of having had disappointments from ministers. The Doctor happened to mention an epic poem by one Wilkie, called the "Epigoniad," in which he assured us there is not one tolerable line from beginning to end, but all the characters, incidents, etc., verbally copied from _Homer_. George, who had been sitting quite inattentive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the sound of _Homer_ strike his pericraniks, than up he gets, and declares he must see that poem immediately: where was it to be had? An epic poem of eight thousand lines, and _he_ not hear of it! There must be some things good in it, and it was necessary he should see it, for he had touched pretty deeply upon that subject in his criticisms on the Epic. George had touched pretty deeply upon the Lyric, I find; he has also prepared a dissertation on the Drama, and the comparison of the English and German theatres. As I rather doubted his competency to do the latter, knowing that his peculiar _turn_ lies in the lyric species of composition, I questioned George what English plays he had read. I found that he _had_ read Shakspeare (whom he calls an original, but irregular, genius), but it was a good while ago; and he has dipped into Rowe and Otway, I suppose having found their names in Johnson's Lives at full length; and upon this slender ground he has undertaken the task. He never seemed even to have heard of Fletcher, Ford, Marlowe, Massinger, and the worthies of Dodsley's Collection; but he is to read all these, to prepare him for bringing out his "Parallel" in the winter. I find he is also determined to vindicate poetry from the shackles which Aristotle and some others have imposed upon it,--which is very good-natured of him, and very necessary just now! Now I am _touching_ so _deeply_ upon poetry, can I forget that I have just received from Cottle a magnificent copy of his Guinea Epic. Four-and-twenty books to read in the dog days! I got as far as the Mad Monk the first day, and fainted. Mr, Cottle's genius strongly points him to the _Pastoral_, but his inclinations divert him perpetually from his calling. He imitates Southey, as Rowe did Shakspeare, with his "Good morrow to ye, good master Lieutenant," Instead of _a_ man, _a_ woman, _a_ daughter, he constantly writes "one a man," "one a woman," "one his daughter." Instead of _the_ king, _the_ hero, he constantly writes, "he the king," "he the hero,"--two flowers of rhetoric palpably from the "Joan." But Mr, Cottle soars a higher pitch; and when he _is_ original, it is in a most original way indeed. His terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, asps, spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of nothing, with adders' tongues for bannisters,--Good Heaven, what a brain he must have! He puts as many plums in his pudding as my grandmother used to do; and, then his emerging from Hell's horrors into light, and treading on pure flats of this earth--for twenty-three books together! C. L. See preceding Letter. Alfred. XXVIII. TO COLERIDGE. _October_ 9, 1800. I suppose you have heard of the death of Amos Cottle. I paid a solemn visit of condolence to his brother, accompanied by George Dyer, of burlesque memory. I went, trembling, to see poor Cottle so immediately upon the event. He was in black, and his younger brother was also in black. Everything wore an aspect suitable to the respect due to the freshly dead. For some time after our entrance, nobody spake, till George modestly put in a question, whether "Alfred" was likely to sell. This was Lethe to Cottle, and his poor face wet with tears, and his kind eye brightened up in a moment. Now I felt it was my cue to speak. I had to thank him for a present of a magnificent copy, and had promised to send him my remarks,--the least thing I could do; so I ventured to suggest that I perceived a considerable improvement he had made in his first book since the state in which he first read it to me. Joseph, who till now had sat with his knees cowering in by the fireplace, wheeled about, and with great difficulty of body shifted the same round to the corner of a table where I was sitting, and first stationing one thigh over the other, which is his sedentary mood, and placidly fixing his benevolent face right against mine, waited my observations. At that moment it came strongly into my mind that I had got Uncle Toby before me, he looked so kind and so good. I could not say an unkind thing of "Alfred." So I set my memory to work to recollect what was the name of Alfred's queen, and with some adroitness recalled the well-known sound to Cottle's ears of Alswitha. At that moment I could perceive that Cottle had forgot his brother was so lately become a blessed spirit. In the language of mathematicians, the author was as 9, the brother as 1. I felt my cue, and strong pity working at the root, I went to work and beslabber'd "Alfred" with most unqualified praise, or only qualifying my praise by the occasional polite interposition of an exception taken against trivial faults, slips, and human imperfections, which, by removing the appearance of insincerity, did but in truth heighten the relish. Perhaps I might have spared that refinement, for Joseph was in a humor to hope and believe _all things_. What I said was beautifully supported, corroborated, and confirmed by the stupidity of his brother on my left hand, and by George on my right, who has an utter incapacity of comprehending that there can be anything bad in poetry. All poems are _good_ poems to George; all men are _fine geniuses_. So what with my actual memory, of which I made the most, and Cottle's own helping me out, for I _really_ had forgotten a good deal of "Alfred," I made shift to discuss the most essential parts entirely to the satisfaction of its author, who repeatedly declared that he loved nothing better than _candid_ criticism. Was I a candid greyhound now for all this? or did I do right? I believe I did. The effect was luscious to my conscience. For all the rest of the evening Amos was no more heard of, till George revived the subject by inquiring whether some account should not be drawn up by the friends of the deceased to be inserted in "Phillips's Monthly Obituary;" adding, that Amos was estimable both for his head and heart, and would have made a fine poet if he had lived. To the expediency of this measure Cottle fully assented, but could not help adding that he always thought that the qualities of his brother's heart exceeded those of his head. I believe his brother, when living, had formed precisely the same idea of him; and I apprehend the world will assent to both judgments. I rather guess that the brothers were poetical rivals. I judged so when I saw them together. Poor Cottle, I must leave him, after his short dream, to muse again upon his poor brother, for whom I am sure in secret he will yet shed many a tear. Now send me in return some Greta news. C. L. XXIX. TO MANNING. _October_ 16, 1800. Dear Manning,--Had you written one week before you did, I certainly should have obeyed your injunction; you should have seen me before my letter. I will explain to you my situation. There are six of us in one department. Two of us (within these four days) are confined with severe fevers: and two more, who belong to the Tower Militia, expect to have marching orders on Friday. Now, six are absolutely necessary. I have already asked and obtained two young hands to supply the loss of the _feverites;_ and with the other prospect before me, you may believe I cannot decently ask leave of absence for myself. All I can promise (and I do promise with the sincerity of Saint Peter, and the contrition of sinner Peter if I fail) that I will come _the very first spare week_, and go nowhere till I have been at Cambridge. No matter if you are in a state of pupilage when I come; for I can employ myself in Cambridge very pleasantly in the mornings. Are there not libraries, halls, colleges, books, pictures, statues? I wish you had made London in your way. There is an exhibition quite uncommon in Europe, which could not have escaped _your genius_,--a live rattlesnake, ten feet in length, and the thickness of a big leg. I went to see it last night by candlelight. We were ushered into a room very little bigger than ours at Pentonville. A man and woman and four boys live in this room, joint tenants with nine snakes, most of them such as no remedy has been discovered for their bite. We walked into the middle, which is formed by a half-moon of wired boxes, all mansions of snakes,--whip-snakes, thunder-snakes, pig-nose-snakes, American vipers, and _this monster_. He lies curled up in folds; and immediately a stranger enters (for he is used to the family, and sees them play at cards) he set up a rattle like a watchman's in London, or near as loud, and reared up a head, from the midst of these folds, like a toad, and shook his head, and showed every sign a snake can show of irritation. I had the foolish curiosity to strike the wires with my finger, and the devil flew at me with his toad-mouth wide open: the inside of his mouth is quite white. I had got my finger away, nor could he well have bit me with his big mouth, which would have been certain death in five minutes. But it frightened me so much that I did not recover my voice for a minute's space. I forgot, in my fear, that he was secured. You would have forgot too, for 't is incredible how such a monster can be confined in small gauzy-looking wires. I dreamed of snakes in the night. I wish to Heaven you could see it. He absolutely swelled with passion to the bigness of a large thigh. I could not retreat without infringing on another box, and just behind, a little devil, not an inch from my back, had got his nose out, with some difficulty and pain, quite through the bars! He was soon taught better manners. All the snakes were curious, and objects of terror; but this monster, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed up the impression of the rest. He opened his cursed mouth, when he made at me, as wide as his head was broad. I hallooed out quite loud, and felt pains all over my body with the fright. I have had the felicity of hearing George Dyer read out one book of "The Farmer's Boy." I thought it rather childish. No doubt, there is originality in it (which, in your self-taught geniuses, is a most rare quality, they generally getting hold of some bad models in a scarcity of books, and forming their taste on them), but no _selection. All_ is, described. Mind, I have only heard read one book. Yours sincerely, Philo-Snake, C. L. XXX. TO MANNING. _November_ 3, 1800, _Ecquid meditatur Archimedes?_ What is Euclid doing? What has happened to learned Trismegist? Doth he take it in ill part that his humble friend did not comply with his courteous invitation? Let it suffice, I could not come. Are impossibilities nothing?--be they abstractions of the intellects, or not (rather) most sharp and mortifying realities? nuts in the Will's mouth too hard for her to crack? brick and stone walls in her way, which she can by no means eat through? sore lets, _impedimenta viarum_, no thoroughfares? _racemi nimium alte pendentes?_? Is the phrase classic? I allude to the grapes in Aesop, which cost the fox a strain, and gained the world an aphorism. Observe the superscription of this letter. In adapting the size of the letters which constitute _your_ name and Mr. _Crisp's_ name respectively, I had an eye to your different stations in life. 'Tis really curious, and must be soothing to an _aristocrat_ I wonder it has never been hit on before my time. I have made an acquisition latterly of a _pleasant hand_, one Rickman, to whom I was introduced by George Dyer,--not the most flattering auspices under which one man can be introduced to another. George brings all sorts of people together, setting up a sort of agrarian law, or common property, in matter of society; but for once he has done me a great pleasure, while he was only pursuing a principle, as _ignes fatui may_ light you home. This Rickman lives in our Buildings, immediately opposite our house; the finest fellow to drop in a' nights, about nine or ten o'clock,--cold bread-and-cheese time,--just in the _wishing_ time of the night, when you _wish_ for somebody to come in, without a distinct idea of a probable anybody. Just in the nick, neither too early to be tedious, nor too late to sit a reasonable time. He is a most pleasant hand,--a fine, rattling fellow, has gone through life laughing at solemn apes; himself hugely literate, oppressively full of information in all stuff of conversation, from matter of fact to Xenophon and Plato; can talk Greek with Porson, politics with Thelwall, conjecture with George Dyer, nonsense with me, and anything with anybody; a great farmer, somewhat concerned in an agricultural magazine; reads no poetry but Shakspeare, very intimate with Southey, but never reads his poetry; relishes George Dyer, thoroughly penetrates into the ridiculous wherever found, understands the _first time_ (a great desideratum in common minds),--you need never twice speak to him; does not want explanations, translations, limitations, as Professor Godwin does when you make an assertion; _up_ to anything, _down_ to everything, --whatever _sapit hominem_. A perfect _man_. All this farrago, which must perplex you to read, and has put me to a little trouble to _select_, only proves how impossible it is to describe a _pleasant hand_. You must see Rickman to know him, for he is a species in one,--a new class; an exotic, any slip of which I am proud to put in my garden-pot. The clearest-headed fellow; fullest of matter, with least verbosity. If there be any alloy in my fortune to have met with such a man, it is that he commonly divides his time between town and country, having some foolish family ties at Christchurch, by which means he can only gladden our London hemisphere with returns of light. He is now going for six weeks. John Rickman, clerk-assistant at the table of the House of Commons, an eminent statistician, and the intimate friend of Lamb, Southey, and others of their set. XXXI. TO MANNING. _November_ 28, 1800 Dear Manning,--I have received a very kind invitation from Lloyd and Sophia to go and spend a month with them at the Lakes. Now, it fortunately happens (which is so seldom the case) that I have spare cash by me enough to answer the expenses of so long a journey; and I am determined to get away from the office by some means. The purpose of this letter is to request of you (my dear friend) that you will not take it unkind if I decline my proposed visit to Cambridge _for the present_. Perhaps I shall be able to take Cambridge _in my way_, going or coming. I need not describe to you the expectations which such an one as myself, pent up all my life in a dirty city, have formed of a tour to the Lakes. Consider Grasmere! Ambleside! Wordsworth! Coleridge! Hills, woods, lakes, and mountains, to the devil! I will eat snipes with thee, Thomas Manning. Only confess, confess, a _bite_. P.S.--I think you named the 16th; but was it not modest of Lloyd to send such an invitation! It shows his knowledge of _money_ and _time_. I would be loth to think he meant "Ironic satire sidelong sklented On my poor pursie." For my part, with reference to my friends northward, I must confess that I am not romance-bit about _Nature_. The earth and sea and sky (when all is said) is but as a house to dwell in. If the inmates be courteous, and good liquors flow like the conduits at an old coronation, if they can talk sensibly and feel properly, I have no need to stand staring upon the gilded looking-glass (that strained my friend's purse-strings in the purchase), nor his five-shilling print over the mantelpiece of old Nabbs the carrier (which only betrays his false taste). Just as important to me (in a sense) is all the furniture of my world,--eye-pampering, but satisfies no heart. Streets, streets, streets, markets, theatres, churches, Covent Gardens, shops sparkling with pretty faces of industrious milliners, neat sempstresses, ladles cheapening, gentlemen behind counters lying, authors in the street with spectacles, George Dyers (you may know them by their gait), lamps lit at night, pastry-cooks' and silversmiths' shops, beautiful Quakers of Pentonville, noise of coaches, drowsy cry of mechanic watchman at night, with bucks reeling home drunk; if you happen to wake at midnight, cries of "Fire!" and "Stop, thief!" inns of court, with their learned air, and halls, and butteries, just like Cambridge colleges; old book-stalls, Jeremy Taylors, Burtons on Melancholy, and Religio Medicis on every stall. These are thy pleasures, O London with-the-many-sins! O City abounding in--, for these may Keswick and her giant brood go hang! C. L. Burns. XXXII. TO MANNING. _December_ 27, 1800. At length George Dyer's phrenitis has come to a crisis; he is raging and furiously mad. I waited upon the Heathen, Thursday was a se'nnight; the first symptom which struck my eye and gave me incontrovertible proof of the fatal truth was a pair of nankeen pantaloons four times too big for him, which the said Heathen did pertinaciously affirm to be new. They were absolutely ingrained with the accumulated dirt of ages; but he affirmed them to be clean. He was going to visit a lady that was nice about those things, and that's the reason he wore nankeen that day. And then he danced, and capered, and fidgeted, and pulled up his pantaloons, and hugged his intolerable flannel vestment closer about his poetic loins; anon he gave it loose to the zephyrs which plentifully insinuate their tiny bodies through every crevice, door, window, or wainscot, expressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. Then he caught at a proof-sheet, and catched up a laundress's bill instead; made a dart at Bloomfield's Poems, and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to one direct reply; he could not maintain his jumping mind in a right line for the tithe of a moment by Clifford's Inn clock. He must go to the printer's immediately,--the most unlucky accident; he had struck off five hundred impressions of his Poems, which were ready for delivery to subscribers, and the Preface must all be expunged. There were eighty pages of Preface, and not till that morning had he discovered that in the very first page of said Preface he had set out with a principle of criticism fundamentally wrong, which vitiated all his following reasoning. The Preface must be expunged, although it cost him L30,--the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing! In vain have his real friends remonstrated against this Midsummer madness; George is as obstinate as a Primitive Christian, and wards and parries off all our thrusts with one unanswerable fence,--"Sir, it's of great consequence that the _world_ is not _misled!_" * * * * * Man of many snipes, I will sup with thee, _Deo volente ei diabolo nolente_, on Monday night the 5th of January, in the new year, and crush a cup to the infant century. A word or two of my progress. Embark at six o'clock in the morning, with a fresh gale, on a Cambridge one-decker; very cold till eight at night; land at St. Mary's lighthouse, muffins and coffee upon table (or any other curious production of Turkey or both Indies), snipes exactly at nine, punch to commence at ten, with _argument_; difference of opinion is expected to take place about eleven; perfect unanimity, with some haziness and dimness, before twelve. N. B.--My single affection is not so singly wedded to snipes; but the curious and epicurean eye would also take a pleasure in beholding a delicate and well-chosen assortment of teals, ortolans, the unctuous and palate-soothing flesh, of geese wild and tame, nightingales' brains, the sensorium of a young sucking-pig, or any other Christmas dish, which I leave to the judgment of you and the cook of Gonville. C. LAMB. XXXIII. TO COLERIDGE. (End of 1800) I send you, in this parcel, my play, which I beg you to present in my name, with my respect and love, to Wordsworth and his sister. You blame us for giving your direction to Miss Wesley; the woman has been ten times after us about it, and we gave it her at last, under the idea that no further harm would ensue, but she would _once_ write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget to answer it, and so it would end. You read us a dismal homily upon "Realities." We know quite as well as you do what are shadows and what are realities. You, for instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of realities. Shadows are cold, thin things, that have no warmth or grasp in them. Miss Wesley and her friend, and a tribe of authoresses, that come after you here daily, and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows. You encouraged that mopsey, Miss Wesley, to dance after you, in the hope of having her nonsense put into a nonsensical Anthology. We have pretty well shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring her to you; but there are more burrs in the wind. I came home t'other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, I am sure, of _the author but hunger_ about me, and whom found I closeted with Mary but a friend of this Miss Wesley, one Miss Benje, or Bengey, --I don't know how she spells her name, I just came is time enough, I believe, luckily, to prevent them from exchanging vows of eternal friendship. It seems she is one of your authoresses, that you first foster, and then upbraid us with. But I forgive you. "The rogue has given me potions to make me love him." Well; go she would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till we had promised to come and drink tea with her next night, I had never seen her before, and could not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar. We went, however, not to be impolite. Her lodgings are up two pairs of stairs in East Street, Tea and coffee and macaroons--a kind of cake--I much love. We sat down. Presently Miss Benje broke the silence by declaring herself quite of a different opinion from D'lsraeli, who supposes the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organization. She begged to know my opinion. I attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ; but that went off very flat. She immediately conceived a very low opinion of my metaphysics; and turning round to Mary, put some question to her in French,--possibly having heard that neither Mary nor I understood French. The explanation that took place occasioned some embarrassment and much wondering. She then fell into an insulting conversation about the comparative genius and merits of all modern languages, and concluded with asserting that the Saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in Germany. From thence she passed into the subject of poetry, where I, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer only, humbly hoped I might now put in a word to some advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in a manner. But I was stopped by a round assertion that no good poetry had appeared since Dr. Johnson's time. It seems the Doctor had suppressed many hopeful geniuses that way by the severity of his critical strictures in his "Lives of the Poets." I here ventured to question the fact, and was beginning to appeal to _names_; but I was assured "it was certainly the case." Then we discussed Miss More's book on education, which I had never read. It seems Dr. Gregory, another of Miss Bengey's friends, has found fault with one of Miss More's metaphors. Miss More has been at some pains to vindicate herself,--in the opinion of Miss Bengey, not without success. It seems the Doctor is invariably against the use of broken or mixed metaphor, which he reprobates against the authority of Shakspeare himself. We next discussed the question whether Pope was a poet. I find Dr. Gregory is of opinion he was not, though Miss Seward does not at all concur with him in this. We then sat upon the comparative merits of the ten translations of "Pizarro," and Miss Bengey, or Benje, advised Mary to take two of them home; she thought it might afford her some pleasure to compare them _verbatim_; which we declined. It being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons were again served round, and we parted, with a promise to go again next week, and meet the Miss Porters, who, it seems, have heard much of Mr. Coleridge, and wish to meet _us_, because we are _his_ friends. I have been preparing for the occasion. I crowd cotton in my ears. I read all the reviews and magazines of the past month against the dreadful meeting, and I hope by these means to cut a tolerable second-rate figure. Pray let us have no more complaints about shadows. We are in a fair way, _through you_, to surfeit sick upon them. Our loves and respects to your host and hostess. Our dearest love to Coleridge. Take no thought about your proof-sheets; they shall be done as if Woodfall himself did them. Pray send us word of Mrs. Coleridge and little David Hartley, your little reality. Farewell, dear Substance. Take no umbrage at anything I have written. C. LAMB, _Umbra_. Miss Elizabeth Benger. See "Dictionary of Nationai Biography," iv. 221. XXXIV. TO WORDSWORTH. _January_, 1801. Thanks for your letter and present. I had already borrowed your second volume. What pleases one most is "The Song of Lucy.". _Simon's sickly Daughter_, in "The Sexton," made me _cry_. Next to these are the description of these continuous echoes in the story of "Joanna's Laugh," where the mountains and all the scenery absolutely seem alive; and that fine Shakspearian character of the "happy man" in the "Brothers,"-- "That creeps about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead!" I will mention one more,--the delicate and curious feeling in the wish for the "Cumberland Beggar" that he may have about him the melody of birds, although he hear them not. Here the mind knowingly passes a fiction upon herself, first substituting her own feeling for the Beggar's, and in the same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part with the wish. The "Poet's Epitaph" is disfigured, to my taste, by the common satire upon parsons and lawyers in the beginning, and the coarse epithet of "pin-point," in the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and your own. I will just add that it appears to me a fault in the "Beggar" that the instructions conveyed in it are too direct, and like a lecture: they don't slide into the mind of the reader while he is imagining no such matter. An intelligent reader finds a sort of insult in being told, "I will teach you how to think upon this subject." This fault, if I am right, is in a ten-thousandth worse degree to be found in Sterne, and in many novelists and modern poets, who continually put a sign-post up to show where you are to feel. They set out with assuming their readers to be stupid,--very different from "Robinson Crusoe," the "Vicar of Wakefield," "Roderick Random," and other beautiful, bare narratives. There is implied, an unwritten compact between author and reader: "I will tell you a story, and I suppose you will understand it." Modern novels, "St. Leons" and the like, are full of such flowers as these,--"Let not my reader suppose;" "Imagine, if you can, modest," etc, I will here have done with praise and blame, I have written so much only that you may not think I have passed over your book without observation.... I am sorry that Coleridge has christened his "Ancient Marinere," a "Poet's Reverie;" it is as bad as Bottom the Weaver's declaration that he is not a lion, but only the scenical representation of a lion. What new idea is gained by this title but one subversive of all credit--which the tale should force upon us--of its truth! For me, I was never so affected with any human tale. After first reading it, I was totally possessed with it for many days. I dislike all the miraculous part of it; but the feelings of the man under the operation of such scenery, dragged me along like Tom Pipe's magic whistle. I totally differ from your idea that the "Marinere" should have had a character and a profession. This is a beauty in "Gulliver's Travels," where the mind is kept in a placid state of little wonderments; but the "Ancient Marinere" undergoes such trials as overwhelm and bury all individuality or memory of what he was,--like the state of a man in a bad dream, one terrible peculiarity of which is, that all consciousness of personality is gone. Your other observation is, I think as well, a little unfounded: the "Marinere," from being conversant in supernatural events, _has_ acquired a supernatural and strange cast of _phrase_, eye, appearance, etc., which frighten the "wedding guest." You will excuse my remarks, because I am hurt and vexed that you should think it necessary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes of dead men that cannot see. To sum up a general opinion of the second volume, I do not feel any one poem in it so forcibly as the "Ancient Marinere" and "The Mad Mother," and the "Lines at Tintern Abbey" in the first. C. L. Of the "Lyrical Ballads" then just published. For certain results of Lamb's strictures in this letter, see Letter xxxvii. XXXV. TO WORDSWORTH. _January_ 30, 1801. I ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into Cumberland. With you and your sister I could gang anywhere; but I am afraid whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey. Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and customers; coaches, wagons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickedness round about Covent Garden; the very women of the town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements; the print-shops, the old-book stalls, parsons cheapening books; coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens; the pantomimes, London itself a pantomime and a masquerade,--all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me into night-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the motley Strand from fulness of joy at so much life. All these emotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me. But consider what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes? My attachments are all local, purely local,--I have no passion (or have had none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry and books) to groves and valleys. The rooms where I was bom, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a bookcase which has followed me about like a faithful dog (only exceeding him in knowledge), wherever I have moved; old chairs, old tables; streets, squares, where I have sunned myself; my old school,--these are my mistresses. Have I not enough without your mountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know that the mind will make friends with anything. Your sun and moon, and skies and hills and lakes, affect me no more or scarcely come to be in more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where I might live with handsome visible objects. I consider the clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted, but unable to satisfy the mind, and at last, like the pictures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. So fading upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of Nature, as they have been confidently called; so ever fresh and green and warm are all the inventions of men and assemblies of men In this great city. I should certainly have laughed with dear Joanna. Give my kindest love _and my sister's_ to D. and yourself. And a kiss from me to little Barbara Lewthwaite. Thank you for liking my play! C.L. XXXVI. TO MANNING. _February_, 1801. I am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable, at our Lady's next feast. I have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a-tiptoe) over the Thames and Surrey Hills, at the upper end of King's Bench Walks, in the Temple. There I shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance; and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as I desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present lodgings resemble a minister's levee, I have so increased my acquaintance (as they call 'em), since I have resided in town. Like the country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, I long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mousetraps and time-traps. By my new plan, I shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more than Mahometan paradise, London, whose dirtiest drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman, I would not exchange for Skiddaw, Helvellyn, James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain. Oh, her lamps of a night; her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastrycooks; St. Paul's Churchyard; the Strand; Exeter 'Change; Charing Cross, with a man _upon_ a black horse! These are thy gods, O London! Ain't you mightily moped on the banks of the Cam? Had not you better come and set up here? You can't think what a difference. All the streets and pavements are pure gold, I warrant you,--at least, I know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal: a mind that loves to be at home in crowds. 'Tis half-past twelve o'clock, and all sober people ought to be a-bed. Between you and me, the L. Ballads are but drowsy performances. C. LAMB (as you may guess). The child in Wordsworth's "The Pet Lamb." XXXVII. TO MANNING. _February_ 15, 1801. I had need be cautious henceforward what opinion I give of the "Lyrical Ballads." All the North of England are in a turmoil. Cumberland and Westmoreland have already declared a state of war. I lately received from Wordsworth a copy of the second volume, accompanied by an acknowledgment of having received from me many months since a copy of a certain tragedy, with excuses for not having made any acknowledgment sooner, it being owing to an "almost insurmountable aversion from letter-writing." This letter I answered in due form and time, and enumerated several of the passages which had most affected me, adding, unfortunately, that no single piece had moved me so forcibly as the "Ancient Mariner," "The Mad Mother," or the "Lines at Tintern Abbey." The Post did not sleep a moment. I received almost instantaneously a long letter of four sweating pages from my Reluctant Letter-Writer, the purport of which was that he was sorry his second volume had not given me more pleasure (Devil a hint did I give that it had _not pleased me_), and "was compelled to wish that my range of sensibility was more extended, being obliged to believe that I should receive large influxes of happiness and happy thoughts" (I suppose from the L. B. ),--with a deal of stuff about a certain Union of Tenderness and Imagination, which, in the sense he used Imagination, was not the characteristic of Shakspeare, but which Milton possessed in a degree far exceeding other Poets; which union, as the highest species of poetry, and chiefly deserving that name, "he was most proud to aspire to;" then illustrating the said union by two quotations from his own second volume (which I had been so unfortunate as to miss.) First specimen; A father addresses his son:-- "When thou First camest into the World, as it befalls To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away Two days; _and blessings from thy father's tongue Then fell upon thee_." The lines were thus undermarked, and then followed, "This passage, as combining in an extraordinary degree that union of tenderness and imagination which I am speaking of, I consider as one of the best I ever wrote." Second specimen: A youth, after years of absence, revisits his native place, and thinks (as most people do) that there has been strange alteration in his absence,-- "And that the rocks And everlasting hills themselves were changed." You see both these are good poetry; but after one has been reading Shakspeare twenty of the best years of one's life, to have a fellow start up and prate about some unknown quality which Shakspeare possessed in a degree inferior to Milton and _somebody else_! This was not to be _all_ my castigation. Coleridge, who had not written to me for some months before, starts up from his bed of sickness to reprove me for my tardy presumption; four long pages, equally sweaty and more tedious, came from him, assuring me that when the works of a man of true genius, such as W. undoubtedly was, do not please me at first sight, I should expect the fault to lie "in me, and not in them," etc. What am I to do with such people? I certainly shall write them a very merry letter. Writing to _you_, I may say that the second volume has no such pieces as the three I enumerated. It is full of original thinking and an observing mind; but it does not often make you laugh or cry. It too artfully aims at simplicity of expression. And you sometimes doubt if simplicity be not a cover for poverty. The best piece in it I will send you, being _short_. I have grievously offended my friends in the North by declaring my undue preference; but I need not fear you. "She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the Springs of Dove,-- A maid whom there were few (_sic_) to praise, And very few to love. "A violet, by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye, Fair as a star when only one Is shining in the sky. "She lived unknown; and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in the grave, and oh, The difference to me!" This is choice and genuine, and so are many, many more. But one does riot like to have 'em rammed down one's throat. "Pray take it,--it's very good; let me help you,--eat faster." XXXVIII. TO MANNING, _September_ 24, 1802 My Dear Manning,--Since the date of my last tetter, I have been a traveller, A strong desire seized me of visiting remote regions. My first impulse was to go aod see Paris. It was a trivial objection to my aspiring mind that I did not understand a word of the language, since I certainly intend some time in my life to see Paris, and equally certainly never intend to learn the language; therefore that could be no objection. However, I am very glad I did not go, because you had left Paris (I see) before I could have set out. I believe Stoddart promising to go with me another year prevented that plan. My next scheme (for to my restless, ambitious mind London was become a bed of thorns) was to visit the far-famed peak in Derbyshire, where the Devil sits, they say, without breeches. _This_ my purer mind rejected as indelicate. And my final resolve was a tour to the Lakes. I set out with Mary to Keswick, without giving Coleridge any notice; for my time, being precious, did not admit of it. He received us with all the hospitality tality in the world, and gave up his time to show us all the wonders of the country. He dwells upon a small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains,--great floundering bears and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep. We got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from Penrith, in the midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains into colors, purple, etc. We thought we had got into fairy-land. But that went off (as it never came again; while we stayed, we had no more fine sunsets); and we entered Coleridge's comfortable study just in the dusk, when the mountains were all dark, with clouds upon their heads. Such an impression I never received from objects of sight before, nor do I suppose that I can ever again. Glorious creatures, fine old fellows, Skiddaw, etc. I never shall forget ye, how ye lay about that night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed for the night, but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. Coleridge had got a blazing fire in his study, which is a large, antique, ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big enough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an AEolian harp, and an old sofa, half-bed, etc. ; and all looking out upon the last fading view of Skiddaw and his broad-breasted brethren. What a night! Here we stayed three full weeks, in which time I visited Wordsworth's cottage, where we stayed a day or two with the Clarksons (good people and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night), and saw Lloyd. The Wordsworths were gone to Calais. They have since been in London, and passed much time with us; he has now gone into Yorkshire to be married. So we have seen Keswick, Grasmere, Ambleside, Ulswater (where the Clarksons live), and a place at the other end of Ulswater,--I forget the name, --to which we travelled on a very sultry day, over the middle of Helvellyn. We have clambered up to the top of Skiddaw, and I have waded up the bed of Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied myself that there is such a thing as that which tourists call _romantic_, which I very much suspected before; they make such a spluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets around them, till they give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning the lamps do after an illumination. Mary was excessively tired when she got about half way up Skiddaw; but we came to a cold rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of cold water she surmounted it most manfully. Oh, its fine black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect of mountains all about and about, making you giddy; and then Scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song and ballad! It was a day that will stand out like a mountain, I am sure, in my life. But I am returned (I have now been come home near three weeks; I was a month out), and you cannot conceive the degradation I felt at first, from being accustomed to wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any one, to come home and _work_. I felt very _little_. I had been dreaming I was a very great man. But that is going off, and I find I shall conform in time to that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me. Besides, after all, Fleet Street and the Strand are better places to live in for good and all than amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those great places where I wandered about, participating in their greatness. After all, I could not _live_ in Skiddaw. I could spend a year,--two, three years among them; but I must have a prospect of seeing Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should mope and pine away, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a fine creature. My habits are changing, I think,--_i.e._, from drunk to sober. Whether I shall be happier or not, remains to be proved. I shall certainly be more happy in a morning; but whether I shall not sacrifice the fat and the marrow and the kidneys,--_i.e._, the night,--glorious, care-drowning night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our mortifications, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to bright and brilliant? O Manning, if I should have formed a diabolical resolution, by the time you come to England, of not admitting any spirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on such shameworthy terms? Is life, with such limitations, worth trying? The truth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies about my house, who consume me. This is a pitiful tale to be read at St. Gothard; but it is just now nearest my heart. Patterdale. XXXIX. TO COLERIDGE, _October_ 23, 1802. I read daily your political essays. I was particularly pleased with "Once a Jacobin;" though the argument is obvious enough, the style was less swelling than your things sometimes are, and it was plausible _ad populum_. A vessel has just arrived from Jamaica with the news of poor Sam Le Grice's death. He died at Jamaica of the yellow fever. His course was rapid, and he had been very foolish; but I believe there was more of kindness and warmth in him than in almost any other of our schoolfellows. The annual meeting of the Blues is to-morrow, at the London Tavern, where poor Sammy dined with them two years ago, and attracted the notice of all by the singular foppishness of his dress. When men go off the stage so early, it scarce seems a noticeable thing in their epitaphs, whether they had been wise or silly in their lifetime. I am glad the snuff and Pi-pos's books please. "Goody Two Shoes" is almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at Newberry's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B. 's and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. B. 's books convey, it seems, must come to the child in the _shape_ of _knowledge_, and his empty noddle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learned that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales which made the child a man, while all the time he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would have been now, if instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history! Hang them!--I mean the cursed Barbauld crew, those blights and blasts of all that is human in man and child. As to the translations, let me do two or three hundred lines, and then do you try the nostrums upon Stuart in any way you please. If they go down, I will bray more. In fact, if I got or could but get L50 a year only, in addition to what I have, I should live in affluence. Have you anticipated it, or could not you give a parallel of Bonaparte with Cromwell, particularly as to the contrast in their deeds affecting _foreign_ States? Cromwell's interference for the Albigenses, B's against the Swiss. Then religion would come in; and Milton and you could rant about our countrymen of that period. This is a hasty suggestion, the more hasty because I want my supper. I have just finished Chapman's Homer. Did you ever read it? It has most the continuous power of interesting you all along, like a rapid original, of any, and in the uncommon excellence of the more finished parts goes beyond Fairfax or any of 'em. The metre is fourteen syllables, and capable of all sweetness and grandeur, Cowper's ponderous blank verse detains you every step with some heavy Miltonism; Chapman gallops off with you his own free pace. Take a simile, for example. The council breaks up,-- "Being abroad, the earth was overlaid With fleckers to them, that came forth; as when of frequent bees Swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the degrees Of _their egression endlessly,--with ever rising new_ From forth their sweet nest; as their store, still as it faded, grew, "_And never would cease sending forth her dusters to the spring_. They still crowd out so: this flock here, that there, belaboring The loaded flowers. So," etc. What _endless egression of phrases_ the dog commands! Take another.--Agamemnon, wounded, bearing hiss wound, heroically for the sake of the army (look below) to a woman in labor:-- "He with his lance, sword, mighty stones, poured his heroic wreak On other squadrons of the foe, whiles yet warm blood did break Thro' his cleft veins: but when the wound was quite exhaust and crude, The eager anguish did approve his princely fortitude. As when most sharp and bitter pangs distract a laboring dame, Which the divine Ilithiae, that rule the painful frame Of human childbirth, pour on her; the Ilithiae that are The daughters of Saturnia; with whose extreme repair The woman in her travail strives to take the worst it gives; With thought, _it must be, 'tis love's fruit, the end for which she lives; The mean to make herself new born, what comforts_ will redound! So," etc. I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my next. I am much interested in him. Yours ever affectionately, and Pi-Pos's, C. L. XL. TO MANNING. _November_, 1802. My Dear Manning,--I must positively write, or I shall miss you at Toulouse. I sit here like a decayed minute-hand (I lie; _that_ does not _sit_), and being myself the exponent of no time, take no heed how the clocks about me are going. You possibly by this time may have explored all Italy, and toppled, unawares, into Etna, while you went too near those rotten-jawed, gap-toothed, old worn-out chaps of hell,--while I am meditating a quiescent letter to the honest postmaster at Toulouse. But in case you should not have been _felo de se_, this is to tell you that your letter was quite to my palate; in particular your just remarks upon Industry, cursed Industry (though indeed you left me to explore the reason), were highly relishing. I've often wished I lived in the Golden Age, before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world. _Now_, as Joseph Cottle, a Bard of Nature, sings, going up Malvern Hills,-- "How steep, how painful the ascent! It needs the evidence of _close deduction_ To know that ever I shall gain the top." You must know that Joe is lame, so that he had some reason for so singing. These two lines, I assure you, are taken _totidem literis_ from a very _popular_ poem. Joe is also an epic poet as well as a descriptive, and has written a tragedy, though both his drama and epopoiea are strictly _descriptive_, and chiefly of the _beauties of nature_, for Toe thinks _man_, with all his passions and frailties, not: a proper subject of the _drama_. Joe's tragedy hath the following surpassing speech in it. Some king is told that his enemy has engaged twelve archers to come over in a boat from an enemy's country and way-lay him; he thereupon pathetically exclaims,-- "_Twelve_, dost thou say? Curse on those dozen villains!" Cottle read two or three acts out to as, very gravely on both sides, till he came to this heroic touch,--and then he asked what we laughed at? I had no more muscles that day. A poet that chooses to read out his own verses has but a limited power over you. There is a bound where his authority ceases. XLI. TO MANNING. _February_ 19, 1803. My Dear Manning,--The general scope of your letter afforded no indications of insanity, but some particular points raised a scruple. For God's sake, don't think any more of "Independent Tartary." What are you to do among such Ethiopians? Is there no _lineal descendant_ of Prester John? Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed? Depend upon it, they'll never make you their king as long as any branch of that great stock is remaining. I tremble for your Christianity. They will certainly circumcise you. Read Sir John Mandeville's travels to cure you, or come over to England. There is a Tartar man now exhibiting at Exeter 'Change. Come and talk with him, and hear what he says first. Indeed, he is no very favorable specimen of his countrymen! But perhaps the best thing you can do is to _try_ to get the idea out of your head. For this purpose repeat to yourself every night, after you have said your prayers, the words "Independent Tartary, Independent Tartary," two or three times, and associate with them the _idea_ of oblivion ('t is Hartley's method with obstinate memories); or say "Independent, Independent, have I not already got an _independence_?" That was a clever way of the old Puritans,--pun-divinity. My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable, horse-belching, Tartar people! Some say they are cannibals; and then conceive a Tartar fellow _eating_ my friend, and adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! I am afraid 't is the reading of Chaucer has misled you; his foolish stories about Cambuscan and the ring, and the horse of brass. Believe me, there are no such things,--'t is all the poet's _invention_; but if there were such darling things as old Chaucer sings, I would _up_ behind you on the horse of brass, and frisk off for Prester John's country. But these are all tales; a horse of brass never flew, and a king's daughter never talked with birds! The Tartars really are a cold, insipid, smouchy set. You'll be sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_ and cure yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's; 't was none of my thought _originally_). Shave yourself oftener. Eat no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like yellow. Pray to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the heartburn. _Shave the upper lip_. Go about like an European. Read no book of voyages (they are nothing but lies); only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy _under_. Above all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts. That has been your ruin_. Accustom yourself to write familiar letters on common subjects to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate understanding. And think about common things more. I supped last night with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakspeare he liked, because he was so _much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a man "absolute in all numbers." I think I may one day bring you acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never come back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at fivepence a pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in Holland), not as a guest, but as a meat! God bless you! do come to England. Air and exercise may do great things. Talk with some minister. Why not your father? God dispose all for the best! I have discharged my duty. Your sincere friend, C. LAMB. Manning had evidently written to Lamb as to his cherished project of exploring remoter China and Thibet. XLII. TO MANNING. _February_, 1803. Not a sentence, not a syllable, of Trismegistus shall be lost through my neglect. I am his word-banker, his storekeeper of puns and syllogisms. You cannot conceive (and if Trismegistus cannot, no man can) the strange joy which I felt at the receipt of a letter from Paris. It seemed to give me a learned importance which placed me above all who had not Parisian correspondents. Believe that I shall carefully husband every scrap, which will save you the trouble of memory when you come back. You cannot write things so trifling, let them only be about Paris, which I shall not treasure. In particular, I must have parallels of actors and actresses. I must be told if any building in Paris is at all comparable to St. Paul's, which, contrary to the usual mode of that part of our nature called admiration, I have looked up to with unfading wonder every morning at ten o'clock, ever since it has lain in my way to business. At noon I casually glance upon it, being hungry; and hunger has not much taste for the fine arts. Is any night-walk comparable to a walk from St. Paul's to Charing Cross, for lighting and paving, crowds going and coming without respite, the rattle of coaches, and the cheerfulness of shops? Have you seen a man guillotined yet? is it as good as hanging? Are the women _all_ painted, and the men _all_ monkeys? or are there not a _few_ that look like _rational_ of _both sexes_? Are you and the First Consul _thick_? All this expense of ink I may fairly put you to, as your letters will not be solely for my proper pleasure, but are to serve as memoranda and notices, helps for short memory, a kind of Rumfordizing recollection, for yourself on your return. Your letter was just what a letter should be,--crammed and very funny. Every part of it pleased me, till you came to Paris, and your philosophical indolence or indifference stung me. You cannot stir from your rooms till you know the language! What the devil! are men nothing but word-trumpets? Are men all tongue and ear? Have these creatures, that you and I profess to know _something about_, no faces, gestures, gabble; no folly, no absurdity, no induction of French education upon the abstract idea of men and women; no similitude nor dissimilitude to English? Why, thou cursed Smellfungus! your account of your landing and reception, and Bullen (I forget how you spell it,--it was spelt my way in Harry the Eighth's time), was exactly in that minute style which strong impressions INSPIRE (writing to a Frenchman, I write as a Frenchman would). It appears to me as if I should die with joy at the first landing in a foreign country. It is the nearest pleasure which a grown man can substitute for that unknown one, which he can never know,--the pleasure of the first entrance into life from the womb. I daresay, in a short time, my habits would come back like a "stronger man" armed, and drive out that new pleasure; and I should soon sicken for known objects. Nothing has transpired here that seems to me of sufficient importance to send dry-shod over the water; but I suppose you will want to be told some news. The best and the worst to me is, that I have given up two guineas a week at the "Post," and regained my health and spirits, which were upon the wane. I grew sick, and Stuart unsatisfied. _Ludisti satis, tempus abire est_; I must cut closer, that's all. Mister Fell--or as you, with your usual facetiousness and drollery, call him, Mr. Fell--has stopped short in the middle of his play. Some _friend_ has told him that it has not the least merit in it. Oh that I had the rectifying of the Litany! I would put in a _Libera nos (Scriptores videlicet) ab amicis_! That's all the news. _A propos_ (is it pedantry, writing to a Frenchman, to express myself sometimes by a French word, when an English one would not do as well? Methinks my thoughts fall naturally into it)-- In all this time I have done but one thing which I reckon tolerable, and that I will transcribe, because it may give you pleasure, being a picture of _my_ humors. You will find it in my last page. It absurdly is a first number of a series, thus strangled in its birth. More news! The Professor's Rib has come out to be a disagreeable woman, so much so as to drive me and some more old cronies from his house. He must not wonder if people are shy of coming to see him because of the _Snakes_. C. L. Mrs. Godwin XLIII. TO WILLIAM GODWIN. _November_ 10, 1803. Dear Godwin,--You never made a more unlucky and perverse mistake than to suppose that the reason of my not writing that cursed thing was to be found in your book. I assure you most sincerely that I have been greatly delighted with "Chaucer." I may be wrong, but I think there is one considerable error runs through it, which is a conjecturing spirit, a fondness for filling out the picture by supposing what Chaucer did and how he felt, where the materials are scanty. So far from meaning to withhold from you (out of mistaken tenderness) this opinion of mine, I plainly told Mrs. Godwin that I did find a _fault_, which I should reserve naming until I should see you and talk it over. This she may very well remember, and also that I declined naming this fault until she drew it from me by asking me if there was not too much fancy in the work. I then confessed generally what I felt, but refused to go into particulars until I had seen you. I am never very fond of saying things before third persons, because in the relation (such is human nature) something is sure to be dropped. If Mrs. Godwin has been the cause of your misconstruction, I am very angry, tell her; yet it is not an anger unto death. I remember also telling Mrs. G. (which she may have _dropt_) that I was by turns considerably more delighted than I expected. But I wished to reserve all this until I saw you. I even had conceived an expression to meet you with, which was thanking you for some of the most exquisite pieces of criticism I had ever read in my life. In particular, I should have brought forward that on "Troilus and Cressida" and Shakspeare, which, it is little to say, delighted me and instructed me (if not absolutely _instructed_ me, yet put into _full-grown sense_ many conceptions which had arisen in me before in my most discriminating moods). All these things I was preparing to say, and bottling them up till I came, thinking to please my friend and host the author, when lo! this deadly blight intervened. I certainly ought to make great allowances for your misunderstanding me. You, by long habits of composition and a greater command gained over your own powers, cannot conceive of the desultory and uncertain way in which I (an author by fits) sometimes cannot put the thoughts of a common letter into sane prose. Any work which I take upon myself as an engagement will act upon me to torment; _e.g._, when I have undertaken, as three or four times I have, a school-boy copy of verses for Merchant Taylors' boys, at a guinea a copy, I have fretted over them in perfect inability to do them, and have made my sister wretched with my wretchedness for a week together. The same, till by habit I have acquired a mechanical command, I have felt in making paragraphs. As to reviewing, in particular, my head is so whimsical a head that I cannot, after reading another man's book, let it have been never so pleasing, give any account of it in any methodical way, I cannot follow his train. Something like this you must have perceived of me in conversation. Ten thousand times I have confessed to you, talking of my talents, my utter inability to remember in any comprehensive way what I read. I can vehemently applaud, or perversely stickle, at _parts_; but I cannot grasp at a whole. This infirmity (which is nothing to brag of) may be seen in my two little compositions, the tale and my play, in both which no reader, however partial, can find any story. I wrote such stuff about Chaucer, and got into such digressions, quite irreducible into 1 1/5 column of a paper, that I was perfectly ashamed to show it you. However, it is become a serious matter that I should convince you I neither slunk from the task through a wilful deserting neglect, or through any (most imaginary on your part) distaste of "Chaucer;" and I will try my hand again,--I hope with better luck. My health is bad, and my time taken up; but all I can spare between this and Sunday shall be employed for you, since you desire it: and if I bring you a crude, wretched paper on Sunday, you must burn it, and forgive me; if it proves anything better than I predict, may it be a peace-offering of sweet incense between us! C. LAMB. Godwin's "Life of Chaucer,"--a work, says Canon Ainger, consisting of "four fifths ingenious guessing to one fifth of material having any historic basis." XLIV. TO MANNING. _February_ 24, 1805. Dear Manning,--I have been very unwell since I saw you. A sad depression of spirits, a most unaccountable nervousness; from which I have been partially relieved by an odd accident. You knew Dick Hopkins, the swearing scullion of Caius? This fellow, by industry and agility, has thrust himself into the important situations (no sinecures, believe me) of cook to Trinity Hall and Caius College; and the generous creature has contrived, with the greatest delicacy imaginable, to send me a present of Cambridge brawn. What makes it the more extraordinary is, that the man never saw me in his life that I know of. I suppose he has _heard_ of me. I did not immediately recognize the donor; but one of Richard's cards, which had accidentally fallen into the straw, detected him in a moment, Dick, you know, was always remarkable for flourishing. His card imports that "orders from any part of England, Scotland, or Ireland, will be duly executed," etc. At first I thought of declining the present; but Richard knew my blind side when he pitched upon brawn. 'Tis of all my hobbies the supreme in the eating way. He might have sent sops from the pan, skimmings, crumpets, chips, hog's lard, the tender brown judiciously scalped from a fillet of veal (dexterously replaced by a salamander), the tops of asparagus, fugitive livers, runaway gizzards of fowls, the eyes of martyred pigs, tender effusions of laxative woodcocks, the red spawn of lobsters, leverets' ears, and such pretty filchings common to cooks; but these had been ordinary presents, the everyday courtesies of dishwashers to their sweethearts. Brawn was a noble thought. It is not every common gullet-fancier that can properly esteem it. It is like a picture of one of the choice old Italian masters. Its gusto is of that hidden sort. As Wordsworth sings of a modest poet, "you must love him, ere to you he will seem worthy of your love," so brawn, you must taste it, ere to you it will seem to have any taste at all. But 'tis nuts to the adept,--those that will send out their tongues and feelers to find it out. It will be wooed, and not unsought be won. Now, ham-essence, lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, absolutely _court you_, lay themselves out to strike you at first smack, like one of David's pictures (they call him _Darveed_), compared with the plain russet-coated wealth of a Titian or a Correggio, as I illustrated above. Such are the obvious glaring heathen virtues of a corporation dinner, compared with the reserved collegiate worth of brawn. Do me the favour to leave off the business which you may be at present upon, and go immediately to the kitchens of Trinity and Caius, and make my most respectful compliments to Mr. Richard Hopkins, and assure him that his brawn is most excellent, and that I am moreover obliged to him for his innuendo about salt water and bran, which I shall not fail to improve. I leave it to you whether you shall choose to pay him the civility of asking him to dinner while you stay in Cambridge, or in whatever other way you may best like to show your gratitude to _my friend_. Richard Hopkins, considered in many points of view, is a very extraordinary character. Adieu. I hope to see you to supper in London soon, where we will taste Richard's brawn, and drink his health in a cheerful but moderate cup. We have not many such men in any rank of life as Mr. R. Hopkins. Crisp the barber, of St. Mary's, was just such another. I wonder _he_ never sent me any little token,--some chestnuts, or a puff, or two pound of hair just to remember him by; gifts are like nails. _Praesens ut absens_, that is, your _present_ makes amends for your absence. Yours, C. LAMB. XLV. TO MISS WORDSWORTH. _June_ 14, 1805. My Dear Miss Wordsworth,--I have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all Mary's former ones, will be but temporary. But I cannot always feel so. Meantime she is dead to me, and I miss a prop. All my strength Is gone, and I am like a fool, bereft of her co-operation. I dare not think, iest I should think wrong; so used am I to look up to her in the least and the biggest perplexity. To say all that I know of her, would be more than I think anybody could believe or ever understand; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her; for I can conceal nothing that I do from her. She is older and wiser and better than I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking on her goodness. She would share life and death, heaven and hell, with me. She lives but for me; and I know I have been wasting and teasing her life for five years past incessantly with my cursed ways of going on. But even in this upbraiding of myself I am offending against her, for I know that she has cleaved to me for better, for worse; and if the balance has been against her hitherto, it was a noble trade. I am stupid, and lose myself in what I write. I write rather what answers to my feelings (which are sometimes sharp enough) than express my present ones, for I am only flat and stupid. I am sure you will excuse my writing any more, I am so very poorly. I cannot resist transcribing three or four lines which poor Mary made upon a picture (a Holy Family) which we saw at an auction only one week before she left home. They are sweet lines, and upon a sweet picture. But I send them only as the last memorial of her. VIRGIN AND CHILD, L. DA VINCI. "Maternal Lady, with thy virgin-grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth, sure, And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy angel face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee." You had her lines about the "Lady Blanch." You have not had some which she wrote upon a copy of a girl from Titian, which I had hung up where that print of Blanch and the Abbess (as she beautifully interpreted two female figures from L. da Vinci) had hung in our room. 'Tis light and pretty. "Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? Come, fair and pretty, tell to me Who in thy lifetime thou mightst be? Thou pretty art and fair, But with the Lady Blanch thou never must compare. No need for Blanch her history to tell, Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well; But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago," This is a little unfair, to tell so much about ourselves, and to advert so little to your letter, so full of comfortable tidings of you all But my own cares press pretty close upon me, and you can make allowance. That you may go on gathering strength and peace is my next wish to Mary's recovery. I had almost forgot your repeated invitation. Supposing that Mary will be well and able, there is another _ability_ which you may guess at, which I cannot promise myself. In prudence we ought not to come. This illness will make it still more prudential to wait. It is not a balance of this way of spending our money against another way, but an absolute question of whether we shall stop now, or go on wasting away the little we have got beforehand, which my evil conduct has already encroached upon one-half. My best love, however, to you all, and to that most friendly creature. Mrs. Clarkson, and better health to her, when you see or write to her. CHARLES LAMB. XLVI. TO MANNING. _May_ 10, 1806. My Dear Manning,--I didn't know what your going was till I shook a last fist with you, and then 'twas just like having shaken hands with a wretch on the fatal scaffold, and when you are down the ladder, you can never stretch out to him again. Mary says you are dead, and there's nothing to do but to leave it to time to do for us in the end what it always does for those who mourn for people in such a case. But she'll see by your letter you are not quite dead. A little kicking and agony, and then--Martin Burney _took me out_ a walking that evening, and we talked of Manning; and then I came home and smoked for you, and at twelve o'clock came home Mary and Monkey Louisa from the play, and there was more talk and more smoking, and they all seemed first-rate characters, because they knew a certain person. But what's the use of talking about 'em? By the time you'll have made your escape from the Kalmuks, you'll have stayed so long I shall never be able to bring to your mind who Mary was, who will have died about a year before, nor who the Holcrofts were! Me perhaps you will mistake for Phillips, or confound me with Mr. Dawe, because you saw us together. Mary (whom you seem to remember yet) is not quite easy that she had not a formal parting from you. I wish it had so happened. But you must bring her a token, a shawl or something, and remember a sprightly little mandarin for our mantelpiece, as a companion to the child I am going to purchase at the museum. She says you saw her writings about the other day, and she wishes you should know what they are. She is doing for Godwin's bookseller twenty of Shakspeare's plays, to be made into children's tales. Six are already done by her; to wit: "The Tempest," "Winter's Tale," "Midsummer Night's Dream," "Much Ado," "Two Gentlemen of Verona," and "Cymbeline;" and "The Merchant of Venice" is in forwardness. I have done "Othello" and "Macbeth," and mean to do all the tragedies. I think it will be popular among the little people, besides money. It's to bring in sixty guineas. Mary has done them capitally, I think you'd think. These are the humble amusements we propose, while you are gone to plant the cross of Christ among barbarous pagan anthropophagi. _Quam <DW25> homini praestat!_ but then, perhaps, you'll get murdered, and we shall die in our beds, with a fair literary reputation. Be sure, if you see any of those people whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders, that you make a draught of them. It will be very curious. Oh, Manning, I am serious to sinking almost, when I think that all those evenings, which you have made so pleasant, are gone perhaps forever. Four years you talk of, maybe ten; and you may come back and find such alterations! Some circumstances may grow up to you or to me that may be a bar to the return of any such intimacy. I daresay all this is hum, and that all will come back; but indeed we die many deaths before we die, and I am almost sick when I think that such a hold as I had of you is gone. I have friends, but some of 'em are changed. Marriage, or some circumstance, rises up to make them not the same. But I felt sure of you. And that last token you gave me of expressing a wish to have my name joined with yours, you know not how it affected me,--like a legacy. God bless you in every way you can form a wish! May He give you health, and safety, and the accomplishment of all your objects, and return you again to us to gladden some fireside or other (I suppose we shall be moved from the Temple). I will nurse the remembrance of your steadiness and quiet, which used to infuse something like itself into our nervous minds. Mary called you our ventilator. Farewell! and take her best wishes and mine. Good by. C.L. Addressed: "Mr, Manning, Passenger on Board the 'Thames,' East Indiaman, Portsmouth." Manning had set out for Canton. Miss Lamb has amusingly described the progress of their labors on this volume; "You would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting), like Hermia and Helena, in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream;' or rather like an old literary Darby and Joan, I taking snuff, and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out that he has made something of it." XLVII. TO WORDSWORTH. _June_, 1806. Dear Wordsworth,--We are pleased, you may be sure, with the good news of Mrs. Wordsworth. Hope all is well over by this time. "A fine boy! Have you any more?--One more and a girl,--poor copies of me!" _vide_ "Mr. H.," a farce which the proprietors have done me the honor--But I set down Mr, Wroughton's own words, N. B.--The ensuing letter was sent in answer to one which I wrote, begging to know if my piece had any chance, as I might make alterations, etc, I writing on Monday, there comes this letter on the Wednesday. Attend. SIR,--Your piece of "Mr. H.," I am desired to say, is accepted at Drury Lane Theatre by the proprietors, and if agreeable to you, will be brought forwards when the proper opportunity serves. The piece shall be sent to you for your alterations in the course of a few days, as the same is not in my hands, but with the proprietors, I am, sir, your obedient servant, RICHARD WROUGHTON. 66, Gower Street, Wednesday, June 11th, 1806. On the following Sunday Mr. Tobin comes. The scent of a manager's letter brought him. He would have gone farther any day on such a business. I read the letter to him. He deems it authentic and peremptory. Our conversation naturally fell upon pieces, different sorts of pieces,--what is the best way of offering a piece; how far the caprice of managers is an obstacle in the way of a piece; how to judge of the merits of a piece; how long a piece may remain in the hands of the managers before it is acted; and my piece, and your piece, and my poor brother's piece,--my poor brother was all his life endeavoring to get a piece accepted. I wrote that in mere wantonness of triumph. Have nothing more to say about it. The managers, I thank my stars, have decided its merits forever. They are the best judges of pieces, and it would be insensible in me to affect a false modesty, after the very flattering letter which I have received. I think this will be as good a pattern for orders as I can think on. A little thin flowery border, round, neat, not gaudy, and the Drury Lane Apollo, with the harp at the top. Or shall I have no Apollo,--simply nothing? Or perhaps the Comic Muse? The same form, only I think without the Apollo, will serve for the pit and galleries. I think it will be best to write my name at full length; but then if I give away a great many, that will be tedious. Perhaps _Ch. Lamb_ will do. BOXES, now I think on it, I'll have in capitals; the rest, in a neat Italian hand. Or better, perhaps, BORES in Old English characters, like Madoc or Thalaba? _A propos_ of Spenser (you will find him mentioned a page or two before, near enough for an _a propos_), I was discoursing on poetry (as one's apt to deceive one's self, and when a person is willing to _talk_ of what one likes, to believe that be also likes the same, as lovers do) with a young gentleman of my office, who is deep read in Anacreon Moore, Lord Strangford, and the principal modern poets, and I happened to mention Epithalamiums, and that I could show him a very fine one of Spenser's. At the mention of this my gentleman, who is a very fine gentleman, pricked up his ears and expressed great pleasure, and begged that I would give him leave to copy it; he did not care how long it was (for I objected the length), he should be very happy to see _anything by him_. Then pausing, and looking sad, he ejaculated, "POOR SPENCER!" I begged to know the reason of his ejaculation, thinking that time had by this time softened down any calamities which the bard might have endured. "Why, poor fellow," said he, "he has lost his wife!" "Lost his wife!" said I, "who are you talking of?" "Why, Spencer!" said he; "I've read the Monody he wrote on the occasion, and _a very pretty thing it is_." This led to an explanation (it could be delayed no longer) that the sound _Spenser_, which, when poetry is talked of, generally excites an image of an old bard in a ruff, and sometimes with it dim notions of Sir P. Sidney and perhaps Lord Burleigh, had raised in my gentleman a quite contrary image of the Honorable William Spencer, who has translated some things from the German very prettily, which are published with Lady Di Beauclerk's designs. Nothing like defining of terms when we talk. What blunders might I have fallen into of quite inapplicable criticism, but for this timely explanation! N.B.--At the beginning of _Edm._ Spenser (to prevent mistakes), I have copied from my own copy, and primarily from a book of Chalmers's on Shakspeare, a sonnet of Spenser's never printed among his poems. It is curious, as being manly, and rather Miltonic, and as a sonnet of Spenser's with nothing in it about love or knighthood. I have no room for remembrances, but I hope our doing your commission will prove we do not quite forget you. C. L. Wordsworth's son Thomas was born June 16, 1806. XLVIII. TO MANNING _December_ 5, 1806. Manning, your letter, dated Hottentots, August the what-was-it? came to hand. I can scarce hope that mine will have the same luck. China, Canton,--bless us, how it strains the imagination and makes it ache! I write under another uncertainty whether it can go to-morrow by a ship which I have just learned is going off direct to your part of the world, or whether the despatches may not be sealed up and this have to wait; for if it is detained here, it will grow staler in a fortnight than in a five months' voyage coming to you. It will be a point of conscience to send you none but bran-new news (the latest edition), which will but grow the better, like oranges, for a sea-voyage. Oh that you should be so many hemispheres off!--if I speak incorrectly, you can correct me. Why, the simplest death or marriage that takes place here must be important to you as news in the old Bastile. There's your friend Tuthill has got away from France--you remember France? and Tuthill?--ten to one but he writes by this post, if he don't get my note in time, apprising him of the vessel sailing. Know, then, that he has found means to obtain leave from Bonaparte, without making use of any _incredible romantic pretences_, as some have done, who never meant to fulfil them, to come home; and I have seen him here and at Holcroft's. An't you glad about Tuthill? Now then be sorry for Holcroft, whose new play, called "The Vindictive Man," was damned about a fortnight since. It died in part of its own weakness, and in part for being choked up with bad actors. The two principal parts were destined to Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Bannister; but Mrs. J. has not come to terms with the managers,--they have had some squabble,--and Bannister shot some of his fingers off by the going off of a gun. So Miss Duncan had her part, and Mr. De Camp took his. His part, the principal comic hope of the play, was most unluckily Goldfinch, taken out of the "Road to Ruin,"--not only the same character, but the identical Goldfinch; the same as Falstaff is in two plays of Shakspeare. As the devil of ill-luck would have it, half the audience did not know that H. had written it, but were displeased at his stealing from the "Road to Ruin;" and those who might have home a gentlemanly coxcomb with his "That's your sort," "Go it,"--such as Lewis is,--did not relish the intolerable vulgarity and inanity of the idea stripped of his manner. De Camp was hooted, more than hissed,--hooted and bellowed off the stage before the second act was finished; so that the remainder of his part was forced to be, with some violence to the play, omitted. In addition to this, a strumpet was another principal character,--a most unfortunate choice in this moral day. The audience were as scandalized as if you were to introduce such a personage to their private tea-tables. Besides, her action in the play was gross,--wheedling an old man into marriage. But the mortal blunder of the play was that which, oddly enough, H. took pride in, and exultingly told me of the night before it came out, that there were no less than eleven principal characters in it, and I believe he meant of the men only, for the play-bill expressed as much, not reckoning one woman and one--; and true it was, for Mr. Powell, Mr. Raymond, Mr. Bartlett, Mr. H. Siddons, Mr. Barrymore, etc., to the number of eleven, had all parts equally prominent, and there was as much of them in quantity and rank as of the hero and heroine, and most of them gentlemen who seldom appear but as the hero's friend in a farce,--for a minute or two,--and here they all had their ten-minute speeches, and one of them gave the audience a serious account how he was now a lawyer, but had been a poet; and then a long enumeration of the inconveniences of authorship, rascally booksellers, reviewers, etc. ; which first set the audience a-gaping. But I have said enough; you will be so sorry that you will not think the best of me for my detail: but news is news at Canton. Poor H. I fear will feel the disappointment very seriously in a pecuniary light. From what I can learn, he has saved nothing. You and I were hoping one day that he had; but I fear he has nothing but his pictures and books, and a no very flourishing business, and to be obliged to part with his long-necked Guido that hangs opposite as you enter, and the game-piece that hangs in the back drawing-room, and all those Vandykes, etc.! God should temper the wind to the shorn connoisseur. I hope I need not say to you that I feel for the weather-beaten author and for all his household. I assure you his fate has soured a good deal the pleasure I should have otherwise taken in my own little farce being accepted, and I hope about to be acted,--it is in rehearsal actually, and I expect it to come out next week. It is kept a sort of secret, and the rehearsals have gone on privately, lest by many folks knowing it, the story should come out, which would infallibly damn it. You remember I had sent it before you went. Wroughton read it, and was much pleased with it. I speedily got an answer. I took it to make alterations, and lazily kept it some months, then took courage and furbished it up in a day or two and took it. In less than a fortnight I heard the principal part was given to Elliston, who liked it, and only wanted a prologue, which I have since done and sent; and I had a note the day before yesterday from the manager, Wroughton (bless his fat face, he is not a bad actor in some things), to say that I should be summoned to the rehearsal after the next, which next was to be yesterday. I had no idea it was so forward. I have had no trouble, attended no reading or rehearsal, made no interest; what a contrast to the usual parade of authors! But it is peculiar to modesty to do all things without noise or pomp! I have some suspicion it will appear in public on Wednesday next, for W. says in his note, it is so forward that if wanted it may come out next week, and a new melodrama is announced for every day till then; and "a new farce is in rehearsal," is put up in the bills. Now, you'd like to know the subject. The title is "Mr. H.," no more; how simple, how taking! A great H. sprawling over the play-bill and attracting eyes at every corner. The story is a coxcomb appearing at Bath, vastly rich, all the ladies dying for him, all bursting to know who he is; but he goes by no other name than Mr. H.,--a curiosity like that of the dames of Strasburg about the man with the great nose. But I won't tell you any more about it. Yes, I will, but I can't give you an idea how I have done it. I'll just tell you that after much vehement admiration, when his true name comes out, "Hogs-flesh," all the women shun him, avoid him, and not one can be found to change their name for him,--that's the idea,--how flat it is here; but how whimsical in the farce! And only think how hard upon me it is that the ship is despatched to-morrow, and my triumph cannot be ascertained till the Wednesday after; but all China will ring of it by and by. N.B. (But this is a secret,) The Professor has got a tragedy coming out, with the young Roscius in it, in January next, as we say,--January last it will be with you; and though it is a profound secret now, as all his affairs are, it cannot be much of one by the time you read this. However, don't let it go any farther. I understand there are dramatic exhibitions in China. One would not like to be forestalled. Do you find in all this stuff I have written anything like those feelings which one should send my old adventuring friend, that is gone to wander among Tartars, and may never come again? I don't, but your going away, and all about you, is a threadbare topic. I have worn it out with thinking, it has come to me when I have been dull with anything, till my sadness has seemed more to have come from it than to have introduced it. I want you, you don't know how much; but if I had you here in my European garret, we should but talk over such stuff as I have written, so--Those "Tales from Shakspeare" are near coming out, and Mary has begun a new work, Mr. Dawe is turned author; he has been in such a way lately,--Dawe the painter, I mean,--he sits and stands about at Holcroft's and says nothing, then sighs, and leans his head on his hand. I took him to be in love, but it seems he was only meditating a work,--"The Life of Morland:" the young man is not used to composition. Rickman and Captain Burney are well; they assemble at my house pretty regularly of a Wednesday, a new institution. Like other great men, I have a public day,--cribbage and pipes, with Phillips and noisy Martin Burney. Good Heaven, what a bit only I've got left! How shall I squeeze all I know into this morsel! Coleridge is come home, and is going to turn lecturer on taste at the Royal Institution. I shall get L200 from the theatre if "Mr. H." has a good run, and I hope L100 for the copyright. Nothing if it fails; and there never was a more ticklish thing. The whole depends on the manner in which the name is brought out, which I value myself on, as a _chef d'oeuvre_. How the paper grows less and less! In less than two minutes I shall cease to talk to you, and you may rave to the Great Wall of China. N.B.--Is there such a wall? Is it as big as Old London Wall by Bedlam? Have you met with a friend of mine named Ball at Canton? If you are acquainted, remember me kindly to him. Maybe you'll think I have not said enough of Tuthill and the Holcrofts. Tuthill is a noble fellow, as far as I can judge. The Holcrofts bear their disappointment pretty well, but indeed they are sadly mortified. Mrs. H. is cast down. It was well, if it were but on this account, that Tuthill is come home. N.B.--If my little thing don't succeed, I shall easily survive, having, as it were, compared to H.'s venture, but a sixteenth in the lottery. Mary and I are to sit next the orchestra in the pit, next the tweedle-dees. She remembers you. You are more to us than five hundred farces, clappings, etc. Come back one day. C. LAMB. It was precisely this flatness, this slightness of plot and catastrophe, that doomed "Mr. H." to failure. See next letter. Godwin. His tragedy of "Faulkner" was published in 1808. XLIX. TO WORDSWORTH. _December_, II, 1806. Mary's love to all of you; I wouldn't let her write. Dear Wordsworth,--"Mr. H." came out last night, and failed. I had many fears; the subject was not substantial enough. John Bull must have solider fare than a _letter_. We are pretty stout about it; have had plenty of condoling friends; but, after all, we had rather it should have succeeded. You will see the prologue in most of the morning papers. It was received with such shouts as I never witnessed to a prologue. It was attempted to be encored. How hard! a thing I did merely as a task, because it was wanted, and set no great store by; and "Mr. H."! The quantity of friends we had in the house--my brother and I being in public offices, etc.--was astonishing; but they yielded at last to a few hisses. A hundred hisses (Damn the word, I write it like kisses,--how different!) --a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. The former come more directly from, the heart. Well, 't is withdrawn, and there is an end. Better luck to us, C. LAMB. Lamb was himself in the audience, and is said to have taken a conspicuous share in the storm of hisses that followed the dropping of the curtain. L. TO MANNING. _January_ 2, 1810. My best room commands a court, in which there are trees and a pump, the water of which is excellent,--cold with brandy, and not very insipid without. Here I hope to set up my rest, and not quit till Mr. Powell, the undertaker, gives me notice that I may have possession of my last lodging. He lets lodgings for single gentlemen. I sent you a parcel of books by my last, to give you some idea of the state of European literature. There comes with this two volumes, done up as letters, of minor poetry, a sequel to "Mrs. Leicester;" the best you may suppose mine, the next best are my coadjutor's. You may amuse yourself in guessing them out; but I must tell you mine are but one third in quantity of the whole. So much for a very delicate subject. It is hard to speak of one's self, etc. Holcroft had finished his life when I wrote to you, and Hazlitt has since finished his life,--I do not mean his own life, but he has finished a life of Holcroft, which is going to press. Tuthill is Dr. Tuthill. I continue Mr. Lamb. I have published a little book for children on titles of honor; and to give them some idea of the difference of rank and gradual rising, I have made a little scale, supposing myself to receive the following various accessions of dignity from the king, who is the fountain of honor,--as at first, 1, Mr. C. Lamb; 2, C. Lamb, Esq. ; 3, Sir C. Lamb, Bart. ; 4, Baron Lamb, of Stamford; 5, Viscount Lamb; 6, Earl Lamb; 7, Marquis Lamb; 8, Duke Lamb. It would look like quibbling to carry it on farther, and especially as it is not necessary for children to go beyond the ordinary titles of sub-regal dignity in our own country, otherwise I have sometimes in my dreams imagined myself still advancing, as 9th, King Lamb; 10th, Emperor Lamb; 11th, Pope Innocent,--higher than which is nothing. Puns I have not made many (nor punch much) since the date of my last; one I cannot help relating. A constable in Salisbury Cathedral was telling me that eight people dined at the top of the spire of the cathedral; upon which I remarked that they must be very sharp-set. But in general I cultivate the reasoning part of my mind more than the imaginative. I am stuffed out so with eating turkey for dinner, and another turkey for supper yesterday (turkey in Europe and turkey in Asia), that I can't jog on. It is New Year here. That is, it was New Year half a year back, when I was writing this. Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them. The Persian ambassador is the principal thing talked of now. I sent some people to see him worship the sun on Primrose Hill at half-past six in the morning, 28th November; but he did not come,--which makes me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect almost extinct in Persia. The Persian ambassador's name is Shaw Ali Mirza. The common people call him Shaw Nonsense. While I think of it, I have put three letters besides my own three into the India post for you, from your brother, sister, and some gentleman whose name I forget. Will they, have they, did they come safe? The distance you are at, cuts up tenses by the root. I think you said you did not know Kate *********. I express her by nine stars, though she is but one. You must have seen her at her father's. Try and remember her. Coleridge is bringing out a paper in weekly numbers, called the "Friend," which I would send, if I could; but the difficulty I had in getting the packets of books out to you before deters me; and you'll want something new to read when you come home. Except Kate, I have had no vision of excellence this year, and she passed by like the queen on her coronation day; you don't know whether you saw her or not. Kate is fifteen; I go about moping, and sing the old, pathetic ballad I used to like in my youth,-- "She's sweet fifteen, I'm _one year more._ Mrs. Bland sang it in boy's clothes the first time I heard it. I sometimes think the lower notes in my voice are like Mrs. Bland's. That glorious singer, Braham, one of my lights, is fled. He was for a season. He was a rare composition of the Jew, the gentleman, and the angel, yet all these elements mixed up so kindly in him that you could not tell which predominated; but he is gone, and one Phillips is engaged instead. Kate is vanished, but Miss Burrell is always to be met with! "Queens drop away, while blue-legged Maukin thrives, And courtly Mildred dies, while country Madge survives." That is not my poetry, but Quarles's; but haven't you observed that the rarest things are the least obvious? Don't show anybody the names in this letter. I write confidentially, and wish this letter to be considered as _private,_ Hazlitt has written a _grammar_ for Godwin; Godwin sells it bound up with a treatise of his own on language; but the _gray mare is the better horse._ I don't allude to Mrs. Godwin, but to the word _grammar_, which comes near to _gray mare_, if you observe, in sound. That figure is called paranomasia in Greek, I am sometimes happy in it. An old woman begged of me for charity. "Ah, sir," said she, "I have seen better days!" "So have I, good woman," I replied; but I meant literally, days not so rainy and overcast as that on which begged,--she meant more prosperous days. LI. TO MISS WORDSWORTH. _August_, 1810. Mary has left a little space for me to fill up with nonsense, as the geographers used to cram monsters in the voids of the maps, and call it _Terra Incognita_. She has told you how she has taken to water like a hungry otter. I too limp after her in lame imitation, but it goes against me a little at first. I have been acquaintance with it now for full four days, and it seems a moon. I am full of cramps and rheumatisms, and cold internally, so that fire won't warm me; yet I bear all for virtue's sake. Must I then leave you, gin, rum, brandy, _aqua-vitae_, pleasant, jolly fellows? Damn temperance and he that first invented it!--some Anti-Noahite. Coleridge has powdered his head, and looks like Bacchus,--Bacchus ever sleek and young. He is going to turn sober, but his clock has not struck yet; meantime he pours down goblet after goblet, the second to see where the first is gone, the third to see no harm happens to the second, a fourth to say there is another coming, and a fifth to say he is not sure he is the last. C. L. An experiment in total abstinence; it did not last long. LII. TO WORDSWORTH _October_ 19, 1810. Dear W.,--Mary has been very ill, which you have heard, I suppose, from the Montagues. She is very weak and low-spirited now, I was much pleased with your continuation of the "Essay on Epitaphs," It is the only sensible thing which has been written on that subject, and it goes to the bottom. In particular I was pleased with your translation of that turgid epitaph into the plain feeling under it. It is perfectly a test. But what is the reason we have no good epitaphs after all? A very striking instance of your position might be found in the churchyard of Ditton-upon-Thames, if you know such a place. Ditton-upon-Thames has been blessed by the residence of a poet who, for love or money, I do not well know which, has dignified every gravestone for the last few years with brand new verses, all different and all ingenious, with the author's name at the bottom of each. This sweet Swan of Thames has so artfully diversified his strains and his rhymes that the same thought never occurs twice,--more justly, perhaps, as no thought ever occurs at all, there was a physical impossibility that the same thought should recur, It is long since I saw and read these inscriptions; but I remember the impression was of a smug usher at his desk in the intervals of instruction, levelling his pen. Of death, as it consists of dust and worms, and mourners and uncertainty, he had never thought; but the word "death" he had often seen separate and conjunct with other words, till he had learned to speak of all its attributes as glibly as Unitarian Belsham will discuss you the attributes of the word "God" in a pulpit, and will talk of infinity with a tongue that dangles from a skull that never reached in thought and thorough imagination two inches, or farther than from his hand to his mouth, or from the vestry to the sounding-board of the pulpit. But the epitaphs were trim and sprag, and patent, and pleased the survivors of Thames Ditton above the old mumpsimus of "Afflictions sore." ... To do justice, though, it must be owned that even the excellent feeling which dictated this dirge when new, must have suffered something in passing through so many thousand applications, many of them no doubt quite misplaced, as I have seen in Islington churchyard (I think) an Epitaph to an Infant who died "_AEtatis_ four months," with this seasonable inscription appended, "Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land," etc. Sincerely wishing your children long life to honor, etc., I remain, C. LAMB. Published in Coleridge's "Friend," Feb. 22, 1810. LIII. TO WORDSWORTH. _August_ 14, 1814. Dear Wordsworth,--I cannot tell you how pleased I was at the receipt of the great armful of poetry which you have sent me: and to get it before the rest of the world, too! I have gone quite through with it, and was thinking to have accomplished that pleasure a second time before I wrote to thank you; but Martin Burney came in the night (while we were out) and made holy theft of it: but we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read,--a day in heaven. The part (or rather main body) which has left the sweetest odor on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an impression so recent) is the "Tales of the Churchyard"--the only girl among seven brethren, born out of due time, and not duly taken away again; the deaf man and the blind man; the Jacobite and the Hanoverian, whom antipathies reconcile; the Scarron-entry of the rusticating parson upon his solitude,--these were all new to me too. My having known the story of Margaret (at the beginning), a very old acquaintance, even as long back as when I saw you first at Stowey, did not make her reappearance less fresh. I don't know what to pick out of this best of books upon the best subjects for partial naming. That gorgeous sunset is famous; I think it must have been the identical one we saw on Salisbury Plain five years ago, that drew Phillips from the card-table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequalled setting. But neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified, such as the prophets saw them in that sunset,--the wheel, the potter's clay, the washpot, the wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the baskets of figs, the four-fold-visaged head, the throne, and Him that sat thereon. One feeling I was particularly struck with, as what I recognized so very lately at Harrow Church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure,--the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming, properties of a country church just entered; a certain fragrance which it has, either from its holiness, or being kept shut all the week, or the air that is let in being pure country,--exactly what you have reduced into words; but I am feeling that which I cannot express. The reading your lines about it fixed me for a time a monument in Harrow Church,--do you know it?--with its fine long spire, white as washed marble, to be seen, by vantage of its high site, as far as Salisbury spire itself almost. I shall select a day or two very shortly, when I am coolest in brain, to have a steady second reading, which I feel will lead to many more; for it will be a stock book with me while eyes or spectacles shall be lent me. There is a great deal of noble matter about mountain scenery, yet not so much as to overpower and discountenance a poor Londoner, or south-countryman entirely,--though Mary seems to have felt it occasionally a little too powerfully; for it was her remark, during reading it, that by your system it was doubtful whether a liver in towns had a soul to be saved. She almost trembled for that invisible part of us in her. Save for a late excursion to Harrow, and a day or two on the banks of the Thames this summer, rural images were fast fading from my mind, and by the wise provision of the Regent all that was countrified in the parks is all but obliterated. The very colour of green is vanished; the whole surface of Hyde Park is dry, crumbling sand (_Arabia Arenosa_), not a vestige or hint of grass ever having grown there; booths and drinking-places go all round it, for a mile and a half, I am confident,--I might say two miles in circuit; the stench of liquors, _bad_ tobacco, dirty people and provisions, conquers the air, and we are all stifled and suffocated in Hyde Park . Order after order has been issued by Lord Sidmouth in the name of the Regent (acting in behalf of his royal father) for the dispersion of the varlets; but in vain. The _vis unita_ of all the publicans in London, Westminster, Marylebone, and miles round, is too powerful a force to put down. The Regent has raised a phantom which he cannot lay. There they'll stay probably forever. The whole beauty of the place is gone,--that lake-look of the Serpentine (it has got foolish ships upon it); but something whispers to have confidence in Nature and its revival,-- "At the coming of the _milder_ day, These monuments shall all be overgrown." Meantime I confess to have smoked one delicious pipe in one of the cleanliest and goodliest of the booths,--a tent rather,-- "Oh, call it not a booth!" erected by the public spirit of Watson, who keeps the "Adam and Eve" at Pancras (the ale-houses have all emigrated, with their train of bottles, mugs, cork-screws, waiters, into Hyde Park,--whole ale-houses, with all their ale!) in company with some of the Guards that had been in France, and a fine French girl, habited like a princess of banditti, which one of the dogs had transported from the Garonne to the Serpentine. The unusual scene in Hyde Park, by candle-light, in open air,--good tobacco, bottled stout,--made it look like an interval in a campaign, a repose after battle. I almost fancied scars smarting, and was ready to club a story with my comrades of some of my lying deeds. After all, the fireworks were splendid; the rockets in clusters, in trees, and all shapes, spreading about like young stars in the making, floundering about in space (like unbroke horses), till some of Newton's calculations should fix them; but then they went out. Any one who could see 'em, and the still finer showers of gloomy rain-fire that fell sulkily and angrily from 'em, and could go to bed without dreaming of the last day, must be as hardened an atheist as--. The conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, I have chosen this part to desire _our_ kindest loves to Mrs. Wordsworth and to Dorothea. Will none of you ever be in London again? Again let me thank you for your present, and assure you that fireworks and triumphs have not distracted me from receiving a calm and noble enjoyment from it (which I trust I shall often), and I sincerely congratulate you on its appearance. With kindest remembrances to you and household, we remain, yours sincerely, C. LAMB and Sister. The Excursion. Early in 1814 the London parks were thrown open to the public, with fireworks, booths, illuminations, etc., in celebration of the peace between France and England, it was two or three years before they recovered their usual verdure. LIV. TO WORDSWORTH. (1815) Dear Wordsworth,--You have made me very proud with your successive book presents. I have been carefully through the two volumes to see that nothing was omitted which used to be there. I think I miss nothing but a character in the antithetic manner, which I do not know why you left out,--the moral to the boys building the giant, the omission whereof leaves it, in my mind, less complete,--and one admirable line gone (or something come instead of it), "the stone-chat, and the glancing sandpiper," which was a line quite alive. I demand these at your hand. I am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoundrels. I would not have had you offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the stripped shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have atoned all their malice; I would not have given 'em a red cloak to save their souls. I am afraid lest that substitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind of tub thrown out to the beast, or rather thrown out for him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and nothing could fairly be said against it. You say you made the alteration for the "friendly reader;" but the "malicious" will take it to himself. Damn 'em! if you give 'em an inch, etc. The Preface is noble, and such as you should write. I wish I could set my name to it, _Imprimatur_; but you have set it there yourself, and I thank you. I had rather be a doorkeeper in your margin than have their proudest text swelling with my eulogies. The poems in the volumes which are new to me are so much in the old tone that I hardly received them as novelties. Of those of which I had no previous knowledge, the "Four Yew-Trees" and the mysterious company which you have assembled there most struck me,--"Death the Skeleton, and Time the Shadow." It is a sight not for every youthful poet to dream of; it is one of the last results he must have gone thinking on for years for, "Laodamia" is a very original poem,--I mean original with reference to your own manner. You have nothing like it, I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation. Let me in this place, for I have writ you several letters naming it, mention that my brother, who is a picture-collector, has picked up an undoubtable picture of Milton. He gave a few shillings for it, and could get no history with it, but that some old lady had had it for a great many years. Its age is ascertainable from the state of the canvas, and you need only see it to be sure that it is the original of the heads in the Tonson editions, with which we are all so well familiar. Since I saw you, I have had a treat in the reading way which conies not every day,--the Latin poems of V. Bourne, which were quite new to me. What a heart that man had, all laid out upon town scenes!--a proper counterpoise to _some people's_ rural extravaganzas. Why I mention him is, that your "Power of Music" reminded me of his poem of "The Ballad-singer in the Seven Dials," Do you remember his epigram on the old woman who taught Newton the A B C, which, after all, he says, he hesitates not to call Newton's "Principia"? I was lately fatiguing myself with going through a volume of fine words by Lord Thurlow,--excellent words; and if the heart could live by words alone, it could desire no better regales. But what an aching vacuum of matter! I don't stick at the madness of it, for that is only a consequence of shutting his eyes and thinking he is in the age of the old Elizabeth poets. From thence I turned to Bourne. What a sweet, unpretending, pretty-mannered, _matter-ful_ creature, sucking from every flower, making a flower of everything, his diction all Latin, and his thoughts all English! Bless him! Latin wasn't good enough for him. Why wasn't he content with the language which Gay and Prior wrote in? I am almost sorry that you printed extracts from those first poems, or that you did not print them at length. They do not read to me as they do altogether. Besides, they have diminished the value of the original (which I possess) as a curiosity. I have hitherto kept them distinct in my mind, as referring to a particular period of your life. All the rest of your poems are so much of a piece they might have been written in the same week; these decidedly speak of an earlier period. They tell more of what you had been reading. We were glad to see the poems "by a female friend." The one on the Wind is masterly, but not new to us. Being only three, perhaps you might have clapped a D. at the corner, and let it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a delightful hint to the better instructed. As it is, expect a formal criticism on the poems of your female friend, and she must expect it. I should have written before, but I am cruelly engaged, and like to be. On Friday I was at office from ten in the morning (two hours dinner excepted) to eleven at night, last night till nine; my business and office business in general have increased so; I don't mean I am there every night, but I must expect a great deal of it. I never leave till four, and do not keep a holiday now once in ten times, where I used to keep all red-letter days, and some few days besides, which I used to dub Nature's holidays. I have had my day. I had formerly little to do. So of the little that is left of life I may reckon two thirds as dead, for time that a man may call his own is his life; and hard work and thinking about it taint even the leisure hours,--stain Sunday with work-day contemplations. This is Sunday; and the headache I have is part late hours at work the two preceding nights, and part later hours over a consoling pipe afterwards. But I find stupid acquiescence coming over me. I bend to the yoke, and it is almost with me and my household as with the man and his consort,-- "To them each evening had its glittering star, And every sabbath-day its golden sun!" to such straits am I driven for the life of life, Time! Oh that from that superfluity of holiday-leisure my youth wasted, "Age might but take some hours youth wanted not"! N.B.--I have left off spirituous liquors for four or more months, with a moral certainty of its lasting. Farewell, dear Wordsworth! O happy Paris, seat of idleness and pleasure! From some returned English I hear that not such a thing as a counting-house is to be seen in her streets,--scarce a desk. Earthquakes swallow up this mercantile city and its "gripple merchants," as Drayton hath it, "born to be the curse of this brave isle"! I invoke this, not on account of any parsimonious habits the mercantile interest may have, but, to confess truth, because I am not fit for an office. Farewell, in haste, from a head that is too ill to methodize, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. Better harmonies await you! C. LAMB. In 1815 Wordsworth published a new edition of his poems, with the following title: "Poems by William Wordsworth; including Lyrical Ballads, and the Miscellaneous Pieces of the Author. With Additional Poems, a new Preface, and a Supplementary Essay. In two Volumes." The new poems were "Yarrow Visited," "The Force of Prayer," "The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale," "Laodamia," "Yew-Trees," "A Night Piece," etc., and it was chiefly on these that Lamb made his comments. John Lamb afterwards gave the picture to Charles, who made it a wedding present to Mrs. Moxon (Emma Isola), It is now in the National Portrait Gallery. Dorothy Wordsworth. Excursion, book v. LV. TO WORDSWORTH. Excuse this maddish letter; I am too tired to write _in forma_. 1815. Dear Wordsworth,--The more I read of your two last volumes, the more I feel it necessary to make my acknowledgments for them in more than one short letter. The "Night Piece," to which you refer me, I meant fully to have noticed; but the fact is, I come so fluttering and languid from business, tired with thoughts of it, frightened with fears of it, that when I get a few minutes to sit down and scribble (an action of the hand now seldom natural to me,--I mean voluntary pen-work), I lose all presential memory of what I had intended to say, and say what I can, talk about Vincent Bourne or any casual image, instead of that which I had meditated (by the way, I mast look out V. B. for you). So I had meant to have mentioned "Yarrow Visited," with that stanza, "But thou that didst appear so fair:" than which I think no lovelier stanza can be found in the wide world of poetry. Yet the poem, on the whole, seems condemned to leave behind it a melancholy of imperfect satisfaction, as if you had wronged the feeling with which, in what preceded it, you had resolved never to visit it, and as if the Muse had determined, in the most delicate manner, to make you, and _scarce make you_, feel it. Else, it is far superior to the other, which has but one exquisite verse in it,--the last but one, or the last two: this is all fine, except, perhaps, that _that_ of "studious ease and generous cares" has a little tinge of the _less romantic_ about it. "The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale" is a charming counterpart to "Poor Susan," with the addition, of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so fine in the "Old Thief and the Boy by his side," which always brings water into my eyes. Perhaps it is the worse for being a repetition; "Susan" stood for the representative of poor _Rus in Urbe_. There was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never to be forgotten,--"bright volumes of vapor," etc. The last verse of Susan was to be got rid of, at all events. It threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral conduct. Susan is a servant-maid. I see her trundling her mop, and contemplating the whirling phenomenon through blurred optics; but to term her "a poor outcast" seems as much as to say that poor Susan was no better than she should be,--which I trust was not what you meant to express. Robin Goodfellow supports himself without that _stick_ of a moral which you have thrown away; but how I can be brought in _felo de omittendo_ for that ending to the Boy-builders is a mystery. I can't say positively now, I only know that no line oftener or readier occurs than that "Light-hearted boys, I will build up a Giant with you." It comes naturally with a warm holiday and the freshness of the blood. It is a perfect summer amulet, that I tie round my legs to quicken their motion when I go out a-maying. (N. B.) I don't often go out a-maying; _must_ is the tense with me now. Do you take the pun? _Young Romilly_ is divine, the reasons of his mother's grief being remediless,--I never saw parental love carried up so high, towering above the other loves,--Shakspeare had done something for the filial in Cordelia, and, by implication, for the fatherly too in Lear's resentment; he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal heart. I get stupid and flat, and flattering; what's the use of telling you what good things you have written, or--I hope I may add--that I know them to be good? _A propos_, when I first opened upon the just-mentioned poem, in a careless tone I said to Mary, as if putting a riddle, "What is good for a bootless bene?" To which, with infinite presence of mind (as the jest-book has it) she answered, "A shoeless pea." It was the first joke she ever made. Joke the second I make. You distinguish well, in your old preface, between the verses of Dr. Johnson, of the "Man in the Strand," and that from "The Babes in the Wood," I was thinking whether, taking your own glorious lines,-- "And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly," which, by the love I bear my own soul, I think have no parallel in any of the best old ballads, and just altering it to,-- "And from the great respect she felt For Sir Samuel Romilly," would not nave explained the boundaries of prose expression and poetic feeling nearly as well. Excuse my levity on such an occasion. I never felt deeply in my life if that poem did not make me, both lately, and when I read it in MS. No alderman ever longed after a haunch of buck venison more than I for a spiritual taste of that "White Doe" you promise. I am sure it is superlative, or will be when _dressed_, i. e., printed. All things read raw to me in MS.; to compare _magna parvis_, I cannot endure my own writings in that state. The only one which I think would not very much win upon me in print is "Peter Bell;" but I am not certain. You ask me about your preface. I like both that and the supplement, without an exception. The account of what you mean by imagination is very valuable to me. It will help me to like some things in poetry better, which is a little humiliating in me to confess. I thought I could not be instructed in that science (I mean the critical), as I once heard old obscene, beastly Peter Pindar, in a dispute on Milton, say he thought that if he had reason to value himself upon one thing more than another, it was in knowing what good verse was. Who looked over your proof-sheets and left _ordebo_ in that line of Virgil? My brother's picture of Milton is very finely painted,--that is, it might have been done by a hand next to Vandyke's. It is the genuine Milton, and an object of quiet gaze for the half-hour at a time. Yet though I am confident there is no better one of him, the face does not quite answer to Milton. There is a tinge of _petit_ (or _petite_, how do you spell it?) querulousness about it; yet, hang it! now I remember better, there is not,--it is calm, melancholy, and poetical. _One_ of the copies of the poems you sent has precisely the same pleasant blending of a sheet of second volume with a sheet of first, I think it was page 245; but I sent it and had it rectified, It gave me, in the first impetus of cutting the leaves, just such a cold squelch as going down a plausible turning and suddenly reading "No thoroughfare." Robinson's is entire; I wish you would write more criticism about Spencer, etc. I think I could say something about him myself; but, Lord bless me! these "merchants and their spicy drugs," which are so harmonious to sing of, they lime-twig up my poor soul and body till I shall forget I ever thought myself a bit of a genius! I can't even put a few thoughts on paper for a newspaper, I engross when I should pen a paragraph. Confusion blast all mercantile transactions, all traffic, exchange of commodities, intercourse between nations, all the consequent civilization, and wealth, and amity, and link of society, and getting rid of prejudices, and knowledge of the face of the globe; and rot the very firs of the forest that look so romantic alive, and die into desks: _Vale_. Yours, dear W., and all yours, C. LAMB. "But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her dilicate Creation" Better known as "Rural Architecture." The first line of the poem on Bolton Abbey:-- "'What is good for a bootless bene?' With these dark words begins my fate; And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When Prayer is of no avail?" LVI. TO SOUTHEY. _May_ 6, 1815. Dear Southey,--I have received from Longman a copy of "Roderick," with the author's compliments, for which I much thank you. I don't know where I shall put all the noble presents I have lately received in that way; the "Excursion," Wordsworth's two last volumes, and now "Roderick," have come pouring in upon me like some irruption from Helicon. The story of the brave Maccabee was already, you may be sure, familiar to me in all its parts. I have, since the receipt of your present, read it quite through again, and with no diminished pleasure. I don't know whether I ought to say that it has given me more pleasure than any of your long poems. "Kehama" is doubtless more powerful, but I don't feel that firm footing in it that I do in "Roderick;" my imagination goes sinking and floundering in the vast spaces of unopened-before systems and faiths; I am put out of the pale of my old sympathies; my moral sense is almost outraged; I can't believe, or with horror am made to believe, such desperate chances against omnipotences, such disturbances of faith to the centre. The more potent, the more painful the spell. Jove and his brotherhood of gods, tottering with the giant assailings, I can bear, for the soul's hopes are not struck at in such contests; but your Oriental almighties are too much types of the intangible prototype to be meddled with without shuddering. One never connects what are called the "attributes" with Jupiter. I mention only what diminishes my delight at the wonder-workings of "Kehama," not what impeaches its power, which I confess with trembling. But "Roderick" is a comfortable poem. It reminds me of the delight I took in the first reading of the "Joan of Arc." It is maturer and better than _that_, though not better to me now than that was then. It suits me better than "Madoc." I am at home in Spain and Christendom. I have a timid imagination, I am afraid; I do not willingly admit of strange beliefs or out-of-the-way creeds or places. I never read books of travel, at least not farther than Paris or Rome. I can just endure Moors, because of their connection as foes with Christians; but Abyssinians, Ethiops, Esquimaux, Dervises, and all that tribe, I hate; I believe I fear them in some manner. A Mahometan turban on the stage, though enveloping some well-known face (Mr. Cook or Mr. Maddox, whom I see another day good Christian and English waiters, innkeepers, etc. ), does not give me pleasure unalloyed. I am a Christian, Englishman, Londoner, _Templar_, God help me when I come to put off these snug relations, and to get abroad into the world to come! I shall be like _the crow on the sand_, as Wordsworth has it; but I won't think on it,--no need, I hope, yet. The parts I have been most pleased with, both on first and second readings, perhaps, are Florinda's palliation of Roderick's crime, confessed to him in his disguise; the retreat of Pelayo's family first discovered; his being made king,--"For acclamation one form must serve, _more solemn for_ the _breach_ of _old observances_." Roderick's vow is extremely fine, and his blessing on the vow of Alphonso,-- "Towards the troop be spread his arms, As if the expanded soul diffused itself, And carried to all spirits, _with the act_, Its affluent inspiration." It struck me forcibly that the feeling of these last lines might have been suggested to you by the Cartoon of Paul at Athens. Certain it is that a better motto or guide to that famous attitude can nowhere be found. I shall adopt it as explanatory of that violent but dignified motion. I must read again Landor's "Julian;" I have not read it some time. I think he must have failed in Roderick, for I remember nothing of him, nor of any distinct character as a character,--only fine-sounding passages. I remember thinking also he had chosen a point of time after the event, as it were, for Roderick survives to no use; but my memory is weak, and I will not wrong a fine poem by trusting to it. The notes to your poem I have not read again; but it will be a take-downable book on my shelf, and they will serve sometimes at breakfast, or times too light for the text to be duly appreciated,-- though some of 'em, one of the serpent Penance, is serious enough, now I think on't. Of Coleridge I hear nothing, nor of the Morgans. I hope to have him like a reappearing star, standing up before me some time when least expected in London, as has been the case whilere. I am _doing_ nothing (as the phrase is) but reading presents, and walk away what of the day-hours I can get from hard occupation. Pray accept once more my hearty thanks and expression of pleasure for your remembrance of me. My sister desires her kind respects to Mrs. S. and to all at Keswick. Yours truly, C. LAMB. LVII. TO MISS HUTCHINSON. _October_ 19, 1815. Dear Miss H.,--I am forced to be the replier to your letter, for Mary has been ill, and gone from home these five weeks yesterday. She has left me very lonely and very miserable. I stroll about, but there is no rest but at one's own fireside; and there is no rest for me there now. I look forward to the worse half being past, and keep up as well as I can. She has begun to show some favorable symptoms. The return of her disorder has been frightfully soon this time, with scarce a six-months' interval. I am almost afraid my worry of spirits about the E. I. House was partly the cause of her illness: but one always imputes it to the cause next at hand,--more probably it conies from some cause we have no control over or conjecture of. It cuts sad great slices out of the time, the little time, we shall have to live together. I don't know but the recurrence of these illnesses might help me to sustain her death, better than if we had had no partial separations. But I won't talk of death. I will imagine us immortal, or forget that we are otherwise. By God's blessing, in a few weeks we may be making our meal together, or sitting in the front row of the pit at Drury Lane, or taking our evening walk past the theatres, to look at the outside of them, at least, if not to be tempted in. Then we forget we are assailable; we are strong for the time as rocks,--"the wind is tempered to the shorn Lambs." Poor C. Lloyd and poor Priscilla! I feel I hardly feel enough for him; my own calamities press about me, and involve me in a thick integument not to be reached at by other folks' misfortunes. But I feel all I can, all the kindness I can, towards you all. God bless you! I hear nothing from Coleridge. Mrs. Wordsworth's sister. LVIII. TO MANNING. _December_ 25, 1815. Dear Old Friend and Absentee,--This is Christmas Day, 1815, with us; what it may be with you I don't know,--the 12th of June next year, perhaps; and if it should be the consecrated season with you, I don't see how you can keep it. You have no turkeys; you would not desecrate the festival by offering up a withered Chinese bantam, instead of the savoury grand Norfolcian holocaust, that smokes all around my nostrils at this moment from a thousand firesides. Then what puddings have you? Where will you get holly to stick in your churches, or churches to stick your dried tea-leaves (that must be the substitute) in? What memorials you can have of the holy time, I see not. A chopped missionary or two may keep up the thin idea of Lent and the wilderness; but what standing evidence have you of the Nativity? 'Tis our rosy-cheeked, homestalled divines, whose faces shine to the tune of _unto us a child was born_,--faces fragrant with the mince-pies of half a century, that alone can authenticate the cheerful mystery. I feel, I feel my bowels refreshed with the holy tide; my zeal is great against the unedified heathen. Down with the Pagodas; down with the idols,--Ching-chong-fo and his foolish priesthood! Come out of Babylon, oh my friend, for her time is come, and the child that is native, and the Proselyte of her gates, shall kindle and smoke together! And in sober sense what makes you so long from among us, Manning? You must not expect to see the same England again which you left. Empires have been overturned, crowns trodden into dust, the face of the Western world quite changed; your friends have all got old, those you left blooming, myself (who am one of the few that remember you)--those golden hairs which you recollect my taking a pride in, turned to silvery and gray. Mary has been dead and buried many years; she desired to be buried in the silk gown you sent her. Rickman, that you remember active and strong, now walks out supported by a servant-maid and a stick. Martin Burney is a very old man. The other day an aged woman knocked at my door and pretended to my acquaintance. It was long before I had the most distant cognition of her; but at last together we made her out to be Louisa, the daughter of Mrs. Topham, formerly Mrs. Morton, who had been Mrs. Reynolds, formerly Mrs. Kenney, whose first husband was Holcroft, the dramatic writer of the last century. St. Paul's church is a heap of ruins; the Monument isn't half so high as you knew it, divers parts being successively taken down which the ravages of time had rendered dangerous; the horse at Charing Cross is gone, no one knows whither,--and all this has taken place while you have been settling whether Ho-hing-tong should be spelled with a-- or a--. For aught I see, you had almost as well remain where you are, and not come, like a Struldbrug, into a world where few were born when you went away. Scarce here and there one will be able to make out your face; all your opinions will be out of date, your jokes obsolete, your puns rejected with fastidiousness as wit of the last age. Your way of mathematics has already given way to a new method which, after all, is, I believe, the old doctrine of Maclaurin new-vamped up with what he borrowed of the negative quantity of fluxions from Euler. Poor Godwin! I was passing his tomb the other day in Cripplegate churchyard. There are some verses upon it, written by Miss--, which if I thought good enough I would send you. He was one of those who would have hailed your return, not with boisterous shouts and clamors, but with the complacent gratulations of a philosopher anxious to promote knowledge, as leading to happiness; but his systems and his theories are ten feet deep in Cripplegate mould. Coleridge is just dead, having lived just long enough to close the eyes of Wordsworth, who paid the debt to nature but a week or two before. Poor Col., but two days before he died he wrote to a bookseller proposing an epic poem on the "Wandering of Cain," in twenty-four books. It is said he has left behind him more than forty thousand treatises in criticism, metaphysics, and divinity: but few of them in a state of completion. They are now destined, perhaps, to wrap up spices. You see what mutation the busy hand of Time has produced, while you have consumed in foolish, voluntary exile that time which might have gladdened your friends, benefited your country--But reproaches are useless. Gather up the wretched relics, my friend, as fast as you can, and come to your old home. I will rub my eyes and try to recognize you. We will shake withered hands together, and talk of old things,--of St. Mary's church and the barber's opposite, where the young students in mathematics used to assemble. Poor Crisp, that kept it afterwards, set up a fruiterer's shop in Trumpington Street, and for aught I know resides there still; for I saw the name up in the last journey I took there with my sister just before she died. I suppose you heard that I had left the India House and gone into the Fishmongers' Almshouses over the bridge. I have a little cabin there, small and homely; but you shall be welcome to it. You like oysters, and to open them yourself; I'll get you some if you come in oyster time. Marshall, Godwin's old friend, is still alive, and talks of the faces you used to make. Come as soon as you can. C. LAMB. The reversal of this serio-humorous mingling of fiction and forecast will be found in the next letter. LIX. TO MANNING. _December_ 26, 1815. Dear Manning,--Following your brother's example, I have just ventured one letter to Canton, and am now hazarding another (not exactly a duplicate) to St. Helena. The first was full of unprobable romantic fictions, fitting the remoteness of the mission it goes upon; in the present I mean to confine myself nearer to truth as you come nearer home. A correspondence with the uttermost parts of the earth necessarily involves in it some heat of fancy; it sets the brain agoing; but I can think on the half-way house tranquilly. Your friends, then, are not all dead or grown forgetful of you through old age,--as that lying letter asserted, anticipating rather what must happen if you keep tarrying on forever on the skirts of creation, as there seemed a danger of your doing,--but they are all tolerably well, and in full and perfect comprehension of what is meant by Manning's coming home again. Mrs. Kenney never let her tongue run riot more than in remembrances of you. Fanny expends herself in phrases that can only be justified by her romantic nature. Mary reserves a portion of your silk, not to be buried in (as the false nuncio asserts), but to make up spick and span into a bran-new gown to wear when you come. I am the same as when you knew me, almost to a surfeiting identity. This very night I am going to _leave off tobacco!_ Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realized. The soul hath not her generous aspirings implanted in her in vain. One that you knew, and I think the only one of those friends we knew much of in common, has died in earnest. Poor Priscilla! Her brother Robert is also dead, and several of the grown-up brothers and sisters, in the compass of a very few years. Death has not otherwise meddled much in families that I know. Not but he has his horrid eye upon us, and is whetting his infernal feathered dart every instant, as you see him truly pictured in that impressive moral picture, "The good man at the hour of death." I have in trust to put in the post four letters from Diss, and one from Lynn, to St. Helena, which I hope will accompany this safe, and one from Lynn, and the one before spoken of from me, to Canton. But we all hope that these letters may be waste paper. I don't know why I have foreborne writing so long; but it is such a forlorn hope to send a scrap of paper straggling over wide oceans. And yet I know when you come home, I shall have you sitting before me at our fireside just as if you had never been away. In such an instant does the return of a person dissipate all the weight of imaginary perplexity from distance of time and space! I'll promise you good oysters. Cory is dead, that kept the shop opposite St. Dunstan's, but the tougher materials of the shop survive the perishing frame of its keeper. Oysters continue to flourish there under as good auspices. Poor Cory! But if you will absent yourself twenty years together, you must not expect numerically the same population to congratulate your return which wetted the sea-beach with their tears when you went away. Have you recovered the breathless stone-staring astonishment into which you must have been thrown upon learning at landing that an Emperor of France was living at St. Helena? What an event in the solitude of the seas,--like finding a fish's bone at the top of Plinlimmon; but these things are nothing in our Western world. Novelties cease to affect. Come and try what your presence can. God bless you! Your old friend, C. LAMB. LX. TO WORDSWORTH _April_ 9, 1816. Dear Wordsworth,--Thanks for the books you have given me, and for all the books you mean to give me. I will bind up the "Political Sonnets" and "Ode" according to your suggestion. I have not bound the poems yet; I wait till people have done borrowing them. I think I shall get a chain and chain them to my shelves, more _Bodleiano_, and people may come and read them at chain's length. For of those who borrow, some read slow; some mean to read but don't read; and some neither read nor meant to read, but borrow to leave you an opinion of their sagacity. I must do my money-borrowing friends the justice to say that there is nothing of this caprice or wantonness of alienation in them; when they borrow my money they never fail to make use of it, Coleridge has been here about a fortnight. His health is tolerable at present, though beset with temptations. In the first place, the Covent Garden Manager has declined accepting his Tragedy, though (having read it) I see no reason upon earth why it might not have run a very fair chance, though it certainly wants a prominent part for a Miss O'Neil or a Mr. Kean. However, he is going to write to-day to Lord Byron to get it to Drury. Should you see Mrs. C., who has just written to C. a letter, which I have given him, it will be as well to say nothing about its fate till some answer is shaped from Drury. He has two volumes printing together at Bristol, both finished as far as the composition goes; the latter containing his fugitive poems, the former his Literary Life. Nature, who conducts every creature by instinct to its best end, has skilfully directed C. to take up his abode at a Chemist's Laboratory in Norfolk Street. She might as well have sent a _Helluo Librorum_ for cure to the Vatican. God keep him inviolate among the traps and pitfalls! He has done pretty well as yet. Tell Miss Hutchinson my sister is every day wishing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter; but while C. stays she can hardly find a quiet time. God bless him! Tell Mrs. Wordsworth her postscripts are always agreeable. They are legible too. Your manual-graphy is terrible,--dark as Lycophron. "Likelihood," for instance, is thus typified.... I should not wonder if the constant making out of such paragraphs is the cause of that weakness in Mrs. W.'s eyes, as she is tenderly pleased to express it. Dorothy, I hear, has mounted spectacles; so you have deoculated two of your dearest relations in life. Well, God bless you, and continue to give you power to write with a finger of power upon our hearts what you fail to impress, in corresponding lucidness, upon our outward eyesight! Mary's love to all; she is quite well. I am called off to do the deposits on Cotton Wool. But why do I relate this to you, who want faculties to comprehend the great mystery of deposits, of interest, of warehouse rent, and contingent fund? Adieu! C. LAMB. Zapolya. Lamb alludes, of course, to Coleridge's opium habit. LXI. TO WORDSWORTH. _April_ 26, 1816. Dear W.,--I have just finished the pleasing task of correcting the revise of the poems and letter. I hope they will come out faultless. One blunder I saw and shuddered at. The hallucinating rascal had printed _battered_ for _battened_, this last not conveying any distinct sense to his gaping soul. The Reader (as they call 'em) had discovered it, and given it the marginal brand; but the substitutory _n_ had not yet appeared. I accompanied his notice with a most pathetic address to the printer not to neglect the correction. I know how such a blunder would "batter at your peace." With regard to the works, the Letter I read with unabated satisfaction. Such a thing was wanted, called for. The parallel of Cotton with Burns I heartily approve, Iz. Walton hallows any page in which his reverend name appears. "Duty archly bending to purposes of general benevolence" is exquisite. The poems I endeavored not to understand, but to read them with my eye alone; and I think I succeeded, (Some people will do that when they come out, you'll say.) As if I were to luxuriate to-morrow at some picture-gallery I was never at before, and, going by to-day by chance, found the door open, and having but five minutes to look about me, peeped in,--just such a _chastised_ peep I took with my mind at the lines my luxuriating eye was coursing over unrestrained, riot to anticipate another day's fuller satisfaction. Coleridge is printing "Christabel," by Lord Byron's recommendation to Murray, with what he calls a vision, "Kubla Khan," which said vision he repeats so enchantingly that it irradiates and brings heaven and elysian bowers into my parlor while he sings or says it; but there is an observation, "Never tell thy dreams," and I am almost afraid that "Kubla Khan" is an owl that won't bear daylight. I fear lest it should be discovered, by the lantern of typography and clear reducting to letters, no better than nonsense or no sense. When I was young, I used to chant with ecstasy "MILD ARCADIANS EVER BLOOMING," till somebody told me it was meant to be nonsense. Even yet I have a lingering attachment to it, and I think it better than "Windsor Forest," "Dying Christian's Address," etc. Coleridge has sent his tragedy to D.L.T. ; it cannot be acted this season, and by their manner of receiving I hope he will be able to alter it to make them accept it for next. He is at present under the medical care of a Mr. Gilman (Killman?) at Highgate, where he plays at leaving off laud---m. I think his essentials not touched; he is very bad, but then he wonderfully picks up another day, and his face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory,--an archangel a little damaged. Will Miss H. pardon our not replying at length to her kind letter? We are not quiet enough; Morgan is with us every day, going betwixt Highgate and the Temple. Coleridge is absent but four miles; and the neighborhood of such a man is as exciting as the presence of fifty ordinary persons. 'Tis enough to be within the whiff and wind of his genius for us not to possess our souls in quiet. If I lived with him or the _Author of the "Excursion,"_ I should, in a very little time, lose my own identity, and be dragged along in the current of other people's thoughts, hampered in a net. How cool I sit in this office, with no possible interruption further than what I may term _material!_ There is not as much metaphysics in thirty-six of the people here as there is in the first page of Locke's "Treatise on the Human Understanding," or as much poetry as in any ten lines of the "Pleasures of Hope," or more natural "Beggar's Petition." I never entangle myself in any of their speculations. Interruptions, if I try to write a letter even, I have dreadful. Just now, within four lines, I was called off for ten minutes to consult dusty old books for the settlement of obsolete errors. I hold you a guinea you don't find the chasm where I left off, so excellently the wounded sense closed again and was healed. N.B.--Nothing said above to the contrary, but that I hold the personal presence of the two mentioned potent spirits at a rate as high as any: but I pay dearer: what amuses others robs me of myself; my mind is positively discharged into their greater currents, but flows with a willing violence. As to your question about work, it is far less oppressive to me than it was, from circumstances; it takes all the golden part of the day away, a solid lump, from ten to four; but it does not kill my peace, as before. Some day or other I shall be in a taking again. My head aches, and you have had enough, God bless you! C. LAMB. Wordsworth's "Letter to a Friend of Burns" (London, 1816). "Wordsworth had been consulted by a friend of Burns as to the best mode of vindicating the reputation of the poet, which, it was alleged, had been much injured by the publication of Dr. Carrie's 'Life and Correspondence of Burns.'"--AINGER. LXII. TO H. DODWELL _July_, 1816. My dear Fellow,--I have been in a lethargy this long while, and forgotten London, Westminster, Marybone, Paddington,--they all went clean out of my head, till happening to go to a neighbor's in this good borough of Calne, for want of whist-players we fell upon _Commerce:_ the word awoke me to a remembrance of my professional avocations and the long-continued strife which I have been these twenty-four years endeavoring to compose between those grand Irreconcilables, Cash and Commerce; I instantly called for an almanac, which with some difficulty was procured at a fortune-teller's in the vicinity (for happy holiday people here, having nothing to do, keep no account of time), and found that by dint of duty I must attend in Leadenhall on Wednesy morning next; and shall attend accordingly. Does Master Hannah give maccaroons still, and does he fetch the Cobbetts from my attic? Perhaps it wouldn't be too much trouble for him to drop the enclosed up at my aforesaid chamber, and any letters, etc., with it; but the enclosed should go without delay. N.B.--He isn't to fetch Monday's Cobbett, but it is to wait my reading when I come back. Heigh-ho! Lord have mercy upon me, how many does two and two make? I am afraid I shall make a poor clerk in future, I am spoiled with rambling among haycocks and cows and pigs. Bless me! I had like to have forgot (the air is so temperate and oblivious here) to say I have seen your brother, and hope he is doing well in the finest spot of the world. More of these things when I return. Remember me to the gentlemen,--I forget names. Shall I find all my letters at my rooms on Tuesday? If you forget to send 'em never mind, for I don't much care for reading and writing now; I shall come back again by degrees, I suppose, into my former habits. How is Bruce de Ponthieu, and Porcher and Co.?--the tears come into my eyes when I think how long I have neglected--. Adieu! ye fields, ye shepherds and--herdesses, and dairies and cream-pots, and fairies and dances upon the green. I come, I come. Don't drag me so hard by the hair of my head, Genius of British India! I know my hour is come, Faustus must give up his soul, O Lucifer, O Mephistopheles! Can you make out what all this letter is about? I am afraid to look it over. CH. LAMB. A fellow-clerk in the India House. This charming letter, written evidently during a vacation trip, was first published entire in Canon Ainger's edition (1887) of Lamb's Letters. LXIII. TO MRS. WORDSWORTH. _February_ 18, 1818. My Dear Mrs. Wordsworth,--I have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. My sister should more properly have done it; but she having failed, I consider myself answerable for her debts. I am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardamoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. The reason why I cannot write letters at home is that I am never alone. Plato's--(I write to W.W. now)--Plato's double-animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in the system of its first creation than I sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. Except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, I am never so. I cannot walk home from office, but some officious friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. All the morning I am pestered. I could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write "paid" against this, and "unpaid" against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind "some darling thoughts all my own,"--faint memory of some passage in a book, or the tone of an absent friend's voice,--a snatch of Miss Burrell's singing, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's divine plain face. The two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's I mean); or as I sometimes turn round till I am giddy, in my back parlor, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front; or as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But there are a set of amateurs of the Belies Lettres,--the gay science,--who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, etc.,--what Coleridge said at the lecture last night,--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them but to talk of, might as well have been Ante-Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egyptian hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should find it. These pests worrit me at business and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if I take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures, which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. Their noise ended, one of them, as I said, accompanies me home, lest I should be solitary for a moment. He at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up I go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication: knock at the door! In comes Mr. Hazlitt, or Martin Burney, or Morgan Demi-gorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone,--a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. Oh, the pleasure of eating alone! Eating my dinner alone,--let me think of it! But in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle of orange; for my meat turns into stone when any one dines with me, if I have not wine. Wine can mollify stones; then that wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters (God bless 'em! I love some of 'em dearly); and with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going away. Bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening; but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bedtime. Come never, I would say to these spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! The fact is, this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comes by surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary stifling consequences, follows. Evening company I should always like, had I any mornings; but I am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a week would be as much as I should covet to be in company; but I assure you that is a wonderful week in which I can get two, or one, to myself. I am never C.L., but always C.L. & Co. He who thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself! I forget bed-time; but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. Once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, I go to bed at the hour I ought always to be a-bed, just close to my bed-room window is the club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers--I take them to be chorus-singers of the two theatres (it must be _both of them_)--begin their orgies. They are a set of fellows (as I conceive) who, being limited by their talents to the burden of the song at the playhouses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by Bishop or some cheap composer, arranged for choruses, that is, to be sang all in chorus,--at least, I never can catch any of the text of the plain song, nothing but the Babylonish choral howl at the tail on't, "That fury being quenched,'--the howl I mean,--a burden succeeds of shouts and clapping and knocking of the table. At length over-tasked nature drops under it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at cockcrow. And then I think of the words Christabel's father used (bless me! I have dipt in the wrong ink) to say every morning by way of variety when he awoke,-- "Every knell, the Baron saith, Wakes us up to a world of death,"-- or something like it. All I mean by this senseless interrupted tale is, that by my central situation I am a little over-companied. Not that I have any animosity against the good creatures that are so anxious to drive away the harpy Solitude from me. I like 'em, and cards, and a cheerful glass; but I mean merely to give you an idea, between office confinement and after-office society, how little time I can call my own. I mean only to draw a picture, not to make an inference. I would not, that I know of, have it otherwise. I only wish sometimes I could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carried away, leaving regret, but more pleasure,--even a kind of gratitude,--at being so often favored with that kind northern visitation. My London faces and noises don't hear me,--I mean no disrespect, or I should explain myself, that instead of their return 220 times a year, and the return of W. W., etc., seven times in 104 weeks, some more equal distribution might be found. I have scarce room to put in Mary's kind love and my poor name. C. LAMB. W. H. goes on lecturing against W.W., and making copious use of quotations from said W.W. to give a zest to said lectures. S.T.C. is lecturing with success. I have not heard either him or H.; but I dined with S.T.C. at Oilman's a Sunday or two since; and he was well and in good spirits. I mean to hear some of the course; but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. If _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think why you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which you could read so much better at leisure yourself; if delivered extempore, I am always in pain lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honor of me at the London Tavern. "Gentlemen," said I, and there I stopped; the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. Mrs. Wordsworth _will/_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the lakes once more, which never can be realized. Between us there is a great gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, I hope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concerned in the stamp-office that I so strangely recoiled from at Haydon's. I think I had an instinct that he was the head of an office, I hate all such people,--accountants' deputy accountants. The mere abstract notion of the East India Company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such beasts, I loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of Babylon. I thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days, they had done their worst; but I was deceived in the length to which heads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go,--they are the tyrants, not Ferdinand, nor Nero. By a decree passed this week, they have abridged us of the immemorially observed custom of going at one o'clock of a Saturday,--the little shadow of a holiday left us. Dear W.W., be thankful for liberty. John Morgan LXIV. TO WORDSWORTH. May, 1819. Dear Wordsworth.--I received a copy of "Peter Bell" a week ago, and I hope the author will not be offended if I say I do not much relish it. The humor, if it is meant for humor, is forced; and then the price,--sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind, I do not mean _your_ "Peter Bell," but a "Peter Bell," which preceded it about a week, and is in every bookseller's shop-window in London, the type and paper nothing differing from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the supplementary preface quoting as the author's words an extract from the supplementary preface to the "Lyrical Ballads." Is there no law against these rascals? I would have this Lambert Simnel whipped at the cart's tail. Who started the spurious "P.B." I have not heard. I should guess, one of the sneering brothers, the vile Smiths; but I have heard no name mentioned. "Peter Bell" (not the mock one) is excellent,--for its matter, I mean. I cannot say the style of it quite satisfies me. It is too lyrical. The auditors, to whom it is feigned to be told, do not _arride me_. I had rather it had been told me, the reader, at once. "Hart-leap Well" is the tale for me; in matter as good as this, in manner infinitely before it, in my poor judgment. Why did you not add "The Wagoner"? Have I thanked you, though, yet for "Peter Bell"? I would not _not have it_ for a good deal of money. Coleridge is very foolish to scribble about books. Neither his tongue nor fingers are very retentive. But I shall not say anything to him about it. He would only begin a very long story with a very long face, and I see him far too seldom to tease him with affairs of business or conscience when I do see him. He never comes near our house, and when we go to see him he is generally writing or thinking; he is writing in his study till the dinner comes, and that is scarce over before the stage summons us away. The mock "P.B." had only this effect on me, that after twice reading it over in hopes to find something diverting in it, I reached your two books off the shelf, and set into a steady reading of them, till I had nearly finished both before I went to bed,--the two of your last edition, of course, I mean, And in the morning I awoke determined to take down the "Excursion." I wish the scoundrel imitator could know this. But why waste a wish on him? I do not believe that paddling about with a stick in a pond, and fishing up a dead author, whom _his_ intolerable wrongs had driven to that deed of desperation, would turn the heart of one of these obtuse literary BELLS. There is no Cock for such Peters, damn 'em! I am glad this aspiration came upon the red-ink line. It is more of a bloody curse. I have delivered over your other presents to Alsager and G. Dyer, A., I am sure, will value it and be proud of the hand from which it came. To G.D. a poem is a poem,--his own as good as anybody's, and, God bless him! anybody's as good as his own; for I do not think he has the most distant guess of the possibility of one poem being better than another. The gods, by denying him the very faculty itself of discrimination, have effectually cut off every seed of envy in his bosom. But with envy they excited curiosity also; and if you wish the copy again, which you destined for him, I think I shall be able to find it again for you on his third shelf, where he stuffs his presentation copies, uncut, in shape and matter resembling a lump of dry dust; but on carefully removing that stratum, a thing like a pamphlet will emerge. I have tried this with fifty different poetical works that have been given G.D. in return for as many of his own performances; and I confess I never had any scruple in taking _my own_ again, wherever I found it, shaking the adherences off; and by this means one copy of 'my works' served for G.D.,--and, with a little dusting, was made over to my good friend Dr. Geddes, who little thought whose leavings he was taking when he made me that graceful bow. By the way, the Doctor is the only one of my acquaintance who bows gracefully,--my town acquaintance, I mean. How do you like my way of writing with two inks? I think it is pretty and motley. Suppose Mrs. W, adopts it, the next time she holds the pen for you. My dinner waits. I have no time to indulge any longer in these laborious curiosities. God bless you, and cause to thrive and burgeon whatsoever you write, and fear no inks of miserable poetasters. Yours truly, CHARLES LAMB. Mary's love. Lamb alludes to a parody, ridiculing Wordsworth, by J. Hamilton Reynolds, The verses were entitled "Peter Bell: A Lyrical Ballad;" and their drift and spirit may be inferred from the following lines from the preface: "It is now a period of one-and-twenty years since I first wrote some of the most perfect compositions (except certain pieces I have written in my later days) that ever dropped from poetical pen. My heart hath been right and powerful all its years. I never thought an evil or a weak thought in my life. It has been my aim and my achievement to deduce moral thunder from buttercups, daisies, celandines, and (as a poet scarcely inferior to myself hath it) 'such small deer,'" etc. The original letter is actually written in to inks,--alternate black and red. LXV. TO MANNING, _May_ 28, 1819, My Dear M..--I want to know how your brother is, if you have heard lately. I want to know about you, I wish you were nearer. How are my cousins, the Gladmans of Wheathampstead, and Farmer Bruton? Mrs. Bruton is a glorious woman, "Hail, Mackery End!" This is a fragment of a blank-verse poem which. I once meditated, but got no farther. The E. I. H. has been thrown into a quandary by the strange phenomenon of poor Tommy Bye, whom I have known, man and madman, twenty-seven years, he being elder here than myself by nine years and more. He was always a pleasant, gossiping, half-headed, muzzy, dozing, dreaming, walk-about, inoffensive chap, a little too fond of the creature,--who isn't at times? But Tommy had _not_ brains to work off an overnight's surfeit by ten o'clock next morning, and unfortunately, in he wandered the other morning drunk with last night and with a superfoetation of drink taken in since he set out from bed. He came staggering under his double burden, like trees in Java, bearing at once blossom, fruit, and falling fruit, as I have heard you or some other traveller tell, with his face literally as blue as the bluest firmament. Some wretched calico that he had mopped his poor oozy front with, had rendered up its native dye, and the devil a bit would he consent to wash it, but swore it was characteristic, for he was going to the sale of indigo; and set up a laugh which I did not think the lungs of mortal man were competent to. It was like a thousand people laughing, or the Goblin Page. He imagined afterwards that the whole office had been laughing at him, so strange did his own sounds strike upon his _non_sensorium. But Tommy has laughed his last laugh, and awoke the next day to find himself reduced from an abused income of L600 per annum to one sixth of the sum, after thirty-six years' tolerably good service. The quality of mercy was not strained in his behalf; the gentle dews dropped not on him from heaven. It just came across me that I was writing to Canton. Will you drop in to-morrow night? Fanny Kelly is coming, if she does not cheat us. Mrs. _Gold_ is well, but proves "uncoined," as the lovers about Wheathampstead would say. I have not had such a quiet half hour to sit down to a quiet letter for many years. I have not been interrupted above four times. I wrote a letter the other day in alternate lines, black ink and red, and you cannot think how it chilled the flow of ideas. Next Monday is Whit-Monday. What a reflection! Twelve years ago, and I should have kept that and the following holiday in the fields a-maying. All of those pretty pastoral delights are over. This dead, everlasting dead desk,--how it weighs the spirit of a gentleman down! This dead wood of the desk instead of your living trees! But then, again, I hate the joskins, _a name for Hertfordshire bumpkins_. Each state of life has its inconvenience; but then, again, mine has more than one. Not that I repine, or grudge, or murmur at my destiny. I have meat and drink, and decent apparel,--I shall, at least, when I get a new hat, A red-haired man just interrupted me. He has broke the current of my thoughts, I haven't a word to add, I don't know why I send this letter, but I have had a hankering to hear about you some days. Perhaps it will go off before your reply comes. If it don't, I assure you no letter was ever welcomer from, you, from Paris or Macao. C. LAMB. See the Elia essay, "Mackery End, in H---shire." LXVI. TO MISS WORDSWORTH. _November_ 25, 1819. Dear Miss Wordsworth,--You will think me negligent, but I wanted to see more of Willy before I ventured to express a prediction, Till yesterday I had barely seen him,--_Virgilium tantum vidi_; but yesterday he gave us his small company to a bullock's heart, and I can pronounce him a lad of promise. He is no pedant nor bookworm; so far I can answer. Perhaps he has hitherto paid too little attention to other men's inventions, preferring, like Lord Foppington, the "natural sprouts of his own." But he has observation, and seems thoroughly awake. I am ill at remembering other people's _bon mots_, but the following are a few. Being taken over Waterloo Bridge, he remarked that if we had no mountains, we had a fine river, at least,--which was a touch of the comparative; but then he added in a strain which augured less for his future abilities as a political economist, that he supposed they must take at least a pound a week toll. Like a curious naturalist, he inquired if the tide did not come up a little salty. This being satisfactorily answered, he put another question, as to the flux and reflux; which being rather cunningly evaded than artfully solved by that she-Aristotle Mary, who muttered something about its getting up an hour sooner and sooner every day, he sagely replied, "Then it must come to the same thing at last,"--which was a speech worthy of an infant Halley! The lion in the 'Change by no means came up to his ideal standard,--so impossible is it for Nature, in any of her works, to come up to the standard of a child's imagination! The whelps (lionets) he was sorry to find were dead; and on particular inquiry, his old friend the orang-outang had gone the way of all flesh also. The grand tiger was also sick, and expected in no short time to exchange this transitory world for another or none. But, again, there was a golden eagle (I do not mean that of Charing) which did much arride and console him. William's genius, I take it, leans a little to the figurative; for being at play at tricktrack (a kind of minor billiard-table which we keep for smaller wights, and sometimes refresh our own mature fatigues with taking a hand at), not being able to hit a ball he had iterate aimed at, he cried out, "I cannot hit that beast." Now, the balls are usually called men, but he felicitously hit upon a middle term,--a term of approximation and imaginative reconciliation; a something where the two ends of the brute matter (ivory) and their human and rather violent personification into men might meet, as I take it,--illustrative of that excellent remark in a certain preface about imagination, explaining "Like a sea-beast that had crawled forth to sun himself!" Not that I accuse William Minor of hereditary plagiary, or conceive the image to have come _ex traduce_. Rather he seemeth to keep aloof from any source of imitation, and purposely to remain ignorant of what mighty poets have done in this kind before him; for being asked if his father had ever been on Westminster Bridge, he answered that he did not know! It is hard to discern the oak in the acorn, or a temple like St. Paul's in the first stone which is laid; nor can I quite prefigure what destination the genius of William Minor hath to take. Some few hints I have set down, to guide my future observations. He hath the power of calculation in no ordinary degree for a chit. He combineth figures, after the first boggle, rapidly; as in the tricktrack board, where the hits are figured, at first he did not perceive that 15 and 7 made 22; but by a little use he could combine 8 with 25, and 33 again with 16,--which approacheth something in kind (far let me be from flattering him by saying in degree) to that of the famous American boy. I am sometimes inclined to think I perceive the future satirist in him, for he hath a sub-sardonic smile which bursteth out upon occasion,--as when he was asked if London were as big as Ambleside; and indeed no other answer was given, or proper to be given, to so ensnaring and provoking a question. In the contour of skull certainly I discern something paternal; but whether in all respects the future man shall transcend his father's fame, Time, the trier of Geniuses, must decide. Be it pronounced peremptorily at present that Willy is a well-mannered child, and though no great student, hath yet a lively eye for things that lie before him. Given in haste from my desk at Leadenhall. Yours, and yours most sincerely, C. LAMB. Wordsworth's third son. He was at the Charter-house School in London, and the Lambs had invited him to spend a half holiday with them. "William Minor" was evidently forgetful of the exquisite sonnet, "Composed Upon Westminster Bridge." LXVII. TO COLERIDGE. _March_ 9, 1822. Dear C.,--It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well, --they are interesting creatures at a certain age; what a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! You had all some of the crackling--and brain sauce; did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little just before the crisis? Did the eyes come away kindly, with no Oedipean avulsion? Was the crackling the color of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no cursed complement of boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? Did you flesh maiden teeth in it? Not that I sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part Owen could play in the business. I never knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin with strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round to Highgate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things I could never think of sending away. Teals, widgeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, geese,--your tame villatic things,--Welsh mutton collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self-extended; but pardon me if I stop somewhere. Where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it an, affront, an undervaluing done to Nature, who bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of the bitterest pangs I ever felt of remorse was when a child. My kind old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough, I met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts,--a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught-charity, I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an Evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me,--the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expect that I--not the old impostor--should take in eating her cake; the cursed ingratitude by which, under the color of a Christian virtue, I had frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously that I think I never suffered the like; and I was right. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after. The cake has long been masticated, consigned to dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. But when Providence, who is better to us all than our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and my fall, I shall endeavor to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. Yours (short of pig) to command in everything, C. L. Some one had sent Coleridge a pig, and the gift was erroneously credited to Lamb. Elia: "Christ's Hospital Five-and-Thirty Years Ago." LXVIII. TO WORDSWORTH. _March_ 20, 1822. My Dear Wordsworth,--A letter from you is very grateful; I have not seen a Kendal postmark so long. We are pretty well, save colds and rheumatics, and a certain deadness to everything, which I think I may date from poor John's loss, and another accident or two at the same time, that has made me almost bury myself at Dalston, where yet I see more faces than I could wish. Deaths overset one and put one out long after the recent grief. Two or three have died, within this last two twelvemonths, and so many parts of me have been numbed. One sees a picture, reads an anecdote, starts a casual fancy, and thinks to tell of it to this person in preference to every other; the person is gone whom it would have peculiarly suited. It won't do for another. Every departure destroys a class of sympathies. There's Captain Burney gone! What fun has whist now? What matters it what you lead, if you can no longer fancy him looking over you? One never hears anything, but the image of the particular person occurs with whom alone almost you would care to share the intelligence,--thus one distributes oneself about; and now for so many parts of me I have lost the market. Common natures do not suffice me. Good people, as they are called, won't serve; I want individuals. I am made up of queer points, and I want so many answering needles. The going-away of friends does not make the remainder more precious. It takes so much from them, as there was a common link. A, B, and C make a party. A dies. B not only loses A, but all A's part in C. C loses A's part in B, and so the alphabet sickens by subtraction of interchangeables. I express myself muddily, _capite dolente_. I have a dulling cold. My theory is to enjoy life; but my practice is against it. I grow ominously tired of official confinement. Thirty years have I served the Philistines, and my neck is not subdued to the yoke. You don't know how wearisome it is to breathe the air of four pent walls without relief, day after day, all the golden hours of the day between ten and four, without ease or interposition. _Taedet me harum quotidianarum formarum_, these pestilential clerk-faces always in one's dish. Oh for a few years between the grave and the desk! they are the same, save that at the latter you are the outside machine. The foul enchanter , "letters four do form his name,"--Busirane is his name in hell,--that has curtailed you of some domestic comforts, hath laid a heavier hand on me, not in present infliction, but in the taking away the hope of enfranchisement. I dare not whisper to myself a pension on this side of absolute incapacitation and infirmity, till years have sucked me dry,--_Otium cum indignitate_. I had thought in a green old age (oh, green thought!) to have retired to Ponder's End,--emblematic name, how beautiful!,--in the Ware Road, there to have made up my accounts with Heaven and the Company, toddling about between it and Cheshunt, anon stretching, on some fine Izaak Walton morning, to Hoddesdon or Amwell, careless as a beggar; but walking, walking ever, till I fairly walked myself off my legs,--dying walking! The hope is gone. I sit like Philomel all day (but not singing), with my breast against this thorn of a desk, with the only hope that some pulmonary affliction may relieve me. _Vide_ Lord Palmerston's report of the clerks in the War-office (Debates in this morning's "Times"), by which it appears, in twenty years as many clerks have been coughed and catarrhed out of it into their freer graves. Thank you for asking about the pictures. Milton hangs over my fire-side in Covent Garden (when I am there); the rest have been sold for an old song, wanting the eloquent tongue that should have set them off! You have gratified me with liking my meeting with Dodd. For the Malvolio story,--the thing is become in verity a sad task, and I eke it out with anything. If I could slip out of it I should be happy; but our chief-reputed assistants have forsaken us. The Opium-Eater crossed us once with a dazzling path, and hath as suddenly left us darkling; and, in short, I shall go on from dull to worse, because I cannot resist the booksellers' importunity,--the old plea, you know, of authors; but I believe on my part sincere. Hartley I do not so often see, but I never see him in unwelcome hour. I thoroughly love and honor him. I send you a frozen epistle; but it is winter and dead time of the year with me. May Heaven keep something like spring and summer up with you, strengthen your eyes, and make mine a little lighter to encounter with them, as I hope they shall yet and again, before all are closed! Yours, with every kind remembrance, C. L. Martin Burney was the grimy-fisted whist-player to whom Lamb once observed, "Martin, if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold!" The enchanter in "The Faerie Queene." LXIX. TO JOHN CLARE. _August_ 31, 1822. Dear Clare,--I thank you heartily for your present. I am an inveterate old Londoner, but while I am among your choice collections I seem to be native to them and free of the country. The quality of your observation has astonished me. What have most pleased me have been "Recollections after a Ramble," and those "Grongar Hill" kind of pieces in eight-syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as "Cooper Hill" and "Solitude." In some of your story-telling Ballads the provincial phrases sometimes startle me. I think you are too profuse with them. In poetry _slang_ of every kind is to be avoided. There is a rustic Cockneyism, as little pleasing as ours of London. Transplant Arcadia to Helpstone. The true rustic style I think is to be found in Shenstone. Would his "School-mistress," the prettiest of poems, have been better if he had used quite the Goody's own language? Now and then a home rusticism is fresh and startling; but when nothing is gained in expression, it is out of tenor. It may make folks smile and stare; but the ungenial coalition of barbarous with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being so generally tasted as you desire to be. Excuse my freedom, and take the same liberty with my _puns_. I send you two little volumes of my spare hours. They are of all sorts; there is a Methodist hymn for Sundays, and a farce for Saturday night. Pray give them a place on your shelf. Pray accept a little volume, of which I have a duplicate, that I may return in equal number to your welcome presents. I think I am indebted to you for a sonnet in the "London" for August. Since I saw you I have been in France, and have eaten frogs. The nicest little rabbity things you ever tasted. Do look about for them. Make Mrs. Clare pick off the hind-quarters, boil them plain, with parsley and butter. The fore-quarters are not so good. She may let them hop off by themselves. Yours sincerely, CHAS. LAMB. The Northamptonshire peasant poet. He had sent Lamb his "The Village Minstrel, and other Poems." LXX. TO MR. BARRON FIELD. _September_ 22, 1822. My Dear F.,--I scribble hastily at office. Frank wants my letter presently. I and sister are just returned from Paris! We have eaten frogs. It has been such a treat! You know our monotonous general tenor. Frogs are the nicest little delicate things,--rabbity flavored. Imagine a Lilliputian rabbit! They fricassee them; but in my mind, dressed seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would have been the decision of Apicius.... Paris is a glorious, picturesque old city. London looks mean and new to it, as the town of Washington would, seen after _it._ But they have no St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey. The Seine, so much despised by Cockneys, is exactly the size to run through a magnificent street; palaces a mile long on one side, lofty Edinburgh stone (oh, the glorious antiques!) houses on the other. The Thames disunites London and Southwark. I had Talma to supper with me. He has picked up, as I believe, an authentic portrait of Shakspeare. He paid a broker about L40 English for it. It is painted on the one half of a pair of bellows,--a lovely picture, corresponding with the Folio head. The bellows has old carved _wings_ round it and round the visnomy is inscribed, as near as I remember, not divided into rhyme,--I found out the rhyme,-- "Whom have we here Stuck on this bellows, But the Prince of good fellows, Willy Shakspere?" At top,-- "O base and coward lack, To be here stuck!" POINS. At bottom,-- "Nay! rather a glorious lot is to him assign'd, Who, like the Almighty, rides upon the wind." PISTOL, This is all in old, carved wooden letters. The countenance smiling, sweet, and intellectual beyond measure, even as he was immeasurable. It may be a forgery. They laugh at me, and tell me Ireland is in Paris, and has been putting off a portrait of the Black Prince. How far old wood may be imitated I cannot say, Ireland was not found out by his parchments, but by his poetry. I am confident no painter on either side the Channel could have painted anything near like the face I saw. Again, would such a painter and forger have taken L40 for a thing, if authentic, worth L4000? Talma is not in the secret, for he had not even found out the rhymes in the first inscription. He is coming over with it, and my life to Southey's "Thalaba," it will gain universal faith. The letter is wanted, and I am wanted. Imagine the blank filled up with all kind things. Our joint, hearty remembrances to both of you. Yours as ever, C. LAMB. The Lambs had visited Paris on the invitation of James Kenney, the dramatist, who had married a Frenchwoman, and was living at Versailles. LXXI. TO WALTER WILSON. _December_ 16, 1822. Dear Wilson,--_Lightning_ I was going to call you. You must have thought me negligent in not answering your letter sooner. But I have a habit of never writing letters but at the office; 'tis so much time cribbed out of the Company; and I am but just got out of the thick of a tea-sale, in which most of the entry of notes, deposits, etc., usually falls to my share. I have nothing of De Foe's but two or three novels and the "Plague History." I can give you no information about him. As a slight general character of what I remember of them (for I have not looked into them latterly), I would say that in the appearance of _truth,_ in all the incidents and conversations that occur in them, they exceed any works of fiction I am acquainted with. It is perfect illusion. The _author_ never appears in these self-narratives (for so they ought to be called, or rather auto-biographies), but the _narrator_ chains us down to an implicit belief in everything he says. There is all the minute detail of a log-book in it. Dates are painfully pressed upon the memory. Facts are repeated over and over in varying phrases, till you cannot choose but believe them. It is like reading evidence given in a court of justice. So anxious the story-teller seems that the truth should be clearly comprehended that when he has told us a matter of fact or a motive, in a line or two farther down he _repeats_ it with his favorite figure of speech, "I say" so and so, though he had made it abundantly plain before. This is in imitation of the common people's way of speaking, or rather of the way in which they are addressed by a master or mistress who wishes to impress something upon their memories, and has a wonderful effect upon matter-of-fact readers. Indeed, it is to such principally that he writes. His style is everywhere beautiful, but plain and _homely._ "Robinson Crusoe" is delightful to all ranks and classes; but it is easy to see that it is written in phraseology peculiarly adapted to the lower conditions of readers,--hence it is an especial favorite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant-maids, etc. His novels are capital kitchen-reading, while they are worthy, from their deep interest, to find a shelf in the libraries of the wealthiest and the most learned. His passion for _matter-of-fact narrative_ sometimes betrayed him into a long relation of common incidents, which might happen to any man, and have no interest but the intense appearance of truth in them, to recommend them. The whole latter half or two-thirds of "Colonel Jack" is of this description. The beginning of "Colonel Jack" is the most affecting natural picture of a young thief that was ever drawn. His losing the stolen money in the hollow of a tree, and finding it again when he was in despair, and then being in equal distress at not knowing how to dispose of it, and several similar touches in the early history of the Colonel, evince a deep knowledge of human nature, and putting out of question the superior _romantic_ interest of the latter, in my mind very much exceed "Crusoe." "Roxana" (first edition) is the next in interest, though he left out the best part of it in subsequent editions from a foolish hypercriticism of his friend Southerne. But "Moll Flanders," the "Account of the Plague," etc., are all of one family, and have the same stamp of character. Believe me, with friendly recollections--Brother (as I used to call you), Yours, C. LAMB. Wilson was preparing a Life of De Foe, and had written to Lamb for guidance. LXXII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _December_ 23, 1822. Dear Sir,--I have been so distracted with business and one thing or other, I have not had a quiet quarter of an hour for epistolary purposes. Christmas, too, is come, which always puts a rattle into my morning skull. It is a visiting, unquiet, unquakerish season. I get more and more in love with solitude, and proportionately hampered with company. I hope you have some holidays at this period. I have one day,--Christmas Day; alas! too few to commemorate the season. All work and no play dulls me. Company is not play, but many times bard work. To play, is for a man to do what he pleases, or to do nothing,--to go about soothing his particular fancies. I have lived to a time of life to have outlived the good hours, the nine-o'clock suppers, with a bright hour or two to clear up in afterwards. Now you cannot get tea before that hour, and then sit gaping, music bothered perhaps, till half-past twelve brings up the tray; and what you steal of convivial enjoyment after, is heavily paid for in the disquiet of to-morrow's head. I am pleased with your liking "John Woodvil," and amused with your knowledge of our drama being confined to Shakspeare and Miss Baillie. What a world of fine territory between Land's End and Johnny Groat's have you missed traversing! I could almost envy you to have so much to read. I feel as if I had read all the books I want to read. Oh, to forget Fielding, Steele, etc., and read 'em new! Can you tell me a likely place where I could pick up cheap Fox's Journal? There are no Quaker circulating libraries? Elwood, too, I must have. I rather grudge that Southey has taken up the history of your people; I am afraid he will put in some levity. I am afraid I am not quite exempt from that fault in certain magazine articles, where I have introduced mention of them. Were they to do again, I would reform them. Why should not you write a poetical account of your old worthies, deducing them from Fox to Woolman? But I remember you did talk of something of that kind, as a counterpart to the "Ecclesiastical Sketches." But would not a poem be more consecutive than a string of sonnets? You have no martyrs _quite to the fire,_ I think, among you, but plenty of heroic confessors, spirit-martyrs, lamb-lions. Think of it; it would be better than a series of sonnets on "Eminent Bankers." I like a hit at our way of life, though it does well for me,--better than anything short of _all one's time to one's self;_ for which alone I rankle with envy at the rich. Books are good, and pictures are good, and money to buy them therefore good; but to buy _time,_--in other words, life! The "compliments of the time" to you, should end my letter; to a Friend, I suppose, I must say the "sincerity of the season:" I hope they both mean the same. With excuses for this hastily penned note, believe me, with great respect, C. LAMB. LXXIII. TO MISS WORDSWORTH. Mary perfectly approves of the appropriation of the _feathers,_ and wishes them peacock's for your fair niece's sake. _Christmas_, 1822. Dear Miss Wordsworth,--I had just written the above endearing words when Monkhouse tapped me on the shoulder with an invitation to cold goose pie, which I was not bird of that sort enough to decline. Mrs. Monkhouse, I am most happy to say, is better Mary has been tormented with a rheumatism, which is leaving her, I am suffering from the festivities of the season. I wonder how my misused carcase holds it out. I have played the experimental philosopher on it, that's certain. Willy shall be welcome to a mince-pie and a bout at commerce whenever he comes. He was in our eye. I am glad you liked my new year's speculations; everybody likes them, except the author of the "Pleasures of Hope." Disappointment attend him! How I like to be liked, and _what I do_ to be liked! They flatter me in magazines, newspapers, and all the minor reviews; the Quarterlies hold aloof. But they must come into it in time, or their leaves be waste paper. Salute Trinity Library in my name. Two special things are worth seeing at Cambridge,--a portrait of Cromwell at Sidney, and a better of Dr. Harvey (who found out that blood was red) at Dr. Davy's; you should see them. Coleridge is pretty well; I have not seen, him, but hear often of him, from Allsop, who sends me hares and pheasants twice a week; I can hardly take so fast as he gives. I have almost forgotten butcher's meat as plebeian. Are you not glad the cold is gone? I find winters not so agreeable as they used to be "when winter bleak had charms forme," I cannot conjure up a kind similitude for those snowy flakes. Let them keep to twelfth-cakes! Mrs. Paris, our Cambridge friend, has been in town. You do not know the Watfords in Trampington Street. They are capital people. Ask anybody you meet, who is the biggest woman in Cambridge, and I 'll hold you a wager they'll say Mrs. Smith; she broke down two benches in Trinity Gardens,--one on the confines of St. John's, which occasioned a litigation between the Societies as to repairing it. In warm weather, she retires into an ice-cellar (literally! ), and dates the returns of the years from a hot Thursday some twenty years back. She sits in a room with opposite doors and windows, to let in a thorough draught, which gives her slenderer friends tooth-aches. She is to be seen in the market every morning at ten cheapening fowls, which I observe the Cambridge poulterers are not sufficiently careful to stump. Having now answered most of the points contained in your letter, let me end with assuring you of our very best kindness, and excuse Mary for not handling the pen on this occasion, especially as it has fallen into so much better hands! Will Dr. W. accept of my respects at the end of a foolish letter? C. L. LXXIV. TO MR. AND MRS. BRUTON. _January_ 6, 1823. The pig was above my feeble praise. It was a dear pigmy. There was some contention as to who should have the ears; but in spite of his obstinacy (deaf as these little creatures are to advice), I contrived to get at one of them. It came in boots, too, which I took as a favor. Generally these petty-toes, pretty toes I are missing: but I suppose he wore them to look taller. He must have been the least of his race. His little foots would have gone into the silver slipper. I take him to have beec a Chinese and a female. If Evelyn could have seen him, he would never have farrowed two such prodigious volumes, seeing how much good can be contained in--how small a compass! He crackled delicately. I left a blank at the top of my letter, not being determined which to address it to j so farmer and farmer's wife will please to divide our thanks. May your granaries be full, and your rats empty, and your chickens plump, and your envious neighbors lean, and your laborers busy, and you as idle and as happy as the day is long! VIVE L'AGRICULTURE! How do you make your pigs so little? They are vastly engaging at the age. I was so myself. Now I am a disagreeable old hog, A middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half; My faculties (thank God!) are not much impaired. I have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect, and can read the Lord's Prayer in common type, by the help of a candle, without making many mistakes.... Many happy returns, not of the pig, but of the New Year, to both. Mary, for her share of the pig and the memoirs, desires to send the same. Hertfordshire connections of the Lambs. LXXV. TO BERNARD BARTON. _January_ 9, 1823. Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you! Throw yourself, rather, my dear sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you had but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. They are Turks and Tartars when they have poor authors at their beck. Hitherto you have been at arm's length from them. Come not within their grasp. I have known many authors want for bread, some repining, others envying the blessed security of a counting-house, all agreeing they had rather have been tailors, weavers,--what not,--rather than the things they were. I have known some starved, some to go mad, one dear friend literally dying in a workhouse. You know not what a rapacious, dishonest set these booksellers are. Ask even Southey, who (a single case almost) has made a fortune by book-drudgery, what he has found them. Oh, you know not--may you never know!--the miseries of subsisting by authorship. 'Tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours or mine, but a slavery, worse than all slavery, to be a bookseller's dependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale and breasts of mutton, to change your free thoughts and voluntary numbers for ungracious task-work. Those fellows hate _us_. The reason I take to be that, contrary to other trades, in which the master gets all the credit (a Jeweller or silversmith for instance), and the journeyman, who really does the fine work, is in the background, in _our_ work the world gives all the credit to us, whom _they_ consider as _their_ journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and oppress us, and would wring the blood of as out, to put another sixpence in their mechanic pouches! I contend that a bookseller has a _relative honesty_ towards authors, not like his honesty to the rest of the world. Baldwin, who first engaged me as Elia, has not paid me up yet (nor any of us without repeated mortifying appeals). Yet how the knave fawned when I was of service to him! Yet I daresay the fellow is punctual in settling his milk-score, etc. Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust not to the public; you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy _personage_ cares. I bless every star that Providence, not seeing good to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me upon the stable foundation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B.B., in the banking-office; what! is there not from six to eleven P.M. six days in the week, and is there not all Sunday? Fie! what a superfluity of man's time, if you could think so,--enough for relaxation, mirth, converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. Oh, the corroding, torturing, tormenting thoughts that disturb the brain of the unlucky wight who must draw upon it for daily sustenance! Henceforth I retract all my foul complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them as lovers' quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome, dead timber of a desk, that makes me live! A little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the spleen, but in my inner heart do I approve and embrace this our close, but unharassing, way of life. I am quite serious. If you can send me Fox, I will not keep it _six weeks_, and will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blot or dog's-ear. You will much oblige me by this kindness. The Quaker poet. Mr. Barton was a clerk in the bank of the Messrs. Alexander, of Woodbridge, in Suffolk. Encouraged by his literary success, he thought of throwing up his clerkship and trusting to his pen for a livelihood,--a design from which he was happily diverted by his friends. LXXVI. TO MISS HUTCHINSON. _April_ 25, 1823. Dear Miss H.,--Mary has such an invincible reluctance to any epistolary exertion that I am sparing her a mortification by taking the pen from her. The plain truth is, she writes such a mean, detestable hand that she is ashamed of the formation of her letters. There is an essential poverty and abjectness in the frame of them. They look like begging letters. And then she is sure to omit a most substantial word in the second draught (for she never ventures an epistle without a foul copy first), which is obliged to be interlined,--which spoils the neatest epistle, you know. Her figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, etc., where she has occasion to express numerals, as in the date (25th April, 1823), are not figures, but figurantes; and the combined posse go staggering up and down shameless, as drunkards in the daytime. It is no better when she rules her paper. Her lines "are not less erring" than her words; a sort of unnatural parallel lines, that are perpetually threatening to meet,--which, you know, is quite contrary to Euclid. Her very blots are not bold, like this , but poor smears, half left in and half scratched out, with another smear left in their place. I like a clear letter; a bold, free hand and a fearless flourish. Then she has always to go through them (a second operation) to dot her _i_'s and cross her _t_'s. I don't think she could make a corkscrew if she tried,--which has such a fine effect at the end or middle of an epistle, and fills up. There is a corkscrew! One of the best I ever drew. By the way, what incomparable whiskey that was of Monkhouse's! But if I am to write a letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like a fencer at a fair. _April_ 25, 1823. Dear Miss H.,--It gives me great pleasure to hear that you got down so smoothly, and that Mrs. Monkhouse's spirits are so good and enterprising. It shows, whatever her posture may be, that her mind at least is not supine. I hope the excursion will enable the former to keep pace with its outstripping neighbor. Pray present our kindest wishes to her and all (that sentence should properly have come into the postscript; but we airy, mercurial spirits, there is no keeping us in). "Time" (as was said of one of us) "toils after us in vain." I am afraid our co-visit with Coleridge was a dream. I shall not get away before the end or middle of June, and then you will be frog-hopping at Boulogne. And besides, I think the Gilmans would scarce trust him with us; I have a malicious knack at cutting of apron-strings. The saints' days you speak of have long since fled to heaven with Astraea, and the cold piety of the age lacks fervor to recall them; only Peter left his key,--the iron one of the two that "shuts amain,"--and that is the reason I am locked up. Meanwhile, of afternoons we pick up primroses at Dalston, and Mary corrects me when I call 'em cowslips. God bless you all, and pray remember me euphoniously to Mr. Gruvellegan. That Lee Priory must be a dainty bower. Is it built of flints? and does it stand at Kingsgate? Lamb was fond of this flourish, and it is frequently found in his letters. Miss Hutchinson's invalid relative. LXXVII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _September_ 2, 1823. Dear B.B.,--What will you not say to my not writing? You cannot say I do not write now. Hessey has not used your kind sonnet, nor have I seen it. Pray send me a copy. Neither have I heard any more of your friend's MS., which I will reclaim whenever you please. When you come Londonward, you will find me no longer in Covent Garden: I have a cottage in Colebrook Row, Islington,--a cottage, for it is detached; a white house, with six good rooms, The New River (rather elderly by this time) runs (if a moderate walking pace can be so termed) close to the foot of the house; and behind is a spacious garden with vines (I assure you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots, cabbages, to delight the heart of old Alcinous. You enter without passage into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with old books; and above is a lightsome drawing-room, three windows, full of choice prints. I feel like a great lord, never having had a house before. The "London," I fear, falls off. I linger among its creaking rafters, like the last rat; it will topple down if they don't get some buttresses. They have pulled down three,--Hazlitt, Procter, and their best stay, kind, light-hearted Wainewright, their Janus. The best is, neither of our fortunes is concerned in it. I heard of you from Mr. Pulham this morning, and that gave a fillip to my laziness, which has been intolerable; but I am so taken up with pruning and gardening,--quite a new sort of occupation to me. I have gathered my jargonels; but my Windsor pears are backward. The former were of exquisite raciness. I do now sit under my own vine, and contemplate the growth of vegetable nature. I can now understand in what sense they speak of father Adam. I recognize the paternity while I watch my tulips. I almost fell with him, for the first day I turned a drunken gardener (as he let in the serpent) into my Eden; and he laid about him, lopping off some choice boughs, etc., which hung over from a neighbor's garden, and in his blind zeal laid waste a shade which had sheltered their window from the gaze of passers-by. The old gentlewoman (fury made her not handsome) could scarcely be reconciled by all my fine words. There was no buttering her parsnips. She talked of the law. What a lapse to commit on the first day of my happy "garden state"! I hope you transmitted the Fox-Journal to its owner, with suitable thanks. Mr. Cary, the Dante man, dines with me to-day. He is a mode of a country parson, lean (as a curate ought to be), modest, sensible, no obtruder of church dogmas, quite a different man from Southey. You would like him. Pray accept this for a letter, and believe me, with sincere regards, yours, C.L. Wainewright, the notorious poisoner, who, under the name of "Janus Weathercock," contributed various frothy papers on art and literature to the "London Magazine." LXXVIII. TO MRS. HAZLITT. _November_, 1823. Dear Mrs. H.,--Sitting down to write a letter is such a painful operation to Mary that you must accept me as her proxy. You have seen our house. What I now tell you is literally true. Yesterday week, George Dyer called upon us, at one o'clock (_bright noonday_), on his way to dine with Mrs. Barbauld at Newington. He sat with Mary about half an hour, and took leave. The maid saw him go out from her kitchen window, but suddenly losing sight of him, ran up in a fright to Mary. G.D., instead of keeping the slip that leads to the gate, had deliberately, staff in hand, in broad, open day, marched into the New River. He had not his spectacles on, and you know his absence. Who helped him out, they can hardly tell; but between 'em they got him out, drenched thro' and thro'. A mob collected by that time, and accompanied him in. "Send for the doctor!" they said; and a one-eyed fellow, dirty and drunk, was fetched from the public-house at the end, where it seem he lurks for the sake of picking up water-practice, having formerly had a medal from the Humane Society for some rescue. By his advice the patient was put between blankets; and when I came home at four to dinner, I found G.D. a-bed, and raving, light-headed with the brandy-and-water which the doctor had administered. He sang, laughed, whimpered, screamed, babbled of guardian angels, would get up and go home; but we kept him there by force; and by next morning he departed sobered, and seems to have received no injury. All my friends are open-mouthed about having paling before the river; but I cannot see that because a ... lunatic chooses to walk into a river, with his eyes open, at mid-day, I am any the more likely to be drowned in it, coming home at midnight. See Elia-essay, "Amicus Redivivus." In the "Athenaeum" for 1835 Procter says: "I happened to call at Lamb's house about ten minutes after this accident; I saw before me a train of water running from the door to the river. Lamb had gone for a surgeon; the maid was running about distraught, with dry clothes on one arm, and the dripping habiliments of the involuntary bather in the other. Miss Lamb, agitated, and whimpering forth 'Poor Mr. Dyer!' in the most forlorn voice, stood plunging her hands into the wet pockets of his trousers, to fish up the wet coin. Dyer himself, an amiable little old man, who took water _in_ternally and eschewed strong liquors, lay on his host's bed, hidden by blankets; his head, on which was his short gray hair, alone peered out; and this, having been rubbed dry by a resolute hand,--by the maid's, I believe, who assisted at the rescue,--looked as if bristling with a thousand needles. Lamb, moreover, in his anxiety, had administered a formidable dose of cognac and water to the sufferer, and _he_ (used only to the simple element) babbled without cessation." LXXIX. TO BERNARD BARTON. _January_ 9, 1824. Dear B.B.,--Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day-mare,--"a whoreson lethargy," Falstaff calls it,--an indisposition to do anything or to be anything; a total deadness and distaste; a suspension of vitality; an indifference to locality; a numb, soporifical good-for-nothingness; an ossification all over; an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events; a mind-stupor; a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience? Did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes? This has been for many weeks my lot and my excuse. My fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three-and-twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a thing to say; nothing is of more importance than another. I am flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge Parke's wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it,--a cipher, an o! I acknowledge life at all only by an occasional convulsional cough and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the world; life is weary of me, My day is gone into twilight, and I don't think it worth the expense of candles. My wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale suffocation; I can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me. 'T is twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the new drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality; yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you told me the world will be at an end to-morrow, I should just say, "Will it?" I have not volition enough left to dot my _i_'s, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorfields, and they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull is a Grub Street attic to let,--not so much as a joint-stool left in it; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little when their heads are off. Oh for a vigorous fit of gout, colic, toothache,--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain is life,--the sharper the more evidence of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an obstinate cold,--a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and everything? Yet do I try all I can to cure it. I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities; but they all only seem to make me worse, instead of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? It is just fifteen minutes after twelve. Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion, perhaps. Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; and the Jew demurs at first at three half-crowns, but on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes. C. L. Hanged that day for the murder of Weare. LXXX. TO BERNARD BARTON. _January_ 23, 1824. My dear sir,--That peevish letter of mine, which was meant to convey an apology for my incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by you in too serious a light,--it was only my way of telling you I had a severe cold. The fact is, I have been insuperably dull and lethargic for many weeks, and cannot rise to the vigor of a letter, much less an essay. The "London" must do without me for a time, for I have lost all interest about it; and whether I shall recover it again I know not. I will bridle my pen another time, and not tease and puzzle you with my aridities. I shall begin to feel a little more alive with the spring. Winter is to me (mild or harsh) always a great trial of the spirits. I am ashamed not to have noticed your tribute to Woolman, whom we love so much; it is done in your good manner. Your friend Tayler called upon me some time since, and seems a very amiable man. His last story is painfully fine. His book I "like;" it is only too stuffed with Scripture, too parsonish. The best thing in it is the boy's own story. When I say it is too full of Scripture, I mean it is too full of direct quotations; no book can have too much of silent Scripture in it. But the natural power of a story is diminished when the uppermost purpose in the writer seems to be to recommend something else,--namely, Religion. You know what Horace says of the _Deus intersit_? I am not able to explain myself,--you must do it for me. My sister's part in the "Leicester School" (about two thirds) was purely her own; as it was (to the same quantity) in the "Shakspeare Tales" which bear my name. I wrote only the "Witch Aunt," the "First Going to Church," and the final story about "A little Indian girl" in a ship. Your account of my black-balling amused me. _I think, as Quakers, they did right._ There are some things hard to be understood. The more I think, the more I am vexed at having puzzled you with that letter; but I have been so out of letter-writing of late years that it is a sore effort to sit down to it; and I felt in your debt, and sat down waywardly to pay you in bad money. Never mind my dulness; I am used to long intervals of it. The heavens seem brass to me; then again comes the refreshing shower,-- "I have been merry twice and once ere now." You said something about Mr. Mitford in a late letter, which I believe I did not advert to. I shall be happy to show him my Milton (it is all the show things I have) at any time he will take the trouble of a jaunt to Islington. I do also hope to see Mr. Tayler there some day. Pray say so to both. Coleridge's book is in good part printed, but sticks a little for _more copy_. It bears an unsalable title,--"Extracts from Bishop Leighton;" but I am confident there will be plenty of good notes in it,--more of Bishop Coleridge than Leighton in it, I hope; for what is Leighton? Do you trouble yourself about libel cases? The decision against Hunt for the "Vision of Judgment" made me sick. What is to become of the good old talk about our good old king,--his personal virtues saving us from a revolution, etc.? Why, none that think can utter it now. It must stink. And the "Vision" is as to himward such a tolerant, good-humored thing! What a wretched thing a Lord Chief Justice is, always was, and will be! Keep your good spirits up, dear B. B., mine will return; they are at present in abeyance, but I am rather lethargic than miserable. I don't know but a good horsewhip would be more beneficial to me than physic. My head, without aching, will teach yours to ache. It is well I am getting to the conclusion. I will send a better letter when I am a better man. Let me thank you for your kind concern for me (which I trust will have reason soon to be dissipated), and assure you that it gives me pleasure to hear from you. Yours truly, C. L. Letter LXXIX. LXXXI. TO BERNARD BARTON _April_, 1824. Dear B.B.,--I am sure I cannot fill a letter, though I should disfurnish my skull to fill it; but you expect something, and shall have a notelet. Is Sunday, not divinely speaking, but humanly and holiday-sically, a blessing? Without its institution, would our rugged taskmasters have given us a leisure day so often, think you, as once in a month? or, if it had not been instituted, might they not have given us every sixth day? Solve me this problem. If we are to go three times a-day to church, why has Sunday slipped into the notion of a _holi_day? A HOLY-day, I grant it. The Puritans, I have read in Southey's book, knew the distinction. They made people observe Sunday rigorously, would not let a nurserymaid walk out in the fields with children for recreation on that day. But _then_ they gave the people a holiday from all sorts of work every second Tuesday. This was giving to the two Caesars that which was _his_ respective. Wise, beautiful, thoughtful, generous legislators! Would Wilberforce give us our Tuesdays? No; he would turn the six days into sevenths,-- "And those three smiling seasons of the year Into a Russian winter." OLD PLAY. I am sitting opposite a person who is making strange distortions with the gout, which is not unpleasant pleasant,--to me, at least. What is the reason we do not sympathize with pain, short of some terrible surgical operation? Hazlitt, who boldly says all he feels, avows that not only he does not pity sick people, but he hates them. I obscurely recognize his meaning. Pain is probably too selfish a consideration, too simply a consideration of self-attention. We pity poverty, loss of friends, etc.,--more complex things, in which the sufferer's feelings are associated with others. This is a rough thought suggested by the presence of gout; I want head to extricate it and plane it. What is all this to your letter? I felt it to be a good one, but my turn, when I write at all, is perversely to travel out of the record, so that my letters are anything but answers. So you still want a motto? You must not take my ironical one, because your book, I take it, is too serious for it. Bickerstaff might have used it for _his_ lucubrations. What do you think of (for a title) Religio Tremuli? or Tremebundi? There is Religio Medici and Laici. But perhaps the volume is not quite Quakerish enough, or exclusively so, for it. Your own "Vigils" is perhaps the best. While I have space, let me congratulate with you the return of spring,--what a summery spring too! All those qualms about the dog and cray-fish melt before it. I am going to be happy and _vain_ again. A hasty farewell, C. LAMB. Lamb had confessed, in a previous letter to Barton, to having once wantonly set a dog upon a cray-fish. LXXXII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _May_ 15, 1824. Dear B. B.,--I am oppressed with business all day, and company all night. But I will snatch a quarter of an hour. Your recent acquisitions of the picture and the letter are greatly to be congratulated. I too have a picture of my father and the copy of his first love-verses; but they have been mine long. Blake is a real name, I assure you, and a most extraordinary man, if he is still living. He is the Robert Blake whose wild designs accompany a splendid folio edition of the "Night Thoughts," which you may have seen, in one of which he pictures the parting of soul and body by a solid mass of human form floating off, God knows how, from a lumpish mass (fac-simile to itself) left behind on the dying bed. He paints in water-colors marvellous strange pictures, visions of his brain, which he asserts that he has seen; they have great merit. He has _seen_ the old Welsh bards on Snowdon,--he has seen the beautifullest, the strongest, and the ugliest man, left alone from the massacre of the Britons by the Romans, and has painted them from memory (I have seen his paintings), and asserts them to be as good as the figures of Raphael and Angelo, but not better, as they had precisely the same retro-visions and prophetic visions with themself . The painters in oil (which he will have it that neither of them practised) he affirms to have been the ruin of art, and affirms that all the while he was engaged in his Welsh paintings, Titian was disturbing him,-- Titian the Ill Genius of Oil Painting. His pictures--one in particular, the Canterbury Pilgrims, far above Stothard--have great merit, but hard, dry, yet with grace. He has written a Catalogue of them, with a most spirited criticism on Chaucer, but mystical and full of vision. His poems have been sold hitherto only in manuscript. I never read them; but a friend at my desire procured the "Sweep Song." There is one to a tiger, which I have heard recited, beginning,-- "Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, Thro' the deserts of the night," which is glorious, but, alas! I have not the book; for the man is flown, whither I know not,--to Hades or a madhouse. But I must look on him as one of the most extraordinary persons of the age. Montgomery's book I have not much hope from, and the society with the affected name has been laboring at it for these twenty years, and made few converts. I think it was injudicious to mix stories, avowedly by fiction, with the sad, true statements from the parliamentary records, etc. But I wish the little <DW64>s all the good that can come from it. I battered my brains (not buttered them,--but it is a bad _a_) for a few verses for them, but I could make nothing of it. You have been luckier. But Blake's are the flower of the set, you will, I am sure, agree; though some of Montgomery's at the end are pretty, but the Dream awkwardly paraphrased from B. With the exception of an Epilogue for a Private Theatrical, I have written nothing new for near six months. It is in vain to spur me on. I must wait. I cannot write without a genial impulse, and I have none. 'T is barren all and dearth. No matter; life is something without scribbling. I have got rid of my bad spirits, and hold up pretty well this rain-damned May. So we have lost another poet. I never much relished his Lordship's mind, and shall be sorry if the Greeks have cause to miss him. He was to me offensive, and I never can make out his real _power_, which his admirers talk of. Why, a, line of Wordsworth's is a lever to lift the immortal spirit; Byron can only move the spleen. He was at best a satirist. In any other way, he was mean enough. I daresay I do him injustice; but I cannot love him, nor squeeze a tear to his memory. He did not like the world, and he has left it, as Alderman Curtis advised the Radicals, "if they don't like their country, damn 'em, let 'em leave it," they possessing no rood of ground in England, and he ten thousand acres. Byron was better than many Curtises. Farewell, and accept this apology for a letter from one who owes you so much in that kind. Yours ever truly, C. L. "The Chimney-Sweeper's Friend, and Climbing-Boy's Album,"--a book, by James Montgomery, setting forth the wrongs of the little chimney-sweepers, for whose relief a society had been started. The Society for Ameliorating the Condition of Infant Chimney-Sweepers. Byron had died on April 19. LXXXIII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _August_, 1824. I can no more understand Shelley than you can; his poetry is "thin sown with profit or delight." Yet I must point to your notice a sonnet conceived and expressed with a witty delicacy. It is that addressed to one who hated him, but who could not persuade him to hate _him_ again. His coyness to the other's passion--for hate demands a return as much as love, and starves without it--is most arch and pleasant. Pray, like it very much. For his theories and nostrums, they are oracular enough, but I either comprehend 'em not, or there is "miching malice" and mischief in 'em, but, for the most part, ringing with their own emptiness. Hazlitt said well of 'em: "Many are the wiser and better for reading Shakspeare, but nobody was ever wiser or better for reading Shelley." I wonder you will sow your correspondence on so barren a ground as I am, that make such poor returns. But my head aches at the bare thought of letter-writing. I wish all the ink in the ocean dried up, and would listen to the quills shivering up in the candle flame, like parching martyrs. The same indisposition to write it is has stopped my "Elias;" but you will see a futile effort in the next number, "wrung from me with slow pain." The fact is, my head is seldom cool enough. I am dreadfully indolent. To have to do anything--to order me a new coat, for instance, though my old buttons are shelled like beans--is an effort. My pen stammers like my tongue. What cool craniums those old inditers of folios must have had, what a mortified pulse! Well, once more I throw myself on your mercy. Wishing peace in thy new dwelling, C. LAMB. The essay "Blakesmoor in Hertfordshire," in the "London Magazine" for September, 1824. LXXXIV. TO BERNARD BARTON. _December_ 1, 1824. Taylor and Hessey, finding their magazine goes off very heavily at 2_s_. 6_d_., are prudently going to raise their price another shilling; and having already more authors than they want, intend to increase the number of them. If they set up against the "New Monthly," they must change their present hands. It is not tying the dead carcase of a review to a half-dead magazine will do their business. It is like George Dyer multiplying his volumes to make 'em sell better. When he finds one will not go off, he publishes two; two stick, he tries three; three hang fire, he is confident that four will have a better chance. And now, my dear sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein. The fate of the unfortunate Fauntleroy makes me, whether I will or no, to cast reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as, by a parity of situation, are exposed to a similarity of temptation. My very style seems to myself to become more impressive than usual, with the change of theme. Who, that standeth, knoweth but he may yet fall? Your hands as yet, I am most willing to believe, have never deviated, into others' property; you think it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence. But so thought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many besides him, who at last have expiated as he hath done. You are as yet upright; but you are a banker,--at least, the next thing to it. I feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass through your hands, sometimes to a great amount. If in an unguarded hour--But I will hope better. Consider the scandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion. Thousands would go to see a Quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the fate of a Presbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think of the effect it would have on the sale of your poems alone, not to mention higher considerations! I tremble, I am sure, at myself, when I think that so many poor victims of the law, at one time of their life, made as sure of never being hanged as I, in my presumption, am too ready to do myself. What are we better than they? Do we come into the world with different necks? Is there any distinctive mark under our left ears? Are we unstrangulable, I ask you? Think of these things. I am shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their resemblance to the ape tribe (which is something), but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking fingering, etc. No one that is so framed, I maintain it, but should tremble. C. L. Taylor and Hessey succeeded John Scott as editors of the "London Magazine" (of which they were also publishers), and it was to this periodical that most of Lamb's Elia Essays were contributed. The forger, hanged Nov. 30, 1824. This was the last execution for this offence. LXXXV. TO BERNARD BARTON. _March_ 23, 1825. Dear B. B.,--I have had no impulse to write, or attend to any single object but myself for weeks past,--my single self, I by myself, I. I am sick of hope deferred. The grand wheel is in agitation that is to turn up my fortune; but round it rolls, and will turn up nothing. I have a glimpse of freedom, of becoming a gentleman at large; but I am put off from day to day. Guess what an absorbing stake I feel it. The East India Directors alone can be that thing to me or not. Why the next? Why any week? It has fretted me into an itch of the fingers; I rub 'em against paper, and write to you, rather than not allay this scorbuta. While I can write, let me adjure you to have no doubts of Irving. Let Mr. Mitford drop his disrespect. Irving has prefixed a dedication (of a missionary subject, first part) to Coleridge, the most beautiful, cordial, and sincere. He there acknowledges his obligation to S. T. C. for his knowledge of Gospel truths, the nature of a Christian Church, etc.,--to the talk of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (at whose Gamaliel feet he sits weekly), rather than to that of all the men living. This from him, the great dandled and petted sectarian, to a religious character so equivocal in the world's eye as that of S. T. C., so foreign to the Kirk's estimate,--can this man be a quack? The language is as affecting as the spirit of the dedication. Some friend told him, "This dedication will do you no good,"--_i. e._, not in the world's repute, or with your own people. "That is a reason for doing it," quoth Irving. I am thoroughly pleased with him. He is firm, out-speaking, intrepid, and docile as a pupil of Pythagoras. You must like him. Yours, in tremors of painful hope, C. LAMB. LXXXVI. TO WORDSWORTH _April_ 6, 1825 Dear Wordsworth,--I have been several times meditating a letter to you concerning the good thing which has befallen me; but the thought of poor Monkhouse came across me. He was one that I had exulted in the prospect of congratulating me. He and you were to have been the first participators; for indeed it has been ten weeks since the first motion of it. Here am I then, after thirty-three years' slavery, sitting in my own room at eleven o'clock this finest of all April mornings, a freed man, with L441 a year for the remainder of my life, live I as long as John Dennis, who outlived his annuity and starved at ninety: L441; _i.e., L450_, with a deduction of L9 for a provision secured to my sister, she being survivor, the pension guaranteed by Act Georgii Tertii, etc. I came home FOREVER on Tuesday in last week. The incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me; it was like passing from life into eternity. Every year to be as long as three, _i.e._, to have three times as much real time--time that is my own--in it! I wandered about thinking I was happy, but feeling I was not. But that tumultuousness is passing off, and I begin to understand the nature of the gift. Holidays, even the annual month, were always uneasy joys,--their conscious fugitiveness; the craving after making the most of them. Now, when all is holiday, there are no holidays. I can sit at home, in rain or shine, without a restless impulse for walkings. I am daily steadying, and shall soon find it as natural to me to be my own master as it has been irksome to have had a master. Mary wakes every morning with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to us. Leigh Hunt and Montgomery, after their releasements, describe the shock of their emancipation much as I feel mine. But it hurt their frames. I eat, drink, and sleep sound as ever, I lay no anxious schemes for going hither and thither, but take things as they occur. Yesterday I excursioned twenty miles; to-day I write a few letters. Pleasuring was for fugitive play-days: mine are fugitive only in the sense that life is fugitive. Freedom and life co-existent! At the foot of such a call upon you for gratulation, I am ashamed to advert to that melancholy event. Monkhouse was a character I learned to love slowly; but it grew upon me yearly, monthly, daily. What a chasm has it made in our pleasant parties! His noble, friendly face was always coming before me, till this hurrying event in my life came, and for the time has absorbed all interest; in fact, it has shaken me a little. My old desk companions, with whom I have had such merry hours, seem to reproach me for removing my lot from among them. They were pleasant creatures; but to the anxieties of business, and a weight of possible worse ever impending, I was not equal. Tuthill and Gilman gave me my certificates; I laughed at the friendly lie implied in them. But my sister shook her head, and said it was all true. Indeed, this last winter I was jaded out; winters were always worse than other parts of the year, because the spirits are worse, and I had no daylight. In summer I had daylight evenings. The relief was hinted to me from a superior power when I, poor slave, had not a hope but that I must wait another seven years with Jacob; and lo! the Rachel which I coveted is brought to me. Wordsworth's cousin, who was ill of consumption in Devonshire. He died the following year. LXXXVII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _April_ 6, 1825. Dear B.B.,--My spirits are so tumultuary with the novelty of my recent emancipation that I have scarce steadiness of hand, much more mind, to compose a letter. I am free, B.B.,--free as air! "The little bird that wings the sky Knows no such liberty." I was set free on Tuesday in last week at four o'clock. I have been describing my feelings as well as I can to Wordsworth in a long letter, and don't care to repeat. Take it, briefly, that for a few days I was painfully oppressed by so mighty a change; but it is becoming daily more natural to me. I went and sat among 'em all at my old thirty-three-years' desk yester-morning; and, deuce take me, if I had not yearnings at leaving all my old pen-and-ink fellows, merry, sociable lads,--at leaving them in the lurch, fag, fag, fag! The comparison of my own superior felicity gave me anything but pleasure. B.B., I would not serve another seven years for seven hundred thousand pounds! I have got L441 net for life, sanctioned by Act of Parliament, with a provision for Mary if she survives me. I will live another fifty years; or if I live but ten, they will be thirty, reckoning the quantity of real time in them,--_i.e._, the time that is a man's own, Tell me how you like "Barbara S.;" will it be received in atonement for the foolish "Vision"--I mean by the lady? _A propos_, I never saw Mrs. Crawford in my life; nevertheless, it's all true of somebody. Address me, in future, Colebrooke Cottage, Islington, I am really nervous (but that will wear off), so take this brief announcement. Yours truly, C.L. "The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty." LOVELACE. The Elia essay. Fanny Kelly was the original of "Barbara S." LXXXVIII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _July_ 2, 1825. I am hardly able to appreciate your volume now; but I liked the dedication much, and the apology for your bald burying grounds. To Shelley--but _that_ is not new, To the young Vesper-singer, Great Bealings, Playford, and what not. If there be a cavil, it is that the topics of religious consolation, however beautiful, are repeated till a sort of triteness attends them. It seems as if you were forever losing Friends' children by death, and reminding their parents of the Resurrection. Do children die so often and so good in your parts? The topic taken from the consideration that they are snatched away from _possible vanities_ seems hardly sound; for to an Omniscient eye their conditional failings must be one with their actual. But I am too unwell for theology. Such as I am, I am yours and A.K. 's truly, C. LAMB. "Barton's volume of Poems." LXXXIX. TO BERNARD BARTON. _August_ 10, 1825. We shall be soon again at Colebrooke. Dear B.B.,--You must excuse my not writing before, when I tell you we are on a visit at Enfield, where I do not feel it natural to sit down to a letter. It is at all times an exertion. I had rather talk with you and Anne Knight quietly at Colebrooke Lodge over the matter of your last. You mistake me when you express misgivings about my relishing a series of Scriptural poems. I wrote confusedly; what I meant to say was, that one or two consolatory poems on deaths would have had a more condensed effect than many. Scriptural, devotional topics, admit of infinite variety. So far from poetry tiring me because religious, I can read, and I say it seriously, the homely old version of the Psalms in our Prayer-books for an hour or two together sometimes, without sense of weariness. I did not express myself clearly about what I think a false topic, insisted on so frequently in consolatory addresses on the death of infants. I know something like it is in Scripture, but I think humanly spoken. It is a natural thought, a sweet fallacy, to the survivors, but still a fallacy. If it stands on the doctrine of this being a probationary state, it is liable to this dilemma. Omniscience, to whom possibility must be clear as act, must know of the child what it would hereafter turn out: if good, then the topic is false to say it is secured from falling into future wilfulness, vice, etc. If bad, I do not see how its exemption from certain future overt acts by being snatched away at all tells in its favor. You stop the arm of a murderer, or arrest the finger of a pickpurse; but is not the guilt incurred as much by the intent as if never so much acted? Why children are hurried off, and old reprobates of a hundred left, whose trial humanly we may think was complete at fifty, is among the obscurities of providence, The very notion of a state of probation has darkness in it. The All-knower has no need of satisfying his eyes by seeing what we will do, when he knows before what we will do. Methinks we might be condemned before commission. In these things we grope and flounder; and if we can pick up a little human comfort that the child taken is snatched from vice (no great compliment to it, by the by), let us take it. And as to where an untried child goes, whether to join the assembly of its elders who have borne the heat of the day,--fire-purified martyrs and torment-sifted confessors,--what know we? We promise heaven, methinks, too cheaply, and assign large revenues to minors incompetent to manage them. Epitaphs run upon this topic of consolation till the very frequency induces a cheapness. Tickets for admission into paradise are sculptured out a penny a letter, twopence a syllable, etc. It is all a mystery; and the more I try to express my meaning (having none that is clear), the more I flounder. Finally, write what your own conscience, which to you is the unerring judge, deems best, and be careless about the whimsies of such a half-baked notionist as I am. We are here in a most pleasant country, full of walks, and idle to our heart's desire. Taylor has dropped the "London." It was indeed a dead weight. It had got in the Slough of Despond. I shuffle off my part of the pack, and stand, like Christian, with light and merry shoulders. It had got silly, indecorous, pert, and everything that is bad. Both our kind _remembrances_ to Mrs. K. and yourself, and strangers'-greeting to Lucy,--is it Lucy, or Ruth?--that gathers wise sayings in a Book. C. LAMB. XC. TO SOUTHEY. _August_ 19, 1825. Dear Southey,--You'll know whom this letter comes from by opening slap-dash upon the text, as in the good old times. I never could come into the custom of envelopes,--'tis a modern foppery; the Plinian correspondence gives no hint of such. In singleness of sheet and meaning, then, I thank you for your little book. I am ashamed to add a codicil of thanks for your "Book of the Church." I scarce feel competent to give an opinion of the latter; I have not reading enough of that kind to venture at it. I can only say the fact, that I have read it with attention and interest. Being, as you know, not quite a Churchman, I felt a jealousy at the Church taking to herself the whole deserts of Christianity, Catholic and Protestant, from Druid extirpation downwards. I call all good Christians the Church. Capillarians and all. But I am in too light a humor to touch these matters. May all our churches flourish! Two things staggered me in the poem (and one of them staggered both of as): I cannot away with a beautiful series of verses, as I protest they are, commencing "Jenner," 'Tis like a choice banquet opened with a pill or an electuary,--physic stuff. T'other is, we cannot make out how Edith should be no more than ten years old. By 'r Lady, we had taken her to be some sixteen or upwards. We suppose you have only chosen the round number for the metre. Or poem and dedication may be both older than they pretend to,--but then some hint might have been given; for, as it stands, it may only serve some day to puzzle the parish reckoning. But without inquiring further (for 'tis ungracious to look into a lady's years), the dedication is eminently pleasing and tender, and we wish Edith May Southey joy of it. Something, too, struck us as if we had heard of the death of John May. A John May's death was a few years since in the papers. We think the tale one of the quietest, prettiest things we have seen. You have been temperate in the use of localities, which generally spoil poems laid in exotic regions. You mostly cannot stir out (in such things) for humming-birds and fireflies. A tree is a Magnolia, etc.--Can I but like the truly Catholic spirit? "Blame as thou mayest the <DW7>'s erring creed,"--which and other passages brought me back to the old Anthology days and the admonitory lesson to "Dear George" on "The Vesper Bell," a little poem which retains its first hold upon me strangely. The compliment to the translatress is daintily conceived. Nothing is choicer in that sort of writing than to bring in some remote, impossible parallel,--as between a great empress and the inobtrusive, quiet soul who digged her noiseless way so perseveringly through that rugged Paraguay mine. How she Dobrizhoffered it all out, it puzzles my slender Latinity to conjecture. Why do you seem to sanction Landor's unfeeling allegorizing away of honest Quixote? He may as well say Strap is meant to symbolize the Scottish nation before the Union, and Random since that Act of dubious issue; or that Partridge means the Mystical Man, and Lady Bellaston typifies the Woman upon Many Waters. Gebir, indeed, may mean the state of the hop markets last month, for anything I know to the contrary. That all Spain overflowed with romancical books (as Madge Newcastle calls them) was no reason that Cervantes should not smile at the matter of them; nor even a reason that, in another mood, he might not multiply them, deeply as he was tinctured with the essence of them. Quixote is the father of gentle ridicule, and at the same time the very depository and treasury of chivalry and highest notions. Marry, when somebody persuaded Cervantes that he meant only fun, and put him upon writing that unfortunate Second Part, with the confederacies of that unworthy duke and most contemptible duchess, Cervantes sacrificed his instinct to his understanding. We got your little book but last night, being at Enfield, to which place we came about a month since, and are having quiet holidays. Mary walks her twelve miles a day some days, and I my twenty on others. 'T is all holiday with me now, you know; the change works admirably. For literary news, in my poor way, I have a one-act farce going to be acted at Haymarket; but when? is the question, 'Tis an extravaganza, and like enough to follow "Mr. H." "The London Magazine" has shifted its publishers once more, and I shall shift myself out of it. It is fallen. My ambition is not at present higher than to write nonsense for the playhouses, to eke out a something contracted income. _Tempus erat_. There was a time, my dear Cornwallis, when the muse, etc. But I am now in Mac Flecknoe's predicament,-- "Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce." Coleridge is better (was, at least, a few weeks since) than he has been for years. His accomplishing his book at last has been a source of vigor to him. We are on a half visit to his friend Allsop, at a Mrs. Leishman's, Enfield, but expect to be at Colebrooke Cottage in a week or so, where, or anywhere, I shall be always most happy to receive tidings from you. G. Dyer is in the height of an uxorious paradise. His honeymoon will not wane till he wax cold. Never was a more happy pair, since Acme and Septimius, and longer. Farewell, with many thanks, dear S. Our loves to all round your Wrekin. Probably "The Pawnbroker's Daughter," which happily was not destined to be performed.--AINGER. XCI. TO BERNARD BARTON. _March_ 20, 1826. Dear B. B.,--You may know my letters by the paper and the folding. For the former, I live on scraps obtained in charity from an old friend, whose stationery is a permanent perquisite; for folding, I shall do it neatly when I learn to tie my neckcloths. I surprise most of my friends by writing to them on ruled paper, as if I had not got past pothooks and hangers. Sealing-wax I have none on my establishment; wafers of the coarsest bran supply its place. When my epistles come to be weighed with Pliny's, however superior to the Roman in delicate irony, judicious reflections, etc., his gilt post will bribe over the judges to him. All the time I was at the E. I. H. I never mended a pen; I now cut 'em to the stumps, marring rather than mending the primitive goose-quill. I cannot bear to pay for articles I used to get for nothing. When Adam laid out his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in Mesopotamos, I think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so many for nothing. When I write to a great man at the court end, he opens with surprise upon a naked note, such as Whitechapel people interchange, with no sweet degrees of envelope. I never enclosed one bit of paper in another, nor understood the rationale of it. Once only I sealed with borrowed wax, to set Walter Scott a-wondering, signed with the imperial quartered arms of England, which my friend Field bears in compliment to his descent, in the female line, from Oliver Cromwell. It must have set his antiquarian curiosity upon watering. To your questions upon the currency, I refer you to Mr. Robinson's last speech, where, if you can find a solution, I cannot. I think this, though,--the best ministry we ever stumbled upon,--gin reduced four shillings in the gallon, wine two shillings in the quart! This comes home to men's minds and bosoms. My tirade against visitors was not meant _particularly_ at you or Anne Knight. I scarce know what I meant, for I do not just now feel the grievance. I wanted to make an _article_. So in another thing I talked of somebody's _insipid wife_ without a correspondent object in my head; and a good lady, a friend's wife, whom I really _love_ (don't startle, I mean in a licit way), has looked shyly on me ever since. The blunders of personal application are ludicrous. I send out a character every now and then on purpose to exercise the ingenuity of my friends. "Popular Fallacies" will go on; that word "concluded" is an erratum, I suppose, for "continued." I do not know how it got stuffed in there. A little thing without name will also be printed on the Religion of the Actors; but it is out of your way, so I recommend you, with true author's hypocrisy, to skip it. We are about to sit down to roast beef, at which we could wish A. K., B. B., and B. B. 's pleasant daughter to be humble partakers. So much for my hint at visitors, which was scarcely calculated for droppers-in from Woodbridge; the sky does not drop such larks every day. My very kindest wishes to you all three, with my sister's best love. C. LAMB. XCII. TO J. B. DIBDIN. _June_, 1826. Dear D.,--My first impulse upon seeing your letter was pleasure at seeing your old neat hand, nine parts gentlemanly, with a modest dash of the clerical; my second, a thought natural enough this hot weather: Am I to answer all this? Why, 't is as long as those to the Ephesians and Galatians put together: I have counted the words, for curiosity.... I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man. Your fair critic in the coach reminds me of a Scotchman, who assured me he did not see much in Shakspeare. I replied, I daresay _not_. He felt the equivoke, looked awkward and reddish, but soon returned to the attack by saying that he thought Burns was as good as Shakspeare. I said that I had no doubt he was,--to a _Scotchman_. We exchanged no more words that day.... Let me hear that you have clambered up to Lover's Seat; it is as fine in that neighborhood as Juan Fernandez,--as lonely, too, when the fishing-boats are not out; I have sat for hours staring upon a shipless sea. The salt sea is never as grand as when it is left to itself. One cock-boat spoils it; a seamew or two improves it. And go to the little church, which is a very Protestant Loretto, and seems dropped by some angel for the use of a hermit who was at once parishioner and a whole parish. It is not too big. Go in the night, bring it away in your portmanteau, and I will plant it in my garden. It must have been erected, in the very infancy of British Christianity, for the two or three first converts, yet with all the appurtenances of a church of the first magnitude,--its pulpit, its pews, its baptismal font; a cathedral in a nutshell. The minister that divides the Word there must give lumping pennyworths. It is built to the text of "two or three assembled in my name." It reminds me of the grain of mustard-seed. If the glebe land is proportionate, it may yield two potatoes. Tithes out of it could be no more split than a hair. Its First fruits must be its Last, for 't would never produce a couple. It is truly the strait and narrow way, and few there be (of London visitants) that find it. The still small voice is surely to be found there, if anywhere. A sounding-board is merely there for ceremony. It is secure from earthquakes, not more from sanctity than size, for't would feel a mountain thrown upon it no more than a taper-worm would. _Go and see, but not without your spectacles_. XCIII. TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. _January_ 20, 1827. Dear Robinson,--I called upon you this morning, and found that you had gone to visit a dying friend. I had been upon a like errand. Poor Norris has been lying dying for now almost a week,--such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed a strong constitution! Whether he knew me or not, I know not, or whether he saw me through his poor glazed eyes; but the group I saw about him I shall not forget. Upon the bed, or about it, were assembled his wife and two daughters, and poor deaf Richard, his son, looking doubly stupefied. There they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the week. I could only reach out a hand to Mrs. Norris. Speaking was impossible in that mute chamber. By this time I hope it is all over with him. In him I have a loss the world cannot make up. He was my friend and my father's friend all the life I can remember. I seem to have made foolish friendships ever since. Those are friendships which outlive a second generation. Old as I am waxing, in his eyes I was still the child he first knew me. To the last he called me Charley. I have none to call me Charley now. He was the last link that bound me to the Temple. You are but of yesterday. In him seem to have died the old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. Letters he knew nothing of, nor did his reading extend beyond the pages of the "Gentleman's Magazine." Yet there was a pride of literature about him from being amongst books (he was librarian), and from some scraps of doubtful Latin which he had picked up in his office of entering students, that gave him very diverting airs of pedantry. Can I forget the erudite look with which, when he had been in vain trying to make out a black-letter text of Chaucer in the Temple Library, he laid it down and told me that "in those old books Charley, there is sometimes a deal of very indifferent spelling;" and seemed to console himself in the reflection! His jokes--for he had his jokes--are now ended; but they were old trusty perennials, staples that pleased after _decies repetita_, and were always as good as new. One song he had, which was reserved for the night of Christmas Day, which we always spent in the Temple. It was an old thing, and spoke of the flat-bottoms of our foes and the possibility of their coming over in darkness, and alluded to threats of an invasion many years blown over; and when he came to the part-- "We'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat, In spite of the devil and 'Brussels Gazette,'"-- his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an impending event. And what is the "Brussels Gazette" now? I cry while I enumerate these trifles. "How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?" His poor good girls will now have to receive their afflicted mother in an inaccessible hovel in an obscure village in Herts, where they have been long struggling to make a school without effect; and poor deaf Richard--and the more helpless for being so--is thrown on the wide world. My first motive in writing, and, indeed, in calling on you, was to ask if you were enough acquainted with any of the Benchers to lay a plain statement before them of the circumstances of the family. I almost fear not, for you are of another hall. But if you can oblige me and my poor friend, who is now insensible to any favors, pray exert yourself. You cannot say too much good of poor Norris and his poor wife. Yours ever, CHARLES LAMB. Randal Norris, sub-treasurer of the Inner Temple, an early friend of the Lambs. XCIV. TO PETER GEORGE PATMORE. LONDRES, _Julie_ 19_th_, 1827. Dear P.,--I am so poorly. I have been to a funeral, where I made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners. And we had wine. I can't describe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals. Dash could; for it was not unlike what he makes. The letter I sent you was one directed to the care of Edward White, India House, for Mrs. Hazlitt. _Which_ Mrs. H. I don't yet know; but Allsop has taken it to France on speculation. Really it is embarrassing. There is Mrs. present H., Mrs. late H., and Mrs. John H.; and to which of the three Mrs. Wigginses it appertains, I know not. I wanted to open it, but 'tis transportation. I am sorry you are plagued about your book. I would strongly recommend you to take for one story Massinger's "Old Law." It is exquisite. I can think of no other. Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and stands up on his hind legs. He misses Becky, who is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the other day, and he couldn't eat his vittles after it. Pray God his intellectuals be not slipping. Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose 'tis no use to ask you to come and partake of 'em; else there is a steam vessel. I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse, I never had luck with anything my name was put to. Oh, I am so poorly! I _waked_ it at my cousin's the bookbinder, who is now with God; or if he is not,'tis no fault of mine. We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her. Did you ever taste frogs? Get them if you can. They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer. How sick I am!--not of the world, but of the Widow Shrub. She's sworn under L6,000; but I think she perjured herself. She howls in E _la_, and I comfort her in B flat. You understand music? If you haven't got Massinger, you have nothing to do but go to the first Bibliotheque you can light upon at Boulogne, and ask for it (Gifford's edition); and if they haven't got it, you can have "Athalie," par Monsieur Racine, and make the best of it. But that "Old Law" is delicious. "No shrimps!" (that's in answer to Mary's question about how the soles are to be done.) I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you. What you mean by Poste Restante, God knows. Do you mean I must pay the postage? So I do,--to Dover. We had a merry passage with the widow at the Commons. She was howling,--part howling, and part giving directions to the proctor,--when crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks grin, and I grinned, and the widow tittered, and then I knew that she was not inconsolable. Mary was more frightened than hurt. She'd make a good match for anybody (by she, I mean the widow). "If he bring but a _relict_ away, He is happy, nor heard to complain." SHENSTONE. Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; but I think it rather an agreeable excrescence,--like his poetry, redundant. Hone has hanged himself for debt. Godwin was taken up for picking pockets. Moxon has fallen in love with Emma, our nut-brown maid. Becky takes to bad courses. Her father was blown up in a steam machine. The coroner found it "insanity." I should not like him to sit on my letter. Do you observe my direction? Is it Gallic, classical? Do try and get some frogs. You must ask for "grenouilles" (green eels). They don't understand "frogs," though 't is a common phrase with us. If you go through Bulloign (Boulogne), inquire if Old Godfrey is living, and how he got home from the Crusades. He must be a very old man. A dog given to Lamb by Thomas Hood. See letter to Patmore dated September, 1827. XCV. TO BERNARD BARTON. _August_ 10, 1827. Dear B. B.,--I have not been able to answer you, for we have had and are having (I just snatch a moment) our poor quiet retreat, to which we fled from society, full of company,--some staying with us; and this moment as I write, almost, a heavy importation of two old ladies has come in. Whither can I take wing from the oppression of human faces? Would I were in a wilderness of apes, tossing cocoa-nuts about, grinning and grinned at! Mitford was hoaxing you surely about my engraving; 't is a little sixpenny thing, too like by half, in which the draughtsman has done his best to avoid flattery. There have been two editions of it, which I think are all gone, as they have vanished from the window where they hung,--a print-shop, corner of Great and Little Queen Streets, Lincoln's Inn Fields,--where any London friend of yours may inquire for it; for I am (though you _won't understand it_) at Enfield Chase. We have been here near three months, and shall stay two more, if people will let us alone; but they persecute us from village to village. So don't direct to _Islington_ again till further notice. I am trying my hand at a drama, in two acts, founded on Crabbe's "Confidant," _mutatis mutandis_. You like the Odyssey: did you ever read my "Adventures of Ulysses," founded on Chapman's old translation of it? For children or men. Chapman is divine, and my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity. When you come to town I'll show it you. You have well described your old-fashioned grand paternal hall. Is it not odd that every one's earliest recollections are of some such place? I had my Blakesware . Nothing fills a child's mind like a large old mansion; better if un--or partially--occupied,--peopled with the spirits of deceased members of the county and justices of the quorum. Would I were buried in the peopled solitudes of one, with my feelings at seven years old! Those marble busts of the emperors, they seemed as if they were to stand forever, as they had stood from the living days of Rome, in that old marble hall, and I too partake of their permanency. Eternity was, while I thought not of Time. But he thought of me, and they are toppled down, and corn covers the spot of the noble old dwelling and its princely gardens, I feel like a grasshopper that, chirping about the grounds, escaped the scythe only by my littleness. Even now he is whetting one of his smallest razors to clean wipe me out, perhaps. Well! An etching of Lamb, by Brooke Pulham, which is said to be the most characteristic likeness of him extant. XCVI. TO THOMAS HOOD, _September_ 18, 1827. Dear Hood,--If I have anything in my head, I will send it to Mr. Watts. Strictly speaking, he should have all my album-verses; but a very intimate friend importuned me for the trifles, and I believe I forgot Mr. Watts, or lost sight at the time of his similar "Souvenir." Jamieson conveyed the farce from me to Mrs. C. Kemble; he will not be in town before the 27th. Give our kind loves to all at Highgate, and tell them that we have finally torn ourselves outright away from Colebrooke, where I had _no_ health, and are about to domiciliate for good at Enfield, where I have experienced _good_. "Lord, what good hours do we keep! How quietly we sleep!" See the rest in the "Compleat Angler." We have got our books into our new house. I am a dray-horse if I was not ashamed of the indigested, dirty lumber, as I toppled 'em out of the cart, and blessed Becky that came with 'em for her having an unstuffed brain with such rubbish. We shall get in by Michael's Mass. 'T was with some pain we were evulsed from Colebrooke. You may find some of our flesh sticking to the doorposts. To change habitations is to die to them; and in my time I have died seven deaths. But I don't know whether every such change does not bring with it a rejuvenescence. 'T is an enterprise, and shoves back the sense of death's approximating, which, though not terrible to me, is at all times particularly distasteful. My house-deaths have generally been periodical, recurring after seven years; but this last is premature by half that time. Cut off in the flower of Colebrooke! The Middletonian stream and all its echoes mourn. Even minnows dwindle. _A parvis fiunt minimi!_ I fear to invite Mrs. Hood to our new mansion, lest she should envy it, and hate us. But when we are fairly in, I hope she will come and try it. I heard she and you were made uncomfortable by some unworthy-to-be-cared-for attacks, and have tried to set up a feeble counteraction through the "Table Book" of last Saturday. Has it not reached you, that you are silent about it? Our new domicile is no manor-house, but new, and externally not inviting, but furnished within with every convenience,-- capital new locks to every door, capital grates in every room, with nothing to pay for incoming, and the rent L10 less than the Islington one. It was built, a few years since, at L1,100 expense, they tell me, and I perfectly believe it. And I get it for L35, exclusive of moderate taxes. We think ourselves most lucky. It is not our intention to abandon Regent Street and West End perambulations (monastic and terrible thought! ), but occasionally to breathe the fresher air of the metropolis. We shall put up a bedroom or two (all we want) for occasional ex-rustication, where we shall visit,--not be visited. Plays, too, we'll see,--perhaps our own; Urbani Sylvani and Sylvan Urbanuses in turns; courtiers for a sport, then philosophers; old, homely tell-truths and learn-truths in the virtuous shades of Enfield, liars again and mocking gibers in the coffee-houses and resorts of London. What can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted nature? Oh, the curds-and-cream you shall eat with us here! Oh, the turtle-soup and lobster-salads we shall devour with you there! Oh, the old books we shall peruse here! Oh, the new nonsense we shall trifle over there! Oh, Sir T. Browne, here! Oh, Mr. Hood and Mr. Jerdan, there! Thine, C. (URBANUS) L. (SYLVANUS)--(Elia ambo). By Charles Cotton. XCVII. TO P. G. PATMORE. _September_, 1827. Dear P.,--Excuse my anxiety, but how is Dash? I should have asked if Mrs. Patmore kept her rules and was improving; but Dash came uppermost. The order of our thoughts should be the order of our writing. Goes he muzzled, or _aperto ore_? Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in _his_ conversation. You cannot be too careful to watch the first symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical snarl he makes, to St. Luke's with him! All the dogs here are going mad, if you believe the overseers; but I protest they seem to me very rational and collected. But nothing is so deceitful as mad people, to those who are not used to them. Try him with hot water; if he won't lick it up, it's a sign he does not like it. Does his tail wag horizontally or perpendicularly? That has decided the fate of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment cheerful? I mean when he is pleased, for otherwise there is no judging. You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of the children yet? If he has, have them shot, and keep _him_ for curiosity, to see if it was the hydrophobia. They say all our army in India had it at one time; but that was in _Hyder_-Ally's time. Do you get paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull his teeth out (if he would let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as a Bedlamite. It would be rather fun to see his odd ways. It might amuse Mrs. P. and the children. They'd have more sense than he. He'd be like a fool kept in a family, to keep the household in good humor with their own understanding. You might teach him the mad dance, set to the mad howl. _Madge Owlet_ would be nothing to him. "My, how he capers!" (_In the margin is written "One of the children speaks this_.") ... What I scratch out is a German quotation, from Lessing, on the bite of rabid animals; but I remember you don't read German. But Mrs. P. may, so I wish I had let it stand. The meaning in English is: "Avoid to approach an animal suspected of madness, as you would avoid fire or a precipice,"--which I think is a sensible observation. The Germans are certainly profounder than we. If the slightest suspicion arises in your breast that all is not right with him, muzzle him and lead him in a string (common packthread will do; he don't care for twist) to Mr. Hood's, his quondam master, and he'll take him in at any time. You may mention your suspicion, or not, as you like, or as you think it may wound, or not, Mr. H.'s feelings. Hood, I know, will wink at a few follies in Dash, in consideration of his former sense. Besides, Hood is deaf, and if you hinted anything, ten to one he would not hear you. Besides, you will have discharged your conscience, and laid the child at the right door, as they say. We are dawdling our time away very idly and pleasantly at a Mrs. Leishman's, Chase, Enfield, where, if you come a-hunting, we can give you cold meat and a tankard. Her husband is a tailor; but that, you know, does not make her one. I know a jailor (which rhymes), but his wife was a fine lady. Let us hear from you respecting Mrs. P.'s regimen. I send my love in a-- to Dash. C. LAMB. XCVIII. TO BERNARD BARTON. _October_ 11, 1828. A splendid edition of Bunyan's Pilgrim! Why, the thought is enough to turn one's moral stomach. His cockle-hat and staff transformed to a smart cocked beaver and a jemmy cane; his amice gray to the last Regent Street cut; and his painful palmer's pace to the modern swagger! Stop thy friend's sacrilegious hand. Nothing can be done for B. but to reprint the old cuts in as homely but good a style as possible,--the Vanity Fair and the Pilgrims there; the silly-soothness in his setting-out countenance; the Christian idiocy (in a good sense) of his admiration of the shepherds on the Delectable mountains; the lions so truly allegorical, and remote from any similitude to Pidcock's; the great head (the author's), capacious of dreams and similitudes, dreaming in the dungeon. Perhaps you don't know my edition, what I had when a child. If you do, can you bear new designs from Martin, enamelled into copper or silver plate by Heath, accompanied with verses from Mrs. Hemans's pen? Oh, how unlike his own! "Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation? Or else be drowned in thy contemplation? Dost thou love picking meat? or wouldst thou see A man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee? Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? Or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm, And find thyself again without a charm? Wouldst read _thyself_, and read thou knowest not what, And yet know whether thou art blest or not By reading the same lines? Oh, then come hither, And lay my book, thy head, and heart together." Show me any such poetry in any one of the fifteen forthcoming combinations of show and emptiness 'yclept "Annuals." So there's verses for thy verses; and now let me tell you that the sight of your hand gladdened me. I have been daily trying to write to you, but paralyzed. You have spurred me on this tiny effort, and at intervals I hope to hear from and talk to you. But my spirits have been in an oppressed way for a long time, and they are things which must be to you of faith, for who can explain depression? Yes, I am hooked into the "Gem," but only for some lines written on a dead infant of the editor's which being, as it were, his property, I could not refuse their appearing; but I hate the paper, the type, the gloss, the dandy plates, the names of contributors poked up into your eyes in first page, and whisked through all the covers of magazines, the barefaced sort of emulation, the immodest candidateship. Brought into so little space,--in those old "Londons," a signature was lost in the wood of matter, the paper coarse (till latterly, which spoiled them),--in short, I detest to appear in an Annual. What a fertile genius (and a quiet good soul withal) is Hood! He has fifty things in hand,--farces to supply the Adelphi for the season; a comedy for one of the great theatres, just ready; a whole entertainment by himself for Mathews and Yates to figure in; a meditated Comic Annual for next year, to be nearly done by himself. You'd like him very much. Wordsworth, I see, has a good many pieces announced in one of 'em, not our "Gem." W. Scott has distributed himself like a bribe haunch among 'em. Of all the poets, Cary has had the good sense to keep quite clear of 'em, with clergy-gentlemanly right notions. Don't think I set up for being proud on this point; I like a bit of flattery, tickling my vanity, as well as any one. But these pompous masquerades without masks (naked names or faces) I hate. So there's a bit of my mind. Besides, they infallibly cheat you,--I mean the booksellers. If I get but a copy, I only expect it from Hood's being my friend. Coleridge has lately been here. He too is deep among the prophets, the year-servers,--the mob of gentleman annuals. But they'll cheat him, I know. And now, dear B. B., the sun shining out merrily, and the dirty clouds we had yesterday having washed their own faces clean with their own rain, tempts me to wander up Winchmore Hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of Enfield, which I hope to show you at some time when you can get a few days up to the great town. Believe me, it would give both of us great pleasure to show you our pleasant farms and villages. We both join in kindest loves to you and yours. C. LAMB _redivivus_. An _edition de luxe_, illustrated by John Martin, and with an Introduction by Southey. See Macaulay's review of it. Hood's. The translator of Dante. XCIX. TO PROCTER. _January_ 22, 1829. Don't trouble yourself about the verses. Take 'em coolly as they come. Any day between this and midsummer will do. Ten lines the extreme. There is no mystery in my incognita. She has often seen you, though you may not have observed a silent brown girl, who for the last twelve years has rambled about our house in her Christmas holidays. She is Italian by name and extraction. Ten lines about the blue sky of her country will do, as it's her foible to be proud of it. Item, I have made her a tolerable Latinist. She is called Emma Isola. I shall, I think, be in town in a few weeks, when I will assuredly see you. I will put in here loves to Mrs. Procter and the Anti-Capulets , because Mary tells me I omitted them in my last. I like to see my friends here. I have put my lawsuit into the hands of an Enfield practitioner,--a plain man, who seems perfectly to understand it, and gives me hopes of a favorable result. Rumor tells us that Miss Holcroft is married. Who is Baddams? Have I seen him at Montacute's? I hear he is a great chemist. I am sometimes chemical myself. A thought strikes me with horror. Pray Heaven he may not have done it for the sake of trying chemical experiments upon her,--young female subjects are so scarce! An't you glad about Burke's case? We may set off the Scotch murders against the Scotch novels,--Hare the Great Unhanged. Martin Burney is richly worth your knowing. He is on the top scale of my friendship ladder, on which an angel or two is still climbing, and some, alas! descending. I am out of the literary world at present. Pray, is there anything new from the admired pen of the author of "The Pleasures of Hope"? Has Mrs. He-mans (double masculine) done anything pretty lately? Why sleeps the lyre of Hervey and of Alaric Watts? Is the muse of L. E. L. silent? Did you see a sonnet of mine in Blackwood's last? Curious construction! _Elaborata facilitas!_ And now I 'll tell. 'Twas written for "The Gem;" but the--editors declined it, on the plea that it would _shock all mothers_; so they published "The Widow" instead. I am born out of time, I have no conjecture about what the present world calls delicacy. I thought "Rosamund Gray" was a pretty modest thing. Hessey assures me that the world would not bear it. I have lived to grow into an indecent character. When my sonnet was rejected, I exclaimed, "Damn the age; I will write for Antiquity!" _Erratum_ in sonnet. Last line but something, for "tender" read "tend," The Scotch do not know our law terms, but I find some remains of honest, plain old writing lurking there still. They were not so mealy mouthed as to refuse my verses. Maybe, 't is their oatmeal, Blackwood sent me L20 for the drama. Somebody cheated me out of it next day; and my new pair of breeches, just sent home, cracking at first putting on, I exclaimed, in my wrath, "All tailors are cheats, and all men are tailors." Then I was better. C. L. Emma Isola, Lamb's ward, daughter of one of the Esquire Bedells of Cambridge University, and granddaughter of an Italian refugee. The Lambs had met her during one of their Cambridge visits, and finally adopted her. Burke and Hare, the Edinburgh resurrection-men. The Gypsy's Malison. C. TO BERNARD BARTON. ENFIELD CHASE SIDE, _Saturday, 25th of July_, A.D. 1829, 11 A.M. There! a fuller, plumper, juicier date never dropped from Idumean palm. Am I in the _date_ive case now? If not, a fig for dates,--which is more than a date is worth. I never stood much affected to these limitary specialities,--least of all, since the date of my superannuation. "What have I with time to do? Slaves of desks, 't was meant for you." Dear B. B.,--Your handwriting has conveyed much pleasure to me in respect of Lucy's restoration. Would I could send you as good news of _my_ poor Lucy! But some wearisome weeks I must remain lonely yet. I have had the loneliest time, near ten weeks, broken by a short apparition of Emma for her holidays, whose departure only deepened the returning solitude, and by ten days I have passed in town. But town, with all my native hankering after it, is not what it was. The streets, the shops, are left, but all old friends are gone. And in London I was frightfully convinced of this as I passed houses and places, empty caskets now. I have ceased to care almost about anybody. The bodies I cared for are in graves, or dispersed. My old clubs, that lived so long and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away. When I took leave of our adopted young friend at Charing Cross,'t was heavy unfeeling rain, and I had nowhere to go. Home have I none, and not a sympathizing house to turn to in the great city. Never did the waters of heaven pour down on a forlorner head. Yet I tried ten days at a sort of a friend's house; but it was large and straggling,--one of the individuals of my old long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant companions, that have tumbled to pieces, into dust and other things; and I got home on Thursday, convinced that I was better to get home to my hole at Enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner. Less than a month, I hope, will bring home Mary. She is at Fulham, looking better in her health than ever, but sadly rambling, and scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or curiosity when I should come again. But the old feelings will come back again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game of piquet again. But it is a tedious cut out of a life of fifty-four, to lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year or two. And to make me more alone, our ill-tempered maid is gone, who, with all her airs, was yet a home-piece of furniture, a record of better days; the young thing that has succeeded her is good and attentive, but she is nothing. And I have no one here to talk over old matters with. Scolding and quarrelling have something of familiarity and a community of interest; they imply acquaintance; they are of resentment, which is of the family of dearness. * * * * * I bragged formerly that I could not have too much time; I have now a surfeit. With few years to come, the days are wearisome. But weariness is not eternal. Something will shine out to take the load off that flags me, which is at present intolerable. I have killed an hour or two in this poor scrawl. I am a sanguinary murderer of time, and would kill him inch-meal just now. But the snake is vital. Well, I shall write merrier anon. 'T is the present copy of my countenance I send, and to complain is a little to alleviate. May you enjoy yourself as far as the wicked world will let you, and think that you are not quite alone, as I am! Health to Lucia and to Anna, and kind remembrances. Your forlorn C. L. Mary Lamb. CI. TO MR. GILLMAN. _November_ 30, 1829. Dear G.,--The excursionists reached home and the good town of Enfield a little after four, without slip or dislocation. Little has transpired concerning the events of the back-journey, save that on passing the house of 'Squire Mellish, situate a stone bow's cast from the hamlet, Father Westwood , with a good-natured wonderment, exclaimed, "I cannot think what is gone of Mr. Mellish's rooks. I fancy they have taken flight somewhere; but I have missed them two or three years past." All this while, according to his fellow-traveller's report, the rookery was darkening the air above with undiminished population, and deafening all ears but his with their cawings. But nature has been gently withdrawing such phenomena from the notice of Thomas Westwood's senses, from the time he began to miss the rooks. T. Westwood has passed a retired life in this hamlet of thirty or forty years, living upon the minimum which is consistent with gentility, yet a star among the minor gentry, receiving the bows of the tradespeople and courtesies of the alms-women daily. Children venerate him not less for his external show of gentry than they wonder at him for a gentle rising endorsation of the person, not amounting to a hump, or if a hump, innocuous as the hump of the buffalo, and coronative of as mild qualities. 'T is a throne on which patience seems to sit,--the proud perch of a self-respecting humility, stooping with condescension. Thereupon the cares of life have sat, and rid him easily. For he has thrid the _angustiae domus_ with dexterity. Life opened upon him with comparative brilliancy. He set out as a rider or traveller for a wholesale house, in which capacity he tells of many hair-breadth escapes that befell him,--one especially, how he rode a mad horse into the town of Devizes; how horse and rider arrived in a foam, to the utter consternation of the expostulating hostlers, inn-keepers, etc. It seems it was sultry weather, piping-hot; the steed tormented into frenzy with gad-flies, long past being roadworthy: but safety and the interest of the house he rode for were incompatible things; a fall in serge cloth was expected; and a mad entrance they made of it. Whether the exploit was purely voluntary, or partially; or whether a certain personal defiguration in the man part of this extraordinary centaur (non-assistive to partition of natures) might not enforce the conjunction, I stand not to inquire. I look not with 'skew eyes into the deeds of heroes. The hosier that was burned with his shop in Field Lane, on Tuesday night, shall have passed to heaven for me like a Marian Martyr, provided always that he consecrated the fortuitous incremation with a short ejaculation in the exit, as much as if he had taken his state degrees of martyrdom _in forma_ in the market vicinage. There is adoptive as well as acquisitive sacrifice. Be the animus what it might, the fact is indisputable, that this composition was seen flying all abroad, and mine host of Daintry may yet remember its passing through his town, if his scores are not more faithful than his memory. * * * * * To come from his heroic character, all the amiable qualities of domestic life concentre in this tamed Bellerophon. He is excellent over a glass of grog; just as pleasant without it; laughs when he hears a joke, and when (which is much oftener) he hears it not; sings glorious old sea-songs on festival nights; and but upon a slight acquaintance of two years, Coleridge, is as dear a deaf old man to us as old Norris, rest his soul! was after fifty. To him and his scanty literature (what there is of it, _sound_) have we flown from the metropolis and its cursed annualists, reviewers, authors, and the whole muddy ink press of that stagnant pool. Lamb's landlord. He had driven Mary Lamb over to see Coleridge at Highgate. The Lambs had been compelled, by the frequent illnesses of Mary Lamb, to give up their housekeeping at Enfield and to take lodgings with the Westwoods. CII. TO WORDSWORTH. _January_ 22, 1830. And is it a year since we parted from you at the steps of Edmonton stage? There are not now the years that there used to be. The tale of the dwindled age of men, reported of successional mankind, is true of the same man only. We do not live a year in a year now. 'T is a _punctum stans_. The seasons pass us with indifference. Spring cheers not, nor winter heightens our gloom: autumn hath foregone its moralities,--they are "heypass repass," as in a show-box. Yet, as far as last year, occurs back--for they scarce show a reflex now, they make no memory as heretofore--'t was sufficiently gloomy. Let the sullen nothing pass. Suffice it that after sad spirits, prolonged through many of its months, as it called them, we have cast our skins, have taken a farewell of the pompous, troublesome trifle called housekeeping, and are settled down into poor boarders and lodgers at next door with an old couple, the Baucis and Baucida of dull Enfield. Here we have nothing to do with our victuals but to eat them, with the garden but to see it grow, with the tax-gatherer but to hear him knock, with the maid but to hear her scolded. Scot and lot, butcher, baker, are things unknown to us, save as spectators of the pageant. We are fed we know not how,--quietists, confiding ravens. We have the _otium pro dignitate_, a respectable insignificance. Yet in the self condemned obliviousness, in the stagnation, some molesting yearnings of life not quite killed rise, prompting me that there was a London, and that I was of that old Jerusalem. In dreams I am in Fleet Market; but I wake and cry to sleep again. I die hard, a stubborn Eloisa in this detestable Paraclete. What have I gained by health? Intolerable dulness. What by early hours and moderate meals? A total blank. Oh, never let the lying poets be believed who 'tice men from the cheerful haunts of streets, or think they mean it not of a country village. In the ruins of Palmyra I could gird myself up to solitude, or muse to the snorings of the Seven Sleepers; but to have a little teasing image of a town about one, country folks that do not look like country folks, shops two yards square, half-a-dozen apples and two penn'orth of over-looked gingerbread for the lofty fruiterers of Oxford Street, and for the immortal book and print stalls a circulating library that stands still, where the show-picture is a last year's Valentine, and whither the fame of the last ten Scotch novels has not yet travelled (marry, they just begin to be conscious of the "Redgauntlet"), to have a new plastered flat church, and to be wishing that it was but a cathedral! The very blackguards here are degenerate, the topping gentry stockbrokers; the passengers too many to insure your quiet, or let you go about whistling or gaping,--too few to be the fine indifferent pageants of Fleet Street. Confining, room-keeping, thickest winter is yet more bearable here than the gaudy months. Among one's books at one's fire by candle, one is soothed into an oblivion that one is not in the country; but with the light the green fields return, till I gaze, and in a calenture can plunge myself into St. Giles's. Oh, let no native Londoner imagine that health and rest and innocent occupation, interchange of converse sweet and recreative study, can make the country anything better than altogether odious and detestable. A garden was the primitive prison, till man with Promethean felicity and boldness luckily sinned himself out of it. Thence followed Babylon, Nineveh, Venice, London; haberdashers, goldsmiths, taverns, playhouses, satires, epigrams, puns,--these all came in on the town part and the thither side of innocence. Man found out inventions. From my den I return you condolence for your decaying sight,--not for anything there is to see in the country, but for the miss of the pleasure of reading a London newspaper. The poets are as well to listen to; anything high may--nay, must be read out; you read it to yourself with an imaginary auditor: but the light paragraphs must be glid over by the proper eye; mouthing mumbles their gossamery substance. 'Tis these trifles I should mourn in fading sight. A newspaper is the single gleam of comfort I receive here; it comes from rich Cathay with tidings of mankind. Yet I could not attend to it, read out by the most beloved voice. But your eyes do not get worse, I gather. Oh, for the collyrium of Tobias enclosed in a whiting's liver, to send you, with no apocryphal good wishes! The last long time I heard from you, you had knocked your head against something. Do not do so; for your head (I do not flatter) is not a knob, or the top of a brass nail, or the end of a ninepin,--unless a Vulcanian hammer could fairly batter a "Recluse" out of it; then would I bid the smirched god knock, and knock lustily, the two-handed skinker! Mary must squeeze out a line _propria manu_; but indeed her fingers have been incorrigibly nervous to letter-writing for a long interval. 'T will please you all to hear that, though I fret like a lion in a net, her present health and spirits are better than they have been for some time past; she is absolutely three years and a half younger, as I tell her, since we have adopted this boarding plan. Our providers are an honest pair, Dame Westwood and her husband,--he, when the light of prosperity shined on them, a moderately thriving haberdasher within Bow bells, retired since with something under a competence; writes himself parcel-gentleman; hath borne parish offices; sings fine old sea-songs at threescore and ten; sighs only now and then when he thinks that he has a son on his hands about fifteen, whom he finds a difficulty in getting out into the world, and then checks a sigh with muttering, as I once heard him prettily, not meaning to be heard, "I have married my daughter, however;" takes the weather as it comes; outsides it to town in severest season; and o' winter nights tells old stories not tending to literature (how comfortable to author-rid folks! ), and has _one ancedote_, upon which and about forty pounds a year he seems to have retired in green old age. It was how he was a rider in his youth, travelling for shops, and once (not to balk his employer's bargain) on a sweltering day in August, rode foaming into Dunstable upon a mad horse, to the dismay and expostulatory wonderment of inn-keepers, ostlers, etc., who declared they would not have bestrid the beast to win the Derby. Understand the creature galled to death and desperation by gad-flies, cormorant-winged, worse than beset Inachus's daughter. This he tells, this he brindles and burnishes, on a winter's eve; 't is his star of set glory, his rejuvenescence to descant upon, Far from me be it (_da avertant!_) to look a gift-story in the mouth, or cruelly to surmise (as those who doubt the plunge of Curtius) that the inseparate conjuncture of man and beast, the centaur-phenomenon that staggered all Dunstable, might have been the effect of unromantic necessity; that the horse-part carried the reasoning willy-nilly; that needs must when such a devil drove; that certain spiral configurations in the frame of Thomas Westwood, unfriendly to alighting, made the alliance more forcible than voluntary. Let him enjoy his fame for me, nor let me hint a whisper that shall dismount Bellerophon. But in case he was an involuntary martyr, yet if in the fiery conflict he buckled the soul of a constant haberdasher to him, and adopted his flames, let accident and him share the glory. You would all like Thomas Westwood. How weak is painting to describe a man! Say that he stands four feet and a nail high by his own yard-measure, which, like the sceptre of Agamemnon, shall never sprout again, still, you have no adequate idea; nor when I tell you that his dear hump, which I have favored in the picture, seems to me of the buffalo,--indicative and repository of mild qualities, a budget of kindnesses,--still, you have not the man. Knew you old Norris of the Temple, sixty years ours and our father's friend? He was not more natural to us than this old Westwood, the acquaintance of scarce more weeks. Under his roof now ought I to take my rest, but that back-looking ambition tells me I might yet be a Londoner! Well, if we ever do move, we have encumbrances the less to impede us; all our furniture has faded under the auctioneer's hammer, going for nothing, like the tarnished frippery of the prodigal, and we have only a spoon or two left to bless us. Clothed we came into Enfield, and naked we must go out of it. I would live in London shirtless, bookless. Henry Crabb is at Rome; advices to that effect have reached Bury. But by solemn legacy he bequeathed at parting (whether he should live or die) a turkey of Suffolk to be sent every succeeding Christmas to us and divers other friends. What a genuine old bachelor's action! I fear he will find the air of Italy too classic. His station is in the Hartz forest; his soul is be-Goethed. Miss Kelly we never see,--Talfourd not this half year; the latter flourishes, but the exact number of his children, God forgive me, I have utterly forgotten: we single people are often out in our count there. Shall I say two? We see scarce anybody. Can I cram loves enough to you all in this little O? Excuse particularizing. C.L. Here was inserted a sketch answering to the description. CIII. TO MRS. HAZLITT. _May_ 24, 1830. Mary's love? Yes. Mary Lamb quite well. Dear Sarah,--I found my way to Northaw on Thursday and a very good woman behind a counter, who says also that you are a very good lady, but that the woman who was with you was naught. We travelled with one of those troublesome fellow-passengers in a stage-coach that is called a well-informed man. For twenty miles we discoursed about the properties of steam, probabilities of carriages by ditto, till all my science, and more than all, was exhausted, and I was thinking of escaping my torment by getting up on the outside, when, getting into Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, spying some farming land, put an unlucky question to me,--What sort of a crop of turnips I thought we should have this year? Emma's eyes turned to me to know what in the world I could have to say; and she burst into a violent fit of laughter, maugre her pale, serious cheeks, when, with the greatest gravity, I replied that it depended, I believed, upon boiled legs of mutton. This clenched our conversation; and my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in scorn, troubled us with no more conversation, scientific or philosophical, for the remainder of the journey. Ayrton was here yesterday, and as _learned_ to the full as my fellow-traveller. What a pity that he will spoil a wit and a devilish pleasant fellow (as he is) by wisdom! He talked on Music; and by having read Hawkins and Burney recently I was enabled to talk of names, and show more knowledge than he had suspected I possessed; and in the end he begged me to shape my thoughts upon paper, which I did after he was gone, and sent him "Free Thoughts on Some Eminent Composers." "Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites. For my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel," etc. Martin Burney is as odd as ever. We had a dispute about the word "heir," which I contended was pronounced like "air." He said that might be in common parlance, or that we might so use it speaking of the "Heir-at-Law," a comedy; but that in the law-courts it was necessary to give it a full aspiration, and to say _Hayer_; he thought it might even vitiate a cause if a counsel pronounced it otherwise. In conclusion, he "would consult Serjeant Wilde," who gave it against him. Sometimes he falleth into the water, sometimes into the fire. He came down here, and insisted on reading Virgil's "AEneid" all through with me (which he did), because a counsel must know Latin. Another time he read out all the Gospel of St. John, because Biblical quotations are very emphatic in a court of justice. A third time he would carve a fowl, which he did very ill favoredly, because we did not know how indispensable it was for a barrister to do all those sort of things well. Those little things were of more consequence than we supposed. So he goes on, harassing about the way to prosperity, and losing it. With a long head, but somewhat a wrong one,--harum-scarum. Why does not his guardian angel look to him? He deserves one,--maybe he has tired him out. I am tired with this long scrawl; but I thought in your exile you might like a letter. Commend me to all the wonders in Derbyshire, and tell the devil I humbly kiss my hand to him. Martin Burney, originally a solicitor, had lately been called to the Bar. CIV. TO GEORGE DYER. _December_ 20, 1830. Dear Dyer,--I would have written before to thank you for your kind letter, written with your own hand. It glads us to see your writing. It will give you pleasure to hear that, after so much illness, we are in tolerable health and spirits once more. Miss Isola intended to call upon you after her night's lodging at Miss Buffam's, but found she was too late for the stage. If she comes to town before she goes home, she will not miss paying her respects to Mrs. Dyer and you, to whom she desires best love. Poor Enfield, that has been so peaceable hitherto, that has caught an inflammatory fever, the tokens are upon her; and a great fire was blazing last night in the barns and haystacks of a fanner about half a mile from us. Where will these things end? There is no doubt of its being the work of some ill-disposed rustic; but how is he to be discovered? They go to work in the dark with strange chemical preparations unknown to our forefathers. There is not even a dark lantern to have a chance of detecting these Guy Fauxes. We are past the iron age, and are got into the fiery age, undream'd of by Ovid. You are lucky in Clifford's Inn, where, I think, you have few ricks or stacks worth the burning. Pray keep as little corn by you as you can, for fear of the worst. It was never good times in England since the poor began to speculate upon their condition. Formerly they jogged on with as little reflection as horses; the whistling ploughman went cheek by jowl with his brother that neighed. Now the biped carries a box of phosphorus in his leather breeches; and in the dead of night the half-illuminated beast steals his magic potion into a cleft in a barn, and half the country is grinning with new fires. Farmer Graystock said something to the touchy rustic that he did not relish, and he writes his distaste in flames. What a power to intoxicate his crude brains, just muddlingly awake, to perceive that something is wrong in the social system; what a hellish faculty above gunpowder! Now the rich and poor are fairly pitted, we shall see who can hang or burn fastest. It is not always revenge that stimulates these kindlings. There is a love of exerting mischief. Think of a disrespected clod that was trod into earth, that was nothing, on a sudden by damned arts refined into an exterminating angel, devouring the fruits of the earth and their growers in a mass of fire! What a new existence; what a temptation above Lucifer's! Would clod be anything but a clod if he could resist it? Why, here was a spectacle last night for a whole country,--a bonfire visible to London, alarming her guilty towers, and shaking the Monument with an ague fit: all done by a little vial of phosphor in a clown's fob! How he must grin, and shake his empty noddle in clouds, the Vulcanian epicure! Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of Science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat? Who shall persuade the boor that phosphor will not ignite? Seven goodly stacks of hay, with corn-barns proportionable, lie smoking ashes and chaff, which man and beast would sputter out and reject like those apples of asphaltes and bitumen. The food for the inhabitants of earth will quickly disappear. Hot rolls may say, "Fuimus panes, fuit quartem-loaf, et ingens gloria Apple-pasty-orum." That the good old munching system may last thy time and mine, good un-incendiary George, is the devout prayer of thine, to the last crust, CH. LAMB. CV. TO DYER. _February_ 22, 1831. Dear Dyer,--Mr. Rogers and Mr. Rogers's friends are perfectly assured that you never intended any harm by an innocent couplet, and that in the revivification of it by blundering Barker you had no hand whatever. To imagine that, at this time of day, Rogers broods over a fantastic expression of more than thirty years' standing, would be to suppose him indulging his "Pleasures of Memory" with a vengeance. You never penned a line which for its own sake you need, dying, wish to blot. You mistake your heart if you think you _can_ write a lampoon. Your whips are rods of roses. Your spleen has ever had for its objects vices, not the vicious,--abstract offences, not the concrete sinner. But you are sensitive, and wince as much at the consciousness of having committed a compliment as another man would at the perpetration of an affront. But do not lug me into the same soreness of conscience with yourself. I maintain, and will to the last hour, that I never writ of you but _con amore_; that if any allusion was made to your near-sightedness, it was not for the purpose of mocking an infirmity, but of connecting it with scholar-like habits,--for is it not erudite and scholarly to be somewhat near of sight before age naturally brings on the malady? You could not then plead the _obrepens senectus_. Did I not, moreover, make it an apology for a certain _absence_, which some of your friends may have experienced, when you have not on a sudden made recognition of them in a casual street-meeting; and did I not strengthen your excuse for this slowness of recognition by further accounting morally for the present engagement of your mind in worthy objects? Did I not, in your person, make the handsomest apology for absent-of-mind people that was ever made? If these things be not so, I never knew what I wrote or meant by my writing, and have been penning libels all my life without being aware of it. Does it follow that I should have expressed myself exactly in the same way of those dear old eyes of yours _now_,--now that Father Time has conspired with a hard taskmaster to put a last extinguisher upon them? I should as soon have insulted the Answerer of Salmasius when he awoke up from his ended task, and saw no more with mortal vision. But you are many films removed yet from Milton's calamity. You write perfectly intelligibly. Marry, the letters are not all of the same size or tallness; but that only shows your proficiency in the _hands_--text, german-hand, court-hand, sometimes law-hand, and affords variety. You pen better than you did a twelvemonth ago; and if you continue to improve, you bid fair to win the golden pen which is the prize at your young gentlemen's academy. * * * * * But don't go and lay this to your eyes. You always wrote hieroglyphically, yet not to come up to the mystical notations and conjuring characters of Dr. Parr. You never wrote what I call a schoolmaster's hand, like Mrs. Clarke; nor a woman's hand, like Southey; nor a missal hand, like Porson; nor an all-on-the-wrong-side sloping hand, like Miss Hayes; nor a dogmatic, Mede-and-Persian, peremptory tory hand, like Rickman: but you wrote what I call a Grecian's hand,--what the Grecians write (or wrote) at Christ's Hospital; such as Whalley would have admired, and Boyer have applauded, but Smith or Atwood would have horsed you for. Your boy-of-genius hand and your mercantile hand are various. By your flourishes, I should think you never learned to make eagles or cork-screws, or flourish the governor's names in the writing-school; and by the tenor and cut of your letters, I suspect you were never in it at all. By the length of this scrawl you will think I have a design upon your optics; but I have writ as large as I could, out of respect to them,--too large, indeed, for beauty. Mine is a sort of Deputy-Grecian's hand,--a little better, and more of a worldly hand, than a Grecian's, but still remote from the mercantile. I don't know how it is, but I keep my rank in fancy still since school-days; I can never forget I was a Deputy-Grecian. And writing to you, or to Coleridge, besides affection, I feel a reverential deference as to Grecians still . I keep my soaring way above the Great Erasmians, yet far beneath the other. Alas! what am I now? What is a Leadenhall clerk or India pensioner to a Deputy-Grecian? How art thou fallen, O Lucifer! Just room for our loves to Mrs. D., etc. C. LAMB. Talfourd relates an amusing instance of the universal charity of the kindly Dyer. Lamb once suddenly asked him what he thought of the murderer Williams,--a wretch who had destroyed two families in Ratcliff Highway, and then cheated the gallows by committing suicide. "The desperate attempt," says Talfourd, "to compel the gentle optimist to speak ill of a mortal creature produced no happier success than the answer, 'Why, I should think, Mr. Lamb, he must have been rather an eccentric character.'" Whalley and Boyer were masters at Christ's Hospital. "Deputy-Grecian," "Grecian," etc., were of course forms, or grades, at Christ's Hospital. CVI. TO MR. MOXON . _February_, 1832. Dear Moxon,--The snows are ankle-deep, slush, and mire, that 't is hard to get to the post-office, and cruel to send the maid out. 'Tis a slough of despair, or I should sooner have thanked you for your offer of the "Life," which we shall very much like to have, and will return duly. I do not know when I shall be in town, but in a week or two at farthest, when I will come as far as you, if I can. We are moped to death with confinement within doors, I send you a curiosity of G. Dyer's tender conscience. Between thirty and forty years since, George published the "Poet's Fate," in which were two very harmless lines about Mr. Rogers; but Mr. R. not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent edition, 1801. But George has been worrying about them ever since; if I have heard him once, I have heard him a hundred times express a remorse proportioned to a consciousness of having been guilty of an atrocious libel. As the devil would have it, a fool they call Barker, in his "Parriana" has quoted the identical two lines as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers of poor George are again wrung, His letter is a gem: with his poor blind eyes it has been labored out at six sittings. The history of the couplet is in page 3 of this irregular production, in which every variety of shape and size that letters can be twisted into is to be found. Do show _his_ part of it to Mr. Rogers some day. If he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly charactered of a contrite sinner. G. was born, I verily think, without original sin, but chooses to have a conscience, as every Christian gentleman should have; his dear old face is insusceptible of the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive of being suspected of that ugly appearance. When he makes a compliment, he thinks he has given an affront,--a name is personality. But show (no hurry) this unique recantation to Mr. Rogers: 't is like a dirty pocket-handerchief mucked with tears of some indigent Magdalen. There is the impress of sincerity in every pot-hook and hanger; and then the gilt frame to such a pauper picture! It should go into the Museum. Lamb's future publisher. He afterwards became the husband of Lamb's _protegee_, Emma Isola. CVII. TO MR. MOXON. _July_ 24, 1833. For God's sake give Emma no more watches; _one_ has turned her head. She is arrogant and insulting. She said something very unpleasant to our old clock in the passage, as if he did not keep time; and yet he had made her no appointment. She takes it out every instant to look at the moment-hand. She lugs us out into the fields, because there the bird-boys ask you, "Pray, sir, can you tell us what's o'clock?" and she answers them punctually. She loses all her time looking to see "what the time is." I overheard her whispering, "Just so many hours, minutes, etc., to Tuesday; I think St. George's goes too slow." This little present of Time,--why, 't is Eternity to her! What can make her so fond of a gingerbread watch? She has spoiled some of the movements. Between ourselves, she has kissed away "half-past twelve," which I suppose to be the canonical hour in Hanover Square. Well, if "love me, love my watch," answers, she will keep time to you. It goes right by the Horse-Guards. Dearest M.,--Never mind opposite nonsense. She does not love you for the watch, but the watch for you. I will be at the wedding, and keep the 30th July, as long as my poor months last me, as a festival gloriously. Yours ever, ELIA. THE END.
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THE ESSAYS OF ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER TRANSLATED BY T. BAILEY SAUNDERS, M.A. ON HUMAN NATURE. CONTENTS. HUMAN NATURE GOVERNMENT FREE-WILL AND FATALISM CHARACTER MORAL INSTINCT ETHICAL REFLECTIONS TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. The following essays are drawn from the chapters entitled _Zur Ethik_ and _Zur Rechtslehre und Politik_ which are to be found both in Schopenhauer's _Parerga_ and in his posthumous writings. As in my previous volumes, so also in this, I have omitted a few passages which appeared to me to be either antiquated or no longer of any general interest. For convenience' sake I have divided the original chapters into sections, which I have had to name; and I have also had to invent a title which should express their real scope. The reader will find that it is not so much _Ethics_ and _Politics_ that are here treated, as human nature itself in various aspects. T.B.S. HUMAN NATURE. Truths of the physical order may possess much external significance, but internal significance they have none. The latter is the privilege of intellectual and moral truths, which are concerned with the objectivation of the will in its highest stages, whereas physical truths are concerned with it in its lowest. For example, if we could establish the truth of what up till now is only a conjecture, namely, that it is the action of the sun which produces thermoelectricity at the equator; that this produces terrestrial magnetism; and that this magnetism, again, is the cause of the _aurora borealis_, these would be truths externally of great, but internally of little, significance. On the other hand, examples of internal significance are furnished by all great and true philosophical systems; by the catastrophe of every good tragedy; nay, even by the observation of human conduct in the extreme manifestations of its morality and immorality, of its good and its evil character. For all these are expressions of that reality which takes outward shape as the world, and which, in the highest stages of its objectivation, proclaims its innermost nature. To say that the world has only a physical and not a moral significance is the greatest and most pernicious of all errors, the fundamental blunder, the real perversity of mind and temper; and, at bottom, it is doubtless the tendency which faith personifies as Anti-Christ. Nevertheless, in spite of all religions--and they are systems which one and all maintain the opposite, and seek to establish it in their mythical way--this fundamental error never becomes quite extinct, but raises its head from time to time afresh, until universal indignation compels it to hide itself once more. Yet, however certain we may feel of the moral significance of life and the world, to explain and illustrate it, and to resolve the contradiction between this significance and the world as it is, form a task of great difficulty; so great, indeed, as to make it possible that it has remained for me to exhibit the true and only genuine and sound basis of morality everywhere and at all times effective, together with the results to which it leads. The actual facts of morality are too much on my side for me to fear that my theory can ever be replaced or upset by any other. However, so long as even my ethical system continues to be ignored by the professorial world, it is Kant's moral principle that prevails in the universities. Among its various forms the one which is most in favour at present is "the dignity of man." I have already exposed the absurdity of this doctrine in my treatise on the _Foundation of Morality_. Therefore I will only say here that if the question were asked on what the alleged dignity of man rests, it would not be long before the answer was made that it rests upon his morality. In other words, his morality rests upon his dignity, and his dignity rests upon his morality. But apart from this circular argument it seems to me that the idea of dignity can be applied only in an ironical sense to a being whose will is so sinful, whose intellect is so limited, whose body is so weak and perishable as man's. How shall a man be proud, when his conception is a crime, his birth a penalty, his life a labour, and death a necessity!-- _Quid superbit <DW25>? cujus conceptio culpa, Nasci poena, labor vita, necesse mori_! Therefore, in opposition to the above-mentioned form of the Kantian principle, I should be inclined to lay down the following rule: When you come into contact with a man, no matter whom, do not attempt an objective appreciation of him according to his worth and dignity. Do not consider his bad will, or his narrow understanding and perverse ideas; as the former may easily lead you to hate and the latter to despise him; but fix your attention only upon his sufferings, his needs, his anxieties, his pains. Then you will always feel your kinship with him; you will sympathise with him; and instead of hatred or contempt you will experience the commiseration that alone is the peace to which the Gospel calls us. The way to keep down hatred and contempt is certainly not to look for a man's alleged "dignity," but, on the contrary, to regard him as an object of pity. The Buddhists, as the result of the more profound views which they entertain on ethical and metaphysical subjects, start from the cardinal vices and not the cardinal virtues; since the virtues make their appearance only as the contraries or negations of the vices. According to Schmidt's _History of the Eastern Mongolians_ the cardinal vices in the Buddhist scheme are four: Lust, Indolence, Anger, and Avarice. But probably instead of Indolence, we should read Pride; for so it stands in the _Lettres edifiantes et curieuses_, where Envy, or Hatred, is added as a fifth. I am confirmed in correcting the statement of the excellent Schmidt by the fact that my rendering agrees with the doctrine of the Sufis, who are certainly under the influence of the Brahmins and Buddhists. The Sufis also maintain that there are four cardinal vices, and they arrange them in very striking pairs, so that Lust appears in connection with Avarice, and Anger with Pride. The four cardinal virtues opposed to them would be Chastity and Generosity, together with Gentleness and Humility. When we compare these profound ideas of morality, as they are entertained by oriental nations, with the celebrated cardinal virtues of Plato, which have been recapitulated again and again--Justice, Valour, Temperance, and Wisdom--it is plain that the latter are not based on any clear, leading idea, but are chosen on grounds that are superficial and, in part, obviously false. Virtues must be qualities of the will, but Wisdom is chiefly an attribute of the Intellect. , which Cicero translates _Temperantia_, is a very indefinite and ambiguous word, and it admits, therefore, of a variety of applications: it may mean discretion, or abstinence, or keeping a level head. Courage is not a virtue at all; although sometimes it is a servant or instrument of virtue; but it is just as ready to become the servant of the greatest villainy. It is really a quality of temperament. Even Geulinx (in the preface to this _Ethics_) condemned the Platonic virtues and put the following in their place: Diligence, Obedience, Justice and Humility; which are obviously bad. The Chinese distinguish five cardinal virtues: Sympathy, Justice, Propriety, Wisdom, and Sincerity. The virtues of Christianity are theological, not cardinal: Faith, Love, and Hope. Fundamental disposition towards others, assuming the character either of Envy or of Sympathy, is the point at which the moral virtues and vices of mankind first diverge. These two diametrically opposite qualities exist in every man; for they spring from the inevitable comparison which he draws between his own lot and that of others. According as the result of this comparison affects his individual character does the one or the other of these qualities become the source and principle of all his action. Envy builds the wall between _Thee_ and _Me_ thicker and stronger; Sympathy makes it slight and transparent; nay, sometimes it pulls down the wall altogether; and then the distinction between self and not-self vanishes. Valour, which has been mentioned as a virtue, or rather the Courage on which it is based (for valour is only courage in war), deserves a closer examination. The ancients reckoned Courage among the virtues, and cowardice among the vices; but there is no corresponding idea in the Christian scheme, which makes for charity and patience, and in its teaching forbids all enmity or even resistance. The result is that with the moderns Courage is no longer a virtue. Nevertheless it must be admitted that cowardice does not seem to be very compatible with any nobility of character--if only for the reason that it betrays an overgreat apprehension about one's own person. Courage, however, may also be explained as a readiness to meet ills that threaten at the moment, in order to avoid greater ills that lie in the future; whereas cowardice does the contrary. But this readiness is of the same quality as _patience_, for patience consists in the clear consciousness that greater evils than those which are present, and that any violent attempt to flee from or guard against the ills we have may bring the others upon us. Courage, then, would be a kind of patience; and since it is patience that enables us to practise forbearance and self control, Courage is, through the medium of patience, at least akin to virtue. But perhaps Courage admits of being considered from a higher point of view. The fear of death may in every case be traced to a deficiency in that natural philosophy--natural, and therefore resting on mere feeling--which gives a man the assurance that he exists in everything outside him just as much as in his own person; so that the death of his person can do him little harm. But it is just this very assurance that would give a man heroic Courage; and therefore, as the reader will recollect from my _Ethics_, Courage comes from the same source as the virtues of Justice and Humanity. This is, I admit, to take a very high view of the matter; but apart from it I cannot well explain why cowardice seems contemptible, and personal courage a noble and sublime thing; for no lower point of view enables me to see why a finite individual who is everything to himself--nay, who is himself even the very fundamental condition of the existence of the rest of the world--should not put his own preservation above every other aim. It is, then, an insufficient explanation of Courage to make it rest only on utility, to give it an empirical and not a transcendental character. It may have been for some such reason that Calderon once uttered a sceptical but remarkable opinion in regard to Courage, nay, actually denied its reality; and put his denial into the mouth of a wise old minister, addressing his young sovereign. "Although," he observed, "natural fear is operative in all alike, a man may be brave in not letting it be seen; and it is this that constitutes Courage": _Que aunque el natural temor En todos obra igualmente, No mostrarle es ser valiente Y esto es lo que hace el valor_. In regard to the difference which I have mentioned between the ancients and the moderns in their estimate of Courage as a virtue, it must be remembered that by Virtue, _virtus_, , the ancients understood every excellence or quality that was praiseworthy in itself, it might be moral or intellectual, or possibly only physical. But when Christianity demonstrated that the fundamental tendency of life was moral, it was moral superiority alone than henceforth attached to the notion of Virtue. Meanwhile the earlier usage still survived in the elder Latinists, and also in Italian writers, as is proved by the well-known meaning of the word _virtuoso_. The special attention of students should be drawn to this wider range of the idea of Virtue amongst the ancients, as otherwise it might easily be a source of secret perplexity. I may recommend two passages preserved for us by Stobaeus, which will serve this purpose. One of them is apparently from the Pythagorean philosopher Metopos, in which the fitness of every bodily member is declared to be a virtue. The other pronounces that the virtue of a shoemaker is to make good shoes. This may also serve to explain why it is that in the ancient scheme of ethics virtues and vices are mentioned which find no place in ours. As the place of Courage amongst the virtues is a matter of doubt, so is that of Avarice amongst the vices. It must not, however, be confounded with greed, which is the most immediate meaning of the Latin word _avaritia_. Let us then draw up and examine the arguments _pro et contra_ in regard to Avarice, and leave the final judgment to be formed by every man for himself. On the one hand it is argued that it is not Avarice which is a vice, but extravagance, its opposite. Extravagance springs from a brutish limitation to the present moment, in comparison with which the future, existing as it does only in thought, is as nothing. It rests upon the illusion that sensual pleasures possess a positive or real value. Accordingly, future need and misery is the price at which the spendthrift purchases pleasures that are empty, fleeting, and often no more than imaginary; or else feeds his vain, stupid self-conceit on the bows and scrapes of parasites who laugh at him in secret, or on the gaze of the mob and those who envy his magnificence. We should, therefore, shun the spendthrift as though he had the plague, and on discovering his vice break with him betimes, in order that later on, when the consequences of his extravagance ensue, we may neither have to help to bear them, nor, on the other hand, have to play the part of the friends of Timon of Athens. At the same time it is not to be expected that he who foolishly squanders his own fortune will leave another man's intact, if it should chance to be committed to his keeping; nay, _sui profusus_ and _alieni appetens_ are by Sallust very rightly conjoined. Hence it is that extravagance leads not only to impoverishment but also to crime; and crime amongst the moneyed classes is almost always the result of extravagance. It is accordingly with justice that the _Koran_ declares all spendthrifts to be "brothers of Satan." But it is superfluity that Avarice brings in its train, and when was superfluity ever unwelcome? That must be a good vice which has good consequences. Avarice proceeds upon the principle that all pleasure is only negative in its operation and that the happiness which consists of a series of pleasures is a chimaera; that, on the contrary, it is pains which are positive and extremely real. Accordingly, the avaricious man foregoes the former in order that he may be the better preserved from the latter, and thus it is that _bear and forbear_--_sustine et abstine_--is his maxim. And because he knows, further, how inexhaustible are the possibilities of misfortune, and how innumerable the paths of danger, he increases the means of avoiding them, in order, if possible, to surround himself with a triple wall of protection. Who, then, can say where precaution against disaster begins to be exaggerated? He alone who knows where the malignity of fate reaches its limit. And even if precaution were exaggerated it is an error which at the most would hurt the man who took it, and not others. If he will never need the treasures which he lays up for himself, they will one day benefit others whom nature has made less careful. That until then he withdraws the money from circulation is no misfortune; for money is not an article of consumption: it only represents the good things which a man may actually possess, and is not one itself. Coins are only counters; their value is what they represent; and what they represent cannot be withdrawn from circulation. Moreover, by holding back the money, the value of the remainder which is in circulation is enhanced by precisely the same amount. Even though it be the case, as is said, that many a miser comes in the end to love money itself for its own sake, it is equally certain that many a spendthrift, on the other hand, loves spending and squandering for no better reason. Friendship with a miser is not only without danger, but it is profitable, because of the great advantages it can bring. For it is doubtless those who are nearest and dearest to the miser who on his death will reap the fruits of the self-control which he exercised; but even in his lifetime, too, something may be expected of him in cases of great need. At any rate one can always hope for more from him than from the spendthrift, who has lost his all and is himself helpless and in debt. _Mas da el duro que el desnudo_, says a Spanish proverb; the man who has a hard heart will give more than the man who has an empty purse. The upshot of all this is that Avarice is not a vice. On the other side, it may be said that Avarice is the quintessence of all vices. When physical pleasures seduce a man from the right path, it is his sensual nature--the animal part of him--which is at fault. He is carried away by its attractions, and, overcome by the impression of the moment, he acts without thinking of the consequences. When, on the other hand, he is brought by age or bodily weakness to the condition in which the vices that he could never abandon end by abandoning him, and his capacity for physical pleasure dies--if he turns to Avarice, the intellectual desire survives the sensual. Money, which represents all the good things of this world, and is these good things in the abstract, now becomes the dry trunk overgrown with all the dead lusts of the flesh, which are egoism in the abstract. They come to life again in the love of the Mammon. The transient pleasure of the senses has become a deliberate and calculated lust of money, which, like that to which it is directed, is symbolical in its nature, and, like it, indestructible. This obstinate love of the pleasures of the world--a love which, as it were, outlives itself; this utterly incorrigible sin, this refined and sublimated desire of the flesh, is the abstract form in which all lusts are concentrated, and to which it stands like a general idea to individual particulars. Accordingly, Avarice is the vice of age, just as extravagance is the vice of youth. This _disputatio in utramque partem_--this debate for and against--is certainly calculated to drive us into accepting the _juste milieu_ morality of Aristotle; a conclusion that is also supported by the following consideration. Every human perfection is allied to a defect into which it threatens to pass; but it is also true that every defect is allied to a perfection. Hence it is that if, as often happens, we make a mistake about a man, it is because at the beginning of our acquaintance with him we confound his defects with the kinds of perfection to which they are allied. The cautious man seems to us a coward; the economical man, a miser; the spendthrift seems liberal; the rude fellow, downright and sincere; the foolhardy person looks as if he were going to work with a noble self-confidence; and so on in many other cases. * * * * * No one can live among men without feeling drawn again and again to the tempting supposition that moral baseness and intellectual incapacity are closely connected, as though they both sprang direct from one source. That that, however, is not so, I have shown in detail. That it seems to be so is merely due to the fact that both are so often found together; and the circumstance is to be explained by the very frequent occurrence of each of them, so that it may easily happen for both to be compelled to live under one roof. At the same time it is not to be denied that they play into each other's hands to their mutual benefit; and it is this that produces the very unedifying spectacle which only too many men exhibit, and that makes the world to go as it goes. A man who is unintelligent is very likely to show his perfidy, villainy and malice; whereas a clever man understands how to conceal these qualities. And how often, on the other hand, does a perversity of heart prevent a man from seeing truths which his intelligence is quite capable of grasping! Nevertheless, let no one boast. Just as every man, though he be the greatest genius, has very definite limitations in some one sphere of knowledge, and thus attests his common origin with the essentially perverse and stupid mass of mankind, so also has every man something in his nature which is positively evil. Even the best, nay the noblest, character will sometimes surprise us by isolated traits of depravity; as though it were to acknowledge his kinship with the human race, in which villainy--nay, cruelty--is to be found in that degree. For it was just in virtue of this evil in him, this bad principle, that of necessity he became a man. And for the same reason the world in general is what my clear mirror of it has shown it to be. But in spite of all this the difference even between one man and another is incalculably great, and many a one would be horrified to see another as he really is. Oh, for some Asmodeus of morality, to make not only roofs and walls transparent to his favourites, but also to lift the veil of dissimulation, fraud, hypocrisy, pretence, falsehood and deception, which is spread over all things! to show how little true honesty there is in the world, and how often, even where it is least to be expected, behind all the exterior outwork of virtue, secretly and in the innermost recesses, unrighteousness sits at the helm! It is just on this account that so many men of the better kind have four-footed friends: for, to be sure, how is a man to get relief from the endless dissimulation, falsity and malice of mankind, if there were no dogs into whose honest faces he can look without distrust? For what is our civilised world but a big masquerade? where you meet knights, priests, soldiers, men of learning, barristers, clergymen, philosophers, and I don't know what all! But they are not what they pretend to be; they are only masks, and, as a rule, behind the masks you will find moneymakers. One man, I suppose, puts on the mask of law, which he has borrowed for the purpose from a barrister, only in order to be able to give another man a sound drubbing; a second has chosen the mask of patriotism and the public welfare with a similar intent; a third takes religion or purity of doctrine. For all sorts of purposes men have often put on the mask of philosophy, and even of philanthropy, and I know not what besides. Women have a smaller choice. As a rule they avail themselves of the mask of morality, modesty, domesticity, and humility. Then there are general masks, without any particular character attaching to them like dominoes. They may be met with everywhere; and of this sort is the strict rectitude, the courtesy, the sincere sympathy, the smiling friendship, that people profess. The whole of these masks as a rule are merely, as I have said, a disguise for some industry, commerce, or speculation. It is merchants alone who in this respect constitute any honest class. They are the only people who give themselves out to be what they are; and therefore they go about without any mask at all, and consequently take a humble rank. It is very necessary that a man should be apprised early in life that it is a masquerade in which he finds himself. For otherwise there are many things which he will fail to understand and put up with, nay, at which he will be completely puzzled, and that man longest of all whose heart is made of better clay-- _Et meliore luto finxit praecordia Titan._ Such for instance is the favour that villainy finds; the neglect that merit, even the rarest and the greatest, suffers at the hands of those of the same profession; the hatred of truth and great capacity; the ignorance of scholars in their own province; and the fact that true wares are almost always despised and the merely specious ones in request. Therefore let even the young be instructed betimes that in this masquerade the apples are of wax, the flowers of silk, the fish of pasteboard, and that all things--yes, all things--are toys and trifles; and that of two men whom he may see earnestly engaged in business, one is supplying spurious goods and the other paying for them in false coin. But there are more serious reflections to be made, and worse things to be recorded. Man is at bottom a savage, horrible beast. We know it, if only in the business of taming and restraining him which we call civilisation. Hence it is that we are terrified if now and then his nature breaks out. Wherever and whenever the locks and chains of law and order fall off and give place to anarchy, he shows himself for what he is. But it is unnecessary to wait for anarchy in order to gain enlightenment on this subject. A hundred records, old and new, produce the conviction that in his unrelenting cruelty man is in no way inferior to the tiger and the hyaena. A forcible example is supplied by a publication of the year 1841 entitled _Slavery and the Internal Slave Trade in the United States of North America: being replies to questions transmitted by the British Anti-slavery Society to the American Anti-slavery Society_. This book constitutes one of the heaviest indictments against the human race. No one can put it down with a feeling of horror, and few without tears. For whatever the reader may have ever heard, or imagined, or dreamt, of the unhappy condition of slavery, or indeed of human cruelty in general, it will seem small to him when he reads of the way in which those devils in human form, those bigoted, church-going, strictly Sabbatarian rascals--and in particular the Anglican priests among them--treated their innocent black brothers, who by wrong and violence had got into their diabolical clutches. [Footnote 1: _Translator's 'Note_.--If Schopenhauer were writing to-day, he would with equal truth point to the miseries of the African trade. I have slightly abridged this passage, as some of the evils against which he protested no longer exist.] Other examples are furnished by Tshudi's _Travels in Peru_, in the description which he gives of the treatment of the Peruvian soldiers at the hands of their officers; and by Macleod's _Travels in Eastern Africa_, where the author tells of the cold-blooded and truly devilish cruelty with which the Portuguese in Mozambique treat their slaves. But we need not go for examples to the New World, that obverse side of our planet. In the year 1848 it was brought to life that in England, not in one, but apparently in a hundred cases within a brief period, a husband had poisoned his wife or _vice versa_, or both had joined in poisoning their children, or in torturing them slowly to death by starving and ill-treating them, with no other object than to get the money for burying them which they had insured in the Burial Clubs against their death. For this purpose a child was often insured in several, even in as many as twenty clubs at once. [Footnote 1: Cf. _The Times_, 20th, 22nd and 23rd Sept., 1848, and also 12th Dec., 1853.] Details of this character belong, indeed, to the blackest pages in the criminal records of humanity. But, when all is said, it is the inward and innate character of man, this god _par excellence_ of the Pantheists, from which they and everything like them proceed. In every man there dwells, first and foremost, a colossal egoism, which breaks the bounds of right and justice with the greatest freedom, as everyday life shows on a small scale, and as history on every page of it on a large. Does not the recognised need of a balance of power in Europe, with the anxious way in which it is preserved, demonstrate that man is a beast of prey, who no sooner sees a weaker man near him than he falls upon him without fail? and does not the same hold good of the affairs of ordinary life? But to the boundless egoism of our nature there is joined more or less in every human breast a fund of hatred, anger, envy, rancour and malice, accumulated like the venom in a serpent's tooth, and waiting only for an opportunity of venting itself, and then, like a demon unchained, of storming and raging. If a man has no great occasion for breaking out, he will end by taking advantage of the smallest, and by working it up into something great by the aid of his imagination; for, however small it may be, it is enough to rouse his anger-- _Quantulacunque adeo est occasio, sufficit irae_-- and then he will carry it as far as he can and may. We see this in daily life, where such outbursts are well known under the name of "venting one's gall on something." It will also have been observed that if such outbursts meet with no opposition the subject of them feels decidedly the better for them afterwards. That anger is not without its pleasure is a truth that was recorded even by Aristotle; and he quotes a passage from Homer, who declares anger to be sweeter than honey. But not in anger alone--in hatred too, which stands to anger like a chronic to an acute disease, a man may indulge with the greatest delight: _Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure, Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure_ Gobineau in his work _Les Races Humaines_ has called man _l'animal mechant par excellence_. People take this very ill, because they feel that it hits them; but he is quite right, for man is the only animal which causes pain to others without any further purpose than just to cause it. Other animals never do it except to satisfy their hunger, or in the rage of combat. If it is said against the tiger that he kills more than eats, he strangles his prey only for the purpose of eating it; and if he cannot eat it, the only explanation is, as the French phrase has it, that _ses yeux sont plus grands que son estomac_. No animal ever torments another for the mere purpose of tormenting, but man does it, and it is this that constitutes the diabolical feature in his character which is so much worse than the merely animal. I have already spoken of the matter in its broad aspect; but it is manifest even in small things, and every reader has a daily opportunity of observing it. For instance, if two little dogs are playing together--and what a genial and charming sight it is--and a child of three or four years joins them, it is almost inevitable for it to begin hitting them with a whip or stick, and thereby show itself, even at that age, _l'animal mechant par excellence_. The love of teasing and playing tricks, which is common enough, may be traced to the same source. For instance, if a man has expressed his annoyance at any interruption or other petty inconvenience, there will be no lack of people who for that very reason will bring it about: _animal mechant par excellence_! This is so certain that a man should be careful not to express any annoyance at small evils. On the other hand he should also be careful not to express his pleasure at any trifle, for, if he does so, men will act like the jailer who, when he found that his prisoner had performed the laborious task of taming a spider, and took a pleasure in watching it, immediately crushed it under his foot: _l'animal mechant par excellence_! This is why all animals are instinctively afraid of the sight, or even of the track of a man, that _animal mechant par excellence_! nor does their instinct them false; for it is man alone who hunts game for which he has no use and which does him no harm. It is a fact, then, that in the heart of every man there lies a wild beast which only waits for an opportunity to storm and rage, in its desire to inflict pain on others, or, if they stand in his way, to kill them. It is this which is the source of all the lust of war and battle. In trying to tame and to some extent hold it in check, the intelligence, its appointed keeper, has always enough to do. People may, if they please, call it the radical evil of human nature--a name which will at least serve those with whom a word stands for an explanation. I say, however, that it is the will to live, which, more and more embittered by the constant sufferings of existence, seeks to alleviate its own torment by causing torment in others. But in this way a man gradually develops in himself real cruelty and malice. The observation may also be added that as, according to Kant, matter subsists only through the antagonism of the powers of expansion and contraction, so human society subsists only by the antagonism of hatred, or anger, and fear. For there is a moment in the life of all of us when the malignity of our nature might perhaps make us murderers, if it were not accompanied by a due admixture of fear to keep it within bounds; and this fear, again, would make a man the sport and laughing stock of every boy, if anger were not lying ready in him, and keeping watch. But it is _Schadenfreude_, a mischievous delight in the misfortunes of others, which remains the worst trait in human nature. It is a feeling which is closely akin to cruelty, and differs from it, to say the truth, only as theory from practice. In general, it may be said of it that it takes the place which pity ought to take--pity which is its opposite, and the true source of all real justice and charity. _Envy_ is also opposed to pity, but in another sense; envy, that is to say, is produced by a cause directly antagonistic to that which produces the delight in mischief. The opposition between pity and envy on the one hand, and pity and the delight in mischief on the other, rests, in the main, on the occasions which call them forth. In the case of envy it is only as a direct effect of the cause which excites it that we feel it at all. That is just the reason why envy, although it is a reprehensible feeling, still admits of some excuse, and is, in general, a very human quality; whereas the delight in mischief is diabolical, and its taunts are the laughter of hell. The delight in mischief, as I have said, takes the place which pity ought to take. Envy, on the contrary, finds a place only where there is no inducement to pity, or rather an inducement to its opposite; and it is just as this opposite that envy arises in the human breast; and so far, therefore, it may still be reckoned a human sentiment. Nay, I am afraid that no one will be found to be entirely free from it. For that a man should feel his own lack of things more bitterly at the sight of another's delight in the enjoyment of them, is natural; nay, it is inevitable; but this should not rouse his hatred of the man who is happier than himself. It is just this hatred, however, in which true envy consists. Least of all should a man be envious, when it is a question, not of the gifts of fortune, or chance, or another's favour, but of the gifts of nature; because everything that is innate in a man rests on a metaphysical basis, and possesses justification of a higher kind; it is, so to speak, given him by Divine grace. But, unhappily, it is just in the case of personal advantages that envy is most irreconcilable. Thus it is that intelligence, or even genius, cannot get on in the world without begging pardon for its existence, wherever it is not in a position to be able, proudly and boldly, to despise the world. In other words, if envy is aroused only by wealth, rank, or power, it is often kept down by egoism, which perceives that, on occasion, assistance, enjoyment, support, protection, advancement, and so on, may be hoped for from the object of envy or that at least by intercourse with him a man may himself win honour from the reflected light of his superiority; and here, too, there is the hope of one day attaining all those advantages himself. On the other hand, in the envy that is directed to natural gifts and personal advantages, like beauty in women, or intelligence in men, there is no consolation or hope of one kind or the other; so that nothing remains but to indulge a bitter and irreconcilable hatred of the person who possesses these privileges; and hence the only remaining desire is to take vengeance on him. But here the envious man finds himself in an unfortunate position; for all his blows fall powerless as soon as it is known that they come from him. Accordingly he hides his feelings as carefully as if they were secret sins, and so becomes an inexhaustible inventor of tricks and artifices and devices for concealing and masking his procedure, in order that, unperceived, he may wound the object of his envy. For instance, with an air of the utmost unconcern he will ignore the advantages which are eating his heart out; he will neither see them, nor know them, nor have observed or even heard of them, and thus make himself a master in the art of dissimulation. With great cunning he will completely overlook the man whose brilliant qualities are gnawing at his heart, and act as though he were quite an unimportant person; he will take no notice of him, and, on occasion, will have even quite forgotten his existence. But at the same time he will before all things endeavour by secret machination carefully to deprive those advantages of any opportunity of showing themselves and becoming known. Then out of his dark corner he will attack these qualities with censure, mockery, ridicule and calumny, like the toad which spurts its poison from a hole. No less will he enthusiastically praise unimportant people, or even indifferent or bad performances in the same sphere. In short, he will becomes a Proteas in stratagem, in order to wound others without showing himself. But what is the use of it? The trained eye recognises him in spite of it all. He betrays himself, if by nothing else, by the way in which he timidly avoids and flies from the object of his envy, who stands the more completely alone, the more brilliant he is; and this is the reason why pretty girls have no friends of their own sex. He betrays himself, too, by the causeless hatred which he shows--a hatred which finds vent in a violent explosion at any circumstance however trivial, though it is often only the product of his imagination. How many such men there are in the world may be recognised by the universal praise of modesty, that is, of a virtue invented on behalf of dull and commonplace people. Nevertheless, it is a virtue which, by exhibiting the necessity for dealing considerately with the wretched plight of these people, is just what calls attention to it. For our self-consciousness and our pride there can be nothing more flattering than the sight of envy lurking in its retreat and plotting its schemes; but never let a man forget that where there is envy there is hatred, and let him be careful not to make a false friend out of any envious person. Therefore it is important to our safety to lay envy bare; and a man should study to discover its tricks, as it is everywhere to be found and always goes about _incognito_; or as I have said, like a venomous toad it lurks in dark corners. It deserves neither quarter nor sympathy; but as we can never reconcile it let our rule of conduct be to scorn it with a good heart, and as our happiness and glory is torture to it we may rejoice in its sufferings: _Den Neid wirst nimmer du versoehnen; So magst du ihn getrost verhoehnen. Dein Glueck, dein Ruhm ist ihm ein Leiden: Magst drum an seiner Quaal dich weiden_. We have been taking a look at the _depravity_ of man, and it is a sight which may well fill us with horror. But now we must cast our eyes on the _misery_ of his existence; and when we have done so, and are horrified by that too, we must look back again at his depravity. We shall then find that they hold the balance to each other. We shall perceive the eternal justice of things; for we shall recognise that the world is itself the Last Judgment on it, and we shall begin to understand why it is that everything that lives must pay the penalty of its existence, first in living and then in dying. Thus the evil of the penalty accords with the evil of the sin--_malum poenae_ with _malum culpae_. From the same point of view we lose our indignation at that intellectual incapacity of the great majority of mankind which in life so often disgusts us. In this _Sansara_, as the Buddhists call it, human misery, human depravity and human folly correspond with one another perfectly, and they are of like magnitude. But if, on some special inducement, we direct our gaze to one of them, and survey it in particular, it seems to exceed the other two. This, however, is an illusion, and merely the effect of their colossal range. All things proclaim this _Sansara_; more than all else, the world of mankind; in which, from a moral point of view, villainy and baseness, and from an intellectual point of view, incapacity and stupidity, prevail to a horrifying extent. Nevertheless, there appear in it, although very spasmodically, and always as a fresh surprise, manifestations of honesty, of goodness, nay, even of nobility; and also of great intelligence, of the thinking mind of genius. They never quite vanish, but like single points of light gleam upon us out of the great dark mass. We must accept them as a pledge that this _Sansara_ contains a good and redeeming principle, which is capable of breaking through and of filling and freeing the whole of it. * * * * * The readers of my _Ethics_ know that with me the ultimate foundation of morality is the truth which in the _Vedas_ and the _Vedanta_ receives its expression in the established, mystical formula, _Tat twam asi (This is thyself_), which is spoken with reference to every living thing, be it man or beast, and is called the _Mahavakya_, the great word. Actions which proceed in accordance with this principle, such as those of the philanthropist, may indeed be regarded as the beginning of mysticism. Every benefit rendered with a pure intention proclaims that the man who exercises it acts in direct conflict with the world of appearance; for he recognises himself as identical with another individual, who exists in complete separation from him. Accordingly, all disinterested kindness is inexplicable; it is a mystery; and hence in order to explain it a man has to resort to all sorts of fictions. When Kant had demolished all other arguments for theism, he admitted one only, that it gave the best interpretation and solution of such mysterious actions, and of all others like them. He therefore allowed it to stand as a presumption unsusceptible indeed of theoretical proof, but valid from a practical point of view. I may, however, express my doubts whether he was quite serious about it. For to make morality rest on theism is really to reduce morality to egoism; although the English, it is true, as also the lowest classes of society with us, do not perceive the possibility of any other foundation for it. The above-mentioned recognition of a man's own true being in another individual objectively presented to him, is exhibited in a particularly beautiful and clear way in the cases in which a man, already destined to death beyond any hope of rescue, gives himself up to the welfare of others with great solicitude and zeal, and tries to save them. Of this kind is the well-known story of a servant who was bitten in a courtyard at night by a mad dog. In the belief that she was beyond hope, she seized the dog and dragged it into a stable, which she then locked, so that no one else might be bitten. Then again there is the incident in Naples, which Tischbein has immortalised in one of his _aquarelles_. A son, fleeing from the lava which is rapidly streaming toward the sea, is carrying his aged father on his back. When there is only a narrow strip of land left between the devouring elements, the father bids the son put him down, so that the son may save himself by flight, as otherwise both will be lost. The son obeys, and as he goes casts a glance of farewell on his father. This is the moment depicted. The historical circumstance which Scott represents in his masterly way in _The Heart of Midlothian_, chap, ii., is of a precisely similar kind; where, of two delinquents condemned to death, the one who by his awkwardness caused the capture of the other happily sets him free in the chapel by overpowering the guard after the execution-sermon, without at the same time making any attempt on his own behalf. Nay, in the same category must also be placed the scene which is represented in a common engraving, which may perhaps be objectionable to western readers--I mean the one in which a soldier, kneeling to be shot, is trying by waving a cloth to frighten away his dog who wants to come to him. In all these cases we see an individual in the face of his own immediate and certain destruction no longer thinking of saving himself, so that he may direct the whole of his efforts to saving some one else. How could there be a clearer expression of the consciousness that what is being destroyed is only a phenomenon, and that the destruction itself is only a phenomenon; that, on the other hand, the real being of the man who meets his death is untouched by that event, and lives on in the other man, in whom even now, as his action betrays, he so clearly perceives it to exist? For if this were not so, and it was his real being which was about to be annihilated, how could that being spend its last efforts in showing such an ardent sympathy in the welfare and continued existence of another? There are two different ways in which a man may become conscious of his own existence. On the one hand, he may have an empirical perception of it, as it manifests itself externally--something so small that it approaches vanishing point; set in a world which, as regards time and space, is infinite; one only of the thousand millions of human creatures who run about on this planet for a very brief period and are renewed every thirty years. On the other hand, by going down into the depths of his own nature, a man may become conscious that he is all in all; that, in fact, he is the only real being; and that, in addition, this real being perceives itself again in others, who present themselves from without, as though they formed a mirror of himself. Of these two ways in which a man may come to know what he is, the first grasps the phenomenon alone, the mere product of _the principle of individuation_; whereas the second makes a man immediately conscious that he is _the thing-in-itself_. This is a doctrine in which, as regards the first way, I have Kant, and as regards both, I have the _Vedas_, to support me. There is, it is true, a simple objection to the second method. It may be said to assume that one and the same being can exist in different places at the same time, and yet be complete in each of them. Although, from an empirical point of view, this is the most palpable impossibility--nay, absurdity--it is nevertheless perfectly true of the thing-in-itself. The impossibility and the absurdity of it, empirically, are only due to the forms which phenomena assume, in accordance with the principle of individuation. For the thing-in-itself, the will to live, exists whole and undivided in every being, even in the smallest, as completely as in the sum-total of all things that ever were or are or will be. This is why every being, even the smallest, says to itself, So long as I am safe, let the world perish--_dum ego salvus sim, pereat mundus_. And, in truth, even if only one individual were left in the world, and all the rest were to perish, the one that remained would still possess the whole self-being of the world, uninjured and undiminished, and would laugh at the destruction of the world as an illusion. This conclusion _per impossible_ may be balanced by the counter-conclusion, which is on all fours with it, that if that last individual were to be annihilated in and with him the whole world would be destroyed. It was in this sense that the mystic Angelas Silesius declared that God could not live for a moment without him, and that if he were to be annihilated God must of necessity give up the ghost: _Ich weiss dass ohne mich Gott nicht ein Nu kann leben; Werd' ich zunicht, er muss von Noth den Geist aufgeben_. [Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Angelus Silesius, see _Counsels and Maxims_, p. 39, note.] But the empirical point of view also to some extent enables us to perceive that it is true, or at least possible, that our self can exist in other beings whose consciousness is separated and different from our own. That this is so is shown by the experience of somnambulists. Although the identity of their ego is preserved throughout, they know nothing, when they awake, of all that a moment before they themselves said, did or suffered. So entirely is the individual consciousness a phenomenon that even in the same ego two consciousnesses can arise of which the one knows nothing of the other. GOVERNMENT. It is a characteristic failing of the Germans to look in the clouds for what lies at their feet. An excellent example of this is furnished by the treatment which the idea of _Natural Right_ has received at the hands of professors of philosophy. When they are called upon to explain those simple relations of human life which make up the substance of this right, such as Right and Wrong, Property, State, Punishment and so on, they have recourse to the most extravagant, abstract, remote and meaningless conceptions, and out of them build a Tower of Babel reaching to the clouds, and taking this or that form according to the special whim of the professor for the time being. The clearest and simplest relations of life, such as affect us directly, are thus made quite unintelligible, to the great detriment of the young people who are educated in such a school. These relations themselves are perfectly simple and easily understood--as the reader may convince himself if he will turn to the account which I have given of them in the _Foundation of Morality_, Sec. 17, and in my chief work, bk. i., Sec. 62. But at the sound of certain words, like Right, Freedom, the Good, Being--this nugatory infinitive of the cupola--and many others of the same sort, the German's head begins to swim, and falling straightway into a kind of delirium he launches forth into high-flown phrases which have no meaning whatever. He takes the most remote and empty conceptions, and strings them together artificially, instead of fixing his eyes on the facts, and looking at things and relations as they really are. It is these things and relations which supply the ideas of Right and Freedom, and give them the only true meaning that they possess. The man who starts from the preconceived opinion that the conception of Right must be a positive one, and then attempts to define it, will fail; for he is trying to grasp a shadow, to pursue a spectre, to search for what does not exist. The conception of Right is a negative one, like the conception of Freedom; its content is mere negation. It is the conception of Wrong which is positive; Wrong has the same significance as _injury_--_laesio_--in the widest sense of the term. An injury may be done either to a man's person or to his property or to his honour; and accordingly a man's rights are easy to define: every one has a right to do anything that injures no one else. To have a right to do or claim a thing means nothing more than to be able to do or take or vise it without thereby injuring any one else. _Simplex sigillum veri_. This definition shows how senseless many questions are; for instance, the question whether we have the right to take our own life, As far as concerns the personal claims which others may possibly have upon us, they are subject to the condition that we are alive, and fall to the ground when we die. To demand of a man, who does not care to live any longer for himself, that he should live on as a mere machine for the advantage of others is an extravagant pretension. Although men's powers differ, their rights are alike. Their rights do not rest upon their powers, because Right is of a moral complexion; they rest on the fact that the same will to live shows itself in every man at the same stage of its manifestation. This, however, only applies to that original and abstract Right, which a man possesses as a man. The property, and also the honour, which a man acquires for himself by the exercise of his powers, depend on the measure and kind of power which he possesses, and so lend his Right a wider sphere of application. Here, then, equality comes to an end. The man who is better equipped, or more active, increases by adding to his gains, not his Right, but the number of the things to which it extends. In my chief work I have proved that the State in its essence is merely an institution existing for the purpose of protecting its members against outward attack or inward dissension. It follows from this that the ultimate ground on which the State is necessary is the acknowledged lack of Right in the human race. If Right were there, no one would think of a State; for no one would have any fear that his rights would be impaired; and a mere union against the attacks of wild beasts or the elements would have very little analogy with what we mean by a State. From this point of view it is easy to see how dull and stupid are the philosophasters who in pompous phrases represent that the State is the supreme end and flower of human existence. Such a view is the apotheosis of Philistinism. If it were Right that ruled in the world, a man would have done enough in building his house, and would need no other protection than the right of possessing it, which would be obvious. But since Wrong is the order of the day, it is requisite that the man who has built his house should also be able to protect it. Otherwise his Right is _de facto_ incomplete; the aggressor, that is to say, has the right of might--_Faustrecht_; and this is just the conception of Right which Spinoza entertains. He recognises no other. His words are: _unusquisque tantum juris habet quantum potentia valet_; each man has as much right as he has power. And again: _uniuscujusque jus potentia ejus definitur_; each man's right is determined by his power. Hobbes seems to have started this conception of Right, and he adds the strange comment that the Right of the good Lord to all things rests on nothing but His omnipotence. Now this is a conception of Right which, both in theory and in practice, no longer prevails in the civic world; but in the world in general, though abolished in theory, it continues to apply in practice. The consequences of neglecting it may be seen in the case of China. Threatened by rebellion within and foes without, this great empire is in a defenceless state, and has to pay the penalty of having cultivated only the arts of peace and ignored the arts of war. There is a certain analogy between the operations of nature and those of man which is a peculiar but not fortuitous character, and is based on the identity of the will in both. When the herbivorous animals had taken their place in the organic world, beasts of prey made their appearance--necessarily a late appearance--in each species, and proceeded to live upon them. Just in the same way, as soon as by honest toil and in the sweat of their faces men have won from the ground what is needed for the support of their societies, a number of individuals are sure to arise in some of these societies, who, instead of cultivating the earth and living on its produce, prefer to take their lives in their hands and risk health and freedom by falling upon those who are in possession of what they have honestly earned, and by appropriating the fruits of their labour. These are the beasts of prey in the human race; they are the conquering peoples whom we find everywhere in history, from the most ancient to the most recent times. Their varying fortunes, as at one moment they succeed and at another fail, make up the general elements of the history of the world. Hence Voltaire was perfectly right when he said that the aim of all war is robbery. That those who engage in it are ashamed of their doings is clear by the fact that governments loudly protest their reluctance to appeal to arms except for purposes of self-defence. Instead of trying to excuse themselves by telling public and official lies, which are almost more revolting than war itself, they should take their stand, as bold as brass, on Macchiavelli's doctrine. The gist of it may be stated to be this: that whereas between one individual and another, and so far as concerns the law and morality of their relations, the principle, _Don't do to others what you wouldn't like done to yourself_, certainly applies, it is the converse of this principle which is appropriate in the case of nations and in politics: _What you wouldn't like done to yourself do to others_. If you do not want to be put under a foreign yoke, take time by the forelock, and put your neighbour under it himself; whenever, that is to say, his weakness offers you the opportunity. For if you let the opportunity pass, it will desert one day to the enemy's camp and offer itself there. Then your enemy will put you under his yoke; and your failure to grasp the opportunity may be paid for, not by the generation which was guilty of it, but by the next. This Macchiavellian principle is always a much more decent cloak for the lust of robbery than the rags of very obvious lies in a speech from the head of the State; lies, too, of a description which recalls the well-known story of the rabbit attacking the dog. Every State looks upon its neighbours as at bottom a horde of robbers, who will fall upon it as soon as they have the opportunity. * * * * * Between the serf, the farmer, the tenant, and the mortgagee, the difference is rather one of form than of substance. Whether the peasant belongs to me, or the land on which he has to get a living; whether the bird is mine, or its food, the tree or its fruit, is a matter of little moment; for, as Shakespeare makes Shylock say: _You take my life When you do take the means whereby I live_. The free peasant has, indeed, the advantage that he can go off and seek his fortune in the wide world; whereas the serf who is attached to the soil, _glebae adscriptus_, has an advantage which is perhaps still greater, that when failure of crops or illness, old age or incapacity, render him helpless, his master must look after him, and so he sleeps well at night; whereas, if the crops fail, his master tosses about on his bed trying to think how he is to procure bread for his men. As long ago as Menander it was said that it is better to be the slave of a good master than to live miserably as a freeman. Another advantage possessed by the free is that if they have any talents they can improve their position; but the same advantage is not wholly withheld from the slave. If he proves himself useful to his master by the exercise of any skill, he is treated accordingly; just as in ancient Rome mechanics, foremen of workshops, architects, nay, even doctors, were generally slaves. Slavery and poverty, then, are only two forms, I might almost say only two names, of the same thing, the essence of which is that a man's physical powers are employed, in the main, not for himself but for others; and this leads partly to his being over-loaded with work, and partly to his getting a scanty satisfaction for his needs. For Nature has given a man only as much physical power as will suffice, if he exerts it in moderation, to gain a sustenance from the earth. No great superfluity of power is his. If, then, a not inconsiderable number of men are relieved from the common burden of sustaining the existence of the human race, the burden of the remainder is augmented, and they suffer. This is the chief source of the evil which under the name of slavery, or under the name of the proletariat, has always oppressed the great majority of the human race. But the more remote cause of it is luxury. In order, it may be said, that some few persons may have what is unnecessary, superfluous, and the product of refinement--nay, in order that they may satisfy artificial needs--a great part of the existing powers of mankind has to be devoted to this object, and therefore withdrawn from the production of what is necessary and indispensable. Instead of building cottages for themselves, thousands of men build mansions for a few. Instead of weaving coarse materials for themselves and their families, they make fine cloths, silk, or even lace, for the rich, and in general manufacture a thousand objects of luxury for their pleasure. A great part of the urban population consists of workmen who make these articles of luxury; and for them and those who give them work the peasants have to plough and sow and look after the flocks as well as for themselves, and thus have more labour than Nature originally imposed upon them. Moreover, the urban population devotes a great deal of physical strength, and a great deal of land, to such things as wine, silk, tobacco, hops, asparagus and so on, instead of to corn, potatoes and cattle-breeding. Further, a number of men are withdrawn from agriculture and employed in ship-building and seafaring, in order that sugar, coffee, tea and other goods may be imported. In short, a large part of the powers of the human race is taken away from the production of what is necessary, in order to bring what is superfluous and unnecessary within the reach of a few. As long therefore as luxury exists, there must be a corresponding amount of over-work and misery, whether it takes the name of poverty or of slavery. The fundamental difference between the two is that slavery originates in violence, and poverty in craft. The whole unnatural condition of society--the universal struggle to escape from misery, the sea-trade attended with so much loss of life, the complicated interests of commerce, and finally the wars to which it all gives rise--is due, only and alone, to luxury, which gives no happiness even to those who enjoy it, nay, makes them ill and bad-tempered. Accordingly it looks as if the most effective way of alleviating human misery would be to diminish luxury, or even abolish it altogether. There is unquestionably much truth in this train of thought. But the conclusion at which it arrives is refuted by an argument possessing this advantage over it--that it is confirmed by the testimony of experience. A certain amount of work is devoted to purposes of luxury. What the human race loses in this way in the _muscular power_ which would otherwise be available for the necessities of existence is gradually made up to it a thousandfold by the _nervous power_, which, in a chemical sense, is thereby released. And since the intelligence and sensibility which are thus promoted are on a higher level than the muscular irritability which they supplant, so the achievements of mind exceed those of the body a thousandfold. One wise counsel is worth the work of many hands: A nation of nothing but peasants would do little in the way of discovery and invention; but idle hands make active heads. Science and the Arts are themselves the children of luxury, and they discharge their debt to it. The work which they do is to perfect technology in all its branches, mechanical, chemical and physical; an art which in our days has brought machinery to a pitch never dreamt of before, and in particular has, by steam and electricity, accomplished things the like of which would, in earlier ages, have been ascribed to the agency of the devil. In manufactures of all kinds, and to some extent in agriculture, machines now do a thousand times more than could ever have been done by the hands of all the well-to-do, educated, and professional classes, and could ever have been attained if all luxury had been abolished and every one had returned to the life of a peasant. It is by no means the rich alone, but all classes, who derive benefit from these industries. Things which in former days hardly any one could afford are now cheap and abundant, and even the lowest classes are much better off in point of comfort. In the Middle Ages a King of England once borrowed a pair of silk stockings from one of his lords, so that he might wear them in giving an audience to the French ambassador. Even Queen Elizabeth was greatly pleased and astonished to receive a pair as a New Year's present; to-day every shopman has them. Fifty years ago ladies wore the kind of calico gowns which servants wear now. If mechanical science continues to progress at the same rate for any length of time, it may end by saving human labour almost entirely, just as horses are even now being largely superseded by machines. For it is possible to conceive that intellectual culture might in some degree become general in the human race; and this would be impossible as long as bodily labour was incumbent on any great part of it. Muscular irritability and nervous sensibility are always and everywhere, both generally and particularly, in antagonism; for the simple reason that it is one and the same vital power which underlies both. Further, since the arts have a softening effect on character, it is possible that quarrels great and small, wars and duels, will vanish from the world; just as both have become much rarer occurrences. However, it is not my object here to write a _Utopia_. But apart from all this the arguments used above in favour of the abolition of luxury and the uniform distribution of all bodily labour are open to the objection that the great mass of mankind, always and everywhere, cannot do without leaders, guides and counsellors, in one shape or another, according to the matter in question; judges, governors, generals, officials, priests, doctors, men of learning, philosophers, and so on, are all a necessity. Their common task is to lead the race for the greater part so incapable and perverse, through the labyrinth of life, of which each of them according to his position and capacity has obtained a general view, be his range wide or narrow. That these guides of the race should be permanently relieved of all bodily labour as well as of all vulgar need and discomfort; nay, that in proportion to their much greater achievements they should necessarily own and enjoy more than the common man, is natural and reasonable. Great merchants should also be included in the same privileged class, whenever they make far-sighted preparations for national needs. The question of the sovereignty of the people is at bottom the same as the question whether any man can have an original right to rule a people against its will. How that proposition can be reasonably maintained I do not see. The people, it must be admitted, is sovereign; but it is a sovereign who is always a minor. It must have permanent guardians, and it can never exercise its rights itself, without creating dangers of which no one can foresee the end; especially as like all minors, it is very apt to become the sport of designing sharpers, in the shape of what are called demagogues. Voltaire remarks that the first man to become a king was a successful soldier. It is certainly the case that all princes were originally victorious leaders of armies, and for a long time it was as such that they bore sway. On the rise of standing armies princes began to regard their people as a means of sustaining themselves and their soldiers, and treated them, accordingly, as though they were a herd of cattle, which had to be tended in order that it might provide wool, milk, and meat. The why and wherefore of all this, as I shall presently show in detail, is the fact that originally it was not right, but might, that ruled in the world. Might has the advantage of having been the first in the field. That is why it is impossible to do away with it and abolish it altogether; it must always have its place; and all that a man can wish or ask is that it should be found on the side of right and associated with it. Accordingly says the prince to his subjects: "I rule you in virtue of the power which I possess. But, on the other hand, it excludes that of any one else, and I shall suffer none but my own, whether it comes from without, or arises within by one of you trying to oppress another. In this way, then, you are protected." The arrangement was carried out; and just because it was carried out the old idea of kingship developed with time and progress into quite a different idea, and put the other one in the background, where it may still be seen, now and then, flitting about like a spectre. Its place has been taken by the idea of the king as father of his people, as the firm and unshakable pillar which alone supports and maintains the whole organisation of law and order, and consequently the rights of every man. But a king can accomplish this only by inborn prerogative which reserves authority to him and to him alone--an authority which is supreme, indubitable, and beyond all attack, nay, to which every one renders instinctive obedience. Hence the king is rightly said to rule "by the grace of God." He is always the most useful person in the State, and his services are never too dearly repaid by any Civil List, however heavy. [Footnote 1: We read in Stobaeus, _Florilegium_, ch. xliv., 41, of a Persian custom, by which, whenever a king died, there was a five days' anarchy, in order that people might perceive the advantage of having kings and laws.] But even as late a writer as Macchiavelli was so decidedly imbued with the earlier or mediaeval conception of the position of a prince that he treats it as a matter which is self-evident: he never discusses it, but tacitly takes it as the presupposition and basis of his advice. It may be said generally that his book is merely the theoretical statement and consistent and systematic exposition of the practice prevailing in his time. It is the novel statement of it in a complete theoretical form that lends it such a poignant interest. The same thing, I may remark in passing, applies to the immortal little work of La Rochefaucauld, who, however, takes private and not public life for his theme, and offers, not advice, but observations. The title of this fine little book is open, perhaps, to some objection: the contents are not, as a rule, either _maxims_ or _reflections_, but _apercus_; and that is what they should be called. There is much, too, in Macchiavelli that will be found also to apply to private life. Right in itself is powerless; in nature it is Might that rules. To enlist might on the side of right, so that by means of it right may rule, is the problem of statesmanship. And it is indeed a hard problem, as will be obvious if we remember that almost every human breast is the seat of an egoism which has no limits, and is usually associated with an accumulated store of hatred and malice; so that at the very start feelings of enmity largely prevail over those of friendship. We have also to bear in mind that it is many millions of individuals so constituted who have to be kept in the bonds of law and order, peace and tranquillity; whereas originally every one had a right to say to every one else: _I am just as good as you are_! A consideration of all this must fill us with surprise that on the whole the world pursues its way so peacefully and quietly, and with so much law and order as we see to exist. It is the machinery of State which alone accomplishes it. For it is physical power alone which has any direct action on men; constituted as they generally are, it is for physical power alone that they have any feeling or respect. If a man would convince himself by experience that this is the case, he need do nothing but remove all compulsion from his fellows, and try to govern them by clearly and forcibly representing to them what is reasonable, right, and fair, though at the same time it may be contrary to their interests. He would be laughed to scorn; and as things go that is the only answer he would get. It would soon be obvious to him that moral force alone is powerless. It is, then, physical force alone which is capable of securing respect. Now this force ultimately resides in the masses, where it is associated with ignorance, stupidity and injustice. Accordingly the main aim of statesmanship in these difficult circumstances is to put physical force in subjection to mental force--to intellectual superiority, and thus to make it serviceable. But if this aim is not itself accompanied by justice and good intentions the result of the business, if it succeeds, is that the State so erected consists of knaves and fools, the deceivers and the deceived. That this is the case is made gradually evident by the progress of intelligence amongst the masses, however much it may be repressed; and it leads to revolution. But if, contrarily, intelligence is accompanied by justice and good intentions, there arises a State as perfect as the character of human affairs will allow. It is very much to the purpose if justice and good intentions not only exist, but are also demonstrable and openly exhibited, and can be called to account publicly, and be subject to control. Care must be taken, however, lest the resulting participation of many persons in the work of government should affect the unity of the State, and inflict a loss of strength and concentration on the power by which its home and foreign affairs have to be administered. This is what almost always happens in republics. To produce a constitution which should satisfy all these demands would accordingly be the highest aim of statesmanship. But, as a matter of fact, statesmanship has to consider other things as well. It has to reckon with the people as they exist, and their national peculiarities. This is the raw material on which it has to work, and the ingredients of that material will always exercise a great effect on the completed scheme. Statesmanship will have achieved a good deal if it so far attains its object as to reduce wrong and injustice in the community to a minimum. To banish them altogether, and to leave no trace of them, is merely the ideal to be aimed at; and it is only approximately that it can be reached. If they disappear in one direction, they creep in again in another; for wrong and injustice lie deeply rooted in human nature. Attempts have been made to attain the desired aim by artificial constitutions and systematic codes of law; but they are not in complete touch with the facts--they remain an asymptote, for the simple reason that hard and fast conceptions never embrace all possible cases, and cannot be made to meet individual instances. Such conceptions resemble the stones of a mosaic rather than the delicate shading in a picture. Nay, more: all experiments in this matter are attended with danger; because the material in question, namely, the human race, is the most difficult of all material to handle. It is almost as dangerous as an explosive. No doubt it is true that in the machinery of the State the freedom of the press performs the same function as a safety-valve in other machinery; for it enables all discontent to find a voice; nay, in doing so, the discontent exhausts itself if it has not much substance; and if it has, there is an advantage in recognising it betimes and applying the remedy. This is much better than to repress the discontent, and let it simmer and ferment, and go on increasing until it ends in an explosion. On the other hand, the freedom of the press may be regarded as a permission to sell poison--poison for the heart and the mind. There is no idea so foolish but that it cannot be put into the heads of the ignorant and incapable multitude, especially if the idea holds out some prospect of any gain or advantage. And when a man has got hold of any such idea what is there that he will not do? I am, therefore, very much afraid that the danger of a free press outweighs its utility, particularly where the law offers a way of redressing wrongs. In any case, however, the freedom of the press should be governed by a very strict prohibition of all and every anonymity. Generally, indeed, it may be maintained that right is of a nature analogous to that of certain chemical substances, which cannot be exhibited in a pure and isolated condition, but at the most only with a small admixture of some other substance, which serves as a vehicle for them, or gives them the necessary consistency; such as fluorine, or even alcohol, or prussic acid. Pursuing the analogy we may say that right, if it is to gain a footing in the world and really prevail, must of necessity be supplemented by a small amount of arbitrary force, in order that, notwithstanding its merely ideal and therefore ethereal nature, it may be able to work and subsist in the real and material world, and not evaporate and vanish into the clouds, as it does in Hesoid. Birth-right of every description, all heritable privileges, every form of national religion, and so on, may be regarded as the necessary chemical base or alloy; inasmuch as it is only when right has some such firm and actual foundation that it can be enforced and consistently vindicated. They form for right a sort of --a fulcrum for supporting its lever. Linnaeus adopted a vegetable system of an artificial and arbitrary character. It cannot be replaced by a natural one, no matter how reasonable the change might be, or how often it has been attempted to make it, because no other system could ever yield the same certainty and stability of definition. Just in the same way the artificial and arbitrary basis on which, as has been shown, the constitution of a State rests, can never be replaced by a purely natural basis. A natural basis would aim at doing away with the conditions that have been mentioned: in the place of the privileges of birth it would put those of personal merit; in the place of the national religion, the results of rationalistic inquiry, and so on. However agreeable to reason this might all prove, the change could not be made; because a natural basis would lack that certainty and fixity of definition which alone secures the stability of the commonwealth. A constitution which embodied abstract right alone would be an excellent thing for natures other than human, but since the great majority of men are extremely egoistic, unjust, inconsiderate, deceitful, and sometimes even malicious; since in addition they are endowed with very scanty intelligence there arises the necessity for a power that shall be concentrated in one man, a power that shall be above all law and right, and be completely irresponsible, nay, to which everything shall yield as to something that is regarded as a creature of a higher kind, a ruler by the grace of God. It is only thus that men can be permanently held in check and governed. The United States of North America exhibit the attempt to proceed without any such arbitrary basis; that is to say, to allow abstract right to prevail pure and unalloyed. But the result is not attractive. For with all the material prosperity of the country what do we find? The prevailing sentiment is a base Utilitarianism with its inevitable companion, ignorance; and it is this that has paved the way for a union of stupid Anglican bigotry, foolish prejudice, coarse brutality, and a childish veneration of women. Even worse things are the order of the day: most iniquitous oppression of the black freemen, lynch law, frequent assassination often committed with entire impunity, duels of a savagery elsewhere unknown, now and then open scorn of all law and justice, repudiation of public debts, abominable political rascality towards a neighbouring State, followed by a mercenary raid on its rich territory,--afterwards sought to be excused, on the part of the chief authority of the State, by lies which every one in the country knew to be such and laughed at--an ever-increasing ochlocracy, and finally all the disastrous influence which this abnegation of justice in high quarters must have exercised on private morals. This specimen of a pure constitution on the obverse side of the planet says very little for republics in general, but still less for the imitations of it in Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia and Peru. A peculiar disadvantage attaching to republics--and one that might not be looked for--is that in this form of government it must be more difficult for men of ability to attain high position and exercise direct political influence than in the case of monarchies. For always and everywhere and under all circumstances there is a conspiracy, or instinctive alliance, against such men on the part of all the stupid, the weak, and the commonplace; they look upon such men as their natural enemies, and they are firmly held together by a common fear of them. There is always a numerous host of the stupid and the weak, and in a republican constitution it is easy for them to suppress and exclude the men of ability, so that they may not be outflanked by them. They are fifty to one; and here all have equal rights at the start. In a monarchy, on the other hand, this natural and universal league of the stupid against those who are possessed of intellectual advantages is a one-sided affair; it exists only from below, for in a monarchy talent and intelligence receive a natural advocacy and support from above. In the first place, the position of the monarch himself is much too high and too firm for him to stand in fear of any sort of competition. In the next place, he serves the State more by his will than by his intelligence; for no intelligence could ever be equal to all the demands that would in his case be made upon it. He is therefore compelled to be always availing himself of other men's intelligence. Seeing that his own interests are securely bound up with those of his country; that they are inseparable from them and one with them, he will naturally give the preference to the best men, because they are his most serviceable instruments, and he will bestow his favour upon them--as soon, that is, as he can find them; which is not so difficult, if only an honest search be made. Just in the same way even ministers of State have too much advantage over rising politicians to need to regard them with jealousy; and accordingly for analogous reasons they are glad to single out distinguished men and set them to work, in order to make use of their powers for themselves. It is in this way that intelligence has always under a monarchical government a much better chance against its irreconcilable and ever-present foe, stupidity; and the advantage which it gains is very great. In general, the monarchical form of government is that which is natural to man; just as it is natural to bees and ants, to a flight of cranes, a herd of wandering elephants, a pack of wolves seeking prey in common, and many other animals, all of which place one of their number at the head of the business in hand. Every business in which men engage, if it is attended with danger--every campaign, every ship at sea--must also be subject to the authority of one commander; everywhere it is one will that must lead. Even the animal organism is constructed on a monarchical principle: it is the brain alone which guides and governs, and exercises the hegemony. Although heart, lungs, and stomach contribute much more to the continued existence of the whole body, these philistines cannot on that account be allowed to guide and lead. That is a business which belongs solely to the brain; government must proceed from one central point. Even the solar system is monarchical. On the other hand, a republic is as unnatural as it is unfavourable to the higher intellectual life and the arts and sciences. Accordingly we find that everywhere in the world, and at all times, nations, whether civilised or savage, or occupying a position between the two, are always under monarchical government. The rule of many as Homer said, is not a good thing: let there be one ruler, one king; [Greek: Ouk agathon polykoiraniae-eis koiranos esto Eis basoleus.] How would it be possible that, everywhere and at all times, we should see many millions of people, nay, even hundreds of millions, become the willing and obedient subjects of one man, sometimes even one woman, and provisionally, even, of a child, unless there were a monarchical instinct in men which drove them to it as the form of government best suited to them? This arrangement is not the product of reflection. Everywhere one man is king, and for the most part his dignity is hereditary. He is, as it were, the personification, the monogram, of the whole people, which attains an individuality in him. In this sense he can rightly say: _l'etat c'est moi_. It is precisely for this reason that in Shakespeare's historical plays the kings of England and France mutually address each other as _France_ and _England_, and the Duke of Austria goes by the name of his country. It is as though the kings regarded themselves as the incarnation of their nationalities. It is all in accordance with human nature; and for this very reason the hereditary monarch cannot separate his own welfare and that of his family from the welfare of his country; as, on the other hand, mostly happens when the monarch is elected, as, for instance, in the States of the Church. The Chinese can conceive of a monarchical government only; what a republic is they utterly fail to understand. When a Dutch legation was in China in the year 1658, it was obliged to represent that the Prince of Orange was their king, as otherwise the Chinese would have been inclined to take Holland for a nest of pirates living without any lord or master. Stobaeus, in a chapter in his _Florilegium_, at the head of which he wrote _That monarchy is best_, collected the best of the passages in which the ancients explained the advantages of that form of government. In a word, republics are unnatural and artificial; they are the product of reflection. Hence it is that they occur only as rare exceptions in the whole history of the world. There were the small Greek republics, the Roman and the Carthaginian; but they were all rendered possible by the fact that five-sixths, perhaps even seven-eighths, of the population consisted of slaves. In the year 1840, even in the United States, there were three million slaves to a population of sixteen millions. Then, again, the duration of the republics of antiquity, compared with that of monarchies, was very short. Republics are very easy to found, and very difficult to maintain, while with monarchies it is exactly the reverse. If it is Utopian schemes that are wanted, I say this: the only solution of the problem would be a despotism of the wise and the noble, of the true aristocracy and the genuine nobility, brought about by the method of generation--that is, by the marriage of the noblest men with the cleverest and most intellectual women. This is my Utopia, my Republic of Plato. [Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--The reader will recollect that Schopenhauer was writing long before the Papal territories were absorbed into the kingdom of Italy.] [Footnote 2: See Jean Nieuhoff, _L'Ambassade de la Compagnie Orientale des Provinces Unies vers L'Empereur de la Chine_, traduit par Jean le Charpentier a Leyde, 1665; ch. 45.] Constitutional kings are undoubtedly in much the same position as the gods of Epicurus, who sit upon high in undisturbed bliss and tranquillity, and do not meddle with human affairs. Just now they are the fashion. In every German duodecimo-principality a parody of the English constitution is set up, quite complete, from Upper and Lower Houses down to the Habeas Corpus Act and trial by jury. These institutions, which proceed from English character and English circumstances, and presuppose both, are natural and suitable to the English people. It is just as natural to the German people to be split up into a number of different stocks, under a similar number of ruling Princes, with an Emperor over them all, who maintains peace at home, and represents the unity of the State board. It is an arrangement which has proceeded from German character and German circumstances. I am of opinion that if Germany is not to meet with the same fate as Italy, it must restore the imperial crown, which was done away with by its arch-enemy, the first Napoleon; and it must restore it as effectively as possible. For German unity depends on it, and without the imperial crown it will always be merely nominal, or precarious. But as we no longer live in the days of Guenther of Schwarzburg, when the choice of Emperor was a serious business, the imperial crown ought to go alternately to Prussia and to Austria, for the life of the wearer. In any case, the absolute sovereignty of the small States is illusory. Napoleon I. did for Germany what Otto the Great did for Italy: he divided it into small, independent States, on the principle, _divide et impera_. [Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Here, again, it is hardly necessary to say that Schopenhauer, who died in 1860, and wrote this passage at least some years previously, cannot be referring to any of the events which culminated in 1870. The whole passage forms a striking illustration of his political sagacity.] The English show their great intelligence, amongst other ways, by clinging to their ancient institutions, customs and usages, and by holding them sacred, even at the risk of carrying this tenacity too far, and making it ridiculous. They hold them sacred for the simple reason that those institutions and customs are not the invention of an idle head, but have grown up gradually by the force of circumstance and the wisdom of life itself, and are therefore suited to them as a nation. On the other hand, the German Michel allows himself to be persuaded by his schoolmaster that he must go about in an English dress-coat, and that nothing else will do. Accordingly he has bullied his father into giving it to him; and with his awkward manners this ungainly creature presents in it a sufficiently ridiculous figure. But the dress-coat will some day be too tight for him and incommode him. It will not be very long before he feels it in trial by jury. This institution arose in the most barbarous period of the Middle Ages--the times of Alfred the Great, when the ability to read and write exempted a man from the penalty of death. It is the worst of all criminal procedures. Instead of judges, well versed in law and of great experience, who have grown grey in daily unravelling the tricks and wiles of thieves, murderers and rascals of all sorts, and so are well able to get at the bottom of things, it is gossiping tailors and tanners who sit in judgment; it is their coarse, crude, unpractised, and awkward intelligence, incapable of any sustained attention, that is called upon to find out the truth from a tissue of lies and deceit. All the time, moreover, they are thinking of their cloth and their leather, and longing to be at home; and they have absolutely no clear notion at all of the distinction between probability and certainty. It is with this sort of a calculus of probabilities in their stupid heads that they confidently undertake to seal a man's doom. [Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--It may be well to explain that "Michel" is sometimes used by the Germans as a nickname of their nation, corresponding to "John Bull" as a nickname of the English. Fluegel in his German-English Dictionary declares that _der deutsche Michel_ represents the German nation as an honest, blunt, unsuspicious fellow, who easily allows himself to be imposed upon, even, he adds, with a touch of patriotism, "by those who are greatly his inferiors in point of strength and real worth."] The same remark is applicable to them which Dr. Johnson made of a court-martial in which he had little confidence, summoned to decide a very important case. He said that perhaps there was not a member of it who, in the whole course of his life, had ever spent an hour by himself in balancing probabilities. Can any one imagine that the tailor and the tanner would be impartial judges? What! the vicious multitude impartial! as if partiality were not ten times more to be feared from men of the same class as the accused than from judges who knew nothing of him personally, lived in another sphere altogether, were irremovable, and conscious of the dignity of their office. But to let a jury decide on crimes against the State and its head, or on misdemeanours of the press, is in a very real sense to set the fox to keep the geese. Everywhere and at all times there has been much discontent with governments, laws and public regulations; for the most part, however, because men are always ready to make institutions responsible for the misery inseparable from human existence itself; which is, to speak mythically, the curse that was laid on Adam, and through him on the whole race. But never has that delusion been proclaimed in a more mendacious and impudent manner than by the demagogues of the _Jetstzeit_--of the day we live in. As enemies of Christianity, they are, of course, optimists: to them the world is its own end and object, and accordingly in itself, that is to say, in its own natural constitution, it is arranged on the most excellent principles, and forms a regular habitation of bliss. The enormous and glaring evils of the world they attribute wholly to governments: if governments, they think, were to do their duty, there would be a heaven upon earth; in other words, all men could eat, drink, propagate and die, free from trouble and want. This is what they mean when they talk of the world being "its own end and object"; this is the goal of that "perpetual progress of the human race," and the other fine things which they are never tired of proclaiming. Formerly it was _faith_ which was the chief support of the throne; nowadays it is _credit_. The Pope himself is scarcely more concerned to retain the confidence of the faithful than to make his creditors believe in his own good faith. If in times past it was the guilty debt of the world which was lamented, now it is the financial debts of the world which arouse dismay. Formerly it was the Last Day which was prophesied; now it is the the great repudiation, the universal bankruptcy of the nations, which will one day happen; although the prophet, in this as in the other case, entertains a firm hope that he will not live to see it himself. From an ethical and a rational point of view, the _right of possession_ rests upon an incomparably better foundation than the _right of birth_; nevertheless, the right of possession is allied with the right of birth and has come to be part and parcel of it, so that it would hardly be possible to abolish the right of birth without endangering the right of possession. The reason of this is that most of what a man possesses he inherited, and therefore holds by a kind of right of birth; just as the old nobility bear the names only of their hereditary estates, and by the use of those names do no more than give expression to the fact that they own the estates. Accordingly all owners of property, if instead of being envious they were wise, ought also to support the maintenance of the rights of birth. The existence of a nobility has, then, a double advantage: it helps to maintain on the one hand the rights of possession, and on the other the right of birth belonging to the king. For the king is the first nobleman in the country, and, as a general rule, he treats the nobility as his humble relations, and regards them quite otherwise than the commoners, however trusty and well-beloved. It is quite natural, too, that he should have more confidence in those whose ancestors were mostly the first ministers, and always the immediate associates, of his own. A nobleman, therefore, appeals with reason to the name he bears, when on the occurrence of anything to rouse distrust he repeats his assurance of fidelity and service to the king. A man's character, as my readers are aware, assuredly comes to him from his father. It is a narrow-minded and ridiculous thing not to consider whose son a man is. FREE-WILL AND FATALISM. No thoughtful man can have any doubt, after the conclusions reached in my prize-essay on _Moral Freedom_, that such freedom is to be sought, not anywhere in nature, but outside of it. The only freedom that exists is of a metaphysical character. In the physical world freedom is an impossibility. Accordingly, while our several actions are in no wise free, every man's individual character is to be regarded as a free act. He is such and such a man, because once for all it is his will to be that man. For the will itself, and in itself, and also in so far as it is manifest in an individual, and accordingly constitutes the original and fundamental desires of that individual, is independent of all knowledge, because it is antecedent to such knowledge. All that it receives from knowledge is the series of motives by which it successively develops its nature and makes itself cognisable or visible; but the will itself, as something that lies beyond time, and so long as it exists at all, never changes. Therefore every man, being what he is and placed in the circumstances which for the moment obtain, but which on their part also arise by strict necessity, can absolutely never do anything else than just what at that moment he does do. Accordingly, the whole course of a man's life, in all its incidents great and small, is as necessarily predetermined as the course of a clock. The main reason of this is that the kind of metaphysical free act which I have described tends to become a knowing consciousness--a perceptive intuition, which is subject to the forms of space and time. By means of those forms the unity and indivisibility of the act are represented as drawn asunder into a series of states and events, which are subject to the Principle of Sufficient Reason in its four forms--and it is this that is meant by _necessity_. But the result of it all assumes a moral complexion. It amounts to this, that by what we do we know what we are, and by what we suffer we know what we deserve. Further, it follows from this that a man's _individuality_ does not rest upon the principle of individuation alone, and therefore is not altogether phenomenal in its nature. On the contrary, it has its roots in the thing-in-itself, in the will which is the essence of each individual. The character of this individual is itself individual. But how deep the roots of individuality extend is one of the questions which I do not undertake to answer. In this connection it deserves to be mentioned that even Plato, in his own way, represented the individuality of a man as a free act. He represented him as coming into the world with a given tendency, which was the result of the feelings and character already attaching to him in accordance with the doctrine of metempsychosis. The Brahmin philosophers also express the unalterable fixity of innate character in a mystical fashion. They say that Brahma, when a man is produced, engraves his doings and sufferings in written characters on his skull, and that his life must take shape in accordance therewith. They point to the jagged edges in the sutures of the skull-bones as evidence of this writing; and the purport of it, they say, depends on his previous life and actions. The same view appears to underlie the Christian, or rather, the Pauline, dogma of Predestination. But this truth, which is universally confirmed by experience, is attended with another result. All genuine merit, moral as well as intellectual, is not merely physical or empirical in its origin, but metaphysical; that is to say, it is given _a priori_ and not _a posteriori_; in other words, it lies innate and is not acquired, and therefore its source is not a mere phenomenon, but the thing-in-itself. Hence it is that every man achieves only that which is irrevocably established in his nature, or is born with him. Intellectual capacity needs, it is true, to be developed just as many natural products need to be cultivated in order that we may enjoy or use them; but just as in the case of a natural product no cultivation can take the place of original material, neither can it do so in the case of intellect. That is the reason why qualities which are merely acquired, or learned, or enforced--that is, qualities _a posteriori_, whether moral or intellectual--are not real or genuine, but superficial only, and possessed of no value. This is a conclusion of true metaphysics, and experience teaches the same lesson to all who can look below the surface. Nay, it is proved by the great importance which we all attach to such innate characteristics as physiognomy and external appearance, in the case of a man who is at all distinguished; and that is why we are so curious to see him. Superficial people, to be sure,--and, for very good reasons, commonplace people too,--will be of the opposite opinion; for if anything fails them they will thus be enabled to console themselves by thinking that it is still to come. The world, then, is not merely a battlefield where victory and defeat receive their due recompense in a future state. No! the world is itself the Last Judgment on it. Every man carries with him the reward and the disgrace that he deserves; and this is no other than the doctrine of the Brahmins and Buddhists as it is taught in the theory of metempsychosis. The question has been raised, What two men would do, who lived a solitary life in the wilds and met each other for the first time. Hobbes, Pufendorf, and Rousseau have given different answers. Pufendorf believed that they would approach each other as friends; Hobbes, on the contrary, as enemies; Rousseau, that they would pass each other by In silence. All three are both right and wrong. This is just a case in which the incalculable difference that there is in innate moral disposition between one individual and another would make its appearance. The difference is so strong that the question here raised might be regarded as the standard and measure of it. For there are men in whom the sight of another man at once rouses a feeling of enmity, since their inmost nature exclaims at once: That is not me! There are, others in whom the sight awakens immediate sympathy; their inmost nature says: _That is me over again_! Between the two there are countless degrees. That in this most important matter we are so totally different is a great problem, nay, a mystery. In regard to this _a priori_ nature of moral character there is matter for varied reflection in a work by Bastholm, a Danish writer, entitled _Historical Contributions to the Knowledge of Man in the Savage State_. He is struck by the fact that intellectual culture and moral excellence are shown to be entirely independent of each other, inasmuch as one is often found without the other. The reason of this, as we shall find, is simply that moral excellence in no wise springs from reflection, which is developed by intellectual culture, but from the will itself, the constitution of which is innate and not susceptible in itself of any improvement by means of education. Bastholm represents most nations as very vicious and immoral; and on the other hand he reports that excellent traits of character are found amongst some savage peoples; as, for instance, amongst the Orotchyses, the inhabitants of the island Savu, the Tunguses, and the Pelew islanders. He thus attempts to solve the problem, How it is that some tribes are so remarkably good, when their neighbours are all bad, It seems to me that the difficulty may be explained as follows: Moral qualities, as we know, are heritable, and an isolated tribe, such as is described, might take its rise in some one family, and ultimately in a single ancestor who happened to be a good man, and then maintain its purity. Is it not the case, for instance, that on many unpleasant occasions, such as repudiation of public debts, filibustering raids and so on, the English have often reminded the North Americans of their descent from English penal colonists? It is a reproach, however, which can apply only to a small part of the population. It is marvellous how _every man's individuality_ (that is to say, the union of a definite character with a definite intellect) accurately determines all his actions and thoughts down to the most unimportant details, as though it were a dye which pervaded them; and how, in consequence, one man's whole course of life, in other words, his inner and outer history, turns out so absolutely different from another's. As a botanist knows a plant in its entirety from a single leaf; as Cuvier from a single bone constructed the whole animal, so an accurate knowledge of a man's whole character may be attained from a single characteristic act; that is to say, he himself may to some extent be constructed from it, even though the act in question is of very trifling consequence. Nay, that is the most perfect test of all, for in a matter of importance people are on their guard; in trifles they follow their natural bent without much reflection. That is why Seneca's remark, that even the smallest things may be taken as evidence of character, is so true: _argumenta morum ex minimis quoque licet capere_. If a man shows by his absolutely unscrupulous and selfish behaviour in small things that a sentiment of justice is foreign to his disposition, he should not be trusted with a penny unless on due security. For who will believe that the man who every day shows that he is unjust in all matters other than those which concern property, and whose boundless selfishness everywhere protrudes through the small affairs of ordinary life which are subject to no scrutiny, like a dirty shirt through the holes of a ragged jacket--who, I ask, will believe that such a man will act honourably in matters of _meum_ and _tuum_ without any other incentive but that of justice? The man who has no conscience in small things will be a scoundrel in big things. If we neglect small traits of character, we have only ourselves to blame if we afterwards learn to our disadvantage what this character is in the great affairs of life. On the same principle, we ought to break with so-called friends even in matters of trifling moment, if they show a character that is malicious or bad or vulgar, so that we may avoid the bad turn which only waits for an opportunity of being done us. The same thing applies to servants. Let it always be our maxim: Better alone than amongst traitors. Of a truth the first and foremost step in all knowledge of mankind is the conviction that a man's conduct, taken as a whole, and in all its essential particulars, is not governed by his reason or by any of the resolutions which he may make in virtue of it. No man becomes this or that by wishing to be it, however earnestly. His acts proceed from his innate and unalterable character, and they are more immediately and particularly determined by motives. A man's conduct, therefore, is the necessary product of both character and motive. It may be illustrated by the course of a planet, which is the result of the combined effect of the tangential energy with which it is endowed, and the centripetal energy which operates from the sun. In this simile the former energy represents character, and the latter the influence of motive. It is almost more than a mere simile. The tangential energy which properly speaking is the source of the planet's motion, whilst on the other hand the motion is kept in check by gravitation, is, from a metaphysical point of view, the will manifesting itself in that body. To grasp this fact is to see that we really never form anything more than a conjecture of what we shall do under circumstances which are still to happen; although we often take our conjecture for a resolve. When, for instance, in pursuance of a proposal, a man with the greatest sincerity, and even eagerness, accepts an engagement to do this or that on the occurrence of a certain future event, it is by no means certain that he will fulfil the engagement; unless he is so constituted that the promise which he gives, in itself and as such, is always and everywhere a motive sufficient for him, by acting upon him, through considerations of honour, like some external compulsion. But above and beyond this, what he will do on the occurrence of that event may be foretold from true and accurate knowledge of his character and the external circumstances under the influence of which he will fall; and it may with complete certainty be foretold from this alone. Nay, it is a very easy prophecy if he has been already seen in a like position; for he will inevitably do the same thing a second time, provided that on the first occasion he had a true and complete knowledge of the facts of the case. For, as I have often remarked, a final cause does not impel a man by being real, but by being known; _causa finalis non movet secundum suum esse reale, sed secundum esse cognitum_. Whatever he failed to recognise or understand the first time could have no influence upon his will; just as an electric current stops when some isolating body hinders the action of the conductor. This unalterable nature of character, and the consequent necessity of our actions, are made very clear to a man who has not, on any given occasion, behaved as he ought to have done, by showing a lack either of resolution or endurance or courage, or some other quality demanded at the moment. Afterwards he recognises what it is that he ought to have done; and, sincerely repenting of his incorrect behaviour, he thinks to himself, _If the opportunity were offered to me again, I should act differently_. It is offered once more; the same occasion recurs; and to his great astonishment he does precisely the same thing over again. [Footnote 2: Cf. _World as Will_, ii., pp. 251 ff. _sqq_. (third edition).] The best examples of the truth in question are in every way furnished by Shakespeare's plays. It is a truth with which he was thoroughly imbued, and his intuitive wisdom expressed it in a concrete shape on every page. I shall here, however, give an instance of it in a case in which he makes it remarkably clear, without exhibiting any design or affectation in the matter; for he was a real artist and never set out from general ideas. His method was obviously to work up to the psychological truth which he grasped directly and intuitively, regardless of the fact that few would notice or understand it, and without the smallest idea that some dull and shallow fellows in Germany would one day proclaim far and wide that he wrote his works to illustrate moral commonplaces. I allude to the character of the Earl of Northumberland, whom we find in three plays in succession, although he does not take a leading part in any one of them; nay, he appears only in a few scenes distributed over fifteen acts. Consequently, if the reader is not very attentive, a character exhibited at such great intervals, and its moral identity, may easily escape his notice, even though it has by no means escaped the poet's. He makes the earl appear everywhere with a noble and knightly grace, and talk in language suitable to it; nay, he sometimes puts very beautiful and even elevated passages, into his mouth. At the same time he is very far from writing after the manner of Schiller, who was fond of painting the devil black, and whose moral approval or disapproval of the characters which he presented could be heard in their own words. With Shakespeare, and also with Goethe, every character, as long as he is on the stage and speaking, seems to be absolutely in the right, even though it were the devil himself. In this respect let the reader compare Duke Alba as he appears in Goethe with the same character in Schiller. We make the acquaintance of the Earl of Northumberland in the play of _Richard II_., where he is the first to hatch a plot against the King in favour of Bolingbroke, afterwards Henry IV., to whom he even offers some personal flattery (Act II., Sc. 3). In the following act he suffers a reprimand because, in speaking of the King he talks of him as "Richard," without more ado, but protests that he did it only for brevity's sake. A little later his insidious words induce the King to surrender. In the following act, when the King renounces the crown, Northumberland treats him with such harshness and contempt that the unlucky monarch is quite broken, and losing all patience once more exclaims to him: _Fiend, thou torment'st me ere I come to hell_! At the close, Northumberland announces to the new King that he has sent the heads of the former King's adherents to London. In the following tragedy, _Henry IV_., he hatches a plot against the new King in just the same way. In the fourth act we see the rebels united, making preparations for the decisive battle on the morrow, and only waiting impatiently for Northumberland and his division. At last there arrives a letter from him, saying that he is ill, and that he cannot entrust his force to any one else; but that nevertheless the others should go forward with courage and make a brave fight. They do so, but, greatly weakened by his absence, they are completely defeated; most of their leaders are captured, and his own son, the valorous Hotspur, falls by the hand of the Prince of Wales. Again, in the following play, the _Second Part of Henry IV_., we see him reduced to a state of the fiercest wrath by the death of his son, and maddened by the thirst for revenge. Accordingly he kindles another rebellion, and the heads of it assemble once more. In the fourth act, just as they are about to give battle, and are only waiting for him to join them, there comes a letter saying that he cannot collect a proper force, and will therefore seek safety for the present in Scotland; that, nevertheless, he heartily wishes their heroic undertaking the best success. Thereupon they surrender to the King under a treaty which is not kept, and so perish. So far is character from being the work of reasoned choice and consideration that in any action the intellect has nothing to do but to present motives to the will. Thereafter it looks on as a mere spectator and witness at the course which life takes, in accordance with the influence of motive on the given character. All the incidents of life occur, strictly speaking, with the same necessity as the movement of a clock. On this point let me refer to my prize-essay on _The Freedom of the Will_. I have there explained the true meaning and origin of the persistent illusion that the will is entirely free in every single action; and I have indicated the cause to which it is due. I will only add here the following teleological explanation of this natural illusion. Since every single action of a man's life seems to possess the freedom and originality which in truth only belong to his character as he apprehends it, and the mere apprehension of it by his intellect is what constitutes his career; and since what is original in every single action seems to the empirical consciousness to be always being performed anew, a man thus receives in the course of his career the strongest possible moral lesson. Then, and not before, he becomes thoroughly conscious of all the bad sides of his character. Conscience accompanies every act with the comment: _You should act differently_, although its true sense is: _You could be other than you are_. As the result of this immutability of character on the one hand, and, on the other, of the strict necessity which attends all the circumstances in which character is successively placed, every man's course of life is precisely determined from Alpha right through to Omega. But, nevertheless, one man's course of life turns out immeasurably happier, nobler and more worthy than another's, whether it be regarded from a subjective or an objective point of view, and unless we are to exclude all ideas of justice, we are led to the doctrine which is well accepted in Brahmanism and Buddhism, that the subjective conditions in which, as well as the objective conditions under which, every man is born, are the moral consequences of a previous existence. Macchiavelli, who seems to have taken no interest whatever in philosophical speculations, is drawn by the keen subtlety of his very unique understanding into the following observation, which possesses a really deep meaning. It shows that he had an intuitive knowledge of the entire necessity with which, characters and motives being given, all actions take place. He makes it at the beginning of the prologue to his comedy _Clitia_. _If_, he says, _the same men were to recur in the world in the way that the same circumstances recur, a hundred years would never elapse without our finding ourselves together once more, and doing the same things as we are doing now--Se nel mondo tornassino i medesimi uomini, como tornano i medesimi casi, non passarebbono mai cento anni che noi non ci trovassimo un altra volta insieme, a fare le medesime cose che hora_. He seems however to have been drawn into the remark by a reminiscence of what Augustine says in his _De Civitate Dei_, bk. xii., ch. xiii. Again, Fate, or the of the ancients, is nothing but the conscious certainty that all that happens is fast bound by a chain of causes, and therefore takes place with a strict necessity; that the future is already ordained with absolute certainty and can undergo as little alteration as the past. In the fatalistic myths of the ancients all that can be regarded as fabulous is the prediction of the future; that is, if we refuse to consider the possibility of magnetic clairvoyance and second sight. Instead of trying to explain away the fundamental truth of Fatalism by superficial twaddle and foolish evasion, a man should attempt to get a clear knowledge and comprehension of it; for it is demonstrably true, and it helps us in a very important way to an understanding of the mysterious riddle of our life. Predestination and Fatalism do not differ in the main. They differ only in this, that with Predestination the given character and external determination of human action proceed from a rational Being, and with Fatalism from an irrational one. But in either case the result is the same: that happens which must happen. On the other hand the conception of _Moral Freedom_ is inseparable from that of _Originality_. A man may be said, but he cannot be conceived, to be the work of another, and at the same time be free in respect of his desires and acts. He who called him into existence out of nothing in the same process created and determined his nature--in other words, the whole of his qualities. For no one can create without creating a something, that is to say, a being determined throughout and in all its qualities. But all that a man says and does necessarily proceeds from the qualities so determined; for it is only the qualities themselves set in motion. It is only some external impulse that they require to make their appearance. As a man is, so must he act; and praise or blame attaches, not to his separate acts, but to his nature and being. That is the reason why Theism and the moral responsibility of man are incompatible; because responsibility always reverts to the creator of man and it is there that it has its centre. Vain attempts have been made to make a bridge from one of these incompatibles to the other by means of the conception of moral freedom; but it always breaks down again. What is _free_ must also be _original_. If our will is _free_, our will is also _the original element_, and conversely. Pre-Kantian dogmatism tried to separate these two predicaments. It was thereby compelled to assume two kinds of freedom, one cosmological, of the first cause, and the other moral and theological, of human will. These are represented in Kant by the third as well as the fourth antimony of freedom. On the other hand, in my philosophy the plain recognition of the strictly necessary character of all action is in accordance with the doctrine that what manifests itself even in the organic and irrational world is _will_. If this were not so, the necessity under which irrational beings obviously act would place their action in conflict with will; if, I mean, there were really such a thing as the freedom of individual action, and this were not as strictly necessitated as every other kind of action. But, as I have just shown, it is this same doctrine of the necessary character of all acts of will which makes it needful to regard a man's existence and being as itself the work of his freedom, and consequently of his will. The will, therefore, must be self-existent; it must possess so-called _a-se-ity_. Under the opposite supposition all responsibility, as I have shown, would be at an end, and the moral like the physical world would be a mere machine, set in motion for the amusement of its manufacturer placed somewhere outside of it. So it is that truths hang together, and mutually advance and complete one another; whereas error gets jostled at every corner. What kind of influence it is that _moral instruction_ may exercise on conduct, and what are the limits of that influence, are questions which I have sufficiently examined in the twentieth section of my treatise on the _Foundation of Morality_. In all essential particulars an analogous influence is exercised by _example_, which, however, has a more powerful effect than doctrine, and therefore it deserves a brief analysis. In the main, example works either by restraining a man or by encouraging him. It has the former effect when it determines him to leave undone what he wanted to do. He sees, I mean, that other people do not do it; and from this he judges, in general, that it is not expedient; that it may endanger his person, or his property, or his honour. He rests content, and gladly finds himself relieved from examining into the matter for himself. Or he may see that another man, who has not refrained, has incurred evil consequences from doing it; this is example of the deterrent kind. The example which encourages a man works in a twofold manner. It either induces him to do what he would be glad to leave undone, if he were not afraid lest the omission might in some way endanger him, or injure him in others' opinion; or else it encourages him to do what he is glad to do, but has hitherto refrained from doing from fear of danger or shame; this is example of the seductive kind. Finally, example may bring a man to do what he would have otherwise never thought of doing. It is obvious that in this last case example works in the main only on the intellect; its effect on the will is secondary, and if it has any such effect, it is by the interposition of the man's own judgment, or by reliance on the person who presented the example. The whole influence of example--and it is very strong--rests on the fact that a man has, as a rule, too little judgment of his own, and often too little knowledge, o explore his own way for himself, and that he is glad, therefore, to tread in the footsteps of some one else. Accordingly, the more deficient he is in either of these qualities, the more is he open to the influence of example; and we find, in fact, that most men's guiding star is the example of others; that their whole course of life, in great things and in small, comes in the end to be mere imitation; and that not even in the pettiest matters do they act according to their own judgment. Imitation and custom are the spring of almost all human action. The cause of it is that men fight shy of all and any sort of reflection, and very properly mistrust their own discernment. At the same time this remarkably strong imitative instinct in man is a proof of his kinship with apes. But the kind of effect which example exercises depends upon a man's character, and thus it is that the same example may possibly seduce one man and deter another. An easy opportunity of observing this is afforded in the case of certain social impertinences which come into vogue and gradually spread. The first time that a man notices anything of the kind, he may say to himself: _For shame! how can he do it! how selfish and inconsiderate of him! really, I shall take care never to do anything like that_. But twenty others will think: _Aha! if he does that, I may do it too_. As regards morality, example, like doctrine, may, it is true, promote civil or legal amelioration, but not that inward amendment which is, strictly speaking, the only kind of moral amelioration. For example always works as a personal motive alone, and assumes, therefore, that a man is susceptible to this sort of motive. But it is just the predominating sensitiveness of a character to this or that sort of motive that determines whether its morality is true and real; though, of whatever kind it is, it is always innate. In general it may be said that example operates as a means of promoting the good and the bad qualities of a character, but it does not create them; and so it is that Seneca's maxim, _velle non discitur_--_will cannot be learned_--also holds good here. But the innateness of all truly moral qualities, of the good as of the bad, is a doctrine that consorts better with the metempsychosis of the Brahmins and Buddhists, according to which a man's good and bad deeds follow him from one existence to another like his shadow, than with Judaism. For Judaism requires a man to come into the world as a moral blank, so that, in virtue of an inconceivable free will, directed to objects which are neither to be sought nor avoided--_liberum arbitrium indifferentiae_--and consequently as the result of reasoned consideration, he may choose whether he is to be an angel or a devil, or anything else that may lie between the two. Though I am well aware what the Jewish scheme is, I pay no attention to it; for my standard is truth. I am no professor of philosophy, and therefore I do not find my vocation in establishing the fundamental ideas of Judaism at any cost, even though they for ever bar the way to all and every kind of philosophical knowledge. _Liberum arbitrium indifferentiae_ under the name of _moral freedom_ is a charming doll for professors of philosophy to dandle; and we must leave it to those intelligent, honourable and upright gentlemen. CHARACTER. Men who aspire to a happy, a brilliant and a long life, instead of to a virtuous one, are like foolish actors who want to be always having the great parts,--the parts that are marked by splendour and triumph. They fail to see that the important thing is not _what_ or _how much_, but _how_ they act. Since _a man does not alter_, and his _moral character_ remains absolutely the same all through his life; since he must play out the part which he has received, without the least deviation from the character; since neither experience, nor philosophy, nor religion can effect any improvement in him, the question arises, What is the meaning of life at all? To what purpose is it played, this farce in which everything that is essential is irrevocably fixed and determined? It is played that a man may come to understand himself, that he may see what it is that he seeks and has sought to be; what he wants, and what, therefore, he is. _This is a knowledge which must be imparted to him from without_. Life is to man, in other words, to will, what chemical re-agents are to the body: it is only by life that a man reveals what he is, and it is only in so far as he reveals himself that he exists at all. Life is the manifestation of character, of the something that we understand by that word; and it is not in life, but outside of it, and outside time, that character undergoes alteration, as a result of the self-knowledge which life gives. Life is only the mirror into which a man gazes not in order that he may get a reflection of himself, but that he may come to understand himself by that reflection; that he may see _what_ it is that the mirror shows. Life is the proof sheet, in which the compositors' errors are brought to light. How they become visible, and whether the type is large or small, are matters of no consequence. Neither in the externals of life nor in the course of history is there any significance; for as it is all one whether an error occurs in the large type or in the small, so it is all one, as regards the essence of the matter, whether an evil disposition is mirrored as a conqueror of the world or a common swindler or ill-natured egoist. In one case he is seen of all men; in the other, perhaps only of himself; but that he should see himself is what signifies. Therefore if egoism has a firm hold of a man and masters him, whether it be in the form of joy, or triumph, or lust, or hope, or frantic grief, or annoyance, or anger, or fear, or suspicion, or passion of any kind--he is in the devil's clutches and how he got into them does not matter. What is needful is that he should make haste to get out of them; and here, again, it does not matter how. I have described _character_ as _theoretically_ an act of will lying beyond time, of which life in time, or _character in action_, is the development. For matters of practical life we all possess the one as well as the other; for we are constituted of them both. Character modifies our life more than we think, and it is to a certain extent true that every man is the architect of his own fortune. No doubt it seems as if our lot were assigned to us almost entirely from without, and imparted to us in something of the same way in which a melody outside us reaches the ear. But on looking back over our past, we see at once that our life consists of mere variations on one and the same theme, namely, our character, and that the same fundamental bass sounds through it all. This is an experience which a man can and must make in and by himself. Not only a man's life, but his intellect too, may be possessed of a clear and definite character, so far as his intellect is applied to matters of theory. It is not every man, however, who has an intellect of this kind; for any such definite individuality as I mean is genius--an original view of the world, which presupposes an absolutely exceptional individuality, which is the essence of genius. A man's intellectual character is the theme on which all his works are variations. In an essay which I wrote in Weimar I called it the knack by which every genius produces his works, however various. This intellectual character determines the physiognomy of men of genius--what I might call _the theoretical physiognomy_--and gives it that distinguished expression which is chiefly seen in the eyes and the forehead. In the case of ordinary men the physiognomy presents no more than a weak analogy with the physiognomy of genius. On the other hand, all men possess _the practical physiognomy_, the stamp of will, of practical character, of moral disposition; and it shows itself chiefly in the mouth. Since character, so far as we understand its nature, is above and beyond time, it cannot undergo any change under the influence of life. But although it must necessarily remain the same always, it requires time to unfold itself and show the very diverse aspects which it may possess. For character consists of two factors: one, the will-to-live itself, blind impulse, so-called impetuosity; the other, the restraint which the will acquires when it comes to understand the world; and the world, again, is itself will. A man may begin by following the craving of desire, until he comes to see how hollow and unreal a thing is life, how deceitful are its pleasures, what horrible aspects it possesses; and this it is that makes people hermits, penitents, Magdalenes. Nevertheless it is to be observed that no such change from a life of great indulgence in pleasure to one of resignation is possible, except to the man who of his own accord renounces pleasure. A really bad life cannot be changed into a virtuous one. The most beautiful soul, before it comes to know life from its horrible side, may eagerly drink the sweets of life and remain innocent. But it cannot commit a bad action; it cannot cause others suffering to do a pleasure to itself, for in that case it would see clearly what it would be doing; and whatever be its youth and inexperience it perceives the sufferings of others as clearly as its own pleasures. That is why one bad action is a guarantee that numberless others will be committed as soon as circumstances give occasion for them. Somebody once remarked to me, with entire justice, that every man had something very good and humane in his disposition, and also something very bad and malignant; and that according as he was moved one or the other of them made its appearance. The sight of others' suffering arouses, not only in different men, but in one and the same man, at one moment an inexhaustible sympathy, at another a certain satisfaction; and this satisfaction may increase until it becomes the cruellest delight in pain. I observe in myself that at one moment I regard all mankind with heartfelt pity, at another with the greatest indifference, on occasion with hatred, nay, with a positive enjoyment of their pain. All this shows very clearly that we are possessed of two different, nay, absolutely contradictory, ways of regarding the world: one according to the principle of individuation, which exhibits all creatures as entire strangers to us, as definitely not ourselves. We can have no feelings for them but those of indifference, envy, hatred, and delight that they suffer. The other way of regarding the world is in accordance with what I may call the _Tat-twam-asi_--_this-is-thyself_ principle. All creatures are exhibited as identical with ourselves; and so it is pity and love which the sight of them arouses. The one method separates individuals by impassable barriers; the other removes the barrier and brings the individuals together. The one makes us feel, in regard to every man, _that is what I am_; the other, _that is not what I am_. But it is remarkable that while the sight of another's suffering makes us feel our identity with him, and arouses our pity, this is not so with the sight of another's happiness. Then we almost always feel some envy; and even though we may have no such feeling in certain cases,--as, for instance, when our friends are happy,--yet the interest which we take in their happiness is of a weak description, and cannot compare with the sympathy which we feel with their suffering. Is this because we recognise all happiness to be a delusion, or an impediment to true welfare? No! I am inclined to think that it is because the sight of the pleasure, or the possessions, which are denied to us, arouses envy; that is to say, the wish that we, and not the other, had that pleasure or those possessions. It is only the first way of looking at the world which is founded on any demonstrable reason. The other is, as it were, the gate out of this world; it has no attestation beyond itself, unless it be the very abstract and difficult proof which my doctrine supplies. Why the first way predominates in one man, and the second in another--though perhaps it does not exclusively predominate in any man; why the one or the other emerges according as the will is moved--these are deep problems. The paths of night and day are close together: It is a fact that there is a great and original difference between one empirical character and another; and it is a difference which, at bottom, rests upon the relation of the individual's will to his intellectual faculty. This relation is finally determined by the degree of will in his father and of intellect in his mother; and the union of father and mother is for the most part an affair of chance. This would all mean a revolting injustice in the nature of the world, if it were not that the difference between parents and son is phenomenal only and all chance is, at bottom, necessity. As regards the freedom of the will, if it were the case that the will manifested itself in a single act alone, it would be a free act. But the will manifests itself in a course of life, that is to say, in a series of acts. Every one of these acts, therefore, is determined as a part of a complete whole, and cannot happen otherwise than it does happen. On the other hand, the whole series is free; it is simply the manifestation of an individualised will. If a man feels inclined to commit a bad action and refrains, he is kept back either (1) by fear of punishment or vengeance; or (2) by superstition in other words, fear of punishment in a future life; or (3) by the feeling of sympathy, including general charity; or (4) by the feeling of honour, in other words, the fear of shame; or (5) by the feeling of justice, that is, an objective attachment to fidelity and good-faith, coupled with a resolve to hold them sacred, because they are the foundation of all free intercourse between man and man, and therefore often of advantage to himself as well. This last thought, not indeed as a thought, but as a mere feeling, influences people very frequently. It is this that often compels a man of honour, when some great but unjust advantage is offered him, to reject it with contempt and proudly exclaim: _I am an honourable man_! For otherwise how should a poor man, confronted with the property which chance or even some worse agency has bestowed on the rich, whose very existence it is that makes him poor, feel so much sincere respect for this property, that he refuses to touch it even in his need; and although he has a prospect of escaping punishment, what other thought is it that can be at the bottom of such a man's honesty? He is resolved not to separate himself from the great community of honourable people who have the earth in possession, and whose laws are recognised everywhere. He knows that a single dishonest act will ostracise and proscribe him from that society for ever. No! a man will spend money on any soil that yields him good fruit, and he will make sacrifices for it. With a good action,--that, every action in which a man's own advantage is ostensibly subordinated to another's,--the motive is either (1) self-interest, kept in the background; or (2) superstition, in other words, self-interest in the form of reward in another life; or (3) sympathy; or (4) the desire to lend a helping hand, in other words, attachment to the maxim that we should assist one another in need, and the wish to maintain this maxim, in view of the presumption that some day we ourselves may find it serve our turn. For what Kant calls a good action done from motives of duty and for the sake of duty, there is, as will be seen, no room at all. Kant himself declares it to be doubtful whether an action was ever determined by pure motives of duty alone. I affirm most certainly that no action was ever so done; it is mere babble; there is nothing in it that could really act as a motive to any man. When he shelters himself behind verbiage of that sort, he is always actuated by one of the four motives which I have described. Among these it is obviously sympathy alone which is quite genuine and sincere. _Good_ and _bad_ apply to character only _a potiori_; that is to say, we prefer the good to the bad; but, absolutely, there is no such distinction. The difference arises at the point which lies between subordinating one's own advantage to that of another, and not subordinating it. If a man keeps to the exact middle, he is _just_. But most men go an inch in their regard for others' welfare to twenty yards in regard for their own. The source of _good_ and of _bad character_, so far as we have any real knowledge of it, lies in this, that with the bad character the thought of the external world, and especially of the living creatures in it, is accompanied--all the more, the greater the resemblance between them and the individual self--by a constant feeling of _not I, not I, not I_. Contrarily, with the good character (both being assumed to exist in a high degree) the same thought has for its accompaniment, like a fundamental bass, a constant feeling of _I, I, I_. From this spring benevolence and a disposition to help all men, and at the same time a cheerful, confident and tranquil frame of mind, the opposite of that which accompanies the bad character. The difference, however, is only phenomenal, although it is a difference which is radical. But now we come to _the hardest of all problems_: How is it that, while the will, as the thing-in-itself, is identical, and from a metaphysical point of view one and the same in all its manifestations, there is nevertheless such an enormous difference between one character and another?--the malicious, diabolical wickedness of the one, and set off against it, the goodness of the other, showing all the more conspicuously. How is it that we get a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Carcalla, a Domitian, a Nero; and on the other hand, the Antonines, Titus, Hadrian, Nerva? How is it that among the animals, nay, in a higher species, in individual animals, there is a like difference?--the malignity of the cat most strongly developed in the tiger; the spite of the monkey; on the other hand, goodness, fidelity and love in the dog and the elephant. It is obvious that the principle of wickedness in the brute is the same as in man. We may to some extent modify the difficulty of the problem by observing that the whole difference is in the end only one of degree. In every living creature, the fundamental propensities and instincts all exist, but they exist in very different degrees and proportions. This, however, is not enough to explain the facts. We must fall back upon the intellect and its relation to the will; it is the only explanation that remains. A man's intellect, however, by no means stands in any direct and obvious relation with the goodness of his character. We may, it is true, discriminate between two kinds of intellect: between understanding, as the apprehension of relation in accordance with the Principle of Sufficient Reason, and cognition, a faculty akin to genius, which acts more directly, is independent of this law, and passes beyond the Principle of Individuation. The latter is the faculty which apprehends Ideas, and it is the faculty which has to do with morality. But even this explanation leaves much to be desired. _Fine minds are seldom fine souls_ was the correct observation of Jean Paul; although they are never the contrary. Lord Bacon, who, to be sure, was less a fine soul than a fine mind, was a scoundrel. I have declared space and time to be part of the Principle of Individuation, as it is only space and time that make the multiplicity of similar objects a possibility. But multiplicity itself also admits of variety; multiplicity and diversity are not only quantitative, but also qualitative. How is it that there is such a thing as qualitative diversity, especially in ethical matters? Or have I fallen into an error the opposite of that in which Leibnitz fell with his _identitas indiscernibilium_? The chief cause of intellectual diversity is to be found in the brain and nervous system. This is a fact which somewhat lessens the obscurity of the subject. With the brutes the intellect and the brain are strictly adapted to their aims and needs. With man alone there is now and then, by way of exception, a superfluity, which, if it is abundant, may yield genius. But ethical diversity, it seems, proceeds immediately from the will. Otherwise ethical character would not be above and beyond time, as it is only in the individual that intellect and will are united. The will is above and beyond time, and eternal; and character is innate; that is to say, it is sprung from the same eternity, and therefore it does not admit of any but a transcendental explanation. Perhaps some one will come after me who will throw light into this dark abyss. MORAL INSTINCT. An act done by instinct differs from every other kind of act in that an understanding of its object does not precede it but follows upon it. Instinct is therefore a rule of action given _a priori_. We may be unaware of the object to which it is directed, as no understanding of it is necessary to its attainment. On the other hand, if an act is done by an exercise of reason or intelligence, it proceeds according to a rule which the understanding has itself devised for the purpose of carrying out a preconceived aim. Hence it is that action according to rule may miss its aim, while instinct is infallible. On the _a priori_ character of instinct we may compare what Plato says in the _Philebus_. With Plato instinct is a reminiscence of something which a man has never actually experienced in his lifetime; in the same way as, in the _Phaedo_ and elsewhere, everything that a man learns is regarded as a reminiscence. He has no other word to express the _a priori_ element in all experience. There are, then, three things that are _a priori_: (1) Theoretical Reason, in other words, the conditions which make all experience possible. (2) Instinct, or the rule by which an object promoting the life of the senses may, though unknown, be attained. (3) The Moral Law, or the rule by which an action takes place without any object. Accordingly rational or intelligent action proceeds by a rule laid down in accordance with the object as it is understood. Instinctive action proceeds by a rule without an understanding of the object of it. Moral action proceeds by a rule without any object at all. _Theoretical Reason_ is the aggregate of rules in accordance with which all my knowledge--that is to say, the whole world of experience--necessarily proceeds. In the same manner _Instinct_ is the aggregate of rules in accordance with which all my action necessarily proceeds if it meets with no obstruction. Hence it seems to me that Instinct may most appropriately be called _practical reason_, for like theoretical reason it determines the _must_ of all experience. The so-called moral law, on the other hand, is only one aspect of _the better consciousness_, the aspect which it presents from the point of view of instinct. This better consciousness is something lying beyond all experience, that is, beyond all reason, whether of the theoretical or the practical kind, and has nothing to do with it; whilst it is in virtue of the mysterious union of it and reason in the same individual that the better consciousness comes into conflict with reason, leaving the individual to choose between the two. In any conflict between the better consciousness and reason, if the individual decides for reason, should it be theoretical reason, he becomes a narrow, pedantic philistine; should it be practical, a rascal. If he decides for the better consciousness, we can make no further positive affirmation about him, for if we were to do so, we should find ourselves in the realm of reason; and as it is only what takes place within this realm that we can speak of at all it follows that we cannot speak of the better consciousness except in negative terms. This shows us how it is that reason is hindered and obstructed; that _theoretical reason_ is suppressed in favour of _genius_, and _practical reason_ in favour of _virtue_. Now the better consciousness is neither theoretical nor practical; for these are distinctions that only apply to reason. But if the individual is in the act of choosing, the better consciousness appears to him in the aspect which it assumes in vanquishing and overcoming the practical reason (or instinct, to use the common word). It appears to him as an imperative command, an _ought_. It so appears to him, I say; in other words, that is the shape which it takes for the theoretical reason which renders all things into objects and ideas. But in so far as the better consciousness desires to vanquish and overcome the theoretical reason, it takes no shape at all; on the simple ground that, as it comes into play, the theoretical reason is suppressed and becomes the mere servant of the better consciousness. That is why genius can never give any account of its own works. In the morality of action, the legal principle that both sides are to be heard must not be allowed to apply; in other words, the claims of self and the senses must not be urged. Nay, on the contrary, as soon as the pure will has found expression, the case is closed; _nec audienda altera pars_. The lower animals are not endowed with moral freedom. Probably this is not because they show no trace of the better consciousness which in us is manifested as morality, or nothing analogous to it; for, if that were so, the lower animals, which are in so many respects like ourselves in outward appearance that we regard man as a species of animal, would possess some _raison d'etre_ entirely different from our own, and actually be, in their essential and inmost nature, something quite other than ourselves. This is a contention which is obviously refuted by the thoroughly malignant and inherently vicious character of certain animals, such as the crocodile, the hyaena, the scorpion, the snake, and the gentle, affectionate and contented character of others, such as the dog. Here, as in the case of men, the character, as it is manifested, must rest upon something that is above and beyond time. For, as Jacob Boehme says, _there is a power in every animal which is indestructible, and the spirit of the world draws it into itself, against the final separation at the Last Judgment_. Therefore we cannot call the lower animals free, and the reason why we cannot do so is that they are wanting in a faculty which is profoundly subordinate to the better consciousness in its highest phase, I mean reason. Reason is the faculty of supreme comprehension, the idea of totality. How reason manifests itself in the theoretical sphere Kant has shown, and it does the same in the practical: it makes us capable of observing and surveying the whole of our life, thought, and action, in continual connection, and therefore of acting according to general maxims, whether those maxims originate in the understanding as prudential rules, or in the better consciousness as moral laws. If any desire or passion is aroused in us, we, and in the same way the lower animals, are for the moment filled with this desire; we are all anger, all lust, all fear; and in such moments neither the better consciousness can speak, nor the understanding consider the consequences. But in our case reason allows us even at that moment to see our actions and our life as an unbroken chain,--a chain which connects our earlier resolutions, or, it may be, the future consequences of our action, with the moment of passion which now fills our whole consciousness. It shows us the identity of our person, even when that person is exposed to influences of the most varied kind, and thereby we are enabled to act according to maxims. The lower animal is wanting in this faculty; the passion which seizes it completely dominates it, and can be checked only by another passion--anger, for instance, or lust, by fear; even though the vision that terrifies does not appeal to the senses, but is present in the animal only as a dim memory and imagination. Men, therefore, may be called irrational, if, like the lower animals, they allow themselves to be determined by the moment. So far, however, is reason from being the source of morality that it is reason alone which makes us capable of being rascals, which the lower animals cannot be. It is reason which enables us to form an evil resolution and to keep it when the provocation to evil is removed; it enables us, for example, to nurse vengeance. Although at the moment that we have an opportunity of fulfilling our resolution the better consciousness may manifest itself as love or charity, it is by force of reason, in pursuance of some evil maxim, that we act against it. Thus Goethe says that a man may use his reason only for the purpose of being more bestial than any beast: _Er hat Vernunft, doch braucht er sie allein Um theirischer als jedes Thier zu sein_. For not only do we, like the beasts, satisfy the desires of the moment, but we refine upon them and stimulate them in order to prepare the desire for the satisfaction. Whenever we think that we perceive a trace of reason in the lower animals, it fills us with surprise. Now our surprise is not excited by the good and affectionate disposition which some of them exhibit--we recognise that as something other than reason--but by some action in them which seems to be determined not by the impression of the moment, but by a resolution previously made and kept. Elephants, for instance, are reported to have taken premeditated revenge for insults long after they were suffered; lions, to have requited benefits on an opportunity tardily offered. The truth of such stories has, however, no bearing at all on the question, What do we mean by reason? But they enable us to decide whether in the lower animals there is any trace of anything that we can call reason. Kant not only declares that all our moral sentiments originate in reason, but he lays down that reason, _in my sense of the word_, is a condition of moral action; as he holds that for an action to be virtuous and meritorious it must be done in accordance with maxims, and not spring from a resolve taken under some momentary impression. But in both contentions he is wrong. If I resolve to take vengeance on some one, and when an opportunity offers, the better consciousness in the form of love and humanity speaks its word, and I am influenced by it rather than by my evil resolution, this is a virtuous act, for it is a manifestation of the better consciousness. It is possible to conceive of a very virtuous man in whom the better consciousness is so continuously active that it is never silent, and never allows his passions to get a complete hold of him. By such consciousness he is subject to a direct control, instead of being guided indirectly, through the medium of reason, by means of maxims and moral principles. That is why a man may have weak reasoning powers and a weak understanding and yet have a high sense of morality and be eminently good; for the most important element in a man depends as little on intellectual as it does on physical strength. Jesus says, _Blessed are the poor in spirit_. And Jacob Boehme has the excellent and noble observation: _Whoso lies quietly in his own will, like a child in the womb, and lets himself be led and guided by that inner principle from which he is sprung, is the noblest and richest on earth_. ETHICAL REFLECTIONS. The philosophers of the ancient world united in a single conception a great many things that had no connection with one another. Of this every dialogue of Plato's furnishes abundant examples. The greatest and worst confusion of this kind is that between ethics and politics. The State and the Kingdom of God, or the Moral Law, are so entirely different in their character that the former is a parody of the latter, a bitter mockery at the absence of it. Compared with the Moral Law the State is a crutch instead of a limb, an automaton instead of a man. * * * * * The _principle of honour_ stands in close connection with human freedom. It is, as it were, an abuse of that freedom. Instead of using his freedom to fulfil the moral law, a man employs his power of voluntarily undergoing any feeling of pain, of overcoming any momentary impression, in order that he may assert his self-will, whatever be the object to which he directs it. As he thereby shows that, unlike the lower animals, he has thoughts which go beyond the welfare of his body and whatever makes for that welfare, it has come about that the principle of honour is often confused with virtue. They are regarded as if they were twins. But wrongly; for although the principle of honour is something which distinguishes man from the lower animals, it is not, in itself, anything that raises him above them. Taken as an end and aim, it is as dark a delusion as any other aim that springs from self. Used as a means, or casually, it may be productive of good; but even that is good which is vain and frivolous. It is the misuse of freedom, the employment of it as a weapon for overcoming the world of feeling, that makes man so infinitely more terrible than the lower animals; for they do only what momentary instinct bids them; while man acts by ideas, and his ideas may entail universal ruin before they are satisfied. There is another circumstance which helps to promote the notion that honour and virtue are connected. A man who can do what he wants to do shows that he can also do it if what he wants to do is a virtuous act. But that those of our actions which we are ourselves obliged to regard with contempt are also regarded with contempt by other people serves more than anything that I have here mentioned to establish the connection. Thus it often happens that a man who is not afraid of the one kind of contempt is unwilling to undergo the other. But when we are called upon to choose between our own approval and the world's censure, as may occur in complicated and mistaken circumstances, what becomes of the principle of honour then? Two characteristic examples of the principle of honour are to be found in Shakespeare's _Henry VI_., Part II., Act IV., Sc. 1. A pirate is anxious to murder his captive instead of accepting, like others, a ransom for him; because in taking his captive he lost an eye, and his own honour and that of his forefathers would in his opinion be stained, if he were to allow his revenge to be bought off as though he were a mere trader. The prisoner, on the other hand, who is the Duke of Suffolk, prefers to have his head grace a pole than to uncover it to such a low fellow as a pirate, by approaching him to ask for mercy. Just as civic honour--in other words, the opinion that we deserve to be trusted--is the palladium of those whose endeavour it is to make their way in the world on the path of honourable business, so knightly honour--in other words, the opinion that we are men to be feared--is the palladium of those who aim at going through life on the path of violence; and so it was that knightly honour arose among the robber-knights and other knights of the Middle Ages. * * * * * A theoretical philosopher is one who can supply in the shape of ideas for the reason, a copy of the presentations of experience; just as what the painter sees he can reproduce on canvas; the sculptor, in marble; the poet, in pictures for the imagination, though they are pictures which he supplies only in sowing the ideas from which they sprang. A so-called practical philosopher, on the other hand, is one who, contrarily, deduces his action from ideas. The theoretical philosopher transforms life into ideas. The practical philosopher transforms ideas into life; he acts, therefore, in a thoroughly reasonable manner; he is consistent, regular, deliberate; he is never hasty or passionate; he never allows himself to be influenced by the impression of the moment. And indeed, when we find ourselves among those full presentations of experience, or real objects, to which the body belongs--since the body is only an objectified will, the shape which the will assumes in the material world--it is difficult to let our bodies be guided, not by those presentations, but by a mere image of them, by cold, colourless ideas, which are related to experience as the shadow of Orcus to life; and yet this is the only way in which we can avoid doing things of which we may have to repent. The theoretical philosopher enriches the domain of reason by adding to it; the practical philosopher draws upon it, and makes it serve him. * * * * * According to Kant the truth of experience is only a hypothetical truth. If the suppositions which underlie all the intimations of experience--subject, object, time, space and causality--were removed, none of those intimations would contain a word of truth. In other words, experience is only a phenomenon; it is not knowledge of the thing-in-itself. If we find something in our own conduct at which we are secretly pleased, although we cannot reconcile it with experience, seeing that if we were to follow the guidance of experience we should have to do precisely the opposite, we must not allow this to put us out; otherwise we should be ascribing an authority to experience which it does not deserve, for all that it teaches rests upon a mere supposition. This is the general tendency of the Kantian Ethics. * * * * * Innocence is in its very nature stupid. It is stupid because the aim of life (I use the expression only figuratively, and I could just as well speak of the essence of life, or of the world) is to gain a knowledge of our own bad will, so that our will may become an object for us, and that we may undergo an inward conversion. Our body is itself our will objectified; it is one of the first and foremost of objects, and the deeds that we accomplish for the sake of the body show us the evil inherent in our will. In the state of innocence, where there is no evil because there is no experience, man is, as it were, only an apparatus for living, and the object for which the apparatus exists is not yet disclosed. An empty form of life like this, a stage untenanted, is in itself, like the so-called real world, null and void; and as it can attain a meaning only by action, by error, by knowledge, by the convulsions of the will, it wears a character of insipid stupidity. A golden age of innocence, a fools' paradise, is a notion that is stupid and unmeaning, and for that very reason in no way worthy of any respect. The first criminal and murderer, Cain, who acquired a knowledge of guilt, and through guilt acquired a knowledge of virtue by repentance, and so came to understand the meaning of life, is a tragical figure more significant, and almost more respectable, than all the innocent fools in the world put together. * * * * * If I had to write about _modesty_ I should say: I know the esteemed public for which I have the honour to write far too well to dare to give utterance to my opinion about this virtue. Personally I am quite content to be modest and to apply myself to this virtue with the utmost possible circumspection. But one thing I shall never admit--that I have ever required modesty of any man, and any statement to that effect I repel as a slander. The paltry character of most men compels the few who have any merit or genius to behave as though they did not know their own value, and consequently did not know other people's want of value; for it is only on this condition that the mob acquiesces in tolerating merit. A virtue has been made out of this necessity, and it is called modesty. It is a piece of hypocrisy, to be excused only because other people are so paltry that they must be treated with indulgence. * * * * * Human misery may affect us in two ways, and we may be in one of two opposite moods in regard to it. In one of them, this misery is immediately present to us. We feel it in our own person, in our own will which, imbued with violent desires, is everywhere broken, and this is the process which constitutes suffering. The result is that the will increases in violence, as is shown in all cases of passion and emotion; and this increasing violence comes to a stop only when the will turns and gives way to complete resignation, in other words, is redeemed. The man who is entirely dominated by this mood will regard any prosperity which he may see in others with envy, and any suffering with no sympathy. In the opposite mood human misery is present to us only as a fact of knowledge, that is to say, indirectly. We are mainly engaged in looking at the sufferings of others, and our attention is withdrawn from our own. It is in their person that we become aware of human misery; we are filled with sympathy; and the result of this mood is general benevolence, philanthropy. All envy vanishes, and instead of feeling it, we are rejoiced when we see one of our tormented fellow-creatures experience any pleasure or relief. After the same fashion we may be in one of two opposite moods in regard to human baseness and depravity. In the one we perceive this baseness indirectly, in others. Out of this mood arise indignation, hatred, and contempt of mankind. In the other we perceive it directly, in ourselves. Out of it there arises humiliation, nay, contrition. In order to judge the moral value of a man, it is very important to observe which of these four moods predominate in him. They go in pairs, one out of each division. In very excellent characters the second mood of each division will predominate. * * * * * The categorical imperative, or absolute command, is a contradiction. Every command is conditional. What is unconditional and necessary is a _must_, such as is presented by the laws of nature. It is quite true that the moral law is entirely conditional. There is a world and a view of life in which it has neither validity nor significance. That world is, properly speaking, the real world in which, as individuals, we live; for every regard paid to morality is a denial of that world and of our individual life in it. It is a view of the world, however, which does not go beyond the principle of sufficient reason; and the opposite view proceeds by the intuition of Ideas. * * * * * If a man is under the influence of two opposite but very strong motives, A and B, and I am greatly concerned that he should choose A, but still more that he should never be untrue to his choice, and by changing his mind betray me, or the like, it will not do for me to say anything that might hinder the motive B from having its full effect upon him, and only emphasise A; for then I should never be able to reckon on his decision. What I have to do is, rather, to put both motives before him at the same time, in as vivid and clear a way as possible, so that they may work upon him with their whole force. The choice that he then makes is the decision of his inmost nature, and stands firm to all eternity. In saying _I will do this_, he has said _I must do this_. I have got at his will, and I can rely upon its working as steadily as one of the forces of nature. It is as certain as fire kindles and water wets that he will act according to the motive which has proved to be stronger for him. Insight and knowledge may be attained and lost again; they may be changed, or improved, or destroyed; but will cannot be changed. That is why _I apprehend, I perceive, I see_, is subject to alteration and uncertainty; _I will_, pronounced on a right apprehension of motive, is as firm as nature itself. The difficulty, however, lies in getting at a right apprehension. A man's apprehension of motive may change, or be corrected or perverted; and on the other hand, his circumstances may undergo an alteration. * * * * * A man should exercise an almost boundless toleration and placability, because if he is capricious enough to refuse to forgive a single individual for the meanness or evil that lies at his door, it is doing the rest of the world a quite unmerited honour. But at the same time the man who is every one's friend is no one's friend. It is quite obvious what sort of friendship it is which we hold out to the human race, and to which it is open to almost every man to return, no matter what he may have done. * * * * * With the ancients _friendship_ was one of the chief elements in morality. But friendship is only limitation and partiality; it is the restriction to one individual of what is the due of all mankind, namely, the recognition that a man's own nature and that of mankind are identical. At most it is a compromise between this recognition and selfishness. * * * * * A lie always has its origin in the desire to extend the dominion of one's own will over other individuals, and to deny their will in order the better to affirm one's own. Consequently a lie is in its very nature the product of injustice, malevolence and villainy. That is why truth, sincerity, candour and rectitude are at once recognised and valued as praiseworthy and noble qualities; because we presume that the man who exhibits them entertains no sentiments of injustice or malice, and therefore stands in no need of concealing such sentiments. He who is open cherishes nothing that is bad. * * * * * There is a certain kind of courage which springs from the same source as good-nature. What I mean is that the good-natured man is almost as clearly conscious that he exists in other individuals as in himself. I have often shown how this feeling gives rise to good-nature. It also gives rise to courage, for the simple reason that the man who possesses this feeling cares less for his own individual existence, as he lives almost as much in the general existence of all creatures. Accordingly he is little concerned for his own life and its belongings. This is by no means the sole source of courage for it is a phenomenon due to various causes. But it is the noblest kind of courage, as is shown by the fact that in its origin it is associated with great gentleness and patience. Men of this kind are usually irresistible to women. * * * * * All general rules and precepts fail, because they proceed from the false assumption that men are constituted wholly, or almost wholly, alike; an assumption which the philosophy of Helvetius expressly makes. Whereas the truth is that the original difference between individuals in intellect and morality is immeasurable. * * * * * The question as to whether morality is something real is the question whether a well-grounded counter-principle to egoism actually exists. As egoism restricts concern for welfare to a single individual, _viz_., the man's own self, the counter-principle would have to extend it to all other individuals. * * * * * It is only because the will is above and beyond time that the stings of conscience are ineradicable, and do not, like other pains, gradually wear away. No! an evil deed weighs on the conscience years afterwards as heavily as if it had been freshly committed. * * * * * Character is innate, and conduct is merely its manifestation; the occasion for great misdeeds comes seldom; strong counter-motives keep us back; our disposition is revealed to ourselves by our desires, thoughts, emotions, when it remains unknown to others. Reflecting on all this, we might suppose it possible for a man to possess, in some sort, an innate evil conscience, without ever having done anything very bad. * * * * * _Don't do to others what you wouldn't like done to yourself_. This is, perhaps, one of those arguments that prove, or rather ask, too much. For a prisoner might address it to a judge. * * * * * Stupid people are generally malicious, for the very same reason as the ugly and the deformed. Similarly, genius and sanctity are akin. However simple-minded a saint may be, he will nevertheless have a dash of genius in him; and however many errors of temperament, or of actual character, a genius may possess, he will still exhibit a certain nobility of disposition by which he shows his kinship with the saint. * * * * * The great difference between Law without and Law within, between the State and the Kingdom of God, is very clear. It is the State's business to see that _every one should have justice done to him_; it regards men as passive beings, and therefore takes no account of anything but their actions. The Moral Law, on the other hand, is concerned that _every one should do justice_; it regards men as active, and looks to the will rather than the deed. To prove that this is the true distinction let the reader consider what would happen if he were to say, conversely, that it is the State's business that every one should do justice, and the business of the Moral Law that every one should have justice done to him. The absurdity is obvious. As an example of the distinction, let me take the case of a debtor and a creditor disputing about a debt which the former denies. A lawyer and a moralist are present, and show a lively interest in the matter. Both desire that the dispute should end in the same way, although what they want is by no means the same. The lawyer says, _I want this man to get back what belongs to him_; and the moralist, _I want that man to do his duty_. It is with the will alone that morality is concerned. Whether external force hinders or fails to hinder the will from working does not in the least matter. For morality the external world is real only in so far as it is able or unable to lead and influence the will. As soon as the will is determined, that is, as soon as a resolve is taken, the external world and its events are of no further moment and practical do not exist. For if the events of the world had any such reality--that is to say, if they possessed a significance in themselves, or any other than that derived from the will which is affected by them--what a grievance it would be that all these events lie in the realm of chance and error! It is, however, just this which proves that the important thing is not what happens, but what is willed. Accordingly, let the incidents of life be left to the play of chance and error, to demonstrate to man that he is as chaff before the wind. The State concerns itself only with the incidents--with what happens; nothing else has any reality for it. I may dwell upon thoughts of murder and poison as much as I please: the State does not forbid me, so long as the axe and rope control my will, and prevent it from becoming action. Ethics asks: What are the duties towards others which justice imposes upon us? in other words, What must I render? The Law of Nature asks: What need I not submit to from others? that is, What must I suffer? The question is put, not that I may do no injustice, but that I may not do more than every man must do if he is to safeguard his existence, and than every man will approve being done, in order that he may be treated in the same way himself; and, further, that I may not do more than society will permit me to do. The same answer will serve for both questions, just as the same straight line can be drawn from either of two opposite directions, namely, by opposing forces; or, again, as the angle can give the sine, or the sine the angle. It has been said that the historian is an inverted prophet. In the same way it may be said that a teacher of law is an inverted moralist (_viz_., a teacher of the duties of justice), or that politics are inverted ethics, if we exclude the thought that ethics also teaches the duty of benevolence, magnanimity, love, and so on. The State is the Gordian knot that is cut instead of being untied; it is Columbus' egg which is made to stand by being broken instead of balanced, as though the business in question were to make it stand rather than to balance it. In this respect the State is like the man who thinks that he can produce fine weather by making the barometer go up. * * * * * The pseudo-philosophers of our age tell us that it is the object of the State to promote the moral aims of mankind. This is not true; it is rather the contrary which is true. The aim for which mankind exists--the expression is parabolic--is not that a man should act in such and such a manner; for all _opera operata_, things that have actually been done, are in themselves matters of indifference. No! the aim is that the Will, of which every man is a complete specimen--nay, is the very Will itself--should turn whither it needs to turn; that the man himself (the union of Thought and Will) should perceive what this will is, and what horrors it contains; that he should show the reflection of himself in his own deeds, in the abomination of them. The State, which is wholly concerned with the general welfare, checks the manifestation of the bad will, but in no wise checks the will itself; the attempt would be impossible. It is because the State checks the manifestation of his will that a man very seldom sees the whole abomination of his nature in the mirror of his deeds. Or does the reader actually suppose there are no people in the world as bad as Robespierre, Napoleon, or other murderers? Does he fail to see that there are many who would act like them if only they could? Many a criminal dies more quietly on the scaffold than many a non-criminal in the arms of his family. The one has perceived what his will is and has discarded it. The other has not been able to discard it, because he has never been able to perceive what it is. The aim of the State is to produce a fool's paradise, and this is in direct conflict with the true aim of life, namely, to attain a knowledge of what the will, in its horrible nature, really is. * * * * * Napoleon was not really worse than many, not to say most, men. He was possessed of the very ordinary egoism that seeks its welfare at the expense of others. What distinguished him was merely the greater power he had of satisfying his will, and greater intelligence, reason and courage; added to which, chance gave him a favourable scope for his operations. By means of all this he did for his egoism what a thousand other men would like to do for theirs, but cannot. Every feeble lad who by little acts of villainy gains a small advantage for himself by putting others to some disadvantage, although it may be equally small, is just as bad as Napoleon. Those who fancy that retribution comes after death would demand that Napoleon should by unutterable torments pay the penalty for all the numberless calamities that he caused. But he is no more culpable than all those who possess the same will, unaccompanied by the same power. The circumstance that in his case this extraordinary power was added allowed him to reveal the whole wickedness of the human will; and the sufferings of his age, as the necessary obverse of the medal, reveal the misery which is inextricably bound up with this bad will. It is the general manipulation of this will that constitutes the world. But it is precisely that it should be understood how inextricably the will to live is bound up with, and is really one and the same as, this unspeakable misery, that is the world's aim and purpose; and it is an aim and purpose which the appearance of Napoleon did much to assist. Not to be an unmeaning fools' paradise but a tragedy, in which the will to live understands itself and yields--that is the object for which the world exists. Napoleon is only an enormous mirror of the will to live. The difference between the man who causes suffering and the man who suffers it, is only phenomenal. It is all a will to live, identical with great suffering; and it is only by understanding this that the will can mend and end. * * * * * What chiefly distinguishes ancient from modern times is that in ancient times, to use Napoleon's expression, it was affairs that reigned: _les paroles aux choses_. In modern times this is not so. What I mean is that in ancient times the character of public life, of the State, and of Religion, as well as of private life, was a strenuous affirmation of the will to live. In modern times it is a denial of this will, for such is the character of Christianity. But now while on the one hand that denial has suffered some abatement even in public opinion, because it is too repugnant to human character, on the other what is publicly denied is secretly affirmed. Hence it is that we see half measures and falsehood everywhere; and that is why modern times look so small beside antiquity. * * * * * The structure of human society is like a pendulum swinging between two impulses, two evils in polar opposition, _despotism_ and _anarchy_. The further it gets from the one, the nearer it approaches the other. From this the reader might hit on the thought that if it were exactly midway between the two, it would be right. Far from it. For these two evils are by no means equally bad and dangerous. The former is incomparably less to be feared; its ills exist in the main only as possibilities, and if they come at all it is only one among millions that they touch. But, with anarchy, possibility and actuality are inseparable; its blows fall on every man every day. Therefore every constitution should be a nearer approach to a despotism than to anarchy; nay, it must contain a small possibility of despotism.
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AUGUST, 1860*** E-text prepared by Joshua Hutchinson, Tonya Allen, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. VOL. VI.--AUGUST, 1860.--NO. XXXIV. THE CARNIVAL OF THE ROMANTIC. Whither went the nine old Muses, daughters of Jupiter and the Goddess of Memory, after their seats on Helicon, Parnassus, and Olympus were barbarized? Not far away. They hovered like witches around the seething caldron of early Christian Europe, in which, "with bubble, bubble, toil and trouble," a new civilization was forming, mindful of the brilliant lineage of their worshippers, from Homer to Boethius, looking upon the vexed and beclouded Nature, and expecting the time when Humanity should gird itself anew with the beauty of ideas and institutions. They were sorrowful, but not in despair; for they knew that the children of men were strong with recuperative power. The ear of Fancy, not long since, heard the hoofs of winged Pegasus striking the clouds. The long-idle Muses, it seemed, had become again interested in human efforts, and were paying a flying visit to the haunts of modern genius from the Hellespont to the Mississippi. They lingered in sunny Provence, and in the dark forest-land of the Minnesingers. In the great capitals, as Rome, Berlin, Paris, London,--in smaller capitals, as Florence, Weimar, and Boston,--in many a village which had a charm for them, as Stratford-on-Avon, Ferney, and Concord in Massachusetts,--in the homes of wonderful suffering, as Ferrara and Haworth.--on many enchanted waters, as the Guadalquivir, the Rhine, the Tweed, the Hudson, Windermere, and Leman,--in many a monastic nook whence had issued a chronicle or history, in many a wild birthplace of a poem or romance, around many an old castle and stately ruin, in many a decayed seat of revelry and joyous repartee,--through the long list of the nurseries of genius and the laboratories of art, they wandered pensive and strangely affected. At length they rested from their journey to hold a council on modern literature. The long results of Christian time were unrolled before them as in a chart. They beheld the dawn of a new historic day, marked by songs of fantastic tenderness, and unwieldy, long, and jointless romances and poems, like the monsters which played in the unfinished universe before the creation of man. The Muses smiled with a look more of complaisance than approval, as they reviewed the army of Troubadours and Minnesingers and the crowd of romancers who followed in their train. They decided that the joyous array of early mediaeval literature was full of promise, though something of its tone and temper was past the comprehension of pagan goddesses. The legends of saints and pictures of martyrdoms were especially mysterious to them, and they regarded them raptly, not smilingly, and bowed their heads. Anon their eyes rested on an Italian city, where uprose, as if in interstellar space, an erect figure, with a piercing eye, pleasant as Plato's voice. His countenance was fixed upon the empyrean, and a more than Minerva-like form hovered above him, interpreting the Christian universe; and as he wrote what she dictated, the verses of his poem were musical even to the Muses. Dante, Beatrice, and the "Divine Comedy," with a Gothic church as a make-weight, were balanced in Muses' minds in comparison with the "Iliad" and the age of Pericles; and again they put on the rapt look of mystery, but a smile also, and their admiration and applause were more and more. To England they soon turned, and contemplated the round, many- globe of Shakspeare's works. As playful swallows sometimes dart round and round a lithe and wondering wingless animal, so they, admiringly and timidly, attracted, yet hesitating, delighting in his alertness, but not quite understanding it, flitted like a troubled and beautiful flock around the great magician of modern civilization. Their glance became lighter and less intent, as if they were nearer to knowledge, the pain of perplexity disappeared like a shadow from their countenances, their plaudits were more unreserved, and it seemed likely that the high desert of Shakspeare would win for our new literature a favorable recognition from the aristocratic goddesses of antiquity. Knowing that Jove had made perfection unattainable by mortals, they yet found in the chart before them epics, dramas, lyrics, histories, and philosophies that were no unworthy companions to the creations of classical genius, and they were jubilant in the triumphs of a period in which they had been rather ignorantly and ironically worshipped. Their sitting was long, and their review thorough, yet they found but one department of modern literature which was regarded with a distrust that grew to an aversion. The romances, the tales, the stories, the novels were contemned more and more, from the first of them to the last. Nothing like them had been known among the glories of Hellenic literary art, and no Muse now stood forth to be their defender and patron. Calliope declared that they were not epical, Euterpe and Erato that they were not lyrical, Melpomene and Thalia that they were neither tragical nor comical, Clio that they were not historical, Urania that they were not sublime in conception, Polymnia that they had no stately or simple charm in execution, and Terpsichore, who had joined with Melpomene in admiring the opera, found nothing in the novel which she could own and bless. Fleeting passages, remote and slight fragments, were pleasing to them all, like the oases of a Sahara, or the sites of high civilization on the earth; but the whole world of novels seemed to them a chaos undisciplined by art and unformed to beauty. The gates of the halls where the classics live in immortal youth were beginning to close against the voluminous prose romances that have sprung from modern thought, when the deliberations of the Muses were suddenly interrupted. They had disturbed the divine elements of modern society. Forth from all the recesses of the air came troops of Gothic elves, trolls, fairies, sprites, and all the other romantic beings which had inspired the modern mind to novel-writing,--marching or gambolling, pride in their port, defiance in their eye, mischief in their purpose,--and began so vigorous an attack upon their classic visitors and critics, that the latter were glad to betake themselves to the mighty-winged Pegasus, who rapidly bore them in retreat to the present home of the _Dii Majores_, that point of the empyrean directly above Olympus. And well, indeed, might the Muses wonder at the rise of the novel and its vast developments, for the classic literature presents no similar works. One of Plato's dialogues or Aesop's fables is as near an approach to a prose romance as antiquity in its golden eras can offer. The few productions of the kind which appeared during the decline of literature in the early Christian centuries, as the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius and the "AEthiopica" of Heliodorus, were freaks of Nature, an odd growth rather than a distinct species, and are also to be contrasted rather than compared with the later novel. Such as they are, moreover, they were produced under Christian as much as classic influences. The aesthetic Hellenes admitted into their literature nothing so composite, so likely to be crude, as the romance. Their styles of art were all pure, their taste delighted in simplicity and unity, and they strictly forbade a medley, alike in architecture, sculpture, and letters. The history of their development opens with an epic yet unsurpassed, and their literary creations have been adopted to be the humanities of Christian universities. A writer has recently proposed to account for their success in the arts from the circumstance that the features of Nature around them were small,--that their hornet-shaped peninsula was cut by mountains and inlets of the sea into minute portions, which the mind could easily compass, the foot measure, and the hand improve,--that therefore every hillock and fountain, every forest and by-way was peopled with mythological characters and made significant with traditions, and the cities were adorned with architectural and sculptured masterpieces. Greece thus, like England in our own time, presented the character of a highly wrought piece of ground,--England being the more completely developed for material uses, and Greece being the more heavily freighted with legends of ideal meaning. Small-featured and large-minded Greece is thus set in contrast with Asia, where the mind and body were equally palsied in the effort to overcome immense plains and interminable mountain-chains. But whatever the reason, whether geographical or ethnological, it is certain that the people of Greece were endowed with a transcendent genius for art, which embraced all departments of life as by an instinct. Every divinity was made a plain figure to the mind, every mystery was symbolized in some positive beautiful myth, and every conception of whatever object became statuesque and clear. This artistic character was possible to them from the comparatively limited range of pagan imagination; their thought rarely dwelt in those regions where reason loves to ask the aid of mysticism, and all remote ideas, like all remote nations, were indiscriminately regarded by them as barbarous. But guarded by the bounds of their civilization, as by the circumfluent ocean-stream of their olden tradition, they were prompted in all their movements by the spirit of beauty, and philosophers have accounted them the very people whose ideas were adequately and harmoniously represented in sensible forms,--unlike the nations of the Orient, where mind is overawed by preponderating matter, and unlike the nations of Christendom, where the current spiritual meanings reach far into the shadowy realm of mystery and transcend the power of material expression. Thus art was the main category of the Greeks, the absolute form which embraced all their finite forms. It moulded their literature, as it did their sculpture, architecture, and the action of their gymnasts and orators. They therefore delighted only in the highest orders and purest specimens of literature, refused to retain in remembrance any of the unsuccessful attempts at poetry which may be supposed to have preceded Homer, and gave their homage only to masterpieces in the dignified styles of the epic, the drama, the lyric, the history, or the philosophical discussion. Equal to the highest creations, they refused to tolerate anything lower; and they knew not the novel, because their poetical notions were never left in a nebulous, prosaic state, but were always developed into poetry. Another reason, doubtless, was the wonderful activity of the Greek mind, finding its amusement and relaxation in the forum, theatre, gymnasium, or even the barber's shop, in constant mutual contact, in learning wisdom and news by word of mouth. The long stories which they may have told to each other, as an outlet for their natural vitality, as extemporaneous exercises of curiosity and wit and fancy, did not creep into their literature, which included only more mature and elaborate attempts. The modern novel was born of Christianity and feudalism. It is the child of contemplation,--of that sort of luxurious intellectual mood which has always distinguished the Oriental character, and was first Europeanized in the twilight of the mediaeval period. The fallen Roman Empire was broken into countless fragments, which became feudal baronies. The heads of the newly organized society were lordly occupants of castles, who in time of peace had little to do. They were isolated from their neighbors by acres, forests, and a stately etiquette, if not actual hostility. There was no open-air theatre in the vicinity, no forum alive with gossip and harangues, no public games, not even a loquacious barber's shop. During the intervals between public or private wars,--when the Turks were unmolested, the crescent and the dragon left in harmless composure, and no Christians were in mortal turmoil with each other,--it is little wonder that restless knights went forth from their loneliness errant in quest of adventures. What was there to occupy life in those barricaded stone-towers? It was then that the domestic passion, love, rose into dignity. Homage to woman assumed the potency of an idea, chivalry arose, and its truth, honor, and obeisance were the first social responses from mankind to Christianity. The castle was the emblem and central figure of the time: it was the seat of power, the arena of manners, the nursery of love, and the goal of gallantry; and around it hovered the shadows of religion, loyalty, heroism. Domestic events, the private castellar life, were thus exalted; but they could hardly suffice to engross and satisfy the spirit of a warrior and crusader. A new diversion and excitement were demanded, and soon, in response to the call, minstrels began to roam from castle to castle, from court to court, telling long stories of heroism and singing light songs of love. A spark from the Saracenic schools and poets of Spain may have flitted into Provence to kindle the elements of modern literature into its first development, the songs of the Troubadours. Almost contemporary were the lays of the Minnesingers in Germany and the romances of the Trouveres in Northern France. Beneath the brooding spirit of a new civilization signs of life had at length appeared, and Europe became vocal in every part with fantastic poems, lyrical in the South, epical in the North. They were wildly exuberant products, because severe art was unknown, but simple, _naive_, and gay, and suited to the taste of a time when the classics were regarded as superstitiously as the heavens. Love and heroism, which somehow are the leading themes of literature in all ages, now assumed the chivalric type in the light hands of the earliest modern poets. Yet these songs and metrical romances were most inadequate representatives of the undeveloped principles which lay at the root of Christian civilization. Even Hellenic genius might here have been at fault, for it was a far harder task to give harmonious and complete expression to the tendencies of a new religion and the germs of new systems, than to frame into beauty the pagan clear-cut conceptions. The Christian mind awoke under a fascination, and, for a time, could only ejaculate its meanings in fragments, or hint them in vast disproportions, could only sing snatches of new tunes. Its first signs were gasps, rather than clear-toned notes, after the long perturbations and preparations of history. The North and the South, the East and the West had been mingled together; the heated and heaving mass had been tempered by the leaven of Christianity:--and had all this been done only to produce an octo-syllabic metre in praise of fantastic and semi- barbaric sentiments and exploits? Had there been such commotions of the universe only for a song? Surely these first creations of art, these first attempts at literature, these first carvings of a rude spiritual intensity, were only such as the Greeks may have forgotten any quantity of before Homer came, their first glory and their oldest reminiscence. One reason, perhaps, why mediaeval literature assumed so light and unartistic a form was, that by necessity it could not be full-orbed. Religion could not enter into it as a plastic element, but was fixed, a veiled, external figure, radiating indeed color and fragrance, but not making one of the struggling, independent vitals of the heart. Literature could play about this figure, but could not grasp it, and take it in among the materials to be fashioned. The Church, through its clergy, held jealous command of divine knowledge, beneath divine guidance, and left no developments of it possible to the lay mind, which culminated in minstrels and romancers. The Greeks, on the contrary, whose religion was an apotheosis of the earth, framed upwards and only by fiction of fancy handed downwards, derived all their theology from the poets. Prophecy and taste were combined in Homer,--Isaiah and the king's jester in Pindar. The care of the highest, not less than the lowest departments of thought, fell upon the creative author, and a happy suggestion became a new article in the Hellenic creed. His composition thus bore the burden and was hallowed by the sanctity of piety, the key to every human perfect thing. But the Provencal celebrators of love and chivalry had no such dignity in their task. The solemnities of thought and life were cared for and hedged about by the Church as its own peculiar treasure, and to them there remained only the lighter office of amusing. The age was eminently religious, but the poet could not aid in erecting and adorning its temples. Every fair work of art must have a central idea; but the proper principle of unity for all grand artistic efforts not being within the reach of authors, it followed that their productions were not symmetrical, did not have an even outline nor cosmical meaning, did not consist of balanced parts, were poorly framed and articulated, and were charming only by their flavor, and not by their form. The cultured intellect will not seriously work short of a final principle; and if a materialized religion, an ecclesiastical structure, be firmly planted on the earth by the same hand that established the universe and tapestried it with morning and evening, and if its gates and archways, its altar, columns, and courts be given in trust to chosen stewards as a divine priesthood, then the highest problem of being is not a human problem, and the mind of the laity has nothing more important to do than to play with the flowers of gallant love and heroism. Such was the feeling, perhaps the unconscious reasoning, of the founders of modern literature, as they began their labors in the alcoves of that church architecture which covered Christendom, embracing and symbolically expressing all its ideas and institutes. Therefore some vice of imperfection, a character of frivolity, or an artificially serious treatment of lightsome subjects marked all the literature of the time, which resembled that grotesque and unaccountable mathematical figure that has its centre outside of itself. Modern literature thus had its origin in romantic metrical pieces, which, in the next stage, were transformed into prose novels. Two circumstances contributed to this change,--a change which could not have been anticipated; for the Trouvere _fabliaux_ and _romans_ promised only epics, and the Troubadour _chansons_ and _tensons_ promised only lyrics and dramas. But the mind was now obliged to traverse the unbeaten paths of the Christian universe; it was overwhelmed by the extent of its range, the richness and delicacy of its materials; it could with difficulty poise itself amid the indefinite heights and depths which encompassed it, and with greater difficulty could wield the magician's rod which should sway the driving elements into artistic reconstruction. This mental inadequacy alone would not have created the novel, but would only have made lyrics and epics rare, the works of superior minds. The second and cooperating circumstance was the prevalence of the Christian and feudal habit of contemplation, which made constant literature a necessity. Nothing less than eternal new romances could save the lords, the ladies, and the dependents from _ennui_. But to supply these in a style of proper and antique dignity was beyond the power of the poets. In the wild forests of the mind they could rarely capture a mature idea, and they were as yet unpractised artists. Yet contemplative leisure called eagerly for constant titbits of romance to tickle the palate and furnish a diversion, while the genius of Christian poetry was yet in infantile weakness. The dilemma lasted but a moment, and was solved by an heroic effort of the poets to do, not what they would, but what they could. Yielding to practical necessities, they renounced the traditions of the classical past, which now seemed to belong to another hemisphere, abandoned the attempt to realize pure forms, postponed high art; melody gave way to prose, the romance degenerated into the novel, and prose fiction, which erst had flitted only between the tongue and ear, entered, a straggling and reeling constellation, into the firmament of literature. Hence the novel is the child of human impotency and despair. The race thereby, with merriment and jubilee, confessed its inability to fulfil at once its Christian destiny as completely as the Greeks had fulfilled their pagan possibilities. Purity of art was left to the future, to Providence, or to great geniuses, but the novel became popular. Thus the modern novel had its genesis not merely in a contemplative mood, but in contemplation which was forced by the impetuous temper of the times to fail of ever reaching the dignity of thoughtfulness. It was the immature product of an immature mental state; and richly as sometimes it was endowed by every human faculty, by imagination, wit, taste, or even profound thought, it yet never reached the goal of thought, never solved a problem, and, in its highest examples, professed only to reveal, but not to guide, the reigning manners and customs. Rarely did its materials pass through the fiery furnace whence art issues; it was a work of unfaithful intellect, prompted by ideas which never culminated and were never realized; and it did not rise much above the "stuffs" of life, as distinguished from the organic creations of the mind. A many-limbed and shambling creature, which was not made a spirit by the power of an idea, it fluttered amid all the culture of a people,--amid the ideas and modes of the state, the church, the family, the world of society,--like a bungler among paint-pots; but the paints still remained paints on the canvas, instead of being blended and transfigured into a thing of beauty. It was the organ of society, but not of the essential truths which vitalize society, and its incidents did not rise much above the significance of accidents. What the novel was in knightly days, that it has continued to be. There is a mysterious practical potency in precedent. All ideas and institutes seem to grow in the direction of their first steps, as if from germs. Thus, the doctrines of the Church fathers are still peculiarly authoritative in theology, and the immemorial traditions of the common law are still binding in civil life. Man seems to be an experimental far more than a freely rational animal; for a fact in the past exerts a greater influence in determining future action than any new idea. A revolution must strike deep to eradicate the presumption in favor of ages. Learned men are now trying to read the hieroglyphics of the East, the records of an unknown history. Perhaps the result of their labors will temper the next period in the course of the world more than all our thinkers. Destiny seems to travel in the harness of precedents. Thus, in obedience to the law of precedent, the mild gambols, the _naive_ superficiality, the child-like irresponsibility for thinking, which were the characteristics of the first European novels, have generally distinguished the unnumbered and unclassified broods of them which have abounded in subsequent literature. Designed chiefly to amuse, to divert for a moment rather than to present an admirable work of art, to interest rather than to instruct and elevate, the modern romance has in general excused itself from thorough elaboration. Instead of being a chastened and symmetrical product of the whole organic mind, it has mainly been inspired by the imagination, which has been called the fool in the family of the faculties, and wrought out by the assistance of memory, which mechanically links the mad suggestions of its partner with temporal events. It is in literature something like what a feast presided over by the king's jester and steward would have been in mediaeval social life. Let any novel be finished, let all the resources of the mind be conscientiously expended on it, let it become a thorough intellectual creation, and, instead of remaining a novel, it would assume the dignity of an epic, lyric, drama, philosophy, or history. Its nebulae would be resolved into stars. Has, then, the mild and favorite blossom, the _fabula romanensis_, which was so abundant in the Middle Ages, which has grown so luxuriantly and given so general delight in modern times,--has it no place in the natural history of literature? Shall it be mentioned only as an uncompleted something else,--as an abortive effort of thought,--as a crude _melange_ of elements that have not been purified and fused together in the focus of the mind? And were the Muses right in refusing to admit it into their sacred realm of art? An affirmative answer can hardly be true; for an absurdity appears in the reduction that it would cause in the quantity of our veritable literature, and in the condemnation that it would pass on the tastes of many most intelligent writers and readers. Yet a comparison of the novel with the classical and pure forms of literature will show its unlikeness to them in design, dignity, and essential quality. It was a favorite thesis of Fielding, often repeated by his successors, that the novel is a sort of comic epopee. Yet the romantic and the epic styles have nothing in common, except that both are narrative. The epic, the rare and lofty cypress of literature, is the story of a nation and a civilization; the novel, of a neighborhood and a generation. A thousand years culminate in the former; it sums up the burden and purpose of a long historical period; and its characters are prominent types in universal history and in highest thought. But the novel is the child of a day; it is the organ of manners and phases, not of principles and passions; it does not see the phenomena of earth in heavenly or logical relations, does not transform life into art, and is a panorama, but not a picture. So long as man and heroism and strife endure, shall Achilles, Godfrey, Satan, and Mephistopheles be types; for they are artistic expressions of essential and historical realities. But though the beck of curiosity lead us through the labyrinthine plot of a novel, long as Gibbon's way through the Dark Ages, yet, when we have finished it, the bubble collapses, the little heavens which had been framed about us roll away, and most rarely does a character remain poetically significant in the mind. A contrast of any page of an epic with one of a romance will show their essential unlikeness. Note, for instance, the beginning of the "Gerusalemme Liberata." The first stanza presents "the illustrious captain who warred for Heaven and saved the sepulchre of Christ,--the many deeds which he wrought by arms and by wisdom,--his great toil, and his glorious achievement. Hell opposed him, the mingled populations of Asia and Africa leagued against him,--but all in vain, for Heaven smiled, and guided the wandering bands beneath his sacred ensigns." Such are the splendid elements of the poem, outlining in a stanza the finest type, objects, and scenery of mediaeval heroism. The second stanza invokes the Muse,--"Not thou whose brow was wreathed with the unenduring bays of Helicon, but thou who in angelic choirs hast a golden crown set with immortal stars,--do thou breathe celestial ardor into the poet's heart!" Then follows an allusion to a profound matter of temper and experience. He prays that "the Muse will pardon, if sometimes he adorn his page with other charms than her own; for thus, perhaps, he may win the world to his higher meanings, shrouding severe truths in soft verses. As the rim of the bitter cup is sweetened which is extended to the sick child, so may he, by beauties not quite Christian, attract mankind to read his whole poem to their health." Such is the stately soaring of the epical Muse, the Muse of ideal history. Scholars find Greece completely prefigured in Homer, and the time may come when Dante and Tasso shall be the leading authorities for the history of the Middle Ages, and Milton for that of the ages of Protestantism. In such comparison novels are insignificant and imbecile. Though, like "Contarini Fleming," they may begin with a magnificent paragraph, and fine passages be scattered through the volumes, they are yet rarely stories of ideas as well as persons, rarely succeed in involving events of more than temporary interest, and rarely, perhaps, should be called great mental products. Not less strikingly does the difference between the epic and the novel appear in their different uses. The one is the inspiration of great historical action, the other of listless repose. The statesman, in the moment of debate, and in the dignity of conscious power, finds sympathy and encouragement in a passage of his favorite epic. Its grand types are ever in fellowship with high thoughts. The novel is for the lighter moment after the deed is done, when he is no longer brunting Fate, but reclining idly, and reflecting humorously or malignly on this life. The epic is closely and strongly framed, like the gladiator about to strike a blow: the novel is relaxed and at careless ease, like the club-man after lighting his pipe. The latter does not bear the burden of severe responsibility, but is a thing of holidays and reactions. Still, as of old, it answers to the contemplative castellar cry,--"Hail, romancer! come and divert me,--make me merry! I wish to be occupied, but not employed,--to muse passively, not actively. Therefore, hail! tell me a story,--sing me a song! If I were now in the van of an army and civilization, higher thoughts would engross me. But I am unstrung, and wish to be fanned, not helmeted." It has sometimes been claimed that the romantic style is essentially lyrical. But though the idea from which many novels start was perhaps the proper germ for one or more lyrics, it never attains in romance a pure and unincumbered development. We may illustrate the different intellectual creations founded on a common conception by imagining how one of Wordsworth's lyrical fancies might have been developed in three volumes of romance instead of three stanzas of poetry. "She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love." The first line, romantically treated, would include description, soliloquy, and narrative, to show that in solitude the maiden had habits, duties, something to think about and be interested in. The accidental approach of some cosmopolitan visitor would give occasion to illustrate dramatically the contrast between life in retirement and in society. Some novelists also would inflict, either by direct lecture or by conversation of the actors, very admirable reflections on the comparative advantages of the two conditions. The second line would perhaps suggest only geographical lore and descriptions of scenery, though historical episodes might be added. The third line would involve a minute description of dress, complexion, stature, and wild gracefulness. In a psychological investigation it would come out what strange and simple notions she entertained of the great world, and what charming qualities of unsophisticated character belonged to her as she merrily or pensively went through her accustomed tasks. The fourth line, in which love is the text, would swell into mammoth proportions. New characters would be especially necessary in this culminating part of the story; and though they should be "very few," they would long occupy the novelist with their diverse excellencies or villanies, their rivalries and strategies. It is probable that the complete development of the stanza _a la romance_ would give a circumstantial history of the maiden from her birth, with glimpses more or less clear of all the remarkable people who dwelt near or occasionally visited the springs of Dove. Thus the same conception would become a stanza or a volume, according as its treatment were lyrical or romantic. It need hardly be shown that the novel is not a drama, not a history, nor fable, nor any sort of philosophical treatise. It may have sentences, paragraphs, or perhaps chapters, in every style and of the highest excellence, as a shapeless architectural pile may rejoice in some exquisite features or ornaments; but combined passages, though they were the collected charms of literature, do not make a work of art. The styles are mixed,--a certain sign, according to Lessing, of corruption of taste. Novels present the anomaly of being fiction, but not poetry,--of being fruits of imagination, but of imagination improvising its creations from local and temporal things, instead of speaking from a sublime stand-point and linking series of facts with processions of ideas. Sources of history, guides of philosophical retrospection, they may come some time to be; yet one cannot check a feeling of pity for the future historian who, in searching the "Pickwick Papers" for antiquities, finds himself bothered and confused by all the undisciplined witches of Mr. Dickens's imagination. If the novel be thus excluded from all the classical orders of literature, a trembling question is suggested, whether it may not be nevertheless a legitimate work of art. Though it be a _melange_ of styles, a story told, in literature what the story-teller is in society, yet why should it not have the honor among readers which the story-teller in all ages has had among listeners? Though by its escutcheon it assume a place among the amusing rather than the instructive class of books, why should not its nobility be recognized? The answer is found in the essential nature of art, in the almost eternal distinction between life and thought, between actual and ideal realities. Unity amid diversity is the type of intellectual beauty and the law of the universe; to comprehend it is the goal of science, and to reproduce it in human works is the aim of art. Yet how hard it is to find the central and essential idea in a world of apparent accidents and delusions! to chase the real and divine thing as it plays among cheats and semblances! Hence the difficulty of thorough thought, of faithful intellectual performance, of artistic creation. To the thoughtless man life is merely the rough and monotonous exterior of the cameo-stone; but the artist sees through its strata, discerns its layers of many colors, and from its surface to its vital centre works them all together into varied beauty. To live is common; but art belongs only to the finest minds and the best moments. Life is a burden of present multitudinous phenomena; but art has the simple unity of perfect science, and is a goal and aspiration. Life comes by birth, art by thought, and the travail that produces art is ofttimes the severer. The fashions of life are bubbles on the surface, and pass away with the season; but the creations of art belong to the depths of the spiritual world, where they shine like stars and systems in the physical universe. Story-telling is the most charming of occupations, and, whatever its relation to literary art, it is one of the graces of the art of life. Old as the race, it has always been in fashion on the earth, the delight of every clime from the Orient to the Occident, and of every age from childhood to second childhood. We live in such a concatenation of things,--our hopes, fears, loves, hates, struggles, sympathies, defeats, and triumphs make such a medley, with a sort of divine fascination about it,--that we are always interested to hear how anybody has borne himself through whatever varieties of fortune. At the basis of every other character which can be assumed by man lie the conceiver and the teller of stories; story-telling is the _prima facie_ quality of an intelligent and sociable being leading a life full of events in a universe full of phenomena. The child believes the wonders of romance by a right instinct; narratives of love and peril and achievement come home to the spirit of the youth; and the mystical, wonder-expecting eye of childhood returns to old age. The humor, wit, piety, and pathos of every age abound in the written stories of its people and children. Yet between the vocal story and the story in literature there is an immense difference, like that between talking and writing, between life and art. The qualities which in the story-teller make even frivolity weighty and dulness significant--the play of the eye, the lips, the countenance, the voice, the whole sympathetic expression of the person--are wanting to the novel; it has passed from the realm of life to that of art; it loses the charm which personal relations give even to trifles; it must have the charm which the mind can lend only to its cherished offspring. Considered as a thing of literature, no other sort of book admits of such variety of topics, style, and treatment as the novel. As diverse in talent and quality as the story-teller himself,--now harlequin, now gossip, now threnodist,--with weird ghostliness, moping melancholy, uncouth laughter, or gentle serious smile,--now relating the story, with childlike interest in it, now with a good heart and now with a bad heart ridiculing mankind, now allegorical with rich meanings, now freighting the little story-cricket that creeps along from page to page with immense loads of science, history, politics, ethics, religion, criticism, and prophecy,--always regarded with kindness, always welcomed in idleness, always presenting in a simple way some spectacle of merriment or grief, as changeful as the seasons or the fashions,--with all its odd characteristics, the novel is remarkably popular, and not lightly to be esteemed as an element in our social and mental culture. There is probably no other class of books, with literary pretensions, that contain so little thinking, in proportion to their quantity of matter, as novels. They can scarcely be called organic productions, for they may be written and published in sections, like one of the lowest classes of animals, which have no organization, but live equally well in parts, and run off in opposite directions when cut in halves. Thoughts and books, like living creatures, have their grades, and it is only those which stand lowest in respect of intellectuality that admit of fractional existence. A finished work of the mind is so delicately adjusted and closely related, part to part, that a fracture would be fatal. Conceive of Phidias sending off from his studio at Athens his statue of Jupiter Olympius in monthly numbers,--despatching now the feet, now the legs, now the trunk, in successive pieces, now the shoulders, and at last crowning the whole with a head! The composition of novels must be reckoned, in design at least, one of the fine arts, but in fact they belong rather to periodical than to immortal literature. They do not submit to severity of treatment, abide by no critical laws, but are the gypsies and Bohemians of literature, bringing all the savagery of wild genius into the _salons_ of taste. Though tolerated, admired, and found to be interesting, they do not belong to the system of things, play no substantial part in the serious business of life, but, as the world moves on, give place to their successors, not having developed any principle, presented any picture, or stated any fact, in a way to suggest ideas more than social phenomena. They are not permanent, therefore, because finally only ideas, and not facts, are generally remembered; the past is known to us more, and exclusively as it becomes remote, by the conceptions of poets and philosophic historians, the myriads of events which occupied a generation being forgotten, and all the pith and meaning of them being transmitted in a stanza or a chapter. Poetry never grows old, and whatsoever masterpieces of thought always win the admiration of the enlightened; but many a novel that has been the lion of a season passes at once away, never more to be heard of here. With few exceptions, the splendid popularity that greets the best novels fades away in time slowly or rapidly. A half-century is a fatal trial for the majority; few are revived, and almost none are read, after a century; will anybody but the most curious antiquary be interested in them after one or two thousand years? Without delaying to give the full rationale of exceptions which vex this like every other general remark, it may be added briefly that fairy stories are in their nature fantastic mythological poems, most proper to the heroic age of childhood, that historical romances may be in essence and dignity fantastic histories or epics, and that, from whatever point of view, Cervantes remains hardly less admirable than Ariosto, or the "Bride of Lammermoor" than the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." In the mental as in the physical world, art, diamonds and gems come by long elaboration. A thoughtless man may write perennially, while the result of silent meditation and a long tortured soul may be expressed in a minute. The work of the former is akin to conversation, one of the fugitive pleasures of a day; that of the latter will, perchance, be a star in the firmament of the mind. Eugene Sue and Beranger both wished to communicate their reflections on society. The former dissipated his energies in the _salons_, was wise and amusing over wine, exchanged learning and jests, studied the drawing-room as if it were the macrocosm, returned to his chamber, put on kid gloves, and from the odds and ends of his dishevelled wits wrote at a gallop, without ever looking back, his "Mysteres de Paris." The latter lived in an attic year after year, contemplated with cheerful anxiety the volatile world of France and the perplexed life of man, and elaborated word by word, with innumerable revisions, his short songs, which are gems of poetry, charming at once the ear and the heart. Novels are perhaps too easily written to be of lasting value. An unpremeditated word, in which the thoughts of years are exploded, may be one of the most admirable of intellectual phenomena, but an unpremeditated volume can only be a demonstration of human weakness. The argument thus far has been in favor of the Muses. Hellenic taste and the principles of high art ratify the condemnation passed on the novel by the aesthetic goddesses. A wider view, however, will annul the sentence, giving in its stead a warning and a lesson. If the prose romance be not Hellenic, it is nevertheless humane, and has been in honor almost universally throughout the Orient and the Occident. Its absence from the classical literature was a marvel and exception, a phenomenon of the clearest-minded and most active of races, who thought, but did not contemplate,--whose ideal world consisted only of simple, but stately legends of bright-limbed gods and heroes. A felicitous production of high art, also, is among the rarest of exceptions, and will be till the Millennium. Myriads of comparative failures follow in the suite of a masterpiece. We have, therefore, judged the novel by an impracticable standard, by a comparison with the highest aims rather than the usual attainments of other branches of literary art. Human weakness makes poetry, philosophy, and history imperfect in execution, though they aspire to absolute beauty and truth; human weakness suggested the novel, which is imperfect in design, written as an amusement and relief, in despair of sounding the universe. A novel is in its nature and as a matter of necessity an artistic failure; it pretends to nothing higher; but under the slack laws which govern its composition, multitudes of fine and suggestive characters, incidents, and sayings may be smuggled into it, contrary to all the usages and rules of civilized literature. Hence the secret of its popularity, that it is the organ of average as distinguished from highest thought. Science and art are the goals of destiny, but rarely is there a thinker or writer who has an eye single to them. It is an heroic, self-sacrificing, and small platoon which in every age brunts Fate, and, fighting on the shadowy frontier, makes conquests from the realm of darkness. Their ideas are passed back from hand to hand, and become known in fragments and potent as tendencies among the mass of the race, who live in the circle of the attained and travel in the routine of ages. The novelist is one of the number who half comprehend them, and borrows them from all quarters to introduce into the rich _melange_ of his work. To solve a social problem, to reproduce an historical age or character, or to develop the truth and poetry latent in any event, is difficult, and not many will either lead or follow a severe attempt; but the novelist will merrily chronicle his story and link with it in a thousand ways some salient reminiscences of life and thought. What, then, is the highest excellence that the novel can attain? It is the carnival of literary art. It deals sympathetically and humorously, not philosophically and strictly, with the panorama and the principles of life. A transcript, but not a transfiguration of Nature, it assumes a thousand forms, surpassing all other books in the immense latitude left to the writer, in the wild variety of things which it may touch, but need not grasp. Its elements are the forests, the cities, and the seven ages of man,--characters and fortunes how diversified! All species of thinkers and actors, of ideas and passions, all the labyrinthine complications and scenery of existence, may be illustrated in persons or introduced by-the-by; into whatever colors make up the phantasmagoria of collective humanity the novelist may dip his brush, in painting his moving picture. Yet problems need not be fully appreciated, nor characters or actions profoundly understood. It must be an engrossing story, but the theme and treatment are as lawless as the conversation of an evening party. The mind plays through all the realm of its knowledge and experience, and sheds sparks from all the torches of thought, as scenes and topics succeed each other. The pure forms of literature may be reminiscences present to the imagination, the germs of new truths and social arrangements may occupy the reason; but the novelist is neither practical, nor philosophical, nor artistic; he is simply in a dream; and pictures of the world and fragments of old ideas pass before him, as the sacred meanings of religion flitted about the populace in a grotesque mediaeval festival of the Church. Conceive the stars dropped from their place in the apparent heavens, and playing at shuttlecock with each other and with boys, and having a heyday of careless joyousness here below, instead of remaining in sublime dignity to guide and inspire men who look up to them by night! Even such are the epic, the lyric, the drama, the history, and the philosophy, as collected together in the revelries of the novel. To state the degree of excellence possible to a style as perverse as it is entertaining, to measure the wisdom of essential folly, is difficult; and yet it may be said that the strength of the novel is in its lawlessness, which leaves the author of genius free to introduce his creations just as they occur to him, and the author of talent free to range through all books and all time and reproduce brilliant sayings and odd characters,--which, with no other connecting thread than a story, freaks like a spirit through every shade of feeling and region of thought, from the domestic hearth to the ultimate bounds of speculative inquiry,--and which, by its daring and careless combinations of incongruous elements, exhibits a free embodiment in prose of the peculiar genius of the romantic. And some philosophers have styled romance the special glory of Christianity. It is certainly the characteristic of critical as distinguished from organic periods,--of the mind acting mystically in a savage and unknown universe, rather than of the mind that has reduced the heavens and earth to its arts and sciences. The novel, therefore, as the wildest organ of romance, is most appropriate to a time of great intellectual agitation, when intellectual men are but half-conscious of the tendencies that are setting about them, and consequently cease to propose to themselves final goals, do not attempt scrupulous art, but play jubilantly with current facts. Hence, perhaps, its popularity since the first conflicts of the Protestant Reformation, and especially since the great French Revolution, when amid new inventions and new ideas mankind has contemplatively looked for the coming events, the new historical eras, which were casting their shadows before. When, some time, Christian art shall become classical, and Christian ideas be developed by superior men as fairly as the Hellenic conceptions were, the novel may either assume to itself some peculiar excellency, or may cease to hold the comparative rank in literature which it enjoys at present. Then the numberless prose romances which occupy the present generation of readers will, perhaps, be collected in some immense _corpus_, like the Byzantine historians, will be reckoned among the curiosities of literature, and will at least have the merit of making the study of antiquities easy and interesting. There is an old couplet,-- Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well. At a time when extemporaneous composition and thoughtless reading are much in fashion, it will not be amiss to invoke profounder studies, and slower, but more useful and permanent results. Let it be remembered that even the Divine Mind first called into being the chaos of creation, and then in seven days reviewed and elaborated it into a beautiful order. * * * * * A LEGEND OF MARYLAND. "AN OWRE TRUE TALE." CHAPTER VII. THE OLD CITY. Let me now once more shift the scene. In the summer of 1684, the peaceful little port of St. Mary's was visited by a phenomenon of rare occurrence in those days. A ship of war of the smaller class, with the Cross of St. George sparkling on her broad flag, came gliding to an anchorage abreast the town. The fort of St. Inigoes gave the customary salute, which I have reason to believe was not returned. Not long after this, a bluff, swaggering, vulgar captain came on shore. He made no visit of respect or business to any member of the Council. He gave no report of his character or the purpose of his visit, but strolled to the tavern,--I suppose to that kept by Mr. Cordea, who, in addition to his calling of keeper of the ordinary, was the most approved shoemaker of the city,--and here regaled himself with a potation of strong waters. It is likely that he then repaired to Mr. Blakiston's, the King's Collector,--a bitter and relentless enemy of the Lord Proprietary,--and there may have met Kenelm Chiseldine, John Coode, Colonel Jowles, and others noted for their hatred of the Calvert family, and in such company as this indulged himself in deriding Lord Baltimore and his government, During his stay in the port, his men came on shore, and, imitating their captain's unamiable temper, roamed in squads about the town and its neighborhood, conducting themselves in a noisy, hectoring manner towards the inhabitants, disturbing the repose of the quiet burghers, and shocking their ears with ribald abuse of the authorities. These roystering sailors--I mention it as a point of historical interest--had even the audacity to break into Alderman Garret Van Swearingen's garden, and to pluck up and carry away his cabbages and other vegetables, and--according to the testimony of Mr. Cordea, whose indignation was the more intense from his veneration for the Alderman, and from the fact that he made his Worship's shoes--they would have killed one of his Worship's sheep, if his (Cordea's) man had not prevented them; and after this, as if on purpose more keenly to lacerate his feelings, they brought these cabbages to Cordea's house, and there boiled them before his eyes,--he being sick and not able to drive them away. After a few days spent in this manner, the swaggering captain--whose name, it was soon bruited about, was Thomas Allen, of his Majesty's Navy--went on board of his ketch,--or brig, as we should call it,--the Quaker, weighed anchor, and set sail towards the Potomac, and thence stood down the Bay upon the coast of Virginia. Every now and then, after his departure, there came reports to the Council of insults offered by Captain Allen to the skippers of sundry Bay craft and other peaceful traders on the Chesapeake; these insults consisting generally in wantonly compelling them to heave to and submit to his search, in vexatiously detaining them, overhauling their papers, and offending them with coarse vituperation of themselves, as well as of the Lord Proprietary and his Council. About a month later the Quaker was observed to enter the Patuxent River, and cast anchor just inside of the entrance, near the Calvert County shore, and opposite Christopher Rousby's house at Drum Point. This was--says my chronicle--on Thursday, the 30th of October, in this year 1684. As yet Captain Allen had not condescended to make any report of his arrival in the Province to any officer of the Proprietary. On Sunday morning, the 2d of November, the city was thrown into a state of violent ebullition--like a little red-hot tea-kettle--by the circulation of a rumor that got wind about the hour the burghers were preparing to go to church. It was brought from Patuxent late in the previous night, and was now whispered from one neighbor to another, and soon came to boil with an extraordinary volume of steam. Stripping it of the exaggeration natural to such an excitement, the rumor was substantially this: That Colonel Talbot, hearing of the arrival of Captain Allen in the Patuxent on Thursday, and getting no message or report from him, set off on Friday morning, in an angry state of mind, and rode over to Patuxent, determined to give the unmannerly captain a lesson upon his duty. That as soon as he reached Mattapony House, he took his boat and went on board the ketch. That there he found Christopher Rousby, the King's Collector, cronying with Captain Allen, and upholding him in his disrespect to the government. That Colonel Talbot was very sharp upon Rousby, not liking him for old grudges, and more moved against him now; and that he spoke his mind both to Captain Allen and Christopher Rousby, and so got into a high quarrel with them. That when he had said all he desired to say to them, he made a move to leave the ketch in his boat, intending to return to Mattapony House; but they who were in the cabin prevented him, and would not let him go. That thereupon the quarrel broke out afresh, and became more bitter; and it being now in the night, and all in a great heat of passion, the parties having already come from words to blows, Talbot drew his skean, or dagger, and stabbed Rousby to the heart. That nothing was known on shore of the affray till Saturday evening, when the body was brought to Rousby's house; after which it became known to the neighborhood; and one of the men of Major Sewall's plantation, which adjoined Rousby's, having thus heard of it, set out and rode that night over to St. Mary's with the news, which he gave to the Major before midnight. It was added, that Colonel Talbot was now detained on board of the ketch, as a prisoner, by Captain Allen. This was the amount of the dreadful story over which the gossips of St. Mary's were shaking their wise heads and discoursing on "crowner's quest law" that Sunday morning. As soon as Major Sewall received these unhappy midnight tidings, he went instantly to his colleague, Colonel Darnall, and communicated them to him; and they, being warm friends of Talbot's, were very anxious to get him out of the custody of this Captain Allen. They therefore, on Sunday morning, issued a writ directed to Roger Brooke, the sheriff of Calvert County, commanding him to arrest the prisoner and bring him before the Council. Their next move was to ride over--the same morning--to Patuxent, taking with them Mr. Robert Carvil, and John Llewellin, their secretary. Upon reaching the river, all four went on board the ketch to learn the particulars of the quarrel. These particulars are not preserved in the record; and we have nothing better than our conjectures as to what they disclosed. We know nothing specific of the cause or character of the quarrel. The visitors found Talbot loaded with irons, and Captain Allen in a brutal state of exasperation, swearing that he would not surrender his prisoner to the authorities of the Province, but would carry him to Virginia and deliver him to the government there, to be dealt with as Lord Effingham should direct. He was grossly insulting to the two members of the Council who had come on this inquiry; and after they had left his vessel, in the pinnace, to return to the shore, he affected to believe that they had some concealed force lying in wait to seize the pinnace and its crew, and so ordered them back on board, but after a short detention thought better of it, and suffered them again to depart. The contumacy of the captain, and the declaration of his purpose to carry away Talbot out of the jurisdiction of the Province within which the crime was committed, and to deliver him to the Governor of Virginia, was a grave assault upon the dignity of the government and a gross contempt of the public authorities, which required the notice of the Council. A meeting of this body was therefore held on the Patuxent, at Rich Neck, on the morning of the 4th of November. I find that five members were present on that occasion. Besides Colonel Darnall and Major Sewall, there were Counsellor Tailler and Colonels Digges and Burgess. Here the matter was debated and ended in a feeble resolve,--that, if this Captain Allen should persist in his contumacy and take Talbot to Virginia, the Council should immediately demand of Lord Effingham his redelivery into this Province. Alas, they could only scold! This resolution was all they could oppose to the bullying captain and the guns of the troublesome little Quaker. Allen, after hectoring awhile in this fashion, and raising the wrath of the Colonels of the Council until they were red in the cheeks, defiantly took his departure, carrying with him his prisoner, in spite of the vehement indignation of the liegemen of the Province. We may imagine the valorous anger of our little metropolis at this act or crime of lese-majesty. I can see the group of angry burghers, collected on the porch of Cordea's tavern, in a fume as they listen to Master John Llewellin's account of what had taken place,--Llewellin himself as peppery as his namesake when he made Ancient Pistol eat his leek; and I fancy I can hear Alderman Van Swearingen's choleric explosion against Lord Effingham, supposing his Lordship should presume to slight the order of the Council in respect to Talbot's return. But these fervors were too violent to last. Christopher Rousby was duly deposited under the greensward upon the margin of Harper's Creek, where I found him safe, if not sound, more than a hundred and fifty years afterwards. The metropolis gradually ceased to boil, and slowly fell to its usual temperature of repose, and no more disturbed itself with thoughts of the terrible captain. Talbot, upon being transferred to the dominion of Virginia, was confined in the jail of Gloucester County, in the old town of Gloucester, on the northern bank of York River. The Council now opened their correspondence with Lord Effingham, demanding the surrender of their late colleague. On their part, it was marked by a deferential respect, which, it is evident, they did not feel, and which seems to denote a timid conviction of the favor of Virginia and the disgrace of Maryland in the personal feelings of the King. It is manifest they were afraid of giving offence to the lordly governor of the neighboring Province. On the part of Lord Effingham, the correspondence is cavalier, arrogant, and peremptory. The Council write deploringly to his Lordship. They "pray"--as they phrase it--"in humble, civil, and obliging terms, to have the prisoner safely returned to this government." They add,--"Your Excellency's great wisdom, prudence, and integrity, as well as neighborly affection and kindness for this Province, manifested and expressed, will, we doubt not, spare us the labor of straining for arguments to move your Excellency's consideration to this our so just and reasonable demand." Poor Colonel Darnall, Poor Colonel Digges, and the rest of you Colonels and Majors,--to write such whining hypocrisy as this! George Talbot would not have written to Lord Effingham in such phrase, if one of you had been unlawfully transported to his prison and Talbot were your pleader! The nobleman to whom this servile language was addressed was a hateful despot, who stands marked in the history of Virginia for his oppressive administration, his arrogance, and his faithlessness. To give this beseeching letter more significance and the flattery it contained more point, it was committed to the charge of two gentlemen who were commissioned to deliver it in person to his Lordship. These were Mr. Clement Hill and Mr. Anthony Underwood. Effingham's answer was cool, short, and admonitory. The essence of it is in these words:--"We do not think it warrantable to comply with your desires, but shall detain Talbot prisoner until his Majesty's particular commands be known therein." A postscript is added of this import:--"I recommend to your consideration, that you take care, as far as in you lies, that, in the matter of the Customs, his Majesty receive no further detriment by this unfortunate accident." One almost rejoices to read such an answer to the fulsome language which drew it out. This correspondence runs through several such epistles. The Council complain of the rudeness and coarse behavior of Captain Allen, and particularly of his traducing Lord Baltimore's government and attempting to excite the people against it. Lord Effingham professes to disbelieve such charges against "an officer who has so long served his King with fidelity, and who could not but know what was due to his superiors." Occasionally this same faithful officer, Captain Allen himself, reappears upon the stage. We catch him at a gentleman's house in Virginia, boasting over his cups--for he seems to have paid habitual tribute to a bowl of punch--that he will break up the government of Maryland, and annex this poor little Province of ours to Virginia: a fact worth notice just now, as it makes it clear that annexation is not the new idea of the Nineteenth Century, but lived in very muddy brains a long time ago. I now quit this correspondence to look after a bit of romance in a secret adventure. CHAPTER VIII. A PLOT. We must return to the Manor of New Connaught upon the Elk River. There we shall find a sorrowful household. The Lord of the Manor is in captivity; his people are dejected with a presentiment that they are to see him no more; his wife is lamenting with her children, and counting the weary days of his imprisonment. "His hounds they all run masterless, His hawks they flee from tree to tree." Everything in the hospitable woodland home is changed. November, December, January had passed by since Talbot was lodged in the Gloucester prison, and still no hope dawned upon the afflicted lady. The forest around her bowled with the rush of the winter wind, but neither the wilderness nor the winter was so desolate as her own heart. The fate of her husband was in the hands of his enemies. She trembled at the thought of his being forced to a trial for his life in Virginia, where he would be deprived of that friendly sympathy so necessary even to the vindication of innocence, and where he ran the risk of being condemned without defence, upon the testimony of exasperated opponents. But she was a strong-hearted and resolute woman, and would not despair. She had many friends around her,--friends devoted to her husband and herself. Amongst these was Phelim Murray, a cornet of cavalry under the command of Talbot,--a brave, reckless, true-hearted comrade, who had often shared the hospitality, the adventurous service, and the sports of his commander. To Murray I attribute the planning of the enterprise I am now about to relate. He had determined to rescue his chief from his prison in Virginia. His scheme required the cooeperation of Mrs. Talbot and one of her youngest children,--the pet boy, perhaps, of the family, some two or three years old,--I imagine, the special favorite of the father. The adventure was a bold one, involving many hardships and perils. Towards the end of January, the lady, accompanied by her boy with his nurse, and attended by two Irish men-servants, repaired to St. Mary's, where she was doubtless received as a guest in the mansion of the Proprietary, now the residence of young Benedict Leonard and those of the family who had not accompanied Lord Baltimore to England. Whilst Mrs. Talbot tarried here, the Cornet was busy in his preparations. He had brought the Colonel's shallop from Elk River to the Patuxent, and was here concerting a plan to put the little vessel under the command of some ostensible owner who might appear in the character of its master to any over-curious or inopportune questioner. He had found a man exactly to his hand in a certain Roger Skreene, whose name might almost be thought to be adopted for the occasion and to express the part he had to act. He was what we may call the sloop's husband, but was bound to do whatever Murray commanded, to ask no questions, and to be profoundly ignorant of the real objects of the expedition. This pliant auxiliary had, like many thrifty--or more probably thriftless--persons of that time, a double occupation. He was amphibious in his habits, and lived equally on land and water. At home he was a tailor, and abroad a seaman, frequently plying his craft as a skipper on the Bay, and sufficiently known in the latter vocation to render his present employment a matter to excite no suspicious remark. It will be perceived in the course of his present adventure that he was quite innocent of any avowed complicity in the design which he was assisting. Murray had a stout companion with him, a good friend to Talbot, probably one of the familiar frequenters of the Manor House of New Connaught,--a bold fellow, with a hand and a heart both ready for any perilous service. He may have been a comrade of the Cornet's in his troop. His name was Hugh Riley,--a name that has been traditionally connected with dare-devil exploits ever since the days of Dermot McMorrogh. There have been, I believe, but few hard fights in the world, to which Irishmen have had anything to say, without a Hugh Riley somewhere in the thickest part of them. The preparations being now complete, Murray anchored his shallop near a convenient landing,--perhaps within the Mattapony Creek. In the dead of winter, about the 30th of January, 1685, Mrs. Talbot, with her servants, her child, and nurse, set forth from the Proprietary residence in St. Mary's, to journey over to the Patuxent,--a cold, bleak ride of fifteen miles. The party were all on horseback: the young boy, perhaps, wrapped in thick coverings, nestling in the arms of one of the men: Mrs. Talbot braving the sharp wind in hood and cloak, and warmed by her own warm heart, which beat with a courageous pulse against the fierce blasts that swept and roared across her path. Such a cavalcade, of course, could not depart from St. Mary's without observation at any season; but at this time of the year so unusual a sight drew every inhabitant to the windows, and set in motion a current of gossip that bore away all other topics from every fireside. The gentlemen of the Council, too, doubtless had frequent conference with the unhappy wife of their colleague, during her sojourn in the Government House, and perhaps secretly counselled with her on her adventure. Whatever outward or seeming pretext may have been adopted for this movement, we can hardly suppose that many friends of the Proprietary were ignorant of its object. We have, indeed, evidence that the enemies of the Proprietary charged the Council with a direct connivance in the scheme of Talbot's escape, and made it a subject of complaint against Lord Baltimore that he afterwards approved of it. Upon her arrival at the Patuxent, Mrs. Talbot went immediately on board of the sloop, with her attendants. There she found the friendly cornet and his comrade, Hugh Riley, on the alert to distinguish their loyalty in her cause. The amphibious Master Skreene was now at the head of a picked crew,--the whole party consisting of five stout men, with the lady, her child, and nurse. All the men but Skreene were sons of the Emerald Isle,--of a race whose historical boast is the faithfulness of their devotion to a friend in need and their chivalrous courtesy to woman, but still more their generous and gallant championship of woman in distress. On this occasion this national sentiment was enhanced when it was called into exercise in behalf of the sorrowful lady of the chief of their border settlements. They set sail from the Patuxent on Saturday, the 31st of January. On Wednesday, the fifth day afterwards, they landed on the southern bank of the Rappahannock, at the house of Mr. Ralph Wormeley, near the mouth of the river. This long voyage of five days over so short a distance would seem to indicate that they departed from the common track of navigation to avoid notice. The next morning Mr. Wormeley furnished them horses and a servant, and Mrs. Talbot, with the nurse and child, under the conduct of Cornet Murray, set out for Gloucester,--a distance of some twenty miles. The day following,--that is, on Friday,--the servant returned with the horses, having left the party behind. Saturday passed and part of Sunday, when, in the evening, Mrs. Talbot and the Cornet reappeared at Mr. Wormeley's. The child and nurse had been left behind; and this was accounted for by Mrs. Talbot's saying she had left the child with his father, to remain with him until she should return to Virginia. I infer that the child was introduced into this adventure to give some seeming to the visit which might lull suspicion and procure easier access to the prisoner; and the leaving of him in Gloucester proves that Mrs. Talbot had friends, and probably confederates there, to whose care he was committed. As soon as the party had left the shallop, upon their first arrival at Mr. Wormeley's, the wily Master Skreene discovered that he had business at a landing farther up the river; and thither he straightway took his vessel,--Wormeley's being altogether too suspicious a place for him to frequent. And now, when Mrs. Talbot had returned to Wormeley's, Roger's business above, of course, was finished, and he dropped down again opposite the house on Monday evening; and the next morning took the Cornet and the lady on board. Having done this, he drew out into the river. This brings us to Tuesday, the 10th of February. As soon as Mrs. Talbot was once more embarked in the shallop, Murray and Riley (I give Master Skreene's own account of the facts, as I find it in his testimony subsequently taken before the Council) made a pretext to go on shore, taking one of the men with them. They were going to look for a cousin of this man,--so they told Skreene,--and besides that, intended to go to a tavern to buy a bottle of rum: all of which Skreene gives the Council to understand he verily believed to be the real object of their visit. The truth was, that, as soon as Murray and Riley and their companion had reached the shore, they mounted on horseback and galloped away in the direction of Gloucester prison. From the moment they disappeared on this gallop until their return, we have no account of what they did. Roger Skreene's testimony before the Council is virtuously silent on this point. After this party was gone, Mrs. Talbot herself took command, and, with a view to more privacy, ordered Roger to anchor near the opposite shore of the river, taking advantage of the concealment afforded by a small inlet on the northern side. Skreene says he did this at her request, because she expressed a wish to taste some of the oysters from that side of the river, which he, with his usual facility, believed to be the only reason for getting into this unobserved harbor; and, merely to gratify this wish, he did as she desired. The day went by slowly to the lady on the water. Cold February, a little sloop, and the bleak roadstead at the mouth of the Rappahannock brought but few comforts to the anxious wife, who sat muffled upon that unstable deck, watching the opposite shore, whilst the ceaseless plash of the waves breaking upon her ear numbered the minutes that marked the weary hours, and the hours that marked the still more weary day. She watched for the party who had galloped into the sombre pine-forest that sheltered the road leading to Gloucester, and for the arrival of that cousin of whom Murray spoke to Master Skreene. But if the time dragged heavily with her, it flew with the Cornet and his companions. We cannot tell when the twenty miles to Gloucester were thrown behind them, but we know that the whole forty miles of going and coming were accomplished by sunrise the next morning. For the deposition tells us that Roger Skreene had become very impatient at the absence of his passengers,--at least, so he swears to the Council; and he began to think, just after the sun was up, that, as they had not returned, they must have got into a revel at the tavern, and forgotten themselves; which careless demeanor of theirs made him think of recrossing the river and of going ashore to beat them up; when, lo! all of a sudden, he spied a boat coming round the point within which he lay. And here arises a pleasant little dramatic scene, of some interest to our story. Mrs. Talbot had been up at the dawn, and watched upon the deck, straining her sight, until she could see no more for tears; and at length, unable to endure her emotion longer, had withdrawn to the cabin. Presently Skreene came hurrying down to tell her that the boat was coming,--and, what surprised him, there were _four_ persons in it. "Who is this fourth man?" he asked her,--with his habitual simplicity, "and how are we to get him back to the shore again?" --a very natural question for Roger to ask, after all that had passed in his presence! Mrs. Talbot sprang to her feet,--her eyes sparkling, as she exclaimed, with a cheery voice, "Oh, his cousin has come!" --and immediately ran upon the deck to await the approaching party. There were pleasant smiling faces all around, as the four men came over the sloop's side; and although the testimony is silent as to the fact, there might have been some little kissing on the occasion. The new-comer was in a rough dress, and had the exterior of a servant; and our skipper says in his testimony, that "Mrs. Talbot spoke to him in the Irish language": very volubly, I have no doubt, and that much was said that was never translated. When they came to a pause in this conversation, she told Skreene, by way of interpretation, "he need not be uneasy about the stranger's going on shore, nor delay any longer, as this person had made up his mind to go with them to Maryland." So the boat was made fast, the anchor was weighed, the sails were set, and the little sloop bent to the breeze and kissed the wave, as she rounded the headland and stood up the Bay, with Colonel George Talbot encircling with his arm his faithful wife, and with the gallant Cornet Murray sitting at his side. They had now an additional reason for caution against search. So Murray ordered the skipper to shape his course over to the eastern shore, and to keep in between the islands and the main. This is a broad circuit outside of their course; but Roger is promised a reward by Mrs. Talbot, to compensate him for his loss of time; and the skipper is very willing. They had fetched a compass, as the Scripture phrase is, to the shore of Dorset County, and steered inside of Hooper's Island, into the month of Hungary River. Here it was part of the scheme to dismiss the faithful Roger from further service. With this view they landed on the island and went to Mr. Hooper's house, where they procured a supply of provisions, and immediately afterwards reembarked,--having clean forgotten Roger, until they were once more under full sail up the Bay, and too far advanced to turn back! The deserted skipper bore his disappointment like a Christian; and being asked, on Hungary River, by a friend who met him there, and who gave his testimony before the Council, "What brought him there?" he replied, "He had been left on the island by Madam Talbot." And to another, "Where Madam Talbot was?" he answered, "She had gone up the Bay to her own house." Then, to a third question, "How he expected his pay?" he said, "He was to have it of Colonel Darnall and Major Sewall; and that Madam Talbot had promised him a hogshead of tobacco extra, for putting ashore at Hooper's Island." The last question was, "What news of Talbot?" and Roger's answer, "He had not been within twenty miles of him; neither did he know anything about the Colonel" ! ! But, on further discourse, he let fall, that "he knew the Colonel never would come to a trial,"--"that _he_ knew this; but neither man, woman, nor child should know it, but those who knew it already." So Colonel George Talbot is out of the hands of the proud Lord Effingham, and up the Bay with his wife and friends; and is buffeting the wintry head-winds in a long voyage to the Elk River, which, in due time, he reaches in safety. CHAPTER IX. TROUBLES IN COUNCIL. Let us now turn back to see what is doing at St. Mary's. On the 17th of February comes to the Council a letter from Lord Effingham. It has the superscription, "These, with the greatest care and speed." It is dated on the 11th of February from Poropotanck, an Indian point on the York River above Gloucester, and memorable as being in the neighborhood of the spot where, some sixty years before these events, Pocahontas saved the life of that mirror of chivalry, Captain John Smith. The letter brings information "that last night Colonel Talbot escaped out of prison,"--a subsequent letter says, "by the corruption of his guard,"--and it is full of admonition, which has very much the tone of command, urging all strenuous efforts to recapture him, and particularly recommending a proclamation of "hue and cry." And now, for a month, there is a great parade in Maryland of proclamation, and hue and cry, and orders to sheriffs and county colonels to keep a sharp look-out everywhere for Talbot. But no person in the Province seems to be anxious to catch him, except Mr. Nehemiah Blakiston, the Collector, and a few others, who seem to have been ministering to Lord Effingham's spleen against the Council for not capturing him. His Lordship writes several letters of complaint at the delay and ill success of this pursuit, and some of them in no measured terms of courtesy. "I admire," he says in one of these, "at any slow proceedings in service wherein his Majesty is so concerned, and hope you will take off all occasions of future trouble, both unto me and you, of this nature, by manifesting yourselves zealous for his Majesty's service." They answer, that all imaginable care for the apprehending of Talbot has been taken by issuing proclamations, etc.,--but all have proved ineffectual, because Talbot upon all occasions flies and takes refuge "in the remotest parts of the woods and deserts of this Province." At this point we get some traces of Talbot. There is a deposition of Robert Kemble of Cecil County, and some other papers, that give us a few particulars by which I am enabled to construct my narrative. Colonel Talbot got to his own house about the middle of February,--nearly at the same time at which the news of his escape reached St. Mary's. He there lay warily watching the coming hue and cry for his apprehension. He collected his friends, armed them, and set them at watch and ward, at all his outposts. He had a disguise provided, in which he occasionally ventured abroad. Kemble met him, on the 19th of February, at George Oldfield's, on Elk River; and although the Colonel was disguised in a flaxen wig, and in other ways, Kemble says he knew him by hearing him cough in the night, in a room adjoining that in which Kemble slept. Whilst this witness was at Oldfield's, "Talbot's shallop," he says, "was busking and turning before Oldfield's landing for several hours." The roads leading towards Talbot's house were all guarded by his friends, and he had a report made to him of every vessel that arrived in the river. By way of more permanent concealment, until the storm should blow over, he had made preparations to build himself a cabin, somewhere in the woods out of the range of the thoroughfares of the district. When driven by a pressing emergency which required more than ordinary care to prevent his apprehension, he betook himself to the cave on the Susquehanna, where, most probably, with a friend or two,--Cornet Murray I hope was one of them,--he lay perdu for a few days at a time, and then ventured back to speak a word of comfort and encouragement to the faithful wife who kept guard at home. In this disturbed and anxious alternation of concealment and flight Talbot passed the winter, until about the 25th of April, when, probably upon advice of friends, he voluntarily surrendered himself to the Council at St. Mary's, and was committed for trial in the provincial Court. The fact of the surrender was communicated to Lord Effingham by the Council, with a request that he would send the witnesses to Maryland to appear at his trial. Hereupon arose another correspondence with his Lordship, which is worthy of a moment's notice. Lord Effingham has lost nothing of his arrogance. He says, on the 12th of May, 1685, "I am so far from answering your desires, that I do hereby demand Colonel Talbot as my prisoner, in the King of England's name, and that you do forthwith convey him into Virginia. And to this my demand I expect your ready performance and compliance, upon your allegiance to his Majesty." I am happy to read the answer to this insolent letter, in which it will be seen that the spirit of Maryland was waked up on the occasion to its proper voice.--It is necessary to say, by way of explanation to one point in this answer, that the Governor of Virginia had received the news of the accession and proclamation of James the Second, and had not communicated it to the Council in Maryland. The Council give an answer at their leisure, having waited till the 1st of June, when they write to his Lordship, protesting against Virginia's exercising any superintendence over Maryland, and peremptorily refusing to deliver Talbot. They tell him "that we are desirous and conclude to await his Majesty's resolution, which we question not will be agreeable to his Lordship's Charter, and, consequently, contrary to your expectations. In the mean time we cannot but resent in some measure, for we are willing to let you see that we observe, the small notice you seem to take of this Government, (contrary to that amicable correspondence so often promised, and expected by us,) in not holding us worthy to be advised of his Majesty's being proclaimed, without which, certainly, we have not been enabled to do our duty in that particular. Such advice would have been gratefully received by your Excellency's humble servants." Thanks, Colonels Darnall and Digges and you other Colonels and Majors, for this plain outspeaking of the old Maryland heart against the arrogance of the "Right Honorable Lord Howard, Baron of Effingham, Captain General and Chief Governor of his Majesty's Colony of Virginia," as he styles himself! I am glad to see this change of tone, since that first letter of obsequious submission. Perhaps this change of tone may have had some connection with the recent change on the throne, in which the accession of a Catholic monarch may have given new courage to Maryland, and abated somewhat the confidence of Virginia. If so, it was but a transitory hope, born to a sad disappointment. The documents afford but little more information. Lord Baltimore, being in London, appears to have interceded with the King for some favor to Talbot, and writes to the Council on the third of July, "that it formerly was and still is the King's pleasure, that Talbot shall be brought over, in the Quaker Ketch, to England, to receive his trial there; and that, in order thereto, his Majesty had sent his commands to the Governor of Virginia to deliver him to Captain Allen, commander of said ketch, who is to bring him over." The Proprietary therefore directs his Council to send the prisoner to the Governor of Virginia, "to the end that his Majesty's pleasure may be fulfilled." This letter was received on the 7th of October, 1685, and Talbot was accordingly sent, under the charge of Gilbert Clarke and a proper guard, to Lord Effingham, who gives Clarke a regular business receipt, as if he had brought him a hogshead of tobacco, and appends to it a short apologetic explanation of his previous rudeness, which we may receive as another proof of his distrust of the favor of the new monarch. "I had not been so urgent," he says, "had I not had advices from England, last April, of the measures that were taken there concerning him." After this my chronicle is silent. We have no further tidings of Talbot. The only hint for a conjecture is the marginal note of "The Landholder's Assistant," got from Chalmers: "He was, I believe," says the note, "tried and convicted, and finally pardoned by James the Second." This is probably enough. For I suppose him to have been of the same family with that Earl of Tyrconnel equally distinguished for his influence with James the Second as for his infamous life and character, who held at this period unbounded sway at the English Court. I hope, for the honor of our hero, that he preserved no family-likeness to that false-hearted, brutal, and violent favorite, who is made immortal in Macaulay's pages as Lying Dick Talbot. Through his intercession his kinsman may have been pardoned, or even never brought to trial. CHAPTER X. CONCLUSION. This is the end of my story. But, like all stories, it requires that some satisfaction should be given to the reader in regard to the dramatic proprieties. We have our several heroes to dispose of. Phelim Murray and Hugh Riley, who had both been arrested by the Council to satisfy public opinion as to their complicity in the plot for the escape, were both honorably discharged,--I suppose being found entirely innocent! Roger Skreene swore himself black and blue, as the phrase is, that he had not the least suspicion of the business in which he was engaged; and so he was acquitted! I am also glad to be able to say that our gallant Cornet Murray, in the winding-up of this business, was promoted by the Council to a captaincy of cavalry, and put in command of Christiana Fort and its neighborhood, to keep that formidable Quaker, William Penn, at a respectful distance. It would gratify me still more, if I could find warrant to add, that the Cornet enjoyed himself, and married the lady of his choice, with whom he has, unknown to us, been violently in love during these adventures, and that they lived happily together for many years. I hope this was so,--although the chronicle does not allow one to affirm it,--it being but a proper conclusion to such a romance as I have plucked out of our history. And so I have traced the tradition of the Cave to the end. What I have been able to certify furnishes the means of a shrewd estimate of the average amount of truth which popular traditions generally contain. There is always a fact at the bottom, lying under a superstructure of fiction,--truth enough to make the pursuit worth following. Talbot did not live in the Cave, but fled there occasionally for concealment. He had no hawks with him, but bred them in his own mews on the Elk River. The birds seen in after times were some of this stock, and not the solitary pair they were supposed to be. I dare say an expert naturalist would find many specimens of the same breed now in that region. But let us not be too critical on the tradition, which has led us into a quest through which I have been able to supply what I hope will be found to be a pleasant insight into that little world of action and passion,--with its people, its pursuits, and its gossips,--that, more than one hundred and seventy years ago, inhabited the beautiful banks of St. Mary's River, and wove the web of our early Maryland history. POSTSCRIPT. I have another link in the chain of Talbot's history, furnished me by a friend in Virginia. It comes since I have completed my narrative, and very accurately confirms the conjecture of Chalmers, quoted in the note of "The Landholder's Assistant." "As for Colonel Talbot, he was conveyed for trial to Virginia, from whence he made his escape, and, after being retaken, and, _I believe_, tried and convicted, was finally pardoned by King James II." This is an extract from the note. It is now ascertained that Talbot was not taken to England for trial, as Lord Baltimore, in his letter of the 6th of July, 1685, affirmed it was the King's pleasure he should be; but that he was tried and convicted in Virginia on the 22d of April, 1686, and, on the 26th of the same month, reprieved by order of the King; after which we may presume he received a full pardon, and perhaps was taken to England in obedience to the royal command, to await it there. The conviction and reprieve are recorded in a folio of the State Records of Virginia at Richmond, on a mutilated and scarcely legible sheet,--a copy of which I present to my reader with all its obliterations and broken syllables and sad gashes in the text, for his own deciphering. The MS. is in keeping with the whole story, and may be looked upon as its appropriate emblem. The story has been brought to light by chance, and has been rendered intelligible by close study and interpretation of fragmentary and widely separated facts, capable of being read only by one conversant with the text of human affairs, and who has the patience to grope through the trackless intervals of time, and the skill to supply the lost words and syllables of history by careful collation with those which are spared. How faithfully this accidentally found MS. typifies such a labor, the reader may judge from the literal copy of it I now offer to his perusal. [Transcriber's note: Gaps in the text below are signified with an asterisk.] By his Excellency Whereas his most Sacred Majesty has been Graciously pleased by his Royall Com'ands to Direct and Com'and Me ffrancis Lord Howard of Effingham his Maj'ties Lieut and Gov'r. Gen'll. of Virginia that if George Talbott Esq'r. upon his Tryall should be found Guilty of Killing M'r Christopher Rowsby, that Execution should be suspended untill his Majesties pleasure should be further signified unto Me; And forasmuch as the sd George Talbott was Indicted upon the Statute of Stabbing and hath Received a full and Legall Tryall in open Court on y'e Twentieth and One and Twentieth dayes of this Instant Aprill, before his Majesties Justices of Oyer and Terminer, and found Guilty of y'e aforesaid fact and condemned for the Same, I, therefore, *ffrancis Lord Howard, Baron of *ffingham, his Majesties Lieu't and Gov'r. Gen'll. Of Virginia, by Virtue of *aj'ties Royall Com'ands to Me given there * doe hereby Suspend *tion of the Sentence of death * his Maj'ties Justices * Terminer on the * till his Majesties *erein be * nor any * fail as yo* uttmost * and for y'r soe doing this sh* Given under my and * Seale the 26th dayof Apri* EFFINGHAM To his Majesties Justices of Oyer and Terminer. Recordatur E Chillon Gen'l Car* Talbott's Repreif from L'd Howard 1686 for Killing Ch'r. Rousby Examined Sept. 24th 26th Aprill 1686 Sentence of ag'* Col Ta Suspended Aprill 26* 1*86 PRINCE ADEB. In Sana, oh, in Sana, God, the Lord, Was very kind and merciful to me! Forth from the Desert in my rags I came, Weary and sore of foot. I saw the spires And swelling bubbles of the golden domes Rise through the trees of Sana, and my heart Grew great within me with the strength of God; And I cried out, "Now shall I right myself,-- I, Adeb the Despised,--for God is just!" There he who wronged my father dwelt in peace,-- My warlike father, who, when gray hairs crept Around his forehead, as on Lebanon The whitening snows of winter, was betrayed To the sly Imam, and his tented wealth Swept from him, 'twixt the roosting of the cock And his first crowing,--in a single night: And I, poor Adeb, sole of all my race, Smeared with my father's and my kinsmen's blood, Fled through the Desert, till one day a tribe Of hungry Bedouins found me in the sand, Half mad with famine, and they took me up, And made a slave of me,--of me, a prince! All was fulfilled at last. I fled from them, In rags and sorrow. Nothing but my heart, Like a strong swimmer, bore me up against The howling sea of my adversity. At length o'er Sana, in the act to swoop, I stood like a young eagle on a crag. The traveller passed me with suspicious fear: I asked for nothing; I was not a thief. The lean dogs snuffed around me: my lank bones, Fed on the berries and the crusted pools, Were a scant morsel. Once, a brown-skinned girl Called me a little from the common path, And gave me figs and barley in a bag. I paid her with a kiss, with nothing more, And she looked glad; for I was beautiful, And virgin as a fountain, and as cold. I stretched her bounty, pecking, like a bird, Her figs and barley, till my strength returned. So when rich Sana lay beneath my eyes, My foot was as the leopard's, and my hand As heavy as the lion's brandished paw; And underneath my burnished skin the veins And stretching muscles played, at every step, In wondrous motion. I was very strong. I looked upon my body, as a bird That bills his feathers ere he takes to flight,-- I, watching over Sana. Then I prayed; And on a soft stone, wetted in the brook, Ground my long knife; and then I prayed again. God heard my voice, preparing all for me, As, softly stepping down the hills, I saw the Imam's summer-palace all ablaze In the last flash of sunset. Every fount Was spouting fire, and all the orange-trees Bore blazing coals, and from the marble walls And gilded spires and columns, strangely wrought, Glared the red light, until my eyes were pained With the fierce splendor. Till the night grew thick, I lay within the bushes, next the door, Still as a serpent, as invisible. The guard hung round the portal. Man by man They dropped away, save one lone sentinel, And on his eyes God's finger lightly fell; He slept half standing. Like a summer wind That threads the grove, yet never turns a leaf, I stole from shadow unto shadow forth; Crossed all the marble court-yard, swung the door, Like a soft gust, a little way ajar,-- My body's narrow width, no more,--and stood Beneath the cresset in the painted hall. I marvelled at the riches of my foe; I marvelled at God's ways with wicked men. Then I reached forth, and took God's waiting hand: And so He led me over mossy floors, Flowered with the silken summer of Shirar, Straight to the Imam's chamber. At the door Stretched a brawn eunuch, blacker than my eyes: His woolly head lay like the Kaba-stone In Mecca's mosque, as silent and as huge. I stepped across it, with my pointed knife Just missing a full vein along his neck, And, pushing by the curtains, there I was,-- I, Adeb the Despised,--upon the spot That, next to heaven, I longed for most of all. I could have shouted for the joy in me. Fierce pangs and flashes of bewildering light Leaped through my brain and danced before my eyes. So loud my heart beat that I feared its sound Would wake the sleeper; and the bubbling blood Choked in my throat, till, weaker than a child, I reeled against a column, and there hung In a blind stupor. Then I prayed again; And, sense by sense, I was made whole once more. I touched myself; I was the same; I knew Myself to be lone Adeb, young and strong, With nothing but a stride of empty air Between me and God's justice. In a sleep, Thick with the fumes of the accursed grape, Sprawled the false Imam. On his shaggy breast, Like a white lily heaving on the tide Of some foul stream, the fairest woman slept These roving eyes have ever looked upon. Almost a child, her bosom barely showed The change beyond her girlhood. All her charms Were budding, but half opened; for I saw Not only beauty wondrous in itself, But possibility of more to be In the full process of her blooming days. I gazed upon her, and my heart grew soft, As a parched pasture with the dew of heaven. While thus I gazed, she smiled, and slowly raised The long curve of her lashes; and we looked Each upon each in wonder, not alarm,-- Not eye to eye, but soul to soul, we held Each other for a moment. All her life Seemed centred in the circle of her eyes. She stirred no limb; her long-drawn, equal breath Swelled out and ebbed away beneath her breast, In calm unbroken. Not a sign of fear Touched the faint color on her oval cheek, Or pinched the arches of her tender mouth. She took me for a vision, and she lay With her sleep's smile unaltered, as in doubt Whether real life had stolen into her dreams, Or dreaming stretched into her outer life. I was not graceless to a woman's eyes. The girls of Damar paused to see me pass, I walking in my rags, yet beautiful. One maiden said, "He has a prince's air!" I am a prince; the air was all my own. So thought the lily on the Imam's breast; And lightly as a summer mist, that lifts Before the morning, so she floated up, Without a sound or rustle of a robe, From her coarse pillow, and before me stood With asking eyes. The Imam never moved. A stride and blow were all my need, and they Were wholly in my power. I took her hand, I held a warning finger to my lips, And whispered in her small expectant ear, "Adeb, the son of Akem!" She replied In a low murmur, whose bewildering sound Almost lulled wakeful me to sleep, and sealed The sleeper's lids in tenfold slumber, "Prince, Lord of the Imam's life and of my heart, Take all thou seest,--it is thy right, I know,-- But spare the Imam for thy own soul's sake!" Then I arrayed me in a robe of state, Shining with gold and jewels; and I bound In my long turban gems that might have bought The lands 'twixt Babelmandeb and Sahan. I girt about me, with a blazing belt, A scimitar o'er which the sweating smiths In far Damascus hammered for long years, Whose hilt and scabbard shot a trembling light From diamonds and rubies. And she smiled, As piece by piece I put the treasures on, To see me look so fair,--in pride she smiled. I hung long purses at my side. I scooped, From off a table, figs and dates and rice, And bound them to my girdle in a sack. Then over all I flung a snowy cloak, And beckoned to the maiden. So she stole Forth like my shadow, past the sleeping wolf Who wronged my father, o'er the woolly head Of the swart eunuch, down the painted court, And by the sentinel who standing slept. Strongly against the portal, through my rags,-- My old, base rags,--and through the maiden's veil, I pressed my knife,--upon the wooden hilt Was "Adeb, son of Akem," carved by me In my long slavehood,--as a passing sign To wait the Imam's waking. Shadows cast From two high-sailing clouds upon the sand Passed not more noiseless than we two, as one, Glided beneath the moonlight, till I smelt The fragrance of the stables. As I slid The wide doors open, with a sudden bound Uprose the startled horses; but they stood Still as the man who in a foreign land Hears his strange language, when my Desert call, As low and plaintive as the nested dove's, Fell on their listening ears. From stall to stall, Feeling the horses with my groping hands, I crept in darkness; and at length I came Upon two sister mares, whose rounded sides, Fine muzzles, and small heads, and pointed ears, And foreheads spreading 'twixt their eyelids wide, Long slender tails, thin manes, and coats of silk, Told me, that, of the hundred steeds there stalled, My hand was on the treasures. O'er and o'er I felt their long joints, and down their legs To the cool hoofs;--no blemish anywhere: These I led forth and saddled. Upon one I set the lily, gathered now for me,-- My own, henceforth, forever. So we rode Across the grass, beside the stony path, Until we gained the highway that is lost, Leading from Sana, in the eastern sands: When, with a cry that both the Desert-born Knew without hint from whip or goading spur, We dashed into a gallop. Far behind In sparks and smoke the dusty highway rose; And ever on the maiden's face I saw, When the moon flashed upon it, the strange smile It wore on waking. Once I kissed her mouth, When she grew weary, and her strength returned. All through the night we scoured between the hills: The moon went down behind us, and the stars Dropped after her; but long before I saw A planet blazing straight against our eyes, The road had softened, and the shadowy hills Had flattened out, and I could hear the hiss Of sand spurned backward by the flying mares.-- Glory to God! I was at home again! The sun rose on us; far and near I saw The level Desert; sky met sand all round. We paused at midday by a palm-crowned well, And ate and slumbered. Somewhat, too, was said: The words have slipped my memory. That same eve We rode sedately through a Hamoum camp,-- I, Adeb, prince amongst them, and my bride. And ever since amongst them I have ridden, A head and shoulders taller than the best; And ever since my days have been of gold, My nights have been of silver.--God is just! THE SAVIOURS OF GREECE. Life, in its central idea, is an entire and eternal solitude. Yet each individual nature so repeats--and is itself repeated in--every other, that there is insured the possibility both of a world-revelation in the soul, and of a self-incarnation in the world; so that every man's life, like Agrippa's mirror, reflects the universe, and the universe is made the embodiment of his life,--is made to beat with a human pulse. We do all, therefore,--Hindu, Egyptian, Greek, or Saxon,--claim kinship both with the earth and the heavens: with the sense of sorrow we kneel upon the earth, with the sense of hope we look into the heavens. The two Presences of the Eleusinia,--the earthly Demeter, the embodiment of human sorrow, and the heavenly Dionysus, the incarnation of human hope,--these are the two Great Presences of the Universe; about whom, as separate centres,--the one of measureless wanderings, the other of triumphant rest,--we marshal, both in the interpretations of Reason and in the constructions of our Imagination, all that is visible or that is invisible,--whatsoever is palpable in sense or possible in idea, in the world which is or the world to come. Incarnations of the life within us, in its two developments of Sorrow and Hope,--they are also the centres through which this life develops itself in the world: it is through them that all things have their genesis from the human heart, and through them, therefore, that all things are unveiled to us. , Mother Earth.] But these Two Presences have their highest interest and significance as _foci_ of the religious development of the race: and inasmuch as all growth is ultimately a religious one, it is in this phase that their organic connections with life are widest and most profound. As such they appear in the Eleusinia; and in all mythology they furnish the only possible key for the interpretation of its mystic symbolism, its hieroglyphic records, and its ill-defined traditions. Accordingly we find that all mythology naturally and inevitably flows about these centres into two distinct developments, which are indicated,-- 1. In Nature; inasmuch as they are first made manifest through symbols which point to the two great forces, the _active_ and the _passive_, which are concerned in all natural processes (_sol et terra subjacens soli_); and, 2. In the primitive belief among all nations, that men are the offspring of the earth and the heavens,--and in the worship equally prevalent of the sun, the personal Presence of the heavens, as Saviour Lord, and of the earth as sorrowing Lady and Mother. Why the earth, in this primitive symbolism and worship, was represented as the Sorrowing One, and the sun as Saviour, is evident at a glance. It was the bosom of the earth which was shaken with storm and rent with earthquake. She was the Mother, and hers was the travail of all birth; in sorrow she forever gathered to herself her Fate-conquered children; her sorrowful countenance she veiled in thick mists, and, year after year, shrouded herself in wintry desolation: while he was the Eternal Father, the Revealer of all things, he drove away the darkness, and in his presence the mist became an invisible exhalation; and, as out of darkness and death, he called into birth the flowers and the numberless forests,--even as he himself was every morning born anew out of darkness,--so he called the children of the earth to a glorious rising in his light. Everything of the earth was inert, weighing heavily upon the sense and the heart, only waiting its transfiguration and exaltation through his power, until it should rise into the heavens; which was the type of his translation to himself of his grief-oppressed children. Under these symbols our Lord and Lady have been worshipped by an overwhelming majority of the human race. They swayed the ancient world, from the Indians by the Ganges, and the Tartar tribes, to the Britons and Laplanders of Northwestern Europe,--having their representatives in every system of faith,--in the Hindu _Isi and Isana_, the Egyptian _Isis and Osiris_, the Assyrian _Venus and Adonis_, the _Demeter and Dionysus_ of Greece, the Roman _Ceres and Bacchus_, and the _Disa and Frey_ of Scandinavia,--in connection with most, if not all, of whom there existed festivals corresponding, in respect of their meaning and use, with the Grecian Eleusinia. Moreover, the various divinities of any one mythology--for example, the Greek--were at first only representatives of partial attributes or incidental functions of these Two Presences. Thus, Jove was the power of the heavens, which, of course, centred in the sun; Apollo is admitted to have been only another name for the sun; AEsculapius represents his healing virtues; Hercules his saving strength; and Prometheus, who gave fire to men, as Vulcan, the god of fire, was probably connected with Eastern fire-worship, and so in the end with the worship of the sun. Some of the goddesses come under the same category,--such as Juno, sister and wife of Jove, who shared with him his aerial dynasty; as also Diana, who was only the reflection of Apollo, as the moon of the sun, carrying his power on into the night, and exercising among women the functions which he exercised among men. The representatives of our Lady, on the other hand, are such as the ancient Rhea,--Latona, with her dark and starry veil,--Tethys, the world-nurse,--and the Artemis of the East, or Syrian Mother; to say nothing of Oreads, Dryads, and Nereids, that without number peopled the mountains, the forests, and the sea. [Footnote d: This connection of Diana with Apollo has led some to the hasty inference, that the sun and moon--not the sun and earth--were the primitive centres of mythological symbolism. But it is plain that the sun and moon, as _active _forces referable to a single centre, stood over against the earth as _passive._] The confusion of ancient mythology did not so much regard its subjective elements as its external development, and even here is easily accounted for by the mingling of tribes and nations, hitherto isolated in their growth,--but who, as they came together, in their mutual recognition of a common faith under different names and rites, must inevitably have introduced disorder into the external symbolism. But even out of this confusion we shall find the whole Pantheon organized about two central shrines,--those of the _Mater Dolorosa_ and the _Dominus Salvator_,--which are represented also in Christendom, though detached from natural symbols, in the connection of Christianity with the worship of the Virgin. The Eleusinia, collecting together, as it did, all the prominent elements of mythology, furnishes, in its dramatic evolution through Demeter and Dionysus, the highest and most complete representation of ancient faith in both of its developments. In a former paper, we have endeavored to give this drama its deepest interpretation by pointing to the human heart as the central source of all its movements. We shall now ask our readers to follow us out into these movements themselves,--that, as before we saw how the world is centred in each human soul, we may now see how each soul develops itself in the world; for thither it is that the ever-widening cycles of the Eleusinian epos will inevitably lead us. And first as an epos of sorrow: though centring in the earthly Demeter, yet its movement does not limit itself by the remembrance of _her_ nine days' search; but, in the torch-light procession of the fifth night, widens indefinitely and mysteriously in the darkness, until it has inclosed all hearts within the circuit of its tumultuous flight. Thus, by some secret sympathy with her movements, are gathered together about the central Achtheia all the _Matres Dolorosoe,_--our Ladies of Sorrow;--for, like her, they were all wanderers. They were so by necessity. All unrest involves loss, and thus leads to search. It matters not if the search be unsuccessful; though the gadfly sting as sharply the next moment as it did the last, still so must continue her wanderings. Therefore that Jew, whose mythic fate it is to wait forever upon the earth, the victim of an everlasting sorrow, is also an everlasting wanderer. All suffering necessitates movement,--and when the suffering is intense, the movement passes over into flight. Therefore it is that the epos of suffering requires not merely time for its accomplishment, but also space. Ulysses, the "much-suffering," is also the "much-wandering." Thus our Lady in the Eleusinian procession of search represents the restless search of all her children. Migrations and colonizations, ancient or modern,--what were they but flights from some phase of suffering,--name it as we may,--poverty, oppression, or slavery? It was the same suffering Io who brought civilization to the banks of the Nile. Thus, from the very beginnings of history or human tradition, out of the severities of Scythian deserts there has been an endless series of flights,--nomadic invasions of tribes impelled by no merely barbarian impulse, but by some deep sense of suffering, flying from their Northern wastes to the happy gardens of the South. In no other way can you account for these movements. If you attribute them to ferocity, what was it that engendered and nourished _that_? Call them the results of a Divine Providence, seeking by a fresher current of life to revive systems of civilization which through long ages of luxury have come to frailty,--still it was through this severity of discipline alone that Providence accomplished its end. Besides, these nomads were fully conscious of their bitter lot; and those who fled not in space fled at least in their dreams,--waiting for death at last to introduce them to inexhaustible hunting-grounds in their happy Elysium. The very mention of Rome suggests the same continually repeated series of antecedent tragedy and consequent wandering,--pointing backward to the fabled siege of Troy and the flight of Aeneas,--"_profugus_" from Asia to Italy,--and forward to the quick-coming footsteps of the Northern _profugi_, who were eager, even this side the grave, to enter the Valhalla of their dreams. It is said that the Phoenician cities sent out colonies from a desire of gain, and because they were crowded at home. It is said, too, that, in search of gold, thousands upon thousands went to El Dorado, to California, and Australia; but who does not know that the greater part of these thousands left their homes for reasons which, if fully exposed, would reveal a tragedy in view of which gold appears a glittering mockery? The great movement of the race westward is but an extension of this epic flight. Thus, the Pilgrim Fathers of New England,--the grandest _profugi_ of all time,--or even the bold adventurers of Spain, would have been moved only by intense suffering, in some form, to exchange their homes for a wilderness. The world is full of these wanderings, under various pretences of gain, adventure, or curiosity, hiding the real impulse of flight. So with the strong-flowing current in the streets of a great city; for how else shall we interpret this intricate net-work of human feature and movement,--this flux of life toward some troubled centre, and then its reflux toward some uncertain and undefined circumference? And as Nature is the mirror of human life, so at the source of those vast movements by which she buries in oblivion her own works and the works of man there is hidden the type of human suffering, both for the race and the individual. And hence it is, that, over against the eternal solitude within us, there ever waits without us a second solitude, into which, sooner or later, we pass with restless flight,--a solitude vast, shadowy, and unfamiliar in its outline, but inevitable in its reality,--haunting, bewildering, overshadowing us! * * * * * "Who is it that shall interpret this intricate evolution of human footsteps, in its meaning of sorrow?--who is it that shall give us rest?" Such is the half-conscious prayer of all these fugitives,--of our Lady and all her children. This it is which gives meaning to the torch-light procession on the fifth night of the Festival; but to-morrow it shall find an answer in the Saviour Dionysus, who shall change the flight of search into the pomp of triumph. * * * * * But let us pause a moment. It is Palm Sunday! We are not, indeed, in Syria, the land of palms. Yet, even here,--lost in some far-reaching avenue of pines, where one could hardly walk upon a summer Sunday without such sense of joy as would move him to tears,--even here all the movements of the earth and the heavens hint of most jubilant triumph. Thus, the green grass rises above the dead grass at our feet; the leaf-buds new-born upon the tree, like lotos-buds springing up from Ethiopian marble, give token of resurrection; the trees themselves tower heavenward; and in victorious ascension the clouds unite in the vast procession, dissolving in exhalation at the "gates of the sun"; while from unnumbered choirs arise songs of exultant victory from the hearts of men to the throne of God! But whither, in divine remembrance,--whither is it that upon this Sunday of all Sundays the thoughts of Christendom point? Back through eighteen hundred years to the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, followed by the children crying, "Hosanna in the highest heavens!" Of this it is that the processions of Nature, in the resurrections of birth and the aerial ascension of clouds,--of this that the upward processions of our thoughts are commemorative! Thus was the sixth day of the Eleusinia,--when the ivy-crowned Dionysus was borne in triumph through the mystic entrance of Eleusis, and from the Eleusinian plains, as from our choirs to-day, ascended the jubilant Hosannas of the countless multitude;--this was the Palm Sunday of Greece. Close upon the chariot-wheels of the Saviour Dionysus followed, in the faith of Greece, Aesculapius and Hercules: the former the Divine Physician, whose very name was healing, and who had power over death, as the child of the Sun; and the latter, who by his saving strength delivered the earth from its Augean impurities, and, arrayed in celestial panoply, subdued the monsters of the earth, and at last, descending to Hades, slew the three-headed Cerberus and took away from men much of the fear of death. Such was the train of the Eleusinian Dionysus. If Demeter was the wanderer, he was the conqueror and centre of all triumph. And this reminds us of his Indian conquest. What did it mean? Admit that it may have been only the fabulous march in triumph of some forgotten king of mortal birth to the farthest limits of the East. Still the fact of its association with Dionysus stands as evidence of the connection of human faith with human victory. Let it be that Dionysus himself was only the apotheosis of victorious humanity. In strict logic this is more than probable. Yet why apotheosize conquerors at all? Why exalt all heroes to the rank of gods? The reason is, that men are unwilling to draw a limited meaning from any human act. How could they, then, connecting, as they did, all victory with hope,--how could they fall short of the most exalted hope, of the most excellent victory; especially in instances like the one now under our notice, where the material circumstances of the conquest as well as of the conqueror's life have passed out of remembrance; when for generations men have dwelt upon the dim tradition in their thoughts, and it has had time to grow into its fullest significance,--even finding an elaborate expression in sacred writings, in symbolic ritual, and monumental entablature? Osiris, who subjected men to his reign of peace, was also held to be the Preserver of their souls. Even Caesar, had he lived two thousand years before, might have been worshipped as Saviour. All extended power, measured by duration in time or vast areas of space, becomes an incarnate Presence in the world, which awes to the dust all who resist it, and exalts with its own glory all who trust in it. Achtheia mourns all failures; and here it is that the human touches the earth. But they who conquer, these are our Saviours; they shall follow in the train of Dionysus; they shall lift us to the heavens, and sanctify in our remembrance the Sunday of Palms! But Dionysus not only looks back with triumphant remembrance to ancient conquest, but has his victories in the present, also, and in the great Hereafter. For triumph was connected with all Dionysiac symbols, hints of which are preserved to us in representations found upon ancient vases: such, for instance, as the figure of Victory surmounting the heads of the ivy-crowned Bacchantes in their mystic orgies; or the winged serpents which bear the chariot of the victor-god,--as if in this connection even the reptiles, whose very name (_serpentes_) is a synonyme for what creeps, are to be made the ministrants of his conquering flight. The tombs of the ancients from Egypt to Etruria are full of these symbols. Many of them have become dim as to their meaning by oblivious time; but enough is evident to indicate the prominence of hope in ancient faith. This appears in the very multiplicity of Dionysiac symbols as compared with any other class. Thus, out of sixty-six vases at Polignano, all but one or two were found to be Dionysiac in their symbolism. And this instance stands for many others. The _character_ of the scenes represented indicates the same prominence of hope, sometimes as connected with the relations of life,--as, for example, the representation, found upon a sepulchral cone, of a husband and wife uniting with each other in prayer to the Sun. Frequent inscriptions--such as those in which the deceased is carefully committed to Osiris, the Egyptian Dionysus--point in the same direction; as also the genii who presided over the embalmed dead, a belief in whose existence surely indicated a hopeful trust in some divine care which would not leave them even in the grave. Statues of Osiris are found among the ruins of palaces and temples; but it was in the monuments associated with death that they dwelt most upon his name and expressed their faith in most frequent incarnation and inscription. The epic movement of Eleusinian triumph was in its range as unlimited as the movement of sorrow. Each found expression in sculptured monument,--the one hinting of flight into darkness, and the other of resurrection into light; each in its cycle inclosed the world; each widened into the invisible; as the wail of Achtheia reached the heart of Hades, so the paean of Dionysus was lost in the heavens. * * * * * But in what manner did this Dionysus make his _avatar_ in the world? For he must needs have first touched the earth as human child, ere he could be worshipped as Divine Saviour. Latona must leave the heavens and come to Delos ere she can give birth to Apollo; for, in order to slay the serpent, the child must himself be earth-born,--indeed, according to one representation, he slew the Python out of his mother's arms. Neither the serpent of Genesis nor the dragon of Revelation can be conquered save by the seed of the woman. From this necessity of his earthly birth, the connection of the Saviour-Child with the _Mater Dolorosa_ becomes universal,--finding its counterpart in the Assyrian Venus with babe in arm, in Isis suckling the child Horus, and even in the Scandinavian Disa at Upsal accompanied by an infant. It is from swaddling-clothes, as the nursling of our Lady, and out of the sorrowful discipline of earth, that the child grows to be the Saviour, both for our Lady and for all her children. Hence, according to the tradition, Dionysus was born of Semele of the royal house at Thebes; and Jove was his father. A little before his time of birth,--so the story goes,--Jove visited Semele, at her own rash request, in all the majesty of his presence, with thunderings and lightnings, so that the bower of the virgin mother was laid in ruins, and she herself, unable to stand before the revealed god, was consumed as by fire. But Jove out of her ashes perfected the birth of his son; whence he was called the Child of Fire, (,)--which epithet, as well as this part of the fable, probably points to his connection with the Oriental symbolism of fire in the worship of the Sun. And it is worth while, in connection with this, to notice the gradations by which in the ancient mind everything ascended from the gross material to a refined spirituality. As in Nature there was forever going on a subtilizing process, so that "from the root Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves More aery, last the bright consummate flower Spirits odorous breathes,"-- and as, in their philosophy, from the earth, as the principle of Nature, they ascended through the more subtile elements of water, air, and fire, to a spiritual conception of the universe; so, as regards their faith, its highest incarnation was through the symbolism of fire, as representative of that central Power under whose influence all things arose through endless grades of exaltation to Himself,--so that the earthly rose into the heavenly, and all that was human became divine. The enthusiasm of victory and exaltation in the worship of Dionysus tended of course to connect with him whatsoever was joyous and jubilant in life. He was the god of all joy. Hence the fable which makes him the author and giver of wine to men. Wherever he goes, he is surrounded by the clustering vine and ivy, hinting of his summer glory and of his kingly crown. Thus, the line of his conquests leads through the richest fields of Southern Asia,--through the incense-breathing Arabia, across the Euphrates and the Tigris, and through the flowery vales of Cashmere to the Indian garden of the world: and as from sea to sea he establishes his reign by bloodless victories, he is attended by Fauns and Satyrs and the jovial Pan; wine and honey are his gifts; and all the earth is glad in his gracious presence. Hence he was ever associated with Oriental luxuriance, and was worshipped even among the Greeks with a large infusion of Oriental extravagance, though tempered by the more subdued mood of the West. But that depth of Grecian genius, which made it possible for Greece alone of all ancient nations to develop tragedy to anything like perfection, insured also even in the most impassioned life the most profound solemnity. Into the praises of Apollo, joyous as they were,--where, to the exultant anthem was joined the evolution of the dance beneath the vaulted sky, as if in his very presence,--for the sun was his shechinah,--there enters an element of solemnity, which, in certain connections, is almost overwhelming: as, for instance, in the first book of the "Iliad,"--where, after the pestilence which has sent up an endless series of funeral pyres,--after the strife of heroes and the return of Chryseis to her father, the priest of the angry Apollo,--after the feast and the libation from the wine-crowned cups, there follow the _apotropoea_, and the Grecian youths unite in the song and the dance, which last, both the joyous paean and the tread of exultant feet, until the setting sun. I know of nothing which to an equal degree suggests this element of solemnity, that is almost awe-inspiring from its depth, short of the jubilant procession of saints, in the Apocalypse, with palms in their hands. This element is also evident in the worship of Dionysus,--so that the inspiration of joy must not be taken for the frenzy of intoxication, though the symbol of the vine has often led to just this misapprehension. Besides, Dionysus must not be too closely identified with the Bacchanalian orgies, which were only a perversion of rites which retained their original purity in the Eleusinia: and this latter institution, it must be remembered, was from the first under the control of the state,--and that state at the time the most refined on the face of the earth. Surely, it is not more difficult to give a pure and spiritual significance to a vintage-festival or to the symbolic wine-cup of Dionysus, than in the rhapsodies of a Persian or Hindu poet to symbolize the attraction between the Divine Goodness and the human soul by the loves of Laili and Majnum, or of Crishna and Radha,--to say nothing of the exalted symbolism attached to the love of Solomon for his Egyptian princess, and sanctioned by the most delicate taste. Indeed, is it not true that whatsoever is most sensuous in connection with human joy, and at the same time pure, is the very flower of life, and therefore the most consummate revelation of holiness? Nothing in Nature is so intensely solemn as her summer, in its infinite fulness of growth and the unmeasured altitude of its heavens. And within the range of human associations which shall we select as revealing the most profound solemnity? Surely not the sight of the funeral train, nor of the urn crowned with cypress,--of nothing which is associated with death or weakness in any shape;--but the sight of gayest festivals, or the paraphernalia of palace-halls,--the vision of some youthful maiden of transcendent beauty crowned with an orange-wreath, within hearing of marriage-bells and the whisperings of holy love,--or the aspirations of the dance and the endless breathings of triumphant music. These are they which come up most prominently in remembrance,--even as the whole race, in its remembrances, instinctively looks back to the Orient,--to some Homeric island of the morning, where are the palaces, the choral dances, and the risings of the sun. And as Memory has the power to purify the past of all material grossness, Faith has the same power as regards the present Hence, the closest connection of religious faith with the most joyous festivals, with a finely moulded Venus or Apollo, with an Ephesian temple or a splendid cathedral, or the sweetest symphonies of music, does not mar, but reveals its natural beauty and strength. But most certainly the Greeks gave a profound spiritual meaning to the Eleusinia, as also to the mystic connection of Demeter with Dionysus. She gave them bread: but they never forgot that she gave them the bread of life. "She gave us," says the ancient Isocrates, "two gifts that are the most excellent: fruits, that we might not live like beasts; and that initiation, those who have part in which have sweeter hope,--both as regards the close of life, and for all eternity." So Dionysus gave them wine, not only to lighten the cares of life, but as a token, moreover, of efficient deliverance from the fear of death, and of the higher joy which he would give them in some happier world. And thus it is, that, from the earliest times and in all the world, bread and wine have been symbols of sacramental significance. Human life so elevates all things with its exaltation and clothes them with its glory, that nothing vain, nothing trifling, can be found within its range. He who opposes himself to a single fact thus of necessity opposes himself to the whole onward and upward current, and must fall. We have heard of Thor, who with his magic mallet and his two celestial comrades went to Joetunheim in quest of adventures: and we remember the goblet which he could not exhaust because of its mysterious connection with the inexhaustible Sea; the race with Hugi, which in the end proved to be a race with Thought; and the wrestle with the old nurse Elli, who was no other than Time herself, and therefore irresistible. So do we all get us mallets ingeniously forged by the dark elves;--we try a race with human thought, and look vainly to come out ahead; we laugh at things because they are old, but with which we struggle to no purpose; and the cup which we confidently put to our lips has no bottom;--in fact, the great world of Joetunheim has grown for so long a time and so widely that it is quite too much for us,--and its tall people, though we come down upon them, like Thor and his companions, from celestial heights, are too stout for our mallet. Nothing human is so insignificant, but that, if you will give it time and room, it will become irresistible. The plays of men become their dramas; their holidays change to holy days. The representations, through which, under various names, they have repeated to themselves the glory and the tragedy of their life,--old festivals once celebrated in Egypt far back beyond the dimmest myths of human remembrance,--the mystic drama of the Eleusinia, which we have been considering in its overwhelming sorrow developed in hurried flight, and its lofty hope through triumphal pomp and the significant symbolism of resurrection,--the epos and the epic rhapsodies,--the circus and the amphitheatre,--and even the impetuous song and dance of painted savages,--all these, which at first we may pass by with a glance, have for our deeper search a meaning which we can never wholly exhaust. Let it be that they have grown from feeble beginnings, they have grown to gigantic dimensions; and not their infantile proportions, but their fullest growth is to be taken as the measure of their strength,--if, indeed, it be not wholly immeasurable. Upon some day, seemingly by chance, but really having its antecedent in the remotest antiquity, a company of men participate in some simple act,--of sacrifice, it may be, or of amusement. Now that act will be reiterated. "Quod semel dictum est stabilisque rerum Terminus servet." The subtile law of repetition, as regards the human will, is as sure in Determination as it is in Consciousness. Habit is as inevitable as Memory; and as nothing can be forgotten, but, when once known, is known forever,--so nothing is done but will be done again. Lethe and Annihilation are only myths upon the earth, which men, though suspicious of their eternal falsehood, name to themselves in moments of despair and fearful apprehension. The poppy has only a fabled virtue; but, like Persephone, we have all tasted of the pomegranate, and must ever to Hades and back again; for while death and oblivion only seem to be, remembrances and resurrections there must be, and without end. Therefore this before-mentioned act of sacrifice or amusement will be reiterated at given intervals; about it, as a centre, will be gathered all the associations of intense interest in human life; and the names connected with its origin--once human names upon the earth--will pass upon the stars, so that the _nomina_ shall have changed to _numina_, and be taken upon the lips with religious awe. So it was with these old festivals,--so with all the representations of human life in stone or upon the canvas, in the fairy-tale, the romance, and the poem; at every successive repetition, at every fresh resurrection, is evolved by human faith and sympathy a deeper significance, until they become the centres of national thought and feeling, and men believe in them as in revelations from heaven; and even the oracles themselves, in respect of their inherent meaning, as also of their origin and authority, rise by the same ascending series of repeated birth,--like that at Delphi, which, at first attributed to the Earth, then to Themis, daughter of Earth and Heaven, was at last connected with the Sun and constituted one of the richest gems in Apollo's diadem of light. In the end we shall find that the whole world organizes about its centre of Faith. Thus, under three different religious systems, Jerusalem, Delphi, and Mecca were held to be each in its turn the _omphalos_ or navel of the world. It follows inevitably that the _main_ movement of the world must always be joyous and hopeful. By reason of this joy it is that every religious system has its feast; and the sixth day--the day of Iacchus--is the great day of the festival. The inscription which rises above every other is "To the Saviour Gods." We must look at history as a succession of triumphs from the beginning; and each trophy that is erected outdoes in its magnificence all that were ever erected before it. Nothing has suffered defeat, except as it has run counter to the main movement of conquest. No system of faith, therefore, can by any possibility pass away. Involved it may be in some fuller system; its _material_ bases may be modified; its central source become more central in the human heart, and so stronger in the world and more immediate in its connection with the eternal; but the life itself of the system must live forever and grow forever. Still it is true that in the widest growth there is the largest liability to weakness. "Thus it is," says Fouque, "with poor, though richly endowed man. All lies within his power so long as action is at rest within him; nothing is in his power the moment action has displayed itself, even by the lifting-up of a finger on the immeasurable world." In the very extent of the empire of an Alexander, a Caesar, or a Tamerlane, rests the possibility of its rapid dissolution. At the giddiest altitude of triumph it is that the brain grows dizziest and there is revealed the deepest chasm of possible defeat; and the conqueror, "Having his ear full of his airy fame," is just then most likely to fall like Herod from his aerial pomp to the very dust. This consciousness, revealing at the highest moment of joy its utmost frailty, led the ancients to suspect the presence of some Ate or Nemesis in all human triumphs. We all remember the king who threw his signet-ring into the sea, that he might in his too happy fortunes avert this suspected presence; we remember, too, the apprehension of the Chorus in the "Seven against Thebes," looking forward from the noontide prosperity of the Theban king to some coming catastrophe. But it is not without us that this Nemesis waits; she is but another name for the fearful possibility which lurks in every human will, of treachery to itself. And as solemnity rises to its acme in the most sensuous manifestation of the glory of life,--so in all that most fascinates and bewilders, at the very crisis of victorious exaltation, at the very height of joyous sensibility, does this mysterious power of temptation reveal her subtlest treachery; and sometimes in a single moment does she change the golden-filleted Horae, that are our ministers, into frightful furies, which drive us back again from triumph into flight. What was it, then, which saved the Eleusinia from this defeat,--which kept the movement of the Dionysiac procession from the ruin inevitably consequent upon all intemperate joy? It was the presence of our Lady, the sorrowing Achtheia, who was the inseparable companion of the joyous conqueror,--who subdued the joy of victory, and preserved the strength and holy purity of the great Festival. Demeter was thus necessary to Dionysus,--as Dionysus to Demeter; and if in remembrance of him the sepulchral walls were covered with scenes associated with festivity,--in remembrance of her there must needs be a skeleton at every feast. How inseparably connected in human thought is sorrow with all permanent hope is indicated in the penances which men have imposed upon themselves, from the earliest Gymnosophists of India, and the Stylitae of Syria, down to the monastic orders of the Romish Church in later times. This is the meaning of the old Indian fable which made two of the _Rishis_ or penitents to have risen by the discipline of sorrow from some low caste,--it may be, from very Pariahs,--first to the rank of Brahmins, and at last to the stars. The first initiation in which we veil our eyes, losing all, is essential to our fresher birth, by which in the second initiation all things are unveiled to us as our inheritance: indeed, it is only through that which veils that anything is ever revealed or possessed. Through the same gate we pass both to glory and to tragic suffering, each of which heightens and measures the other; and it is only so that we can understand the function of sorrow in the Providence of God, or interpret the sudden calamities which sometimes overwhelm human hopes at their highest aspiration,--which from the most serene and cloudless sky evoke storms which leave not even a wreck from their vast ruin. Nor merely is sorrow efficient in those who hope, but in even a higher sense does it attach to the character of Saviour. Apollo is, therefore, fabled to have been an exile from heaven and a servant of Admetus; indeed, Danaues, in "The Suppliants" of AEschylus, appeals to Apollo for protection on this very plea, addressing him as "the Holy One, and an exiled God from heaven." Thus Hercules was compelled to serve Eurystheus; and his twelve labors were typed in the twelve signs of the zodiac. AEsculapius and Prometheus both suffered excruciating tortures and death for the good of men. And Dionysus--himself the centre of all joy--was persecuted by the Queen of Heaven and compelled to wander in the world. Thus he wandered through Egypt, finding no abiding-place, and finally, as the story runs, came to the Phrygian Cybele, that he might know in their deepest meaning--even by the initiation of sorrow--the mysteries of the Great Mother. And, very significantly, it is from this same initiation that _His_ wanderings have their end and his world-wide conquest its beginning; as if only thus could be realized the possibility both of triumph for himself and of hope for his followers. For these wanderers can find rest only in a _suffering_ Saviour, by the vision of whose deeper Passion they lose their sense of grief,--as Io on Caucasus in sight of the transfixed Prometheus, and the Madonna at the Cross. It is worthy of more attention than we can give it here, yet we cannot pass over in silence the fact, so important in this relation, that Grecian Tragedy, in all its wonderful development under the three great masters, was directly associated, and in its ruder beginnings completely identified, with the worship of Dionysus. And this confirms our previous hint, that the same element which made tragedy possible for Greece must also be sought for in the development of its faith. There are those who decry Grecian faith,--at the same time that they laud the Grecian drama to the skies: but to the Greeks themselves, who certainly knew more than we do as regards either, the drama was only an outgrowth of their faith, and derived thence its highest significance. Thus the mystic symbolism of the dramatic Choruses, taken out of its religious connections, becomes an insoluble enigma; and naturally enough; for its first use was in religious worship,--though afterwards it became associated with traditionary and historic events. Besides, it was supposed that the tragedians wrote under a divine inspiration; and the subjects and representations which they embodied were for the most part susceptible of a deep spiritual interpretation. Indeed, upon a careful examination, we shall find that very many of the dramas directly suggest the two Eleusinian movements, representing first the flight of suppliants--as of the Heraclidae, the daughters of Danaues, and of Oedipus and Antigone--from persecution to the shrine of some Saviour Deity,--and finally a deliverance effected through sacrifice or divine interposition. Examples of this are so numerous that we have no space for a minute consideration. But certainly it is plain that the Eleusinia, as being more central, more purely spiritual, must in the thought of Greece have risen high above the drama. The very dress in which the _mystae_ were initiated was preserved as most sacred or deposited in the temple. Or if we insist upon measuring their appreciation of the Festival by the more palpable standard of numbers,--the temple at Eleusis, by the account of Strabo, was capable of holding even in its mystic cell more persons than the theatre. To be sure, the celebration was only once in five years,--but it was all the more sacred from this very infrequency. Nothing in all Greece--and that is saying very much--could compare with it in its depth of divine mystery. If anything could, it would have been the drama; but no wailings were ever heard from beneath the masks of the stage like the wailings of Achtheia,--no jubilant song of the Chorus ever rose like the paean of Dionysiac triumph. * * * * * Thus was the name of Dionysus connected with the palace and the temple, with the sepulchral court of death and the dramatic representations of life,--and everywhere associated with our Lady. Sometimes, indeed, she seems to overshadow and hide him from our vision. Thus was it when the Eumenides in their final triumph swept the stage, and victory seemed all in the hands of invisible Powers, with no human participant: even as throughout the Homeric epos there runs an undercurrent of unutterable sadness; because, while to the Gods there ever remains a sure seat upon Olympus, unshaken by the winds, untouched by rain or snow, crowned with a cloudless radiance,--yet upon man come vanity, sorrow, and strife; like the leaves of the forest he flourisheth, and then passeth away to the "weak heads of the dead," (,) conquered by purple Death and strong Fate. To the eye of sense, and in the circumscribed movements of this world, the desolation seems complete and the defeat final. But the snows of winter are necessary to the blossoms of spring,--the waste of death to the resurrection of life; and from the vastest of all desolations does our Lady lead her children in the loftiest of all flights,--even from all sorrow and solitude,--from the wastes of earth and the desolation of AEons, to ineffable joy in her Saviour Lord. * * * * * VICTOR AND JACQUELINE. I. Jacqueline Gabrie and Elsie Meril could not occupy one room, and remain, either of them, indifferent to so much as might be manifested of the other's inmost life. They could not emigrate together, peasants from Domremy,--Jacqueline so strong, Elsie so fair,--could not labor in the same harvest-fields, children of old neighbors, without each being concerned in the welfare and affected by the circumstances of the other. It was near ten o'clock, one evening, when Elsie Meril ran up the common stairway, and entered the room in the fourth story where she and Jacqueline lodged. Victor Le Roy, student from Picardy, occupied the room next theirs, and was startled from his slumber by the voices of the girls. Elsie was fresh from the theatre, from the first play she had ever witnessed; she came home excited and delighted, ready to repeat and recite, as long as Jacqueline would listen. And here was Jacqueline. Early in the evening Elsie had sought her friend with a good deal of anxiety. A fellow-lodger and field-laborer had invited her to see the play,--and Jacqueline was far down the street, nursing old Antonine Dupre. To seek her, thus occupied, on such an errand, Elsie had the good taste, and the selfishness, to refrain from doing. Therefore, after a little deliberation, she had gone to the theatre, and there forgot her hard day-labor in the wonders of the stage,--forgot Jacqueline, and Antonine, and every care and duty. It was hard for her, when all was ended, to come back to compunction and explanation, yet to this she had come back. Neither of the girls was thinking of the student, their neighbor; but he was not only wakened by their voices, he amused himself by comparing them and their utterances with his preconceived notions of the girls. They might not have recognized him in the street, though they had often passed him on the stairs; but he certainly could have distinguished the pretty face of Elsie, or the strange face of Jacqueline, wherever he might meet them. Elsie ran on with her story, not careful to inquire into the mood of Jacqueline,--suspicious of that mood, no doubt,--but at last, made breathless by her haste and agitation, she paused, looked anxiously at Jacqueline, and finally said,-- "You think I ought not to have gone?" "Oh, no,--it gave you pleasure." A pause followed. It was broken at length by Elsie, exclaiming, in a voice changed from its former speaking,-- "Jacqueline Gabrie, you are homesick! horribly homesick, Jacqueline!" "You do not ask for Antonine: yet you know I went to spend the day with her," said Jacqueline, very gravely. "How is Antonine Dupre?" asked Elsie. "She is dead. I have told you a good many times that she must die. Now, she is dead." "Dead?" repeated Elsie. "You care as much as if a candle had gone out," said Jacqueline. "She was as much to me as I to her," was the quick answer. "She never liked me. She did not like my mother before me. When you told her my name, the day we saw her first, I knew what she thought. So let that go. If I could have done her good, though, I would, Jacqueline." "She has everything she needs,--a great deal more than we have. She is very happy, Elsie." "Am not I? Are not you, in spite of your dreadful look? Your look is more terrible than the lady's in the play, just before she killed herself. Is that because Antonine is so well off?" "I wish that I could be where she is," sighed Jacqueline. "You? You are tired, Jacqueline. You look ill. You will not be fit for to-morrow. Come to bed. It is late." As Jacqueline made no reply to this suggestion, Elsie began to reflect upon her words, and to consider wherefore and to whom she had spoken. Not quite satisfied with herself could she have been, for at length she said in quite another manner,-- "You always said, till now, you wished that you might live a hundred years. But it was not because you were afraid to die, you said so, Jacqueline." "I don't know," was the answer,--sadly spoken, "Don't remind me of things I have said. I seem to have lost myself." The voice and the words were effectual, if they were intended as an appeal to Elsie. Fain would she now exclude the stage and the play from her thoughts,--fain think and feel with Jacqueline, as it had long been her habit to do. Jacqueline, however, was not eager to speak. And Elsie must draw yet nearer to her, and make her nearness felt, ere she could hope to receive the thought of her friend. By-and-by these words were uttered, solemn, slow, and dirge-like:-- "Antonine died just after sundown. I was alone with her. She did not think that she would die so soon. I did not. In the morning, John Leclerc came in to inquire how she spent the night. He prayed with her. And a hymn,--he read a hymn that she seemed to know, for all day she was humming it over. I can say some of the lines." "Say them, Jacqueline," said the softened voice of Elsie. Slowly, and as one recalls that of which he is uncertain, Jacqueline repeated what I copy more entire:-- "In the midst of life, behold, Death hath girt us round! Whom for help, then, shall we pray? Where shall grace be found? In thee, O Lord, alone! We rue the evil we have done, That thy wrath on us hath drawn. Holy Lord and God! Strong and holy God! Merciful and holy Saviour! Eternal God! Sink us not beneath Bitter pains of endless death! Kyrie, eleison!" "Then he went away," she continued. "But he did not think it was the last time he should speak to Antonine. In the afternoon I thought I saw a change, and I wanted to go for somebody. But she said, 'Stay with me. I want nothing.' So I sat by her bed. At last she said, 'Come, Lord Jesus! come quickly!' and she started up in her bed, as if she saw him coming. And as if he were coming nearer, she smiled. That was the last,--without a struggle, or as much as a groan." "No priest there?" asked Elsie. "No. When I spoke to her about it, she said her priest was Jesus Christ the Righteous,--and there was no other,--the High-Priest. She gave me her Bible. See how it has been used! 'Search the Scriptures,' she said. She told me I was able to learn the truth. 'I loved your mother,' she said; 'that is the reason I am so anxious you should know. It is by my spirit, said the Lord. Ask for that spirit,' she said. 'He is more willing to give than earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children.' She said these things, Elsie. If they are true, they must be better worth believing than all the riches of the world are worth the having." The interest manifested by the student in this conversation had been on the increase since Jacqueline began to speak of Antonine Dupre. It was not, at this point of the conversation, waning. "Your mother would not have agreed with Antonine," said Elsie, as if there were weight in the argument;--for such a girl as Jacqueline could not speak earnestly in the hearing of a girl like Elsie without result, and the result was at this time resistance. "She believed what she was taught in Domremy," answered Jacqueline, "She believed in Absolution, Extreme Unction, in the need of another priest than Jesus Christ,--a representative they call it." She spoke slowly, as if interrogating each point of her speech. "I believe as they believed before us," answered Elsie, coldly. "We have learned many things since we came to Meaux," answered Jacqueline, with a patient gentleness, that indicated the perplexity and doubt with which the generous spirit was departing from the old dominion. She was indeed departing, with that reverence for the past which is not incompatible with the highest hope for the future. "Our Joan came from Domremy, where she must crown the king," she continued. "We have much to learn." "She lost her life," said Elsie, with vehemence. "Yes, she did lose her life," Jacqueline quietly acquiesced. "If she had known what must happen, would she have come?" "Yes, she would have come." "How late it is!" said Elsie, as if in sleep were certain rest from these vexatious thoughts. Victor Le Roy was by this time lost in his own reflections. These girls had supplied an all-sufficient theme; whether they slept or wakened was no affair of his. He had somewhat to argue for himself about extreme unction, priestly intervention, confession, absolution,--something to say to himself about Leclerc, and the departed Antonine. Late into the night he sat thinking of the marvel of Domremy and of Antonine Dupre, of Picardy and of Meaux, of priests and of the High-Priest. Brave and aspiring, Victor Le Roy could not think of these things, involved in the names of things above specified, as more calculating, prudent spirits might have done. It was his business, as a student, to ascertain what powers were working in the world. All true characters, of past time or present, must be weighed and measured by him. Result was what he aimed at. Jacqueline's words had not given him new thoughts, but unawares they did summon him to his appointed labor. He looked to find the truth. He must stand to do his work. He must haste to make his choice. Enthusiastic, chivalrous, and strong, he was seeking the divine right, night and day,--and to ascertain that, as it seemed, he had come from Picardy to Meaux. Elsie Meril went to bed, as she had invited Jacqueline to do; to sleep, to dream, she went,--and to smile, in her dreaming, on the world that smiled on her. Jacqueline sat by the window; leaned from the window, and prayed; her own prayer she prayed, as Antonine had said she must, if she would discover what she needed, and obtain an answer. She thought of the dead,--her own. She pondered on the future. She recalled some lines of the hymn Antonine had repeated, and she wished--oh, how she wished!--that, while the woman lived, and could reason and speak, she had told her about the letter she had received from the priest of Domremy. Many a time it had been on her lips to tell, but she failed in courage to bring her poor affairs into that chamber and disturb that dying hour. Now she wished that she had done it. Now she felt that speech had been the merest act of justice to herself. But there was Leclerc, the wool-comber, and his mother; she might rely on them for the instruction she needed. Old Antonine's faith had made a deep impression on the strong-hearted and deep-thinking girl; as also had the prayers of John Leclerc,--especially that last prayer offered for Antonine. It seemed to authenticate, by its strong, unfaltering utterance, the poor old woman's evidence. "Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever," were strong words that seemed about to take possession of the heart of Jacqueline. Therefore, while Elsie slept, she prayed,--looking farther than the city-streets, and darkness,--looking farther than the shining stars. What she sought, poor girl, stood in her silent chamber, stood in her waiting heart. But she knew Him not, and her ear was heavy; she did not hear the voice, that she should answer Him, "Rabboni!" II. A fortnight from this night, after the harvesters had left the fields of M. Flaval, Jacqueline was lingering in the twilight. The instant the day's work was done, the laborers set out for Meaux, Their haste suggested some unusual cause. John Leclerc, wool-comber, had received that day his sentence. Report of the sentence had spread among the reapers in the field and all along the vineyards of the hill-sides. Not a little stir was occasioned by this sentence: three days of whipping through the public streets, to conclude with branding on the forehead. For this Leclerc, it seemed, had profanely and audaciously declared that a man might in his own behalf deal with the invisible God, by the mediation of Christ, the sole Mediator between God and man. Viewed in the light of his offence, his punishment certainly was of the mildest. Tidings of his sentence were received with various emotion: by some as though they were maddened with new wine; others wept openly; many more were pained at heart; some brutally rejoiced; some were incredulous. But now they were all on their way to Meaux; the fields were quite deserted. Urged by one desire, to ascertain the facts of the trial, and the time when the sentence would be executed, the laborers were returning to the town. Without demonstration of any emotion, Jacqueline Gabrie, quiet, silent, walked along the river-bank, until she came to the clump of chestnut-trees, whose shadow fell across the stream. Many a time, through the hot, dreadful day, her eyes turned wistfully to this place. In the morning Elsie Meril had promised Jacqueline that at twilight they would read together here the leaves the poor old mother of Leclerc gave Jacqueline last night: when they had read them, they would walk home by starlight together. But now the time had come, and Jacqueline was alone. Elsie had returned to town with other young harvesters. "Very well," said Jacqueline, when Elsie told her she must go. It was not, indeed, inexplicable that she should prefer the many voices to the one,--excitement and company, rather than quiet, dangerous thinking. But, thus left alone, the face of Jacqueline expressed both sorrow and indignation. She would exact nothing of Elsie; but latterly how often had she expected of her companion more than she gave or could give! Of course the young girl was equal to others in pity and surprise; but there were people in the world beside the wool-comber and his mother. Nothing of vast import was suggested by his sentence to her mind. She did not see that spiritual freedom was threatened with destruction. If she heard the danger questioned, she could not apprehend it. Though she had listened to the preaching of Leclerc and had been moved by it, her sense of truth and of justice was not so acute as to lead her willingly to incur a risk in the maintaining of the same. She would not look into Antonine's Bible, which Jacqueline had read so much during the last fortnight. She was not the girl to torment herself about her soul, when the Church would save it for her by mere compliance with a few easy regulations. More and more was Elsie disappointing Jacqueline. Day by day these girls were developing in ways which bade fair to separate them in the end. When now they had most need of each other, their estrangement was becoming more apparent and decided. The peasant-dress of Elsie would not content her always, Jacqueline said sadly to herself. Jacqueline's tracts, indeed, promised poorly as entertainment for an hour of rest;--rest gained by hours of toil. The confusion of tongues and the excitement of the city pleased Elsie better. So she went along the road to Meaux, and was not talking, neither thinking, all the way, of the wrongs of John Leclerc, and the sorrows of his mother,--neither meditating constantly, and with deep-seated purpose, "I will not let thee go, except thou bless me!" --neither on this problem, agitated then in so many earnest minds, "What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" Thus Jacqueline sat alone and thought that she would read by herself the tracts Leclerc had found it good to study. But unopened she held the little printed scroll, while she watched the home-returning birds, whose nests were in the mighty branches of the chestnut-trees. She needed the repose more than the teaching, even; for all day the sun had fallen heavily on the harvesters,--and toiling with a troubled heart, under a burning sun, will leave the laborer not in the best condition for such work as Jacqueline believed she had to do. But she had promised the old woman she would read these tracts, and this was her only time, for they must be returned that night: others were waiting for them with an eagerness and longing of which, haply, tract-dispensers see little now. Still she delayed in opening them. The news of Leclerc's sentence had filled her with dismay. Did she dread to read the truth,--"the truth of Jesus Christ," as his mother styled it? The frightful image of the bleeding, lacerated wool-comber would come between her and the book in which that faith was written for maintaining which this man must suffer. Strange contrast between the heavy gloom and terror of her thoughts and the peaceful "river flowing on"! How tranquil were the fields that spread beyond her sight! But there is no rest or joy in Nature to the agitated and foreboding spirit. Must we not have conquered the world, if we serenely enter into Nature's rest? Fain would Jacqueline have turned her face and steps in another direction that night than toward the road that led to Meaux: to the village on the border of the Vosges,--to the ancient Domremy. Once her home was there; but Jacqueline had passed forth from the old, humble, true defences: for herself must live and die. Domremy had a home for her no more. The priest, on whom she had relied when all failed her, was still there, it is true; and once she had thought, that, while he lived, she was not fatherless, not homeless: but his authority had ceased to be paternal, and she trusted him no longer. She had two graves in the old village, and among the living a few faces she never could forget. But on this earth she had no home. Musing on these dreary facts, and on the bleeding, branded image of Leclerc, as her imagination rendered him back to his friends, his fearful trial over, a vision more familiar to her childhood than her youth opened to Jacqueline. There was one who used to wander through the woods that bordered the mountains in whose shadow stood Domremy,--one whose works had glorified her name in the England and the France that made a martyr of her. Jeanne d'Arc had ventured all things for the truth's sake: was she, who also came forth from that village, by any power commissioned? Jacqueline laid the tracts on the grass. Over them she placed a stone. She bowed her head. She hid her face. She saw no more the river, trees, or home-returning birds; heard not the rush of water or of wind,--nor, even now, the hurry and the shout; that possibly to-morrow would follow the poor wool-comber through the streets of Meaux,--and on the third day they would brand him! She remembered an old cottage in the shadow of the forest-covered mountains. She remembered one who died there suddenly, and without remedy,--her father, unabsolved and unanointed, dying in fear and torment, in a moment when none anticipated death. She remembered a strong-hearted woman who seemed to die with him,--who died to all the interests of this life, and was buried by her husband ere a twelvemonth had passed,--her mother, who was buried by her father's side. Burdened with a solemn care they left their child. The priest of Domremy, and none beside him, knew the weight of this burden. How had he helped her bear it? since it is the _business_ of the shepherd to look after the younglings of the flock. Her hard earnings paid him for the prayers he offered for the deliverance of her father from his purgatorial woes. Burdened with a dire debt of filial love, the priest had let her depart from Domremy; his influence followed her as an oppression and a care,--a degradation also. Her life of labor was a slavish life. All she did, and all she left undone, she looked at with sad-hearted reference to the great object of her life. Far away she put all allurement to tempting, youthful joy. What had she to do with merriment and jollity, while a sin remained unexpiated, or a moment of her father's suffering and sorrow could be anticipated? How, probably, would these new doctrines, held fast by some through persecution and danger, these doctrines which brought liberty to light, be received by one so fast a prisoner of Hope as she? She had pledged herself, with solemn vows had promised, to complete the work her mother left unfinished when she died. Some of the laborers in the field, Elsie among them, had hoped, they said, that the wool-comber would retract from his dangerous position. Recalling their words, Jacqueline asked herself would she choose to have him retract? She reminded herself of the only martyr whose memory she loved, the glorious girl from Domremy, and a lofty and stern spirit seemed to rouse within her as she answered that question. She believed that John had found and taught the truth; and was Truth to be sacrificed to Power that hated it? Not by a suicidal act, at least. She took the tracts, so judging, from underneath the stone, wistfully looked them over, and, as she did so, recalled these words: "You cannot buy your pardon of a priest; he has no power to sell it; he cannot even give it. Ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally, upbraiding not. 'If ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father give his Holy Spirit to them that ask him!'" She could never forget these words. She could never forget the preacher's look when he used them; nor the solemnity of the assenting faith, as attested by the countenances of those around her in that "upper room." But her father! What would this faith do for the departed? Yet again she dared to pray,--here in this solitude, to ask for that Holy Spirit, the Enlightener. And it was truly with trembling, in the face of all presentiments of what the gift might possibly, must certainly, import to her. But what was she, that she could withstand God, or His gift, for any fear of the result that might attend the giving of the gift? Divinely she seemed to be inspired with that courageous thought. She rose up, as if to follow the laborers who had already gone to Meaux. But she had not passed out from the shadow of the great trees when another shadow fell along her path. III. It was Victor Le Roy who was so close at hand. He recognized Jacqueline; for, as he came down the road, now and then he caught a glimpse of her red peasant-dress. And he accepted his persuasion as it had been an assurance; for he believed that on such a night no other girl would linger alone near the place of her day's labor. Moreover, while passing the group of harvesters, he had observed that she was not among them. The acquaintance of these young persons was but slight; yet it was of such a character as must needs increase. Within the last fortnight they had met repeatedly in the room of Leclerc's mother. On the last night of her son's preaching they had together listened to his words. The young student with manly aspirations, ambitious, courageous, inquiring, and the peasant girl who toiled in fields and vineyards, were on the same day hearkening to the call, "Ho, every one that thirsteth!" with the consciousness that the call was meant for them. When Victor Le Roy saw that Jacqueline perceived and recognized him, he also observed the tracts in her hand and the trouble in her countenance, and he wondered in his heart whether she could be ignorant of what had passed that day at Meaux, and if it could be possible that her manifest disturbance arose from any perplexity or disquietude independent of the sentence that had been passed on John Leclerc. His first words brought an answer that satisfied his doubt. "She has chosen that good part which shall not be taken from her," said he, as he came near. "The country is so fair, could no one of them all except Jacqueline see that? Were they all drawn away by the bloody fascination of Meaux? even Elsie?" "It was the news that hurried her home with the rest," answered she, almost pleased at this disturbance of the solitude. "Did that keep you here, Jacqueline?" he asked. "It sent me out of the city. The dust choked me. Every face looked like a devil's. To-morrow night, to-morrow night, the harvesters will hurry all the faster. Terrible curiosity! And if they find traces of his blood along the streets, there will be enough to talk about through the rest of the harvesting. Jacqueline, if the river could be poured through those streets, the sacred blood could never be washed out. 'Tis not the indignity, nor the cruelty, I think of most, but the barbarous, wild sin. Shall a man's truest liberty be taken from him, as though, indeed, he were not a man of God, but the spiritual subject of his fellows? If that is their plan, they may light the fires,--there are many who will not shrink from sealing their faith with their blood." These words, spoken with vehemence, were the first free utterance Victor Le Roy had given to his feelings all day. All day they had been concentrating, and now came from him fiery and fast. It was time for him to know in whom and in what he believed. Greatly moved by his words, Jacqueline said, giving him the tracts,-- "I came from Domremy, I am free. No one can be hurt by what befalls me. I want to know the truth. I am not afraid. Did John Leclerc never give way for a moment? Is he really to be whipped through the streets, and on the third day to be branded? Will he not retract?" "Never!" was the answer,--spoken not without a shudder. "He did not flinch through all the trial, Jacqueline. And his old mother says, 'Blessed be Jesus Christ and his witnesses!'" "I came from Domremy," seemed to be in the girl's thought again; for her eyes flashed when she looked at Victor Le Roy, as though she could believe the heavens would open for the enlightening of such believers. "She gave me those to read," said she, pointing to the tracts she had given him. "And have you been reading them here by yourself?" "No. Elsie and I were to have read them together; but I fell to thinking." "You mean to wait for her, then?" "I was afraid I should not make the right sense of them." "Sit down, Jacqueline, and let me read aloud. I have read them before. And I understand them better than Elsie does, or ever will." "I am afraid that is true, Sir. If you read, I will listen." But he did not, with this permission, begin instantly. "You came from Domremy, Jacqueline," said he. "I came from Picardy. My home was within a stone's throw of the castle where Jeanne d'Arc was a prisoner before they carried her to Rouen. I have often walked about that castle and tried to think how it must have been with her when they left her there a prisoner. God knows, perhaps we shall all have an opportunity of knowing, how she felt when a prisoner of Truth. Like a fly in a spider's net she was, poor girl! Only nineteen! She had lived a life that was worth the living, Jacqueline. She knew she was about to meet the fate her heart must have foretold. Girls do not run such a course and then die quietly in their beds. They are attended to their rest by grim sentinels, and they light fagots for them. I have read the story many a time, when I could look at the window of the very room where she was a prisoner. It was strange to think of her witnessing the crowning of the King, with the conviction that her work ended there and then,--of the women who brought their children to touch her garments or her hands, to let her smile on them, or speak to them, or maybe kiss them. And the soldiers deemed their swords were stronger when they had but touched hers. And they knelt down to kiss her standard, that white standard, so often victorious! I have read many a time of that glorious day at Rheims." "And she said, _that_ day,' Oh, why can I not die here?'" said Jacqueline, with a low voice. "And when the Archbishop asked her," continued Victor, "'Where do you, then, expect to die?' she answered, 'I know not. I shall die where God pleases. I have done what the Lord my God commanded me; and I wish that He would now send me to keep my sheep with my mother and sister.'" "Because she loved Domremy, and her work was done," said Jacqueline, sadly. "And so many hated her! But her mother would be sure to love. Jeanne would never see an evil eye in Domremy, and no one would lie in wait to kill her in the Vosges woods." "It was such as you, Jacqueline, who believed in her, and comforted her. And to every one that consoled her Christ will surely say, 'Ye blessed of my Father, ye did it unto me!' Yes, to be sure, there were too many who stood ready to kill her in all France,--besides those who were afraid of her, and fought against our armies. Even when they were taking her to see the Dauphin, the guard would have drowned her, and lied about it, but they were restrained. It is something to have been born in Domremy,--to have grown up in the very place where she used to play, a happy little girl. You have seen that fountain, and heard the bells she loved so much. It was good for you, I know." "Her prayers were everywhere," Jacqueline replied. "Everywhere she heard the voices that called her to come and deliver France. But her father did not believe in her. He persecuted Jeanne." "A man's foes are of his own household," said Victor. "You see the same thing now. It is the very family of Christ--yes! so they dare call it--who are going to tear and rend Leclerc to-morrow for believing the words of Christ. A hundred judges settled that Jeanne should be burned; and for believing such words as are in these books"-- "Read me those words," said Jacqueline. So they turned from speaking of Joan and her work, to contemplate another style of heroism, and to question their own hearts. Jacqueline Gabrie had lived through eighteen years of hardship and exposure. She was strong, contented, resolute. Left to herself, she would probably have suffered no disturbance of her creed,--would have lived and died conforming to the letter of its law. But thrown under the influence of those who did agitate the subject, she was brave and clear-headed. She listened now, while, according to her wish, her neighbor read,--listened with clear intelligence, intent on the truth. That, or any truth, accepted, she would hardly shrink from whatever it involved. This was the reason why she had really feared to ask the Holy Ghost's enlightenment! So well she understood herself! Truth was truth, and, if received, to be abided by. She could not hold it loosely. She could not trifle with it. She was born in Domremy. She had played under the Fairy Oak. She knew the woods where Joan wandered when she sought her saintly solitude. The fact was acting on her as an inspiration, when Domremy became a memory, when she labored far away from the wooded Vosges and the meadows of Lorraine. She listened to the reading, as girls do not always listen when they sit in the presence of a reader such as young Le Roy. And let it here be understood--that the conclusion bring no sorrow, and no sense of wrong to those who turn these pages, thinking to find the climax dear to half-fledged imagination, incapable from inexperience of any deeper truth, (I render them all homage!) --this story is not told for any sake but truth's. This Jacqueline did listen to this Victor, thinking actually of the words he read. She looked at him really to ascertain whether her apprehension of these things was all the same as his. She questioned him, with the simple desire to learn what he could tell her. Her hands were very hard, so constant had been her dealing with the rough facts of this life; but the hard hand was firm in its clasp, and ready with its helpfulness. Her eyes were open, and very clear of dreams. There was room in them for tenderness as well as truth. Her voice was not the sweetest of all voices in this world; but it had the quality that would make it prized by others when heart and flesh were failing; for it would be strong to speak then with cheerful faith and an unfaltering courage. Jacqueline sat there under the chestnut-trees, upon the river-bank, strong-hearted, high-hearted, a brave, generous woman. What if her days were toilsome? What if her peasant-dress was not the finest woven in the looms of Paris or of Meaux? Her prayers were brief, her toil was long, her sleep was sound,--her virtue firm as the everlasting mountains. Jacqueline, I have singled you from among hordes and tribes and legions upon legions of women, one among ten thousand, altogether lovely,--not for dalliance, not for idleness, not for dancing, which is well; not for song, which is better; not for beauty, which, perhaps, is best; not for grace, or power, or passion. There is an attribute of God which is more to His universe than all evidence of power. It is His truth. Jacqueline, it is for this your name shall shine upon my page. And, manifestly, it is by virtue of this quality that her reader is moved and attracted at this hour of twilight on the river-bank. Her intelligence is so quick! her apprehension so direct! her conclusions so true! He intended to aid her; but Mazurier himself had never uttered comments so entirely to the purpose as did this young girl, speaking from heart and brain. Better fortune, apparently, could not have befallen him than was his in this reading; for with every sentence almost came her comment, clear, earnest, to the point. He had need of such a friend as Jacqueline seemed able to prove herself. His nearest living relative was an uncle, who had sent the ambitious and capable young student to Meaux; for he gave great promise, and was worth an experiment, the old man thought,--and was strong to be thrown out into the world, where he might ascertain the power of self-reliance. He had need of friends, and, of all friends, one like Jacqueline. From the silence and retirement of his home in Picardy he had come to Meaux,--the town that was so astir, busy, thoroughly alive! Inexperienced in worldly ways he came. His face was beautiful with its refinement and power of expression. His eyes were full of eloquence; so also was his voice. When he came from Picardy to Meaux, his old neighbors prophesied for him. He knew their prophecies, and purposed to fulfil them. He ceased from dreaming, when he came to Meaux. He was not dreaming, when he looked on Jacqueline. He was aware of what he read, and how she listened, under those chestnut-trees. The burden of the tracts he read to Jacqueline was salvation by faith, not of works,--an iconoclastic doctrine, that was to sweep away the great mass of Romish superstition, invalidating Papal power. Image-worship, shrine-frequenting sacrifices, indulgences, were esteemed and proved less than nothing worth in the work of salvation. "Did you understand John, when he said that the priests deceived us and were full of robberies, and talked about the masses for the dead, and said the only good of them was to put money into the Church?" asked Jacqueline. "I believe it," he replied, with spirit. "That the masses are worth nothing?" she asked,--far from concealing that the thought disturbed her. "What can they be worth, if a man has lived a bad life?" "_That_ my father did _not!_" she exclaimed. "If a man is a bad man, why, then he is. He has gone where he must be judged. The Scripture says, As a tree falls, it must lie." "My father was a good man, Victor. But he died of a sudden, and there was no time." "No time for what, Jacqueline? No time for him to turn about, and be a bad man in the end?" "No time for confession and absolution. He died praying God to forgive him all his sins. I heard him. I wondered, Victor, for I never thought of his committing sins. And my mother mourned for him as a good wife should not mourn for a bad husband." "Then what is your trouble, Jacqueline?" "Do you know why I came here to Meaux? I came to get money,--to earn it. I should be paid more money here than I got for any work at home, they said: that was the reason. When I had earned so much,--it was a large sum, but I knew I should get it, and the priest encouraged me to think I should,--he said that my heart's desire would be accomplished. And I could earn the money before winter is over, I think. But now, if"---- "Throw it into the Seine, when you get it, rather than pay it to the liar for selling your father out of a place he was never in! He is safe, believe me, if he was the good man you say. Do not disturb yourself, Jacqueline." "He never harmed a soul. And we loved him that way a bad man could not be loved." As Jacqueline said this, a smile more sad than joyful passed over her face, and disappeared. "He rests in peace," said Victor Le Roy. "It is what I must believe. But what if there should be a mistake about it? It was all I was working for." "Think for yourself, Jacqueline. No matter what Leclerc thinks or I think. Can you suppose that Jesus Christ requires any such thing as this of you, that you should make a slave of yourself for the expiation of your father? It is a monstrous thought. Doubt not it was love that took him away so quickly. And love can care for him. Long before this, doubtless, he has heard the words, 'Come, ye blessed of my father!' And what is required of you, do you ask? You shall be merciful to them that live; and trust Him that He will care for those who have gone beyond your reach. Is it so? Do I understand you? You have been thinking to _buy_ this good _gift_ of God, eternal life for your father, when of course you could have nothing to do with it. You have been imposed upon, and robbed all this while, and this is the amount of it." "Well, do not speak so. If what you say is true,--and I think it may be,--what is past is past." "But won't you see what an infernal lie has been practised on you, and all the rest of us who had any conscience or heart in us, all this while? There _is_ no purgatory; and it is nonsense to think, that, if there were, money could buy a man out of it. Jesus Christ is the one sole atonement for sin. And by faith in Him shall a man save his soul alive. That is the only way. If I lose my soul, and am gone, the rest is between me and God. Do you see it _should_ be so, and must be so, Jacqueline?" "He was a good man," said Jacqueline. She did not find it quite easy to make nothing of all this matter, which had been the main-spring of her effort since her father died. She could not in one instant drop from her calculations that on which she had heretofore based all her activity. She had labored so long, so hard, to buy the rest and peace and heavenly blessedness of the father she loved, it was hardly to be expected that at once she would choose to see that in that rest and peace and blessedness, she, as a producing power, had no part whatever. As she more than hinted, the purpose of her life seemed to be taken from her. She could not perceive that fact without some consternation; could not instantly connect it with another, which should enable her to look around her with the deliberation of a liberated spirit, choosing her new work. And in this she was acted upon by more than the fear arising from the influences of her old belief. Of course she should have been, and yet she was not, able to drop instantly and forever from recollection the constant sacrifices she had made, the deprivation she had endured, with heroic persistence,--the putting far away every personal indulgence whose price had a market value. Her father was not the only person concerned in this work; the priest; herself. She had believed in the pastor of Domremy. Yet he had deceived her. Else he was self-deceived; and what if the blind should strive to lead the blind? _Could_ she accept the new faith, the great freedom, with perfect rejoicing? Victor Le Roy seemed to have some suspicion of what was passing in her thoughts. He did not need to watch her changeful face in order to understand them. "I advise you to still think of this," said he. "Recall your father's life, and then ask yourself if it is likely that He who is Love requires the sacrifice of your youth and your strength before your father shall receive from Him what He has promised to give to all who trust in Him. Take God at his word, and you will be obliged to give up all this priest-trash." IV. Victor Le Roy spoke these words quietly, as if aware that he might safely leave them, as well as any other true words, to the just sense of Jacqueline. She was none the happier for them when she returned that night to the little city room, the poor lodging whose high window overlooked both town and country, city streets and harvest-fields, and the river flowing on beyond the borders of the town,--no happier through many a moment of thinking, until, as it were by an instant illumination, she began to see the truth of the matter, as some might wonder she did not instantly perceive it, if they could omit from observation this leading fact, that the orphan girl was Jacqueline Gabrie, child of the Church, and not a wise and generous person, who had never been in bondage to superstitions. For a long time after her return to her lodging she was alone. Elsie was in the street with the rest of the town, talking, as all were talking, of the sight that Meaux should see to-morrow. Besides Jacqueline, there was hardly another person in this great building, six stories high, every room of which had usually a tenant at this hour. She sat by her window, and looked at the dusky town, over which the moon was rising. But her thoughts were far away; over many a league they wandered. Once more she stood on the playground of her toilsome childhood. She recalled many a year of sacrificing drudgery, which now she could not name such,--for another reason than that which had heretofore prevented her from calling it a sacrifice. She remembered these years of wrong and of extortion,--they received their proper name now,--years whose mirth and leisure she had quietly foregone, but during which she had borne a burden that saddened youth, while it also dignified it,--a burden which had made her heart's natural cheerfulness the subject of self-reproach, and her maiden dreams and wishes matter for tears, for shame, for confession, for prayer. Now Victor Le Roy's words came to her very strangely; powerfully they moved her. She believed them in this solitude, where at leisure she could meditate upon them. A vision more fair and blessed than she had ever imagined rose before her. There was no suffering in it, and no sorrow; it was full of peace. Already, in the heaven to which she had hoped her toil would give him at length admission, her father had found his home. There was a glory in his rest not reflected from her filial love, but from the all-availing love of Christ. Then--delay the rigor of your judgment!--she began,--yes, she, this Jacqueline, began to count the cost of what she had done. She was not a sordid soul, she had not a miserly nature. Before she had gone far in that strange computation, she paused abruptly, with a crimsoned face, and not with tearless eyes. Counting the cost! Estimating the sacrifice! Had, then, her purpose been less holy because excited by falsehood and sustained through delusion? Was she less loving and less true, because deceived? And was she to lament that Christ, the one and only Priest, rather than another instrumentality, was the deliverer of her beloved from the power of death? No ritual was remembered, and no formula consulted, when she cried out,--"It is so! and I thank Thee! Only give me now, my Jesus, a purpose as holy as that Thou hast taken away!" But she had not come into her chamber to spend a solitary evening there. Turning away from the window, she bestowed a little care upon her person, smoothed away the traces of her day's labor, and after all was done she lingered yet longer. She was going out, evidently. Whither? To visit the mother of John Leclerc. She must carry back the tracts the good woman had lent her. Their contents had firm lodgement in her memory. Others might run to and fro in the streets, and talk about the corners, and prognosticate with passion, and defy, in the way of cowardice, where safety rather than the truth is well assured. If one woman could console another, Jacqueline wished that she might console Leclerc's mother. And if any words of wisdom could drop from the poor old woman's lips while her soul was in this strait, Jacqueline desired to hear those words. Down the many flights of stairs she went across the court, and then along the street, to the house where the wool-comber lived. A brief pause followed her knock for admittance. She repeated it. Then was heard a sound from within,--a step crossing the floor. The door opened, and there stood the mother of Leclerc, ready to face any danger, the very Fiend himself. But when she saw that it was Jacqueline, only Jacqueline,--an angel, as one might say, and not a devil,--the terrible look passed from her face; she opened the door wide. "Come in, child! come in!" So Jacqueline went into the room where John had worked and thought, reasoned, argued, prayed. This is the home of the man because of whom many are this night offended in the city of Meaux. This is the place whence issued the power that has set the tongues to talking, and the minds to thinking, and the hearts to hoping, and the authorities to avenging. A grain of mustard-seed is the kingdom of heaven in a figure; the wandering winds a symbol of the Pentecostal power: a dove did signify the descent of God to man. This poor chamber, so pent in, and so lowly, so obscure, has its significance. Here has a life been lived; and not the least does it import, that walls are rough and the ceiling low. But the life of John Leclerc was not to be limited. A power has stood here which by its freedom has set at defiance the customary calculation of the worldly-wise. In high places and in low the people are this night disturbed because of him who has dared to lift his voice in the freedom of the speech of God. In drawing-rooms odorous with luxury the man's name has mention, and the vulgarity of his liberated speech and courageous faith is a theme to move the wonder and excite the reprobation of hearts whose languid beating keeps up their show of life, --to what sufficient purpose expect me not to tell. His voice is loud and harsh to echo through these music-loving halls; it rends and tears, with almost savage strength, the dainty silences. But busier tongues are elsewhere more vehement in speech; larger hearts beat faster indignation; grief and vulgarest curiosity are all manifesting themselves after their several necessity. In solitary places heroes pray throughout the night, wrestling like Jacob, agonizing like Saul, and with some of them the angel left his blessing; for some the golden harp was struck that soothed their souls to peace. Angels of heaven had work to do that night. Angels of heaven and hell did prove themselves that night in Meaux: night of unrest and sleeplessness, or of cruel dreaming; night of bloody visions, tortured by the apprehension of a lacerated body driven through the city streets, and of the hooting shouts of Devildom; night haunted by a gory image,--the defiled temple of the Holy Ghost. Did the prospect of torture keep _him_ wakeful? Could the man bear the disgrace, the derision, shouting, agony? Was there nothing in this thought, that as a witness of Jesus Christ he was to appear next day, that should soothe him even unto slumber? Upon the silence of his guarded chamber let none but ministering angels break. Sacred to him, and to Him who watched the hours of the night, let the night go! But here--his mother, Jacqueline with her--we may linger with these. V. When the old woman saw that it was Jacqueline Gabrie who stood waiting admittance, she opened the door wider, as I said; and the dark solemnity of her countenance seemed to be, by so much as a single ray, enlivened for an instant. She at once perceived the tracts which Jacqueline had brought. Aware of this, the girl said,-- "I stayed to hear them read, after I heard that for the sake of the truth in them"--she hesitated--"this city will invite God's wrath to-morrow." And she gave the papers to the old woman, who took them in silence. By-and-by she asked,-- "Are you just home, Jacqueline?" "Since sunset,--though it was nearly dark when I came in,"--she answered. "Victor Le Roy was down by the riverbank, and he read them for me." "He wanted to get out of town, maybe. You would surely have thought it was a holiday, Jacqueline, if you could have seen the people. Anything for a show: but some of them might well lament. Did you want to know the truth he pays so dear for teaching? But you have heard it, my child." "We all heard what he must pay for it, in the fields at noon. Yes, mother, I wanted to know." "But if you shall believe it, Jacqueline, it may lead you into danger, into sad straits," said the old woman, looking at the young girl with earnest pity in her eyes. She loved this girl, and shuddered at the thought of exposing her to danger. Jacqueline had nursed her neighbor, Antonine, and more than once, after a hard day's labor, which must be followed by another, she had sat with her through the night; and she could pay this service only with love, and the best gift of her love was to instruct her in the truth. John and she had proved their grateful interest in her fortunes by giving her that which might expose her to danger, persecution, and they could not foresee to what extremity of evil. And now the old woman felt constrained to say this to her, even for her love's sake,--"It may lead you into danger." "But if truth is dangerous, shall I choose to be safe?" answered Jacqueline, with stately courage. "It _is_ truth. It _will_ support him. Blessed be Jesus Christ and His witnesses! To-night, and to-morrow, and the third day, our Jesus will sustain him. They think John will retract. They do not know my son. They do not know how he has waited, prayed, and studied to learn the truth, and how dear it is to him. No, Jacqueline, they do not. But when they prove him, they will know. And if he is willing to witness, shall I not be glad? The people will understand him better afterward,--and the priests, maybe. 'I can do all things,' said he, 'Christ strengthening me'; and that was said long ago, by one who was proved. Where shall you be, Jacqueline?" "Oh," groaned Jacqueline, "I shall be in the fields at work, away from these cruel people, and the noise and the sight. But, mother, where shall you be?" "With the people, child. With him, if I live. Yes, he is my son; and I have never been ashamed of the brave boy. I will not be ashamed to-morrow. I will follow John; and when they bind him, I will let him see his mother's eyes are on him,--blessing him, my child!--Hark! how they talk through the streets!--Jacqueline, he was never a coward. He is strong, too. They will not kill him, and they cannot make him dumb. He will hold the truth the faster for all they do to him. Jesus Christ on his side, do you think he will fear the city, or all Paris, or all France? He does not know what it is to be afraid. And when God opened his eyes to the truth of his gospel, which the priests had hid, he meant that John should work for it,--for he is a working-man, whatever he sets about." So this old woman tried, and not without success, to comfort herself, and sustain her tender, proud, maternal heart. The dire extremity into which she and her son had fallen did not crush her; few were the tears that fell from her eyes as she recalled for Jacqueline the years of her son's boyhood,--told her of his courage, as in various ways it had made itself manifest: how he had always been fearless in danger,--a conqueror of pain,--seemingly regardless of comfort,--fond of contemplation,--contented with his humble state,--kindly, affectionate, generous, but easily stirred to wrath by injustice, when manifested by the strong toward the weak,--or by cruelty, or by falsehood. Many an anecdote of his career might she relate; for his character, under the pressure of this trial, which was as searching and severe a test of her faith as of his, seemed to illustrate itself in manifold heroic ways, all now of the highest significance. With more majesty and grandeur his character arose before her; for now in all the past, as she surveyed it, she beheld a living power, a capability, and a necessity of new and grand significance, and her heart reverenced the spirit she had nursed into being. Removed to the distance of a prison from her sight, separated from her love by bolts and bars, and the wrath of tyranny and close-banded bigotry, he became a power, a hero, who moved her, as she recalled his sentence, and prophesied the morrow, to a feeling tears could not explain. They passed the night together, the young woman and the old. In the morning Jacqueline must go into the field again. She was in haste to go. Leaving a kiss on the old woman's cheek, she was about to steal away in silence; but as she laid her hand upon the latch, a thought arrested her, and she did not open the door, but went back and sat beside the window, and watched the mother of Leclerc through the sleep that must be brief. It was not in her heart to go away and leave those eyes to waken upon solitude. She must see a helpful hand and hopeful face, and, if it might be, hear a cheerful human voice, in the dawning of that day. She had not long to wait, and the time she may have lost in waiting Jacqueline did not count or reckon, when she heard her name spoken, and could answer, "What wilt thou? here am I." Not in vain had she lingered. What were wages, more or less, that they should be mentioned, thought of, when she might give and receive here what the world gives not, and never has to give,--and what a mortal cannot buy, the treasure being priceless? Through the quiet of that morning hour, soothing words, and strong, she felt and knew to speak; and when at last she hurried away from the city to the fields, she was stronger than of nature, able to bear witness to the faith that speaks from the bewilderment of its distresses, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." Not alone had her young, frank, loving eyes enlivened the dreary morning to the heart of Leclerc's mother. Grace for grace had she received. And words of the hymn that were always on John's lips had found echo from his mother's memory this morning: they lodged in the heart of Jacqueline. She went away repeating,-- "In the midst of death, the jaws Of hell against us gape. Who from peril dire as this Openeth us escape? 'Tis thou, O Lord, alone! Our bitter suffering and our sin Pity from thy mercy win, Holy Lord and God! Eternal God! Let us not despair For the fire that burneth there! Kyrie, eleison!" Jacqueline met Elsie on her way to the fields. But the girls had not much to say to each other that morning in their walk. Elsie was manifestly conscious of some great constraint; she might have reported to her friend what she had heard in the streets last night, but she felt herself prevented from such communication,--seemed to be intent principally on one thing: she would not commit herself in any direction. She was looking with suspicion upon Jacqueline. Whatever became of her soul, her body she would save alive. She was waking to this world's enjoyment with vision alert, senses keen. Martyrdom in any degree was without attraction to her, and in Truth she saw no beauty that she should desire it. It was a root out of dry ground indeed, that gave no promise of spreading into goodly shelter and entrancing beauty. As to Jacqueline, she was absorbed in her heroic and exalted thoughts. Her heart had almost failed her when she said farewell to John's mother; tearfully she had hurried on her way. One vast cloud hung between her and heaven; darkly rolled the river; every face seemed to bear witness to the tragedy that day should witness. Not the least of her affliction was the consciousness of the distance increasing between herself and Elsie Meril. She knew that Elsie was rejoicing that she had in no way endangered herself yet; and sure was she that in no way would Elsie invite the fury of avenging tyranny and reckless superstition. Jacqueline asked her no questions,--spoke few words to her,--was absorbed in her own thoughts. But she was kindly in her manner, and in such words as she spoke. So Elsie perceived two things,--that she should not lose her friend, neither was in danger of being seized by the heretical mania. It was her way of drawing inferences. Certain that she had not lost her friend, because Jacqueline did not look away, and refuse to recognize her; congratulating herself that she was not the object of suspicion, either justly or unjustly, among the dreadful priests. But that friend whose steady eye had balanced Elsie was already sick at heart, for she knew that never more must she rely upon this girl who came with her from Domremy. As they crossed the bridge, lingering thereon a moment, the river seemed to moan in its flowing toward Meaux. The day's light was sombre; the birds' songs had no joyous sound,--plaintive was their chirping; it saddened the heart to hear the wind,--it was a wind that seemed to take the buoyancy and freshness out of every living thing, an ugly southeast wind. They went on together,--to the wheat-fields together;--it was to be day of minutes to poor Jacqueline. To be away from Meaux bodily was, it appeared, only that the imagination might have freer exercise. Yes,--now the people must be moving through the streets; shopmen were not so intent on profits this day as they were on other days. The priests were thinking with vengeful hate of the wrong to themselves which should be met and conquered that day. The people should be swiftly brought into order again! John in his prison was preparing, as all without the prison were. The crowd was gathering fast. He would soon be led forth. The shameful march was forming. Now the brutal hand of Power was lifted with scourges. The bravest man in Meaux was driven through the streets,--she saw with what a visage,--she knew with what a heart. Her heart was awed with thinking thereupon. A bloody mist seemed to fall upon the environs of Meaux; through that red horror she could not penetrate; it shrouded and it held poor Jacqueline. Of the faith that would sustain him she began once more to inquire. It is not by a bound that mortals ever clear the heights of God. Step by step they scale the eminences, toiling through the heavenly atmosphere. Only around the summit shines the eternal sun. So she must now recall the words that Victor Le Roy read for her last night; and the words he spoke from out his heart,--these also. And she did not fear now, as yesterday, to ask for light. Let the light dawn,--oh, let it shine on her! The mother of Leclerc had uttered mysterious words which Jacqueline took for truth; the light was joyful and blessed, and of all things to be desired, though it smote the life from one like lightning. She waited alone with faith, watching till it should come,--left alone with this beam glimmering like a moth through darkness!--for thus was a believer, or one who resolved on believing, left in that day, when he turned from the machinery of the Church, and stood alone, searching for God without the aid of priestly intervention. VI. There was something awful in such loneliness. Jacqueline knew little of it until now, as she walked toward the fields, by the side of Elsie Meril. She saw how she had depended on the priest of Domremy, as he had been the lawgiver and the leader of her life. A spiritual life, to be sustained only by the invisible spirit, to be lived by faith, not in man, but in God, without intervention of saint or angel or Blessed Virgin,--was the world's life liberated by such freedom? By faith, and not by sight, the just must live. Would He bow his heavens and come down to dwell with the contrite and the humble? Wondrous strange it seemed,--incomprehensible,--more than she could manage or control. There are prisoners whose pardon proves the world too large for them: they find no rest until their prison-door is opened for them again. Of this class was Elsie,--not Jacqueline. Elsie was afraid of freedom,--not equal to it,--unable to deal with it; satisfied with being a child, with being a slave, when it came to be a question whether she should accept and use her highest privilege and dignity. At this hour, and among all persuasions, you will find that Elsie does not stand alone. Little children there are, long as the world shall stand,--though not precisely such as we think of when we remember, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven." It was enough for Elsie--it is enough for multitudes through all the reformations--that she had an earthly defence, even such as she relied on without trouble. She lived in the hour. She had never toiled to deliver her darling from the lions,--to redeem a soul from purgatory. She eased her conscience, when it was troubled, by such shallow discovery of herself as she deemed confession. She loved dancing, and all other amusements,--hated solitude, knew not the meaning of self-abnegation. And let her dance and enjoy herself!--some service to the body is rendered thereby. She might do greatly worse, and is incapable of doing greatly better. Will you stint the idiots of comfort,--or rather build them decent habitations, and even vex yourself to feed and clothe them, in reverent confidence that the Future shall surely take them up and bless them, unstop their ears, open their eyes, give speech to them and absolute deliverance? There are others beside Elsie who congratulate themselves on non-committal,--they covet not the advanced and dangerous positions. Honorable, but dangerous positions! The head might be taken off, do you not see? And could all eternity compensate for the loss of time? Ah, the body might be mutilated,--the liberty restrained: as if, indeed, a man's freedom were not eternally established, when his enemies, howling around, must at least crucify him! as if a divine voice were not ever heard through the raging of the people, saying, "Come up higher!" But a fern-leaf cannot grow into a mighty hemlock-tree. From the ashes of a sparrow the phoenix shall not rise. You will not to all eternity, by any artificial means, nor by a miracle, bring forth an eagle from a mollusk. There was not a sadder heart in all those fields of Meaux than the heart of Jacqueline Gabrie. There was not a stronger heart. Not a hand labored more diligently. Under the broad-brimmed peasant-hat was a sad countenance,--under the peasant-dress a heavily burdened spirit. Silent, all day, she labored. She was alone at noon under the river-bordered trees, eating her coarse fare without zest, but with a conscience,--to sustain the body that was born to toil. But in the maelstroem of doubt and anxiety was she tossed and whirled, and she cared not for her life. To be rid of it, now for the first time, she felt might be a blessing. What purpose, indeed, had she? She turned her thought from this question, but it would not let her alone. Again and yet again she turned to meet it, and thus would surely have at length its satisfying answer. John Leclerc might pass through this ordeal, as from the first she had expected of him. But she listened to the speech of many of her fellow-laborers. Some prophecies which had a sound incredible escaped them. She did not credit them, but they tormented her. They contended with one another. John, some foretold, would certainly retract. One day of public whipping would suffice. When the blood began to flow, he would see his duty clearer! The men were prophesying from the depths and the abundance of their self-consciousness. Others speculated on the final result of the executed sentence. They believed that the "obstinacy" and courage of the man would provoke his judges, and the executors of his sentence,--that with rigor they would execute it,--and that, led on by passion, and provoked by such as would side with the victim, the sentence would terminate in his destruction. Sooner or later, nothing but his life would be found ultimately to satisfy his enemies. It might be so, thought Jacqueline Gabrie. What then? what then?--she thought. There was inspiration to the girl in that cruel prophecy. Her lifework was not ended. If Christ was the One Ransom, and it did truly fall on Him, and not on her, to care for those beloved, departed from this life, her work was still for love. John Leclerc disabled or dead, who should care then for his aged mother? Who should minister to him? Who, indeed, but Jacqueline? Living or dying, she said to herself, with grand enthusiasm,--living or dying, let him do the Master's pleasure! She also was here to serve that Master; and while in spiritual things he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, gave the cup of living water, visited the imprisoned, and the sick of sin, she would bind herself to minister to him and his old mother in temporal things; so should he live above all cares save those of heavenly love. She could support them all by her diligence, and in this there would be joy. She thought this through her toil; and the thought was its own reward. It strengthened her like an angel,--strengthened heart and faith. She labored as no other peasant-woman did that day,--like a beast of burden, unresisting, patient,--like a holy saint, so peaceful and assured, so conscious of the present very God! Around this lovely valley rise The purple hills of Paradise. Oh, softly on yon banks of haze Her rosy face the Summer lays! Becalmed along the azure sky, The argosies of cloudland lie, Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift. Through all the long midsummer-day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat Just where the field and forest meet,-- Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet. I watch, the mowers as they go Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring; Behind the nimble youngsters run And toss the thick swaths in the sun; The cattle graze; while, warm and still, <DW72>s the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, when summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake. The butterfly and humble-bee Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail, The chickens skulk behind the rail, High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the woodpecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum. The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house. The oriole flashes by; and, look! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain blue-bird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float. As silently, as tenderly, The down of peace descends on me. Oh, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read: A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His Voice: I lie and listen, and rejoice. TOBACCO. "Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases! a good vomit, I confess, a virtuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used. But as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lauds, health: hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul!"--BURTON. _Anatomy of Melancholy_. A delicate subject? Very true; and one which must be handled as tenderly as _biscuit de Sevres_, or Venetian glass. Whichever side of the question we may assume, as the most popular, or the most right, the feelings of so large and respectable a minority are to be consulted, that it behooves the critic or reviewer to move cautiously, and, imitating the actions of a certain feline household reformer, to show only the _patte de velours_. The omniscient Burton seems to have reached the pith of the matter. The two hostile sections of his proposition, though written so long since, would very well fit the smoker and the reformer of to-day. That portion of the world which is enough advanced to advocate reforms is entirely divided against itself on the subject of Tobacco. Immense interests, economical, social, and, as some conceive, moral, are arrayed on either side. The reformers have hitherto had the better of it in point of argument, and have pushed the attack with most vigor, yet with but trifling results. Smokers and chewers, _et id omne genus_, mollified by their habits, or laboring under guilty consciences, have made but a feeble defence. Nor in all this is there anything new. It is as old as the knowledge of the "weed" among thinking men,--in other words, about three centuries. The English adventurers under Drake and Raleigh and Hawkins, and the multitude of minor Protestant "filibusters" who followed in their train, had no sooner imported the habit of smoking tobacco, among the other outlandish customs which they brought home from the new Indies and the Spanish Main, than the higher powers rebuked the practice, which novelty and its own fascinations were rendering so fashionable, in language more forcible than elegant. The philippic of King James is so apposite that we may be pardoned for transcribing one oft-quoted sentence:--"But herein is not only a great vanity, but a great contempt of God's good gifts, that the sweetness of man's breath, being a good gift of God, should be wilfully corrupted by this stinking smoke.... A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmfull to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black stinking fume thereof neerest resembling the horrible Stygian smoake of the pit that is bottomless." The Popes Urban VIII. and Innocent XII. fulminated edicts of excommunication against all who used tobacco in any form; from which we may conclude that the new habit was spreading rapidly over Christendom. And not only the successors of St. Peter, but those also of the Prophet, denounced the practice, the Sultan Amurath IV. making it punishable with death. The Viziers of Turkey spitted the noses of smokers with their own pipes; the more considerate Shah of Persia cut them entirely off. The knout greeted in Russia the first indulgence, and death followed the second offence. In some of the Swiss cantons smoking was considered a crime second only to adultery. Modern republics are not quite so severe. It is not to be supposed that in England the royal pamphlet had its desired effect. For we find that James laid many rigid sumptuary restrictions upon the practice which he abominated, based chiefly upon the extravagance it occasioned,--the expenses of some smokers being estimated at several hundred pounds a year. The King, however, had the sagacity to secure a preemption-right as early as 1620. Yet how could the practice but have increased, when, as Malcolm relates the tradition, such men as Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Hugh Middleton sat smoking at their doors?--for "the public manner in which it was exhibited, and the aromatic flavor inhaled by the passengers, exclusive of the singularity of the circumstance and the eminence of the parties," could hardly have failed to favor its dissemination. The silver-tongued Joshua Sylvester hoped to aid the royal cause by writing a poem entitled, "Tobacco battered, and the pipes shattered, (about their ears who idly idolize so base and barbarous a weed, or at least-wise overlove so loathsome a vanity,) by a volley of holy shot thundered from Mount Helicon." If the smoothness of the verses equalled the euphony of the title, this must have proved a moving appeal. Stow contents himself with calling tobacco "a stinking weed, so much abused to God's dishonor." Burton exhausts the subject in a single paragraph. Ben Jonson, though a jolly good fellow, was opposed to the habit of smoking. But Spenser mentions "divine tobacco." Walton's "Piscator" indulges in a pipe at breakfast, and "Venator" has his tobacco brought from London to insure its purity. Sweet Izaak could have selected no more soothing minister than the pipe to the "contemplative man's recreation." As the new sedative gains in esteem, we find Francis Quarles, in his "Emblems," treating it in this serio-comic vein:-- "Flint-hearted Stoics, you whose marble eyes Contemn a wrinkle, and whose souls despise To follow Nature's too affected fashion, Or travel in the regent walk of passion,-- Whose rigid hearts disdain to shrink at fears, Or play at fast-and-loose with smiles and tears,-- Come, burst your spleens with laughter to behold A new-found vanity, which days of old Ne'er knew,--a vanity that has beset The world, and made more slaves than Mahomet,-- That has condemned us to the servile yoke Of slavery, and made us slaves to smoke, But stay! why tax I thus our modern times For new-born follies and for new-born crimes? Are we sole guilty, and the first age free? No: they were smoked and slaved as well as we. What's sweet-lipped honor's blast, but smoke? what's treasure, But very smoke? and what's more smoke than pleasure?" Brand gives us the whole matter in a nutshell, in the following quaint epigram, entitled "A Tobacconist," taken from an old collection:-- "All dainty meats I do defy Which feed men fat as swine; He is a frugal man, indeed, That on a leaf can dine. "He needs no napkin for his hands His fingers' ends to wipe, That keeps his kitchen in a box, And roast meat in a pipe." And so on, the singers of succeeding years, _usque ad nauseam_,--a loathing equalled only by that of the earlier writers for the plant, now so lauded. Tobacco-worship seems to us to culminate in the following stanza from a German song:-- "Tabak ist mein Leben, Dem hab' ich mich ergeben, ergeben; Tabak ist meine Lust. Und eh' ich ihn sollt' lassen, Viel lieber wollt' ich hassen, Ja, hassen selbst eines Maedchens Kuss." As it is with your sex, my dear Madam, that this question of Tobacco is to be mainly argued,--for, to your honor be it spoken, you have always been of the reformatory party,--let us hope, that, provided you have not read or translated the last verse, you have recovered your natural amiability, ruffled perhaps by this odious subject, and are prepared to believe us when we tell you that these opposite opinions cannot be wholly reconciled, and to follow us patiently while we attempt to show that a certain gentleman, introduced to your maternal ancestor at a very remote period of the world's history, is not so black as he is sometimes painted. Let us keep good-natured, at least, in this discussion; for we propose to settle it without taking off the gloves, as we intimated in the opening paragraph. Your patience will be much needed for the sad army of facts and figures which is to follow. Therefore it is but just that you should speak now, after these long sentences. Your George will never smoke? Excuse me. _When_ he will smoke depends upon the precocity of his individual generation; and that increases in a direct ratio with time itself, in this country. Thus, to state the matter in an approximate inverse arithmetical progression, and dating the birth of "young America" about the year 1825,--previously to which reigned the dark ages of oldfogydom, so called,--we find as follows: --From 1825 to 1835, young gentlemen learned to smoke when from 25 to 20 years of age; from 1835 to 1845, young _gents_, ditto, ditto, from 20 to 15 years; 1845 to 1855, from 15 to 10; 1855 to 1865, 10 to 5; 1865 to 1875, 5 to 0; and, if we continue, 1875 to 1885, zero to minus: but really the question is becoming too nebulous. _Corollary_. In about ten years, the youth of the United States will smoke contemporaneously with the infant Burmese, who, we are credibly informed, begin the habit _aet_. 3, or as soon as they have cut enough teeth to hold a cigar. Therefore, we will say, Madam, at some indefinite period of his childhood or youth,--for we would not be so impolite as to infer your age by asking that of your son,--the _susdit_ George will come home late from play some afternoon, languid, pale, and disinclined for tea. He will indignantly repel the accusation of feeling ill, and there will lurk about his person an indescribable odor of stale cinnamon, which you will be at a loss to account for, but which his elder brother will recognize as the natural result of smoking "cinnamon cigars," wherewith certain wicked tobacconists of this city tempt curious youth. If you follow him to his chamber, you will probably discover more damning evidence of his guilt. We will draw the curtain over the scene of the Spartan mother--we hope you belong to that nearly extinct class--which is to follow. Let us suppose all differences settled, the habit ostensibly given up, and your darling, grown more honest or more artful,--the result is the same to your blissful ignorance,--studiously pursuing his way until he enters college. Some fine day you drive over to the neighboring university, and, entering his room unannounced, you find him coloring his first (factitious) meerschaum!--also a sad deficiency in his wardrobe of half-worn clothes. _C'est une pipe qui coute cher a culotter_, the college meerschaum,--and in more ways than one, according to the "Autocrat":--"I do not advise you, young man, to consecrate the flower of your life to painting the bowl of a pipe," _et seq_. More bold, the Sophomore will smoke openly at home; and by the end of the third vacation, it is one of those unyielding _faits accomplis_ against which reformers, household or peripatetic, beat their heads in vain. Perhaps your husband smokes? If so, at what period of the twenty-four hours have you invariably found Mr. ---- most lenient to your little pecuniary peccadilloes? Is he not always most good-natured when his cigar is about one-third consumed, the ash evenly burnt and adherent, and not fallen into his shirt-bosom? Depend upon it, tobacco is a great soother of domestic differences. Let us, then, look an existing, firmly rooted evil--if you will call it so--in the face, and see if it is quite so bad as it is represented. It is too wide-spread to be sneered away,--for we might almost say that smokers were the rule, and non-smokers the exception, among all civilized men, Charles Kingsley supports us here:--"'Man a cooking animal,' my dear Doctor Johnson? Pooh! man is a _smoking_ animal. There is his _ergon_, his 'differential energy,' as the Aristotelians say,--his true distinction from the orangoutang. Ponder it well." _Query_.--What did the old Roman do without a cigar? How idle through the day? How survive his interminable _post-coenal_ potations?--The thought is not our own. It occurs somewhere in De Quincey, we believe. It is one of those self-evident propositions you wonder had not occurred to you before.--What an accessory of luxury the pipe would have been to him who passed the livelong day under the mosaic arches of the _Thermoe_! The _strigiles_ would have vanished before the meerschaum, had that magic clay then been known. How completely would the _hookah_ and the _narghileh_ have harmonized with the _crater, cyathi_, and tripods of the _triclinium_ in that portraiture of the "Decadence of Rome" which hangs in the Luxembourg Gallery! Poor fellows! they managed to exist without them. Though pipes are found carved on very old sculptures in China, and the habit of smoking was long since extensively followed there, according to Pallas, and although certain species of the tobacco-plant, as the _Nicotiana rustica_, would appear to be indigenous to the country, yet we have the best reason to conclude that America, if not the exclusive home of the herb, was the birthplace of its use by man. The first great explorer of the West found the sensuous natives of Hispaniola rolling up and smoking tobacco-leaves with the same persistent indolence that we recognize in the Cuban of the present day. Rough Cortes saw with surprise the luxurious Aztec composing himself for the _siesta_ in the middle of the day as invariably as his fellow Dons in Castile. But he was amazed that the barbarians had discovered in tobacco a sedative to promote their reveries and compose them to sleep, of which the _hidalgos_ were as yet ignorant, but which they were soon to appropriate with avidity, and to use with equal zest. Humboldt says that it had been cultivated by the people of Orinoco from time immemorial, and was smoked all over America at the time of the Spanish Conquest,--also that it was first discovered by Europeans in Yucatan, in 1520, and was there called _Petum_. Tobacco, according to the same authority, was taken from the word _tabac_, the name of an instrument used in the preparation of the herb. Though Columbus and his immediate followers doubtless brought home specimens of tobacco among the other spoils of the New World, Jean Nicot, ambassador to Portugal from Francis II., first sent the seeds to France, where they were cultivated and used about the year 1560. In honor of its sponsor, Botany has named the plant _Nicotiana tabacum_, and Chemistry distinguished as _Nicotin_ its active alkaloid. Sir Francis Drake first brought tobacco to England about 1586. It owed the greater part of its early popularity, however, to the praise and practice of Raleigh: his high standing and character would have sufficed to introduce still more novel customs. The weed once inhaled, the habit once acquired, its seductions would not allow it to be easily laid aside; and we accordingly find that royal satire, public odium, and ruinous cost were alike inadequate to restrain its rapidly increasing consumption. Somewhere about the year 1600 or 1601 tobacco was carried to the East, and introduced among the Turks and Persians,--it is not known by whom: the devotion of modern Mussulmans might reasonably ascribe it to Allah himself. It seems almost incredible that the Oriental type of life and character could have existed without tobacco. The pipe seems as inseparable as the Koran from the follower of Mahomet. Barely three centuries ago, then, the first seeds of the _Nicotiana tabacum_ germinated in European soil: now, who shall count the harvests? Less than three centuries ago, Raleigh attracted a crowd by sitting smoking at his door: now, the humblest bog-trotter of Ireland must be poor indeed who cannot own or borrow a pipe. A little more than a century and a half ago, the import into Great Britain was only one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, and part of that was reexported: now, the imports reach thirty million pounds, and furnish to government a revenue of twenty millions of dollars,--being an annual tax of three shillings four pence on every soul in the United Kingdom. Nor is the case of England an exceptional one. The tobacco-zone girdles the globe. From the equator, through fifty degrees of latitude, it grows and is consumed on every continent. On every sea it is carried and used by the mariners of every nation. Its incense rises in every clime, as from one vast altar dedicated to its worship,--before which ancient holocausts, the smoke of burnt-offerings in the old Jewish rites, the censers of the Church, and the joss-sticks of the East, must "pale their ineffectual fires." All classes, all ages, in all climates, and in some countries both sexes, use tobacco to dispel heat, to resist cold, to soothe to reverie, or to arouse the brain, according to their national habitations, peculiarities, or habits. This is not the language of hyperbole. With a partial exception in favor of the hop, tobacco is the _sole recognized narcotic_ of civilization. Opium and hemp, if indulged in, are concealed, by the Western nations: public opinion, public morality, are at war with them. Not so with tobacco, which the majority of civilized men use, and the minority rather deprecate than denounce. We shall avail ourselves of some statistics and computations, which we find ready-calculated, at various sources, to support these assertions. The following are the amounts of tobacco consumed _per head_ in various countries:-- "In Great Britain, 17 ounces per head; in France, 18 1/2 ounces,--three-eighths of this quantity being used in the form of snuff; in Denmark, 70 ounces (4 1/2 lbs.) per head; and in Belgium, 73 1/2 ounces per head;--in New South Wales, where there are no duties, by official returns, 14 pounds per head." We doubt if these quantities much exceed the European average, particularly of Germany and Turkey in Europe. "In some of the States of North America the proportion is much larger, while among Eastern nations, where there are no duties, it is believed to be greater still." The average for the whole human race of one thousand millions has been reasonably set at seventy ounces per head; which gives a total produce and consumption of tobacco of two millions of tons, or 4,480,000,000 of pounds! "At eight hundred pounds an acre, this would require five and a half million acres of rich land to be kept constantly under tobacco-cultivation." "The whole amount of wheat consumed by the inhabitants of Great Britain weighs only four and one-third million tons." The reader can draw his own inferences. The United States are among the largest producers of tobacco, furnishing one-twentieth of the estimated production of the whole world. According to the last census, we raised in 1850 about two hundred million pounds. All the States, with five exceptions,--and two of these are Utah and Minnesota,--shared, in various degrees, in the growth of this great staple. Confining our attention to those which raised a million of pounds and upwards, we find Connecticut and Indiana cited at one million each; Ohio and North Carolina, at ten to twelve millions; Missouri, Tennessee, and Maryland, from seventeen to twenty-one millions; Kentucky and Virginia, about fifty-six million pounds. Of this gross two hundred million pounds, we export one hundred and twenty-two millions, leaving about seventy-eight millions for home consumption. Not satisfied with the quality of this modest amount, we import also, from Cuba, Turkey, Germany, etc., about four million pounds, in Havana and Manila cigars and Turkish and German manufactured smoking-tobacco. Thus we increase the total of our consumption to eighty-two million pounds, which gives about three pounds eight ounces to every inhabitant of the United States, against seventeen ounces in England, and eighteen ounces in France. From 1840 to 1850, the consumption in the United States, per head, increased from two pounds and half an ounce to three pounds eight ounces. Here, we buy our tobacco at a fair profit to the producer. In most of the countries of Europe it is either subject to a high tax, or made a government monopoly, both as regards its cultivation, and its manufacture and sale. France consumes about forty-one million pounds, and the imperial exchequer is thereby enriched eighty-six million francs _per annum_. Not only is the poor man thus obliged to pay an excessive price, but the tobacco furnished him is of a much inferior quality to ours. "_Petit-caporal_" smoking-tobacco, the delight of the middling classes of Paris, hardly suits an American's taste. In Italy more than one _pubblicano_ has enriched himself and bought nobility by farming the public revenues from tobacco and salt. In Austria the cigars are detestable, though Hungary grows good tobacco, and its Turkish border furnishes some of the meerschaum clay. German smoking-tobaccoes are favorites with students here, but owe their excellence to their mode of manufacture. Tobacco, according to some authorities, holds the next place to salt, as the article most universally and largely used by man,--we mean, of course, apart from cereals and meats. It is unquestionably the widest-used narcotic. Opium takes the second rank, and hemp the third; but the opium--and hashish-eaters usually add the free smoking of tobacco to their other indulgences. From these great columns of consumption we may logically deduce two prime points for our argument. 1st. That an article so widely used must possess some peculiar quality producing _a desirable effect_. 2d. That an article so widely used cannot produce _any marked deleterious effect_. For it must meet some instinctive craving of the human being,--as bread and salt meet his absolute needs,--to be so widely sought after and consumed. Fashion does not rule this habit, but it is equally grateful to the savage and the sage. And it cannot be so ruinous to body and mind as some reformers assert; otherwise, in the natural progress of causes and effects, whole nations must have already been extinguished under its use. Many mighty nations have used it for centuries, and show no aggregated deterioration from its employment. Individual exceptions exist in every community. They arise either from idiosyncrasy or from excess, and they have no weight in the argument. Now, what are these qualities and these effects? We can best answer the first part of the question by a quotation. "In ministering fully to his natural wants and cravings, man passes through three successive stages. "First, the necessities of his material nature are provided for. Beef and bread represent the means by which, in every country, this end is attained. And among the numerous forms of animal and vegetable food a wonderful similarity of chemical composition prevails. "Second, he seeks to assuage the cares of his mind, and to banish uneasy reflections. Fermented liquors are the agents by which this is effected." [They are variously produced by every people, and the active principle is in all the same, namely, Alcohol.] "Third, he desires to multiply his enjoyments, intellectual and animal, and for the time to exalt them. This he attains by the aid of narcotics. And of these narcotics, again, it is remarkable that almost every country or tribe has its own, either aboriginal or imported; so that the universal instinct of the race has led, somehow or other, to the universal supply of this want or craving also." These narcotics are Opium, Hemp, the Betel, Coca, Thorn-Apple, Siberian Fungus, Hops, Lettuce, Tobacco. The active principles vary in each, thus differing from foods and stimulants. Our business is now to inquire into the chemical constituents of tobacco. The leaves of this plant owe their properties to certain invariable active principles, which chemistry has enabled us to separate from those ingredients which are either inert or common to it and other forms of vegetation. They are two in number,--a volatile alkali, and a volatile oil, called _nicotin_ and _nicotianin_, respectively. A third powerful constituent is developed by combustion, which is named the _empyreumatic oil_. Starch, gum, albumen, resin, lignin, extractive, and organic acids exist in tobacco, as they do, in varying proportions, in other plants. But the herb under consideration contains a relatively larger proportion of inorganic salts, as those of lime, potassa, and ammonia,--and especially of highly nitrogenized substances; which explains why tobacco is so exhausting a crop to the soil, and why ashes are among its best fertilizers. The organic base, _nicotin_, (or _nicotia_, as some chemists prefer to call it,) exists in tobacco combined with an acid in excess, and in this state is not volatile. As obtained by distillation with caustic soda, and afterwards treated with sulphuric acid, etc., it is a colorless fluid, volatilizable, inflammable, of little smell when cold, but of an exceedingly acrid, burning taste, and alkaline. Nicotia contains a much larger proportion of nitrogen than most of the other organic alkalies. In its action on the animal system it is one of the most virulent poisons known. It exists in varying, though small proportion, in all species of tobacco. Those called mild, and most esteemed, seem to contain the least. Thus, according to Orfila, Havana tobacco yields two per cent of the alkaloid, and Virginia nearly seven per cent. In the rankest varieties it rarely exceeds eight parts to the hundred. The same toxicologist says that it has the remarkable property of resisting decomposition in the decaying tissues of the body, and he detected it in the bodies of animals destroyed by it, several months after their death. In this particular it resembles arsenic. _Nicotianin_, or the volatile oil, is probably the odorous principle of tobacco. According to some, it does not exist in the fresh leaves, but is generated in the drying process. When obtained by distillation, a pound of leaves will yield only two grains; it is therefore in a much smaller proportion than the alkaloid, forming only one half of one per cent. It is a fatty substance, having the odor of tobacco-smoke, and a bitter taste. Applied to the nose, it occasions sneezing, and taken internally, giddiness and nausea. It is therefore one of the active constituents of tobacco, though to a much less degree than nicotin itself. For while Hermstadt swallowed a grain of nicotianin with impunity, the vapor of pure nicotin is so irritating that it is difficult to breathe in a room in which a single drop has been evaporated. When distilled in a retort, at a temperature above that of boiling water, or burned, as we burn it in a pipe, tobacco affords its third poison, the _empyreumatic oil_. This is acrid, of a dark brown color, and having a smell as of an old pipe, in the pores of which, particularly of meerschaum clay, it may be found. It is also narcotic and very poisonous, one drop killing reptiles, as if by an electric shock: in this mode of action it is like prussic acid. But this empyreumatic oil consists of two substances; for, if it be washed with acetic acid, it loses its poisonous quality. It contains, therefore, a harmless oil, and a poisonous alkaline substance, which the acetic acid combines with and removes. It has been shown to contain the alkaloid nicotia, and this is probably its only active component. Assuming, therefore, that nicotianin, from its feebler action and small amount, is not a very efficient principle in producing the narcotic effects of tobacco, and that the empyreumatic oil consists only of fatty matters holding the alkali in solution, we are forced to believe that the only constituent worthy of much attention, as the very soul and essence of the plant, is the organic base, nicotin, or nicotia. It is probable that the tobacco-chewer, by putting fifty grains of the "Solace," "Honey-Dew," or "Cavendish" into his mouth for the purpose of mastication, introduces at the same time from one to four grains of nicotin with it, according to the quality of the tobacco he uses. It is _not_ probable that anything like this amount is absorbed into the system. Nature protects itself by salivation. It is possible, that, in smoking one hundred grains of tobacco, there _may_ be drawn into the mouth two grains or more of the same poison; "for, as nicotin volatilizes at a temperature below that of burning tobacco, it is constantly present in the smoke." It is not probable that here, again, so much is absorbed. But we will return to this question of the relative effects of chewing, cigar- and pipe-smoking, and snuff-taking, presently. For we suppose that the anxious mother, if she has followed us so far, is by this time in considerable alarm at this wholesale poisoning. Poisons are to be judged by their effects; for this is the only means we have of knowing them to be such. And if a poison is in common use, we must embrace all the results of such use in a perfect generalization before we can decide impartially. We do not hesitate to eat peaches, though we know they owe much of their peculiar flavor to prussic acid. It is but fair to apply an equally large generalization to tobacco. Chemistry can concentrate the sapid and odorous elements of the peach and the bitter almond into a transparent fluid, of which the smell shall be vertiginous and the taste death. But chemistry is often misunderstood, in two ways: in the one case, by the incredulity of total ignorance; in the other, by the overcredulity of imperfect knowledge. That poor woman who murdered her husband by arsenic not long since was an instance of the first. She laughed to scorn the idea that the chemists could discover anything in the ejected contents of the stomach of her victim, which she voluntarily left in their way. She could not conceive that the scattered crystals of the fatal powder might be gathered into a metallic mirror, the first glance at which would reflect her guilt. They who gape, horror-struck, at the endless revelations of chemistry, without giving reason time to act, err in the second manner. Led away by the brilliant hues and wonderful transformations of the laboratory, they forget the size of the world outside, in which these changes are enacted, and the quiet way in which Nature works. The breath of chlorine is deadly, but we daily eat it in safety, wrapped in its poison-proof envelope of sodium, as common salt. Carbonic acid is among the gases most hostile to man, but he drinks it in soda-water or Champagne with impunity. So we cannot explain how a poison will act, if introduced into the body in the diluted form in which Nature offers it, and there subjected to the complicated chemico-vital processes which constitute life. In the alembic of the chemist we may learn analysis, and from it infer, but not imitate, save in a few instances, the synthesis of Nature. Changes in the arrangement of atoms, without one particle altered that we can discover, may make all the difference between starch and sugar. By an obscure change, which we call fermentation, these may become alcohol, the great stimulant of the world. By subtracting one atom of water from its elements we change this to ether, the new-found _lethe_ of pain. As from the inexhaustible bottle of the magician, the chemist can furnish us from the same two elements air or aquafortis. We may be pardoned these familiar examples to prove that we must not judge of things by their palpable qualities, when concentrated or in the gross. That fiery demon, nitric acid, is hid, harmless in its imperceptible subdivision, in the dew on every flower. From all this we conclude that the evil effects of tobacco are to be determined by their proved _physiological_ effects; and also that we must aid our decision by a survey of its general asserted effects. In treating of these effects, we shall speak, first, of what is known; second, of what its opponents assert; and, third, of what we claim as the results of its use. What is absolutely known is very little. We see occasional instances of declining health; we learn that the sufferers smoke or chew, and we are very apt to ascribe all their maladies to tobacco. So far as we are aware, the most notorious organic lesion which has been supposed due to this practice is a peculiar form of cancer of the lip, where the pipe, and particularly the clay pipe, has pressed upon the part. But more ample statistics have disproved this theory. We have as yet become acquainted with no satisfactory series of experiments upon tobacco analogous to those which have been made of some articles of food. The opponents of tobacco, upon whom we consider the burden of proof to rest, in the absence of any marked ill effects palpable in so large a consumption of the herb, are thus reduced to generalities. Tobacco is said to produce derangement of the digestion, and of the regular, steady action of the nervous system. These effects must be in a measure connected; but one distinct effect of tobacco is claimed, upon the secretions of the mouth, with which it comes into direct contact. It is said to cause a waste and a deterioration of the saliva. Let us examine this first. The waste of saliva in young smokers and in immoderate chewers we admit. The amount secreted by a healthy man has been variously estimated at from one and a half to three pounds _per diem_. And it certainly seems as if the whole of this was to be found upon the vile floors of cars, hotels, and steamboats. The quantity secreted varies much with circumstances; but experiments prove the _quality_ to be not affected by the amount. To show how the deterioration of this fluid may affect digestion, we must inquire into its normal physiological constitution and uses. Its uses are of two kinds: to moisten the food, and to convert starch into sugar. The larger glands fulfil the former; the smaller, mostly, the latter office. Almost any substance held in the mouth provokes the flow of saliva by mechanical irritation. Mental causes influence it; for the thought of food will "make the mouth water," as well as its presence within the lips. No one who has tried to eat unmoistened food, when thirsty, will dispute its uses as a solvent. Tobacco seems to be a direct stimulant to the salivary apparatus. Habit blunts this effect only to a limited extent. The old smoker has usually some increase of this secretion, although he does not expectorate. But if he does not waste this product, he swallows it, it is said, in a state unfit to promote digestion. The saliva owes its peculiarity to one of its components, called _ptyalin_. And this element possesses the remarkable power of converting starch into sugar, which is the first step in its digestion. Though many azotized substances in a state of decomposition exert a similar agency, yet it is possessed by _ptyalin_ in a much greater degree. The gastric juice has probably no action on farinaceous substances. And it has been proved by experiments, that food moistened with water digests more slowly than when mixed with the saliva. More than this, the conversion of starch into sugar has been shown to be positively retarded in the stomach by the acidity of the gastric secretions. Only after the azotized food has been somewhat disintegrated by the action of the gastric juice, and the fluids again rendered alkaline by the presence of saliva, swallowed in small quantities for a considerable time after eating, does the saccharifying process go on with normal rapidity and vigor. Now starch is the great element, in all farinaceous articles, which is adapted to supply us with calorifacient food. "In its original condition, either raw or when broken up by boiling, it does not appear that starch is capable of being absorbed by the alimentary canal. By its conversion into sugar it can alone become a useful aliment." This is effected almost instantaneously by the saliva in the mouth, and at a slower rate in the stomach. Obviously, then, if the use of tobacco interferes with the normal action of the saliva, and if the digestion of starch ends in the stomach, here is the strong point in the argument of the opponents of tobacco. We should wonder at the discrepancy between physiology and facts, theory and the evidence of our senses and daily experience among the world of smokers, and be ready to renounce either science or "the weed." Fortunately for our peace of mind and for our respect for physiology, the first point of the proposition is not satisfactorily proved, and the second is untrue. We are not certain that nicotin ruins ptyalin; we are certain that the functions of other organs are vicarious of those of the salivary glands. We say that it is not satisfactorily proved that tobacco impairs the sugar-making function of the saliva. At least, we have never seen the proof from recorded experiments. Such may exist, but we have met only with loose assertions to this effect, of a similar nature to those hygienic _dicta_ which we find bandied about in the would-be-physiological popular journals, which are so plentiful in this country, and which may be styled the "yellow-cover" literature of science. We acknowledge this to be the weak point in our armor, and are open to further light. Yet more, for the sake of hypothesis, we will assume it proved. What follows? Are we to get no more sugar while we smoke? By no means. Hard by the stomach lies the _pancreas_, an organ so similar in structure to the salivary glands, that even so minute an observer as Koelliker does not think it requisite to give it a separate description. Its secretion, which is poured into the second stomach, contains a ferment analogous to that of the saliva, and amounts probably to about seven ounces a day. The food, on leaving the stomach, is next subjected to its influence, together with that of the bile. It helps digest fatty matters by its emulsive powers; it has been more recently supposed to form a sort of _peptone_ with nitrogenized articles also; but, what is more to our purpose, it turns starch into sugar even more quickly than the saliva itself. And even if the reformers were to beat us from this stronghold, by proving that tobacco impaired the saccharifying power of this organ also, we should still find the mixed fluids supplied by the smaller, but very numerous glands of the intestines, sufficient to accomplish the requisite modification of starch, though more slowly and to a less degree. We come now to the second count in the indictment,--that tobacco injuriously affects the nervous system, and through it the digestion. The accusation is here more vague and indefinite, and the answer also is less susceptible of proof. Both sides must avail themselves of circumstantial, rather than direct evidence. That digestion is in direct dependence upon the nervous system, and that even transitory or emotional states of the latter affect the former, there can be no doubt. It is so familiar a fact, that instances need hardly be cited to prove it. Hence we are told, that tobacco, by deranging the one, disorders the other,--that nervousness, or morbid irritability of the nerves, palpitations and tremulousness, are soon followed by emaciation and dyspepsia, or more or less inability to digest. We conceive Prout, an eminent authority, to be near the truth, when he says of tobacco, "The strong and healthy suffer comparatively little, while the weak and predisposed to disease fall victims to its poisonous operation." The hod-carrier traversing the walls of lofty buildings, and the sailor swinging on the yard-arm, are not subject to nervousness, though they smoke and chew; nor are they prone to dyspepsia, unless from excesses of another kind. It has not been shown that tobacco either hastens or delays the metamorphosis of tissue,--that it drains the system by waste, or clogs it by retarding the natural excretions. We must turn, then, to its direct influence upon the nervous system to convince ourselves of its ill effects, if such exist. Nor has it been proved that the nervous influence is affected in such a way as directly to impair the innervation of the organic functions, which derive their chief impulse to action from the scattered ganglia of the sympathetic system. Opium, the most powerful narcotic, benumbs the brain into sleep; produces a corresponding reaction, on awakening; shuts up the secretions, except that of the skin, and thus deranges the alimentary functions. The decriers of tobacco will, we conceive, be unable to show that it produces such effects. The reformers are reduced, then, to the vague generality, that smoking and chewing "affect the nerves." Students, men of sedentary, professional habits, persons of a very nervous temperament, or those subject to much excitement in business and politics, sometimes show debility and languor, or agitation and nervousness, while they smoke and chew. Are there no other causes at work, sufficient in themselves to produce these effects? Are want of exercise, want of air, want of rest, and want of inherited vigor to be eliminated from the estimate, while tobacco is made the scape-goat of all their troubles? Climate, and the various influences affecting any race which has migrated after a stationary residence of generations to a new country extending under different parallels of latitude, have been reasonably accused of rendering us a nervous people. It is not so reasonable to charge one habit with being the sole cause of this, although we should be more prudent in not following it to excess. The larger consumption of tobacco here is due both to the cheapness of the product and to the wealth of the consumer. But it does not follow that we are more subjected to its narcotic influences because we use the best varieties of the weed. On the contrary, the poor and rank tobaccoes, grown under a northern sky, are the richest in nicotin. But it will be better to continue the argument about its effects upon the nervous system in connection with the assertions of the reformers. The following is a list, by no means complete, of these asserted ill effects from its use. Tobacco is said to cause softening of the brain,--dimness of vision,--("the Germans smoke; the Germans are a _spectacled_ nation!" _post hoc, ergo propter hoc?_ the laborious intellectual habits of this people, and their trying "text," are considered of no account,)--cancer of the stomach,--disease of the liver,--dyspepsia,--enfeebled nutrition, and consequent emaciation,--dryness of the mouth,--"the clergyman's sore-throat" and loss of voice,--irritability of the nervous system,--tremulousness,--palpitation and paralysis,--and, among the moral ills, loss of energy, idleness, drunkenness. A fearful catalogue, which would dedicate the _tabatiere_ to Pandora, were it true. Hygienic reformers are usually unequalled in imaginary horrors, except by the charlatans who vend panaceas. We have no reasons for believing that tobacco causes softening of the brain equal in plausibility to those which ascribe it to prolonged and excessive mental effort. The statistics of disease prove cancers of other organs to be twice as frequent, among females, as cancer of the stomach is among males; and an eminent etiologist places narcotics among the least proved causes of this disease. A hot climate, abuse of alcohol, a sedentary life, and sluggish digestion happen, rather curiously, to be very frequent concomitants, if not causes, of disease of the liver. Dyspepsia haunts both sexes, and, we venture to assert, though we cannot bring figures to prove it, is as frequent among those who do not use tobacco as among those who do. We are ready to concede that excessive chewing and smoking, particularly if accompanied by large expectoration, may impair nutrition and cause emaciation: that the mass of mankind eat and digest and live, as well as use "the weed," is proof that its moderate employment is not ordinarily followed by this result. Dryness of the mouth follows expectoration as a matter of course; but the salivation excited in an old smoker by tobacco is very moderate, and not succeeded by thirst, unless the smoke be inhaled too rapidly and at too high a temperature. We come next to a very tender point with reformers, the laryngeal cough and failing voice of the reverend clergy. The later generations of ministers of this vicinity, as a body, have abandoned tobacco, and yet the evil has not diminished. An eminent divine of our acquaintance, who does not smoke daily, always finds a cigar relieve a trifling bronchitis, to which he is occasionally subject The curious will find in the "Medical Journal" of this city, for 1839, that quite as much can be said on one side as on the other of this subject. The minor, rarely the graver affections of the nervous system, do follow the use of tobacco in excess. We admit this willingly; but we deny these effects to its moderate use by persons of ordinary health and of no peculiar idiosyncrasy. Numerous cases of paralysis among tobacco-takers in France were traced to the lead in which the preparation was enveloped. We pass next to what we claim as the effects of _moderate_ tobacco-using, and will take first the evidence of the toxicologists. Both Pereira and Christison agree that "no well-ascertained ill effects have been shown to result from the habitual practice of smoking." Beck, a modern authority, says, "Common observation settles the question, that the moderate and daily use of tobacco _does not_ prove injurious. This is a general rule": and he adds, that exceptions necessarily exist, etc. The repugnance and nausea which greet the smoker, in his first attempts to use tobacco, are not a stronger argument against it than the fact that the system so soon becomes habituated to these effects is a proof of its essential innocuousness. Certainly the love of tobacco is not an instinctive appetite, like that for nitrogen and carbon in the form of food. Man was not born with a cigar in his mouth, and it is not certain that the _Nicotiana tabacum_ flourished in the Garden of Eden. But history proves the existence of an instinct among all races--call it depraved, if you will, the fact remains--leading them to employ narcotics. And narcotics all nations have sought and found. We venture to affirm that tobacco is harmless as any. The betel and the hop can alone compare with it in this respect; and the hop is not a narcotic which satisfies alone; others are used with it. Opium and Indian hemp are not to be mentioned in comparison; while coca, in excess, is much more hurtful. Tobacco may more properly be called a sedative than a narcotic. Opium, the type of the latter class, is in its primary action excitant, but secondarily narcotic. The opium-eaters are familiar with this, and learn by experience to regulate the dose so as to prolong the first and shorten the second effects, as much as possible. Tobacco, on the other hand, is primarily sedative and relaxing. A high authority says of its physiological action:-- "First, That its greater and first effect is to assuage and allay and soothe the system in general. "Second, That its lesser and second, or after effect, is to excite and invigorate, and at the same time give steadiness and fixity to the powers of thought." Either of these effects will predominate, we conceive, according to the intellectual state and capacity of the individual, as well as in accordance with the amount used. The dreamy Oriental is sunk into deeper reverie under the influence of tobacco, and his happiness while smoking seems to consist in thinking of nothing. The studious German, on the contrary, "thinks and dreams, and dreams and thinks, alternately; but while his body is soothed and stilled, his mind is ever awake." This latter description resembles, to compare small things with great, the effects of opium, as detailed by De Quincey. "In habitual smokers," says Pereira, "the practice, when moderately indulged, produces that remarkably soothing and tranquillizing effect on the mind which has caused it to be so much admired and adopted by all classes of society." The pleasure derived from tobacco is very hard to define, since it is negative rather than positive, and to be estimated more by what it prevents than by what it produces. It relieves the little vexations and cares of life, soothes the harassed mind, and promotes quiet reflection. This it does most of all when used sparingly and after labor. But if incessantly consumed, it keeps up a constant, but mild cerebral exhilaration. The mind acts more promptly and more continuously under its use. We think any tobacco-consumer will bear us out in this definition of its varying effects. After a full meal, if it does not help, it at least hides digestion. "It settles one's dinner," as the saying is, and gives that feeling of quiet, luxurious _bien-aise_ which would probably exist naturally in a state of primeval health. It promotes, with most persons, the peristaltic movements of the alimentary passages by its relaxing properties. Smoking is eminently social, and favors domestic habits. And in this way, we contend, it prevents drinking, rather than leads to it. Many still associate the cigar with the bar-room. This notion should have become obsolete ere this, for it has an extremely limited foundation in fact. Bachelors and would-be-manly boys are not the only consumers of tobacco, though they are the best patrons of the bar. The poor man's pipe retains him by his own fireside, as well as softens his domestic asperities. Excess in tobacco, like excess in any other material good meant for moderate use, is followed by evil effects, more or less quickly, according to the constitution and temperament of the abuser. The lymphatic and obese can smoke more than the sanguine and nervous, with impunity. How much constitutes excess varies with each individual. Manufacturers of tobacco do not appear to suffer. Christison states, as the result of the researches of MM. Parent-Duchatelet and D'Arcet among four thousand workmen in the tobacco-manufactories of France, that they found no evidence of its being unwholesome. Moderate tobacco-users attain longevity equal to that of any other class in the community. We will cite only the following brief statistics from an old physician of a neighboring town. In looking over the list of the oldest men, dead or alive, within his circle of acquaintance, he finds a total of 67 men, from 73 to 93 years of age. Their average age is 78 and a fraction. Of these 67, 54 were smokers or chewers; 9 only, non-consumers of tobacco; and 4 were doubtful, or not ascertained. About nine-elevenths smoked or chewed. The compiler quaintly adds, "How much longer these men might have lived without tobacco, it is impossible to determine." The tobacco-leaf is consumed by man usually in three ways: by smoking, snuffing, or chewing. The first is the most common; the last is the most disagreeable. Tobacco is smoked in the East Indies, China, and Siam; in Turkey and Persia; over Europe generally; and in North and South America. Cigars are preferred in the East and West Indies, Spain, England, and America. China, Turkey, Persia, and Germany worship the pipe. In Europe the pipe is patronized on account of its cheapness. Turks and Persians use the mildest forms of pipe-smoking, choosing pipes with long, flexible stems, and having the smoke cooled and purified by passing through water. The Germans prefer the porous meerschaum,--the Canadians, the common clay. Women smoke habitually in China, the East and West Indies, and to a less extent in South America, Spain, and France. We have no fears that any reasoning of ours would induce the other sex to use tobacco. The ladies set too just a value on the precious commodity of their charms for that. There is little danger that they would do anything which might render them disagreeable. The practice of snuff-taking is about the only form they patronize, and that to a slight extent. France is the home of snuff. A large proportion of all the tobacco consumed there is used in this form. The practice prevails to a large extent also in Iceland and Scotland. The Icelander uses a small horn, like a powder-horn, to hold his snuff. Inserting the smaller end into the nostril, he elevates the other, and thus conveys the pungent powder directly to the part. The more delicate Highlander carries the snuff to his nose on a little shovel. This can be surpassed only by the habit of "dipping," peculiar to some women of the United States, and whose details will not bear description. Chewing prevails _par excellence_ in our own country, and among the sailors of most nations,--to some extent also in Switzerland, Iceland, and among the Northern races. It is the safest and most convenient form at sea. By smoking, each of the three active ingredients of tobacco is rendered capable of absorption. The empyreumatic oil is produced by combustion. The pipe retains this and a portion of the nicotin in its pores. The cigar, alone, conveys all the essential elements into the system. Liebig once asserted that cigar-smoking was prejudicial from the amount of gaseous carbon inhaled. We cannot believe this. The heat of cigar-smoke may have some influence on the teeth; and, on the whole, the long pipe, with a porous bowl, is probably the best way of using tobacco in a state of ignition. By repeated fermentations in preparing snuff, much of the nicotin is evaporated and lost. Yet snuff-takers impair the sense of smell, and ruin the voice, by clogging up the passages with the finer particles of the powder. The functions of the labyrinthine caverns of the nose and forehead, and of the delicate osseous laminae which constitute the sounding-boards of vocalization, are thus destroyed. Chewing is the most constant, as it is the nastiest habit. The old chewer, safe in the blunted irritability of the salivary glands, can continue his practice all night, if he be so infatuated, without inconvenience. In masticating tobacco, nicotin and nicotianin are rolled about in the mouth with the quid, but are not probably so quickly absorbed as when in the gaseous state. Yet chewers are the greatest spitters, and have a characteristic drooping of the angle of the lower lip, which points to loss of power in the _leavator_ muscles. Latakia, Shiraz, Manila, Cuba, Virginia, and Maryland produce the most valuable tobaccoes. Though peculiar soils and dressings may impart a greater aroma and richness to the plant, by the variations in the quantity of nicotianin, as compared with the other organic elements, yet we are inclined to think that the diminished proportion of nicotin in the best varieties in the cause of their superior flavor to the rank Northern tobaccoes, and that it is mainly because they are milder that they are most esteemed. So, too, the cigar improves with age, because a certain amount of nicotin evaporates and escapes. Taste in cigars varies, however, from the Austrian government article, a very rank "long-nine," with a straw running through the centre to improve its suction, to the Cuban _cigarrito_, whose ethereal proportions three whiffs will exhaust. The manufacture of smoking-tobaccoes is as much and art in Germany as getting up a fancy brand of cigars is here; and the medical philosopher of that country will gravely debate whether "Kanaster" or "Varinas" be best suited for certain forms of convalescence; tobacco being almost as indispensable as gruel, in returning health. We think the light pipe-smoker will find a combination of German and Turkish smoking-tobaccoes a happy thought. The old smoker may secure the best union of delicacy and strength in the Virginia "natural leaf." Among the eight or ten species of the tobacco-plant now recognized by botanists, the _Nicotiana tabacum_ and the _Nicotiana rustica_ hold the chief place. Numerous varieties of each of these, however, are named and exist. We condense from De Bow's "Industrial Resources of the South and West" a brief account of tobacco-culture in this country. "The tobacco is best sown from the 10th to the 20th of March, and a rich loam is the most favorable soil. The plants are dressed with a mixture of ashes, plaster, soot, salt, sulphur, soil, and manure." After they are transplanted, we are told that "the soil best adapted to the growth of tobacco is a light, friable one, or what is commonly called a sandy loam; not too flat, but rolling, undulating land." Long processes of hand-weeding must be gone through, and equal parts of plaster and ashes are put on each plant. "Worms are the worst enemy," and can be effectually destroyed only by hand. "When the plant begins to yellow, it is time to put it away; and it is cut off close to the ground." After wilting a little on the ground, it is dried on sticks, by one of the three processes called "pegging, spearing, and splitting." "When dry, the leaves are stripped off and tied in bundles of one fifth or sixth of a pound each. It is sorted into three or four qualities, as Yellow, Bright, Dull, etc." Next it is "bulked," or put into bundles, and these again dried, and afterwards "conditioned," and packed in hogsheads weighing from six hundred to a thousand pounds each. It would be too long to detail the processes of cigar- and snuff-making, the latter of which is quite complicated. We were happy to learn from the fearful work of Hassall on "Food and its Adulterations," that tobacco was one of the articles least tampered with; and particularly that there was no opium in cheroots, but nothing more harmful than hay and paper. He ascribes this immunity mainly to the vigilance of the excisemen. But we have recently seen a work on the adulteration of tobacco, whose microscopic plates brought back our former misgivings. Molasses is a very common agent used to give color and render it toothsome. Various vegetable leaves, as the rhubarb, beech, walnut, and mullein, as well as the less delectable bran, yellow ochre, and hellebore, in snuff, are also sometimes used to defraud. Saltpetre is often sprinkled on, in making cigars, to improve their burning. The Indians mixed tobacco in their pipes with fragrant herbs. Cascarilla bark is a favorite with some smokers; it is a simple aromatic and tonic, but, when smoked, is said sometimes to occasion vertigo and intoxication. We have before observed that tobacco is a very exhausting crop to the soil. The worn-out tobacco-plantations of the South are sufficient practical proof of this, while it is also readily explained by chemistry. The leaves of tobacco are among the richest in incombustible ash, yielding, when burned, from 19 to 28 _per cent_. of inorganic substance. This forms the abundant ashes of tobacco-pipes and of cigars. All this has been derived from the soil where it was raised, and it is of a nature very necessary to vegetation, and not very abundant in the most fertile lands. "Every ton of dried tobacco-leaves carries off from four to five hundred-weight of this mineral matter,--as much as is contained in fourteen tons of the grain of wheat." It follows that scientific agriculture can alone restore this waste to the tobacco-plantation. There is one other aspect of this great subject, which is almost peculiar to New England, the home of reform. Certain Puritanical pessimists have argued that the use of tobacco is immoral. There are few, except our own sober people, who would admit this question at all. We would treat this prejudice with the respect due to all sincere reforms. And we have attempted to show, that, since all races have used and will use narcotics, we had better yield a little, lest more be taken, and concede them tobacco, which is more harmless than many that are largely consumed. We have proved to our own satisfaction, and we hope to theirs, that tobacco _in moderation_ neither affects the health nor shortens life; that it does not create an appetite for stimulants, but rather supplies their place; and that it favors sociality and domestic habits more than the reverse. If the formation of any habit be objected to, we reply, that this is a natural tendency of man, that things become less prejudicial by repetition, and that a high hygienic authority advises us "to be regular even in our vices." As we began in a light, we close in a more sober vein, apologists for tobacco, rather than strongly advocating either side. On one point we are sure that we shall agree with the ladies, and that is in a sincere denunciation of the habit of smoking at a tender age. And although, in accordance with the tendency of the times, the school-boy whom we caught attached to a "long-nine" would consistently reply, _"Civis Americanus sum_!" we shall persist in claiming the censorship of age over those on whose chins the callow down of adolescence is yet ungrown. * * * * * SHAKSPEARE DONE INTO FRENCH. In the first place, it really was an immense success, and Shylock, or Sheeloque, as they dubbed him, was called before the curtain seven times, and in most appropriate humility nearly laid his nose on his insteps as he bowed, and quite showed his spine. It certainly was like Shakspeare in this, that it had five acts; but when I have made that concession, and admitted that Sheeloque was _Le Juif de Venise_, I think I have named all the cardinal points of similarity in the "Merchant of Venice" and "Le Juif" of that same unwholesome place. To be sure, there is a suspicion of _le devin Williams_, as they will call him, continually cropping out; but a conscientious man would not swear to one line of it, and I do not think Shakspeare would be justified in suing the French author for compensation under the National Copyright-Act. I speak of Shakspeare as existing, because it is my belief he does, in a manner so to speak. I have intimated that "Le Juif" has five acts; but I have not yet committed myself to the assertion that he was in seven _tableaux_, and possessed a prologue. It is now my pleasing duty to force you through the five acts, and the one prologue, and the seven _tableaux_,--every one of them. This prologue is divided as to the theatre into two parts: to left, Sheeloque's domestic interior,--to right, a practicable canal. In the very first line out crops Shylock's love of good bargains; and I give the reader my word, the little Frenchmen saw that this was characteristic, and applauded vehemently. _"Bon_," said I,--"if they applaud the first line, what will they do with the last act?" It need not be said that Shylock dabbles in those bills which Venetian swells of the fifteenth century, in common with those of a later age and more western land, will manipulate, in spite of all the political economy from Confucius down to Mr. Mill; and in this particular instance and prologue the names of the improvidents are Leone and Ubaldo, neither of which, if my memory serve me, is Shakspearian. These gentlemen considerably shake my traditional respect for sixteenth-century Venetian _Aristos_, for they insult that Jew till I wonder where a count and a duke have learnt such language: but they serve a purpose; they trot Shylock out, so to speak, and give our author an opportunity of doing his best with A 1. Shylock's great speech. Here is the apostrophe:-- "But yesterday--no later past than yesterday--thou didst bid thy mistress call at me from her balcony; thy servants by thy will did cast mud on me, and thy hounds sped snapping after me,'"--whereby we may infer they went hunting in Venice, in the fifteenth century. It must have been rather dangerous running. Nor could the Venetian nobles of that good old time have been very proper; for Leone and Ubaldo justify themselves by saying they were drunk. It is after this pretty excuse that Shylock has a soliloquy as long as his beard,--and I hear really loud opposition to this didacticism in the pit; but, however, this slow work soon meets compensation in violent action. Shylock won't renew, and the nobles get indignant; so they propose to pay Shylock with more kicks than halfpence. Here the action begins; for Shylock protests he will bite a bit out of them; and though one of these long-sleeved swells warns him that all threats by Jews against Christians are an imprisonment manner, Shylock rashly prepares for a defence. Away fly the lords after Shylock, over go the chairs, down goes the table, and I suppose Shylock _does_ hit "one of them"; for the two lords go off quite triumphantly, with the intimation that he will be in prison in one hour from that. Then the Jew calls for--Sarah; and this same comes in on tiptoe, for fear of waking the baby. This Shylock _fils_ Sarah proceeds to describe as equally beautiful with Abel and Moses, which seems to give Shylock _pere_ great comfort,--though I am bound to admit the lowly whispered doubt on the part of a pit-neighbor of mine as to Sarah's capability of judging in the matter. Shylock is preparing for prison, it seems, and one little necessity is a prayer for said son. Sarah comes in with a response, Shylock leaves off praying "immediate," to tell Sarah she is no vulgar servant, which assurance is received in the tearful manner. And here it comes a little faint whiff of the real play. In leaving home, Shylock's French plagiarizes the Jew's speech to Jessica, even down to the doubt the Jew has about leaving his house at all. There has been no necessity for stating that Sara supposes herself the widow of a libel on his sex, a man unspeakable; and the moment I hear he is, or was, a man of crime unspeakable, I know he will turn up. Shylock having gone away,--I do not know where,--up comes a gondola to the front-door, and, of course, in walks Sarah's husband. "Good evening, Ma'am," says he. "God of Israel!" says she. And then such an explanation as this infamous husband gives! He puts in, that he is a pirate; that his captain, whom he describes as a _Venus en corsaire_, has lost a son, and wants another; hence speaker, name Arnheim, wants that little Israelite who is so much like Abel and Moses at one and the same moment: though how Arnheim should know of that little creation, or how he should know him to be also like the lost infantile pirate as well as Abel and Moses, does not sufficiently appear,--as, indeed, my neighbor, who is suggestive of a Greek Chorus in a blue blouse, discovers in half a dozen disparaging syllables. Of course, when the supposed widow hears this, her cries ought to wake up all hearing Venice, but not one Venetian comes to her aid; and though she uses her two hands enough for twenty, she has not got her way when thoroughly breathed. "Sarah," says that energetic woman's husband, "Sarah, don't be a fool!" Then I know the baby is coming: there never yet was a French prologue without a baby,--it seems a French unity; sometimes there are two babies, who always get mixed up. But to our business. Out comes the baby, (they never scream,) and--alas that for effect he should thus commit himself!--Arnheim rips Sarah up, and down she goes as dead as the Queen of Sheba. Then comes a really fine scene. Shylock enters, learns all; in come soldiers for Shylock, and, of course, accuse him of the murder; whereupon Shylock shows on the blade a cross. "Doth a Jew wear a knife with a cross on it?" says he. "Go to!--'tis a Christian murder." To this the soldier-head has nothing to say; so he hurries Shylock off to prison, and down comes the curtain. "Hum!" says the Greek Chorus,--"it might be worse." ACT I. It is clear there must be lady characters, or I am quite sure the Greek Chorus would find fault wofully,--and the only one we have had, Sarah, to wit, can't decently appear again, except in the spiritual form. Well, there is the original Portia,--alas for that clever, virtuous, and noble lady!--how is she fallen in the French!--she is noble-looking and clever,--but the third quality, oh, dear me! This disreputable is named Imperia, and the real Bassanio becomes one Honorius, who is, as he should be, the bosom friend of one Andronic, which is Antonio, I would have you know. I have thought over it two minutes, and have come to the conclusion that the less I say about Imperia the better, and I know the Anglo-Saxon would not agree with Imperia,--but, as the Frenchman does, I offer you one, or part of one of Imperia's songs, as bought by me for two disgraceful _sous_. "Deja l'aube rayonne et luit, La nuit Finit; Maitresse, L'heure enchanteresse Passe et fuit... A ton arret je dois me rendre. Sort jaloux! (_bis._) Hatons-nous, Il faut descendre Sans reveiller son vieil epoux!..." Well,--what do you think of it? Now I will not mention her again,--I will refer to her, when I shall have vexatious occasion, as "that woman." And, indeed, "that woman" and Honorius set us up in comprehension of matters progressing. It seems that quite twenty years have passed since Sarah's soul slid through a knife-gash; that Honorius and Andronic, who have come from Smyrna, (why?) are almost brothers; that Honorius is good in this fact only, that he knows he is really bad; and that Andronic is the richest and most moral man in Venice,--though why, under those circumstances, he should be friendly with such a rip as Honorius, Honorius does not inform us. I shall pass over the next scenes, and come to that in which all the creditors of all the lords are brought on to the stage in a state which calls for the interference of the Doge: they are all drunk,--except Shylock. This scene really is a startler. Shylock, now dashed with gray, and nearly double, comes up to "that woman" and calls her sister; whereupon she demanding that explanation which I and the Greek Chorus simultaneously want, Shylock states that _he_ is Usury and _she_ Luxury, "and they have one father." "Queer old man!!!" says "that woman." Here follow dice, in which the Jew is requested to join, all of which naturally brings about a discussion on the rate of usage, which that dog Andronic is bringing down, and a further statement that _that_ imprisonment lasted two years. Then comes a _coup d'theatre_: Shylock reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns now, (nor can I help pointing out the Frenchman's ingenuity here: in the _play_, the Doge must be just, or where would the pound of flesh be?--while, if the Doge of the _prologue_ were just, Shylock would not have been committed for two years,--ergo, kill No. 1. Doge, install No. 2.) --Shylock reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns. Shylock has it all his own way, and Honorius is arrested before the very eyes of "that woman." Then comes the necessary _Deus ex machina_ in the shape of Andronic, who pays everybody everything, saves his friend, and play proceeds. Andronic reproaches Jew touching his greed, whereon the Jew offers this not profound remark,--"I am--what I am,"--and goes on counting his money. Oh, if you only knew the secret! This cash payment winds up the act. ACT II. Decidedly, the beginning of Act Second proves Andronic is no fool, for he advises Honorius to flee that creature,--and what better advice in those matters is there than that of retreating? Decidedly, too, the virtuous Doge is worth having,--really a Middle-Age electric telegraph,--for he gives all about him such a dose of news as in this day would sell every penny-paper printed: and such bad news!--Venice down everywhere, and a loan wanted. Here comes a fine scene for Andronic, (for, after all, the lords have "hitched out" of the proposed loan, whereby I take it they are not such fools as people take them to be,)--Andronic declares, that, if he were rich enough, the Doge should not ask for money, but ships are but frail and his have gone to pieces. Here, you see, comes another faint whiff of the real original play. Then, clearly, the Doge can only apply to the Jews. Enter Shylock _a propos_. The next scene is so awful to the Greek Chorus, who may be of a business turn, that I am charitable enough not to reproduce it here; but the percentage the Jew wants for the loan seems to be quite a multiplication-table of tangible securities, and I only wonder the Doge does not order him into the Adriatic. Amongst other demands, the Jew procures all the Dogic jewels,--and then he wants all the jewels of the Doge's daughter; indeed, Shylock becomes a most unreasonable party. No sooner does he speak of the daughter, Ginevra by name, than in she comes, jewel-casket in hand,--which leads the cynical Greek Chorus to suppose that Mademoiselle is either _clairvoyante_ or prefers going about with a box. The way in which that best of her sex offers up the jewels on the patriotic shrine is really worthy of the applause bestowed on the act; but when that pig of a Jew is not satisfied, when he insists upon the diamond necklace Ginevra wears, as another preliminary to the loan, people in the theatre quite shake with indignation. Now the jewel has been the pattern young lady's mother's; and here comes an opening for that appeal to the filial love of Frenchmen which is never touched in vain. It is really a great and noble trait in the French character, that filial love, not too questionable to be demonstrative,--'tis a sure dramatist's French card, that appeal to the love of mothers and fathers by their children. Having procured the weight of this chain, which has caused Shylock the loss of many friends in the house who have been inclined to like him consequent upon the loss of that Abel-Moses-photograph,--Shylock departs with this information, that he will bring the money to-morrow: which assertion proves Shylock to be a strong man, if a hundred thousand marks are as heavy as I take them to be. Upon what little things do dramas, in common with lives, turn! That necklace is the brilliant groundwork of the rest of the plot. Why--why--why--WHY didn't Shakspeare think of the necklace? And as I always must tell love-affairs as soon as I hear of them,--for, as a rule, I live in country towns,--I may at once state that Ginevra loved Andronic, and latter loved former, and they would not tell each other, and the Doge knew nothing about it. Yes, decidedly, the necklace is the first character in "Le Juif de Venise." You see, Ginevra loved the necklace, and Andronic loved Ginevra; so he is forced to procure that charming necklace for her, _coute qui coute_, and so he goes to Shylock for it. And here you will see its value: Shylock will sell it only for a large sum. Andronic, seeing his losses, hasn't the money,--but will have;--glorious opening for the clause about the pound of flesh! Signed, sealed, and delivered. How superior is Andronic to Antonio, the old ----! This latter pawns his breast for a friend only: the great Andronic risks the flesh about _his_ heart for sacred love. Io Venus! Yet, nevertheless, notwithstanding, it is the opinion of the Greek Chorus that Andronic is a _joli_ fool,--which choral remark I hear with pain, as reflecting upon unhesitating love, and especially as the remarker has been eminently touched at the abduction. ACT IV. As for the Fourth Act,--it is very tender and terrible. I need not say that the tenderness arises through the necklace,--and indeed, for that matter, so also does the terror. Touching the first, of course it is the discovery by Ginevra of the return of those maternal diamonds,--which are handed to her by a _femme-de-chambre_, who has had them from Andronic's _valet-de-chambre_, who is in love with the _femme-de-chambre_, who reciprocates, etc., etc., etc. But touching the terrible,--"that woman" hears of the necklace, and sends Honorius for it to Shylock. Bad job!--gone! Well, then, Honorius falls out with his old friend Andronic because latter will not yield up the necklace. Honorius demands to know who has it. Andronic will not name Ginevra's name before "that woman" and all the lofty lords, and then there's a grand scene. In the first place, it seems that in Shylock's Venetian time, the Venetian lords, when obliging Venice with a riot, called upon Venetians to put out their lights, and this the lords now do, (we are on the piazza,) and out go all the lights as though turned off at one main. Then there is such a scrimmage! Honorius lunges at Andronic; this latter disarms former; then latter comes to his senses, flies over to his old friend, and all the Venetian brawlers are put to flight. Then Honorius says,--and pray, pray, mark what Honorius says, or you will _never_ comprehend Act V.,--then Honorius says, taking Andronic's previous advice about flying, "I will go away, _and fight the Adriatic pirates_." Now, pray, don't forget that. I quite distress myself in praying you not to forget that,--to wit,--"_Honorius goes away to fight the Adriatic pirates._" Oh, if you only knew the big secret! ACT V. This, of course, is the knifing act. Seated is Shylock before an hour-glass, and trying to count the grains of sand as they glide through. Oh, if you only knew the big secret! You remember that in that original play Antonio's ships are lost merely. Bah! we manage better in this matter: the ships come home, but they are empty,--emptied by the pirates; though why those Adriaticians did not confiscate the ships is even beyond the Greek Chorus, who says, "They were very polite." At last all the sand is at rest. Crack,--as punctual as a postman comes Andronic; and as the Venetians are revolting against the flesh business, about which they seem to know every particular, Andronic brings a guard of the just Doge's soldiers to keep the populace quiet while the business goes on;--all of which behavior on the merchant's part my friend the Chorus pronounces to be stupid and suicidal. Then comes such a scene!--Andronic calling for Ginevra, and the Jew calling for his own. Breast bared. Then thus the Jew:-- "Feeble strength of my old body, be centred in this eye and this arm! Thou, my son, receive this sacrifice, and tremble with joy in thy unknown tomb!" Knife raised. And I _do_ hope you have not forgotten that Honorius went away to fight the Adriatic pirates. For, if you have forgotten that fact, you will not comprehend Honorius's rushing in at this moment from the Adriatic pirates. Yes,--but why did he go amongst them? The big secret, in fact. If Honorius had not gone, why, I suppose Shylock would have had his pound of man. As it is, Honorius and his paper--which latter has also come from the pirates--do the business. Why, the whole thing turns on the paper. How lucky it was Honorius went amongst the pirates! Honorius has vanquished the chief of the pirates,--who was named Arnheim,--and that disreputable widower, just before his last breath, gave Honorius the said paper,--though why, it is not clear. And--and this paper shows that ANDRONIC IS THAT SON STOLEN AWAY FROM SARAH, DECEASED, AND SHYLOCK,--THAT SON, NOT ONLY THE IMAGE OF ABEL, BUT OF MOSES, TOO. Great thunderbolts! Then, very naturally, (in a play,) in come all the characters, and follows, I am constrained to say, a very well-conceived scene,--'tis another appeal to filial love. The Jew would own his son, but he remembers that it would injure the son, and so he keeps silent. I declare, there is something eminently beautiful in the idea of making the Jew yield his wealth up to Andronic, and saying he will wander from Venice,--his staff his only wealth. And when, as he stoops to kiss his son's hand, Ginevra (who of course has come on with the rest) makes a gesture as though she feared treachery, the few words put into the Jew's mouth are full of pathos and poetry. And so down comes the curtain,--the piece meeting with the full approval of Chorus, who applauded till I thought he would snap his hands off at the wrists. "A very moral play," said a stout gentleman behind me,--who had done little else all night but break into the fiercest of apples and pears,--"a very moral play,"--meaning thereby, probably, that it was very moral that a Jew's child should remain a Christian. Now there were some good points in that play; but, oh, thou M. Ferdinand Dugue, thou,--why didst thou challenge comparison with a man who wrote for all theatres for all times? * * * * * THE POET'S SINGING. In heat and in cold, in sunshine and rain, Bewailing its loss and boasting its gain, Blessing its pleasure and cursing its pain, The hurrying world goes up and down: Every avenue and street Of city and town Are veins that throb with the restless beat Of the eager multitude's trampling feet. Men wrangle together to get and hold A sceptre of power or a crock of gold; Blaspheming God's name with the breath He gave, And plotting revenge on the brink of the grave! And Fashion's followers, flitting after, O'ertake and pass the funeral train, Thoughtlessly scattering jests and laughter, Like sharp, quick showers of hail and rain, To beat on the hearts that are bleeding with pain! And many who stare at the close-shut hearse Envy the dead within,--or, worse, Turn away with a keener zest To grapple and revel and sin with the rest! While far apart in a bower of green, Unheeded, unseen, A warbling bird on the topmost bough Merrily pipes to the Poet below, Asking an answer as gay, I trow! But he hears the surging waves without,-- The heartless jeer, and the wild, wild shout: The ceaseless clamor, the cruel strife Make the Poet weary of life; And tears of pity and tears of pain Ebb and flow in every strain, As he soothes his heart with singing. The tide of humanity rolleth on; And 'mid faces miserly, haggard, and wan, Between the hypocrite's and the knave's, The hapless idiot's and the slave's, Sweet children smile in their nurses' arms, And clap their hands in innocent glee; While, unrebuked by the heavenly charms That beam in the eyes of infancy, Oaths still blacken the lips of men, And startle the ears of womanhood! On either hand The churches stand, Forgotten by those who yesterday Went thronging thither to praise and pray, And take of the Holy Body and Blood! Their week-day creed is the law of Might; Self is their idol, and Gain their right: Though, now and then, God sees some faithful disciples still Breasting the current to do His will. The little bird on the topmost bough Merrily pipes to the Poet below, Asking an answer as gay, I trow! But he hears the surging waves without,-- The atheist's scoff and the infidel's doubt, The Pharisee's cant and the sweet saint's prayer, And the piercing cry for rest from care; And tears of pity and tears of pain Ebb and flow in every strain, As he praises God with singing. A JOURNEY IN SICILY. CHAPTER I. PALERMO. In the latter part of April, 1856, four travellers, one of whom was the present writer, left the Vittoria Hotel at Naples, and at two, P.M., embarked on board the Calabrese steamer, pledged to leave for Palermo precisely at that hour. As, however, our faith in the company's protestations was by no means so implicit as had been our obedience to their orders, it was with no feeling of surprise that we discovered by many infallible signs that the hour of departure was yet far off. True, the funnel sent up its thick cloud; the steward in dirty shirt-sleeves stood firm in the gangway, energetically demanding from the baggage-laden traveller the company's voucher for the fare, without which he may vainly hope to leave the gangway ladder; the decks were crowded in every part with lumber, live and dead. But all these symptoms had to be increased many fold in their intensity before we could hope to get under way; and a single glance at the listless countenances of the bare-legged, bare-armed, red-capped crowd who adhered like polypi to the rough foundation-stones of the mole sufficed to show that the performance they had come to witness would not soon commence. Our berths once visited, we cast about for some quiet position wherein to while away the intervening time. The top of the deck-house offered as pleasant a prospect as could be hoped for, and thither we mounted. The whole available portion of the deck, poop included, was in possession of a crowd of youngsters, many mere boys, from the Abruzzi, destined to exchange their rags and emptiness for the gay uniform and good rations of King Ferdinand's soldiery. In point of physical comfort, their gain must be immense; and very bad must be that government which, despite of these advantages, has forced upon the soldier's mind discontent and disaffection. No doubt, the spectacle of the Swiss regiments doubly paid, and (on Sundays at least) trebly intoxicated, has something to do with this ill feeling. The raggedness of this troop could be paralleled only by that of the immortal regiment with whom their leader declined to march through Coventry, and was probably even more quaint and fantastic in its character. Chief in singularity were their hats, if hat be the proper designation of the volcanic-looking gray cone which adhered to the head by some inscrutable dynamic law, and seemed rather fitted for carrying out the stratagem of shoeing a troop of horse with felt than for protecting a human skull. A triple row of scalloped black velvet not unfrequently bore testimony to the indomitable love of the nation for ornament; and the same decoration might be found on their garments, whose complicated patchwork reminded us of the humble original from which has sprung our brilliant Harlequin. Shortly our attention was solicited by a pantomimic Roscius, some ten or twelve years old, who, having climbed over the taffrail and cleared a stage of some four feet square, dramatized all practicable scenes, and many apparently impracticable, for he made nothing of presenting two or three personages in rapid interchange. Words were needless, and would have been useless, as the unloading of railway bars by a brawny Northumbrian and his crew drowned all articulate sounds. Notwithstanding these varied amusements, we were not sorry to see arrive, first, a gray general, obviously the Triton of our minnows, and close behind him the health and police officers of the government, to whose paternal solicitude for our mental and bodily health was to be ascribed our long delay in port. These beneficent influences, incarnated in the form of two portly gentlemen in velvet waistcoats,--an Italian wears a velvet waistcoat, if he can get one, far into the hot months,--began their work of summoning by name each individual from the private to the general, then the passengers, then the crew, and finally, much to our relief, reembarked in the boat, and left us free to pursue our voyage. We soon left behind the ominous cone of Vesuvius, reported by the best judges to be at present in so unsound a state that nothing can prevent its early fall; sunset left us near the grand precipices of Anacapri, and morning found us with Ustica on our beam, and the semicircle of mountains which enchase the gem of Palermo gradually unfolding their beauties. By ten, A.M., we were in harbor and pulling shorewards to subject ourselves to the scrutiny of custom-house and police. Our passports duly conned over, the functionary, with a sour glance at our valanced faces, inquired if we had letters for any one in the island. Never before had such a question been asked me, nor ever before could I have given other than an humble negative. But the kindness of a friend had luckily provided me with a formidable shield, and a reply, given with well-assumed ease, that I had letters from the English Ambassador for the Viceroy, smoothed the grim feature, and released us from the dread tribunal. The custom-house gave no trouble, and we reembarked to cross about half a mile of water which separated us from the city gate. Here, however, we were destined to experience the influence of the sunny clime: our two stout boatmen persisted in setting their sail, under the utterly false pretence that there was some wind blowing, and fully half an hour elapsed ere we set foot ashore. This gave me ample time to recall the different aspect of Palermo when first I saw it, in 1849. I had accompanied the noble squadron, English and French, which carried to the Sicilian government the _ultimatum_ of the King of Naples. The scenes of that troubled time passed vividly before me: the mutual salutes of the Admirals; the honors paid by each separately to the flag of Sicily, that flag which we had come to strike,--for such we all knew must be the effect of our withdrawal. I recollected the manly courtesy with which the Sicilians received us, their earnest assurances that they did not confound our involuntary errand with our personal feelings; and how, when a wild Greek mountaineer from the Piano de' Greci, unable to comprehend the intricacies of politics, and stupidly imagining that those who were not for him were against him, had insulted one of our officers, the bystanders had interposed so honorably and so swiftly that even the hot blood of our fiery Cymrian had neither time nor excuse to rise to the boiling-point. I recalled the scene in the Parliament House, when the replies to the King's message, which had been sent by each chief town, were read by the Speaker: the grave indignation of some,--the somewhat bombastic protestations of others,--the question put of submission or war,--the shout of "_Guerra! guerra!_" ringing too loud, methought, to be good metal; the "_Suoni la tromba_" at that night's theatre,--the digging at the fortifications,--women carrying huge stones,--men more willing to shout for them than to do their own share,--Capuchin friars digging with the best,--finally, the wild dance of men, women, cowled and bearded monks, all together, brandishing their spades and shovels in cadence to the military band. With this came to me the mild smile and doubtful shake of the head of the good Admiral Baudin, and his prophetic remark,--"I have seen much fighting in various parts of the world; and if these men mean to fight, I cannot comprehend them." While this mental diorama was unrolling, even Sicilian laziness had time to reach the shore; and passing by a rough mass of rocks, where our second cutter had once run too close for comfort, and the Friedland's launch had upset and lost two men, we at length landed close to the city gate. A custom-house officer pounced on us for a fee, notwithstanding our examination on first landing, and ("_uno avulso, non deficit aureus alter_,") at the city gate, not thirty yards distant, a third repeated the demand, equivalent to "Your money or your keys." A capital breakfast at the Trinacria hotel was the fitting conclusion to these oft-recorded troubles, and the gratifying news that the Viceroy had just left the island for Naples obviated the necessity of a formal visit, and left us free to enjoy the notabilities of Palermo. The plan of this beautiful city is very simple, being a tolerably accurate square, surrounded by walls, of which the northern face skirts the sea, and the southern faces the head of the lovely valley in which the city stands,--the Golden Shell. Two perfectly straight streets, intersecting in a small, but highly ornamented _piazza_, traverse the city. The Toledo, or Via Cassaro,--for it bears both these designations,--runs from the sea to the Monreale gate, close to which is the Royal Palace, and the Cathedral square opens from this street. The Via Macqueda contains few buildings of interest except the University. Between the wall and the sea runs the magnificent Marina, a more beautiful promenade than even the Villa Reale of Naples, having on the right the low but picturesque headland of Bagaria, while on the left rise the all but perpendicular rocks of Monte Pellegrino, once the impregnable mountain-throne of Hamilcar Barcas, and later the spot where in a rude cavern, now sheeted with marble and jasper, "from all the youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God." The handicraftsmen of Palermo still occupy almost exclusively the streets named after their trades,--an indication of immobility rarely to be met with nowadays, though Rome displays it in a minor degree. We first visited the University Museum. Numerous pictures, far beyond the ordinary degree of badness, occupy the upper rooms, where the only object of interest is a very fine and well-preserved bronze of Hercules and the Pompeian Fawn, half life-size. But far beyond all else in artistic importance are the _metopes_ from Selinuntium, which, though much damaged, show marks of high excellence. They are of clearly different dates, though all very archaic. The oldest represent Perseus cutting off the Gorgon's head, and Hercules killing two thieves. Perseus has the calm, sleepy look of a Hindoo god,--while Gorgon's head, with goggle eyes and protruding tongue, resembles a Mexican idol. Hercules and the thieves have more of an Egyptian character. The material of these bas-reliefs is coarse limestone; and in the _metopes_ on the opposite wall, which are clearly of later date, recourse has been had to a curious method of obtaining delicacy in the female forms: the faces, hands, and feet, which alone are visible from among the drapery, are formed of fine marble. An Actaeon torn by his dogs is much corroded by sea air, but displays great nobleness of attitude. The vigor in the left arm, which has throttled one of the dogs, can hardly be surpassed. A portion of the _cella_, of one of the temples has been removed hither, and its brilliant polychromy is sufficient to decide the argument as to the existence of the practice, if, indeed, that point be yet in doubt. But it seems that the non-colorists have relinquished the parallel of architecture, which, be it observed, they formerly defended obstinately, and have now intrenched themselves in the citadel of sculpture, intending to hold it against all evidence. The only other object of much interest was a Pompeian fresco, representing two actors, whose attitudes and masks are so strikingly adapted to express the first scene of the "Heautontimorumenos," between Menalcas and Chremes, that it seems scarcely doubtful that this is actually the subject of the painting. Near the upper end of the Toledo the Cathedral is situated, not very favorably for effect, as only the eastern side is sufficiently free from buildings. It is a noble pile: Northern power and piety expressed by the agency of Southern and Arabic workmen, and somewhat affected by the nationality of the artificer. The stones are fretted and carved more elaborately than those of any French or English cathedral, but entirely in arabesques and diapering of low relief, so that the spectator misses with regret the solemn rows of saints and patriarchs that enrich the portals of our Gothic minsters. These, however, are reflections of a subsequent date, and did not interfere to mar the pleasure with which we sat in front of the southern door, beneath the two lofty arches, which, springing from the entrance tower, span the street high above our heads. For some time we sat, unwilling to change and it might be impair our sensations by passing inwards. Our reluctance was but too well founded: the whole interior has been modernized in detestable Renaissance style, and in place of highest honor, above the central doorway, sits in tight-buttoned uniform a fitting idol for so ugly a shrine, the double-chinned effigy of the reigning monarch. We turned for comfort to a chapel on the right, where in four sarcophagi of porphyry are deposited the remains of the Northern sovereigns. The bones of Roger repose in a plain oblong chest with a steep ridged roof, and the other three coffins, though somewhat more elaborate, are yet simple and massive, as befits their destined use. The inscription, on that of Constantia is touching, as it tells that she was "the last of the great race of Northmen,"--the good old bad Latin "Northmannorum" giving the proper title, which we have injudiciously softened into Norman. In a small _piazza_ near the intersection of the main streets is a Dominican church, whose black and white inlaid marbles are amazing in their elaborateness, astounding in their preposterously bad taste. They transcend description, and can be faintly imagined only by such as know a huge marble nightmare of waves and clouds in the south aisle of Westminster Abbey. This church contains one good painting of a triumphant experiment conducted by some Dominican friars in the presence of sundry Ulemas and Muftis: a Koran and Bible have been thrown into a blazing fire, and the result is as satisfactory as that of Hercules's death-grapple with the Nemean lion. To be sure, lions and Turks are not painters. The Martorana church is rich in gold-grounded mosaics, resembling Saint Mark's at Venice. One represents the coronation of Roger Guiscard by the Saviour: very curious, as showing at how early a date the invaders laid claim to the Right Divine. The inscription is also noteworthy: _Rogerius Rex_, in the Latin tongue, but the Greek characters, thus: . The Renaissance has invaded this church too, and flowery inlaid marbles with gilded scroll balconies (it is a nuns' church) mingle with the bold discs and oblong panels of porphyry and green serpentine. In the nave of the small church sat in comfortable arm-chairs two monks, one black, one white, leaning their ears to gilded grates and receiving the confessions of the sisterhood. The paschal candlestick stood in front of the high altar,--Ascension-Day not being past; but here, as in other Sicilian churches, it assumes the form of a seven-branched tree, generally of bronze bedecked with gold. These same nuns' balconies are not confined to the interior of churches, but form a distinct and picturesque feature in the long line of the Toledo. Projecting in a bold curve whose undersurface is gaily painted in arabesque, their thick bars and narrow openings nevertheless leave a gloomy impression on the mind, while they add to the Oriental character of the city. A somewhat unsuccessful effort to identify the church whose bell gave signal for the Sicilian Vespers closed our day's labor. The spot is clearly defined and easily recognizable, and a small church, now shut up, occupies the site. So far, so good; but the cloister which is distinctly mentioned cannot now be found, nor is it easy to perceive where it could have stood. Perhaps some change in the neighboring harbor may have swept it away. [Footnote a: The _e_ in _Rex_ is here rendered by the Greek eta,--a proof that the pronunciation of that letter was similar to that of our long _a_, and not like our double _ee_; although the modern Greeks support the latter pronunciation.] _23d April_. To those who take interest in the efforts of that age when Christianity, devoid at once of artistic knowledge and of mechanical, strove from among the material and moral wreck of Paganism to create for herself a school of Art which should, despite of all short-comings, be the exponent of those high feelings which inspired her mind, the Royal Chapel of Palermo offers a delightful object of study. Less massive than the gloomily grand basilicas of Rome and Ravenna, surpassed in single features by other churches, as, for instance, the Cathedral of Salerno, it contains, nevertheless, such perfect specimens of Christian Art in its various phases, that this one small building seems a hand-book in itself. The floor and walls are covered with excellently preserved and highly polished Alexandrine mosaic, flowing in varied convolutions of green and gold and red round the broad crimson and gray shields, whose circular forms recall the mighty monolith columns of porphyry and granite which yielded such noble spoils. The honey-combed pendentines of the ceiling must be due to Arab workmen; their like may yet be found in Cairo or the Alhambra; while below the narrow windows, and extending downwards to the marble panelling, runs a grand series of gold-grounded mosaics, their subjects taken from the Old and New Testaments. But far older than even these are the colossal grim circles of saints and apostles who cling to the roof of the choir, and yield in size only to the awful figures of the Saviour, the Virgin, and Saint Paul, enthroned in the _apsides_ of the nave and aisles. The _ambones_, though not so large as those of Salerno, are very gorgeous; and the paschal candlestick, here at all events in its usual shape, is of deeply-carved marble, and displays an incongruous assemblage of youths, maidens, beasts, birds, and bishops, hanging each from other like a curtain of swarming bees. Service, which had been going on in the choir when we arrived, had now ceased; but from the crypt below arose a chant so harsh, vibratory, and void of solemnity, that we were irresistibly reminded of the subterranean chorus of demons in "Robert le Diable." Two of us ventured below and discovered the chapter, all robed in purple, sitting round a pall with a presumable coffin underneath. Little of reverence did they show,--it is true, the death was not recent, the service being merely commemorative, as we afterwards learned,--and as the procession shortly afterwards emerged and proceeded down the chapel, the unwashed, unshaven, and sensual countenances of some of highest rank among them gave small reason to believe that they could feel much reverence on any subject whatever. The Palace itself is as tedious as any other palace: the Pompeian room follows the Louis Quinze, and is in turn followed by the Chinese, till, for our comfort, we emerged into one large square hall, whose stiff mosaics of archers killing stags, peacocks feeding at the foot of willow-pattern trees, date from the time of Roger. Another wearisome series of rooms succeeded, which we were bound to traverse in search of a bronze ram of old Greek workmanship, brought from Syracuse. The work is very good and well-preserved; in fact, no part is injured, save the tail and a hind leg, whose loss the _custode_ ascribed to the villains of the late revolution. He even charged them with the destruction of another similar statue melted into bullets, if we may believe his incredible tale. A pavilion over the Monreale gate commands a view right down the Toledo to the sea. The drive to Monreale is a continued ascent along the skirts of a limestone rock, whose precipices are thickly planted at every foothold with olive, Indian fig, and aloe. The valley, as it spread below our gaze, appeared one huge carpet of heavy-fruited orange-trees, save where at times a rent in the web left visible the bluish blades of wheat, or the intense green of a flax-plantation. Monreale is a mere country-town, containing no object of interest, save the Cathedral. This is a noble basilica, grandly proportioned, the nave and aisles of which are separated by monolith pillars, mostly of gray granite, and some few of cipollino and other marbles, the spoils, no doubt, of the ancient Panormus. Above the cornice the walls are entirely sheeted with golden mosaics, representing, as usual, Scripture history. The series which begins, like the speech of the Intendant in "Les Plaideurs," "_Avant la creation du monde_" complies with the wish of (the judge?) by going on to the Deluge, in a train of singularly meagre figures, most haggard of whom is Cain, here represented (as in the Campo Santo of Pisa) receiving his death accidentally from the hand of Lamech. In the passage of the beasts to the Ark, Noah coaxes the lion on board, and in the next compartment the patriarch shoves the king of beasts down the plank in a most ludicrous fashion. The mosaics of the New Testament are less archaic, though still very old, too old to be infected by the tricks of later Romanism,--such, for instance, as introducing the Virgin among the receivers of the mysterious gift of tongues. Saint Paul, both here and at the Royal Chapel, appears under the earlier type adopted whether by fancy or tradition to represent that saint,--that is, a short, strong figure, with the head large, and almost devoid of hair, except at the sides, and one dark lock in the centre of the massive forehead. Over the western door-way is a mosaic of the Virgin with the following leonine and loyal distich beneath it:-- "Sponsa suae prolis, O Stella puerpera Solis, Pro cunctis ora, sed plus pro rege labora!" There is an ample square cloister, with twenty-seven pairs of columns on each side, once richly decorated in mosaics like those of San Giovanni Laterano and San Paolo at Rome, but even more dilapidated than either of these latter. Indeed, so entirely non-existent is the mosaic, the twisted and channelled columns showing nothing but places "where the pasty is not," that the more probable solution may be that want of funds or of devotion has left the work unfinished. On the capital of one column may be seen the figure of William the Good, who founded the Cathedral in 1170. He bears in his arms a model of the building, which here appears with circular-headed windows instead of the lanceolated Gothic now existing. In, perhaps, the very loveliest of the many lovely sites around Palermo stands the small Moorish building of La Ziza. Moorish it may be called; for the main feature of the edifice, a hall with a fountain trickling along a channel in the pavements, is clearly due to the Saracens. These, however, had availed themselves of Roman columns to support their fretted ceilings, once gorgeous in color, but now desecrated with whitewash. The Norman invaders have added their never-failing gold mosaic,--while the Spaniard, after painting sundry scenes from Ovid's "Metamorphoses" in a dreadfully barocco style, calls upon the world, in those magniloquent phrases which somehow belong as of right to your mighty Don, to admire the exquisite commingling of modern art with antique beauty, to which his _fiat_ has given birth. Somewhat of Spain, perhaps, might also be traced in an incident, promisingly romantic, but coming to a most lame and impotent conclusion, which occurred this afternoon to one of our party. While busily sketching, in the Martorana church, the previously mentioned mosaic of Roger's coronation, a hand protruded from the gilded lattice above, and a small scroll was dropped, not precisely at the feet, but in the neighborhood of the amazed artist. Sharp eyes, however, must be at work; for, ere he could appropriate this mysterious waif on Love's manor, a side-door opened, and an attendant in the very unpoetical garb of a carpenter bore off the prize. It maybe presumed that the next confessor who occupied an arm-chair in the church would have somewhat of novelty to enliven what some priests have stated to be the most wearisome of the work, namely, the hearing of confessions in a nunnery. This evening was passed in the house of the British Consul, who, in amusing recognition of our nationalities, comprising, as they did, both branches of the Anglo-Saxon race, treated us to Lemann's captain's-biscuit and Boston crackers. Notwithstanding the interesting conversation of our host, who had not allowed a residence of many years in a mind-rusting city to impair his love of literature, a love dating from the time when Praed edited the "Etonian," and Metius Tarpa contributed to the "College Magazine," we were obliged to leave early. Our arrangements for a very early start next morning were completed, and a thirty miles' ride lay before us. To save further allusion to them, it may be as well to describe these arrangements, which were made for us by Signor Ragusa, landlord of the Trinacria hotel. A guide, Giuseppe Agnello by name, took upon himself the whole responsibility of our board, lodging, and travelling, at a fixed rate of forty-two (?) _carlini_ a head,--which sum, including his _buonamano_ and return voyage from Syracuse or Messina, amounted to about twenty francs each _per diem_. For this sum he furnished us with good mules, a hearty breakfast at daybreak, cold meat and hard eggs at noon, and a plentiful dinner or supper, call it which you choose, on arriving at our night's quarters. Agnello himself was cook, and proved a very tolerable one. This is essential; for Spanish custom prevails in the inns, whose host considers his duty accomplished when he has provided ample stabling for the mules and dubious bedding for his biped guests. * * * * * THE PROFESSOR'S STORY. CHAPTER XV. PHYSIOLOGICAL. If Master Bernard felt a natural gratitude to his young pupil for saving him from an imminent peril, he was in a state of infinite perplexity to know why he should have needed such aid. He, an active, muscular, courageous, adventurous young fellow, with a stick in his hand, ready to hold down the Old Serpent himself, if he had come in his way, to stand still, staring into those two eyes, until they came up close to him, and the strange, terrible sound seemed to freeze him stiff where he stood,--what was the meaning of it? Again, what was the influence this girl had exerted, under which the venomous creature had collapsed in such a sudden way? Whether he had been awake or dreaming he did not feel quite sure. He knew he had gone up The Mountain, at any rate; he knew he had come down The Mountain with the girl walking just before him;--there was no forgetting her figure, as she walked on in silence, her braided locks falling a little, for want of the lost hair-pin, perhaps, and looking like a wreathing coil of--Shame on such fancies!--to wrong that supreme crowning gift of abounding Nature, a rush of shining black hair, that, shaken loose, would cloud her all round, like Godiva, from brow to instep! He was sure he had sat down before the fissure or cave. He was sure that he was led softly away from the place, and that it was Elsie who had led him. There was the hair-pin to show that so far it was not a dream. But between these recollections came a strange confusion; and the more the master thought, the more he was perplexed to know whether she had waked him, sleeping, as he sat on the stone, from some frightful dream, such as may come in a very brief slumber, or whether she had bewitched him into a trance with those strange eyes of hers, or whether it was all true, and he must solve its problem as he best might. There was another recollection connected with this mountain adventure. As they approached the mansion-house, they met a young man, whom Mr. Bernard remembered having seen once at least before, and whom he had heard of as a cousin of the young girl. As Cousin Richard Venner, the person in question, passed them, he took the measure, so to speak, of Mr. Bernard, with a look so piercing, so exhausting, so practised, so profoundly suspicious, that the young master felt in an instant that he had an enemy in this handsome youth,--an enemy, too, who was like to be subtle and dangerous. Mr. Bernard had made up his mind, that, come what might, enemy or no enemy, live or die, he would solve the mystery of Elsie Venner, sooner or later. He was not a man to be frightened out of his resolution by a scowl, or a stiletto, or any unknown means of mischief, of which a whole armory was hinted at in that passing look Dick Venner had given him. Indeed, like most adventurous young persons, he found a kind of charm in feeling that there might be some dangers in the way of his investigations. Some rumors which had reached him about the supposed suitor of Elsie Venner, who was thought to be a desperate kind of fellow, and whom some believed to be an unscrupulous adventurer, added a curious, romantic kind of interest to the course of physiological and psychological inquiries he was about instituting. The afternoon on The Mountain was still uppermost in his mind. Of course he knew the common stories about fascination. He had once been himself an eyewitness of the charming of a small bird by one of our common harmless serpents. Whether a human being could be reached by this subtile agency, he had been skeptical, notwithstanding the mysterious relation generally felt to exist between man and this creature, "cursed above all cattle and above every beast of the field,"--a relation which some interpret as the fruit of the curse, and others hold to be so instinctive that this animal has been for that reason adopted as the natural symbol of evil. There was another solution, however, supplied him by his professional reading. The curious work of Mr. Braid of Manchester had made him familiar with the phenomena of a state allied to that produced by animal magnetism, and called by that writer by the name of _hypnotism_. He found, by referring to his note-book, the statement was, that, by fixing the eyes on a _bright object_ so placed as _to produce a strain_ upon the eyes and eyelids, and to maintain _a steady fixed stare_, there comes on in a few seconds a very singular condition, characterized by _muscular rigidity_ and _inability to move_, with a strange _exaltation of most of the senses_, and _generally_ a closure of the eyelids,--this condition being followed by _torpor_. Now this statement of Mr. Braid's, well known to the scientific world, and the truth of which had been confirmed by Mr. Bernard in certain experiments he had instituted, as it has been by many other experimenters, went far to explain the strange impressions, of which, waking or dreaming, he had certainly been the subject. His nervous system had been in a high state of exaltation at the time. He remembered how the little noises that made rings of sound in the silence of the woods, like pebbles dropped in still waters, had reached his inner consciousness. He remembered that singular sensation in the roots of the hair, when he came on the traces of the girl's presence, reminding him of a line in a certain poem which he had read lately with a new and peculiar interest. He even recalled a curious evidence of exalted sensibility and irritability, in the twitching of the minute muscles of the internal ear at every unexpected sound, producing an odd little snap in the middle of the head, that proved to him he was getting very nervous. The next thing was to find out whether it were possible that the venomous creature's eyes should have served the purpose of Mr. Braid's "bright object" held very close to the person experimented on, or whether they had any special power which could be made the subject of exact observation. For this purpose Mr. Bernard considered it necessary to get a live _crotalus_ or two into his possession, if this were possible. On inquiry, he found that there was a certain family living far up the mountain-side, not a mile from the ledge, the members of which were said to have taken these creatures occasionally, and not to be in any danger, or at least in any fear, of being injured by them. He applied to these people, and offered a reward sufficient to set them at work to capture some of these animals, if such a thing were possible. A few days after this, a dark, gypsy-looking woman presented herself at his door. She held up her apron as if it contained something precious in the bag she made with it. "Y'wanted some rattlers," said the woman. "Here they be." She opened her apron and showed a coil of rattlesnakes lying very peaceably in its fold. They lifted their heads up, as if they wanted to see what was going on, but showed no sign of anger. "Are you crazy?" said Mr. Bernard. "You're dead in an hour, if one of those creatures strikes you!" He drew back a little, as he spoke; it might be simple disgust; it might be fear; it might be what we call antipathy, which is different from either, and which will sometimes show itself in paleness, and even faintness, produced by objects perfectly harmless and not in themselves offensive to any sense. "Lord bless you," said the woman, "rattlers never touches our folks. I'd jest 'z lieves handle them creaturs as so many striped snakes." So saying, she put their heads down with her hand, and packed them together in her apron as if they had been bits of cart-rope. Mr. Bernard had never heard of the power, or, at least, the belief in the possession of a power by certain persons, which enables them to handle these frightful reptiles with perfect impunity. The fact, however, is well known to others, and more especially to a very distinguished Professor in one of the leading institutions of the great city of the land, whose experiences in the neighborhood of Graylock, as he will doubtless inform the curious, were very much like those of the young master. Mr. Bernard had a wired cage ready for his formidable captives, and studied their habits and expression with a strange sort of interest. What did the Creator mean to signify, when he made such shapes of horror, and, as if he had doubly cursed this envenomed wretch, had set a mark upon him and sent him forth, the Cain of the brotherhood of serpents? It was a very curious fact that the first train of thoughts Mr. Bernard's small menagerie suggested to him was the grave, though somewhat worn, subject of the origin of evil. There is now to be seen in a tall glass jar, in the Museum of Comparative Anatomy at Cantabridge in the territory of the Massachusetts, a huge _crotalus_, of a species which grows to more frightful dimensions than our own, under the hotter skies of South America. Look at it, ye who would know what is the tolerance, the freedom from prejudice, which can suffer such an incarnation of all that is devilish to lie unharmed in the cradle of Nature! Learn, too, that there are many things in this world which we are warned to shun, and are even suffered to slay, if need be, but which we must not hate, unless we would hate what God loves and cares for. Whatever fascination the creature might exercise in his native haunts, Mr. Bernard found himself not in the least nervous or affected in any way while looking at his caged reptiles. When their cage was shaken, they would lift their heads and spring their rattles; but the sound was by no means so formidable to listen to as when it reverberated among the chasms of the echoing rocks. The expression of the creatures was watchful, still, grave, passionless, fate-like, suggesting a cold malignity that seemed to be waiting for its opportunity. Their awful, deep-cut mouths were sternly closed over the long hollow fangs that rested their roots against the swollen poison-bag, where the venom had been boarding up ever since the last stroke had emptied it. They never winked, for ophidians have no movable eyelids, but kept up that awful fixed stare which made the two _unwinking_ gladiators the survivors of twenty pairs matched by one of the Roman Emperors, as Pliny tells us, in his "Natural History." But their eyes did not flash, as he had expected to see them. They were of a pale-golden or straw color, horrible to look into, with their stony calmness, their pitiless indifference, hardly enlivened by the almost imperceptible vertical slit of the pupil, through which Death seemed to be looking out like the archer behind the long narrow loop-hole in a blank turret-wall. Possibly their pupils might open wide enough in the dark hole of the rock to let the glare of the back part of the eye show, as we often see it in cats and other animals. On the whole, the caged reptiles, horrid as they were, were yet very different from his recollections of what he had seen or dreamed he saw at the cavern. These looked dangerous enough, but yet quiet. A treacherous stillness, however,--as the unfortunate New York physician found, when he put his foot out to wake up the torpid creature, and instantly the fang flashed through his boot, carrying the poison into his blood, and death with it. Mr. Bernard kept these strange creatures, and watched all their habits with a natural curiosity. In any collection of animals the venomous beasts are looked at with the greatest interest, just as the greatest villains are most run after by the unknown public. Nobody troubles himself for a common striped snake or a petty thief, but a _cobra_ or a wife-killer is a centre of attraction to all eyes. These captives did very little to earn their living; but, on the other hand, their living was not expensive, their diet being nothing but air, _au nature_. Months and months these creatures will live and seem to thrive well enough, as any showman who has them in his menagerie will testify, though they never touch anything to eat or drink. In the mean time Mr. Bernard had become very curious about a class of subjects not treated of in any detail in those text-books accessible in most country-towns, to the exclusion of the more special treatises, and especially the rare and ancient works found on the shelves of the larger city-libraries. He was on a visit to old Dr. Kittredge one day, having been asked by him to call in for a few moments as soon as convenient. The Doctor smiled good-humoredly when he asked him if he had an extensive collection of medical works. "Why, no," said the old Doctor, "I haven't got a great many printed books; and what I have I don't read quite as often as I might, I'm afraid. I read and studied in the time of it, when I was in the midst of the young men who were all at work with their books; but it's a mighty hard matter, when you go off alone into the country, to keep up with all that's going on in the Societies and the Colleges. I'll tell you, though, Mr. Langdon, when a man that's once started right lives among sick folks for five-and-thirty years, as I've done, if he hasn't got a library of five-and-thirty volumes bound up in his head at the end of that time, he'd better stop driving round and sell his horse and sulky. I know the better part of the families within a dozen miles' ride. I know the families that have a way of living through everything, and I know the other set that have the trick of dying without any kind of reason for it. I know the years when the fevers and dysenteries are in earnest, and when they're only making believe. I know the folks that think they're dying as soon as they're sick, and the folks that never find out they're sick till they're dead. I don't want to undervalue your science, Mr. Langdon. There are things I never learned, because they came in after my day, and I am very glad to send my patients to those that do know them, when I am at fault; but I know these people about here, fathers and mothers, and children and grandchildren, so as all the science in the world can't know them, without it takes time about it, and sees them grow up and grow old, and how the wear and tear of life comes to them. You can't tell a horse by driving him once, Mr. Langdon, nor a patient by talking half an hour with him." "Do you know much about the Venner family?" said Mr. Bernard, in a natural way enough, the Doctor's talk having suggested the question. The Doctor lifted his head with his accustomed movement, so as to command the young man through his spectacles. "I know all the families of this place and its neighborhood," he answered. "We have the young lady studying with us at the Institute," said Mr. Bernard. "I know it," the Doctor answered. "Is she a good scholar?" All this time the Doctor's eyes were fixed steadily on Mr. Bernard, looking through the glasses. "She is a good scholar enough, but I don't know what to make of her. Sometimes I think she is a little out of her head. Her father, I believe, is sensible enough;--what sort of a woman was her mother, Doctor?--I suppose, of course, you remember all about her?" "Yes, I knew her mother. She was a very lovely young woman." --The Doctor put his hand to his forehead and drew a long breath.--"What is there you notice out of the way about Elsie Venner?" "A good many things," the master answered. "She shuns all the other girls. She is getting a strange influence over my fellow-teacher, a young lady,--you know Miss Helen Darley, perhaps? I am afraid this girl will kill her. I never saw or heard of anything like it, in prose at least;--do you remember much of Coleridge's Poems, Doctor?" The good old Doctor had to plead a negative. "Well, no matter. Elsie would have been burned for a witch in old times. I have seen the girl look at Miss Darley when she had not the least idea of it, and all at once I would see her grow pale and moist, and sigh, and move round uneasily, and turn towards Elsie, and perhaps get up and go to her, or else have slight spasmodic movements that looked like hysterics;--do you believe in the evil eye, Doctor?" "Mr. Langdon," the Doctor said, solemnly, "there are strange things about Elsie Venner,--very strange things. This was what I wanted to speak to you about. Let me advise you all to be very patient with the girl, but also very careful. Her love is not to be desired, and"--he whispered softly--"her hate is to be dreaded. Do you think she has any special fancy for anybody else in the school besides Miss Darley?" Mr. Bernard could not stand the old Doctor's spectacled eyes without betraying a little of the feeling natural to a young man to whom a home question involving a possible sentiment is put suddenly. "I have suspected," he said,--"I have had a kind of feeling--that she--Well, come, Doctor,--I don't know that there's any use in disguising the matter,--I have thought Elsie Venner had rather a fancy for somebody else,--I mean myself." There was something so becoming in the blush with which the young man made this confession, and so manly, too, in the tone with which he spoke, so remote from any shallow vanity, such as young men who are incapable of love are apt to feel, when some loose tendril of a woman's fancy which a chance wind has blown against them twines about them for the want of anything better, that the old Doctor looked at him admiringly, and could not help thinking that it was no wonder any young girl should be pleased with him. "You are a man of nerve, Mr. Langdon?" said the Doctor. "I thought so till very lately," he replied. "I am not easily frightened, but I don't know but I might be bewitched or magnetized, or whatever it is when one is tied up and cannot move. I think I can find nerve enough, however, if there is any special use you want to put it to." "Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Langdon. Do you find yourself disposed to take a special interest in Elsie,--to fall in love with her, in a word? Pardon me, for I do not ask from curiosity, but a much more serious motive." "Elsie interests me," said the young man, "interests me strangely. She has a wild flavor in her character which is wholly different from that of any human creature I ever saw. She has marks of genius,--poetic or dramatic,--I hardly know which. She read a passage from Keats's 'Lamia' the other day, in the school-room, in such a way that I declare to you I thought some of the girls would faint or go into fits. Miss Darley got up and left the room, trembling all over. Then I pity her, she is so lonely. The girls are afraid of her, and she seems to have either a dislike or a fear of them. They have all sorts of painful stories about her. They give her a name that no human creature ought to bear. They say she hides a mark on her neck by always wearing a necklace. She is very graceful, you know, and they will have it that she can twist herself into all sorts of shapes, or tie herself in a knot, if she wants to. There is not one of them that will look her in the eyes. I pity the poor girl; but, Doctor, I do not love her. I would risk my life for her, if it would do her any good, but it would be in cold blood. If her hand touches mine, it is not a thrill of passion I feel running through me, but a very different emotion. Oh, Doctor! there must be something in that creature's blood that has killed the humanity in her. God only knows the mystery that has blighted such a soul in so beautiful a body! No, Doctor, I do not love the girl." "Mr. Langdon," said the Doctor, "you are young, and I am old. Let me talk to you with an old man's privilege, as an adviser. You have come to this country-town without suspicion, and you are moving in the midst of perils. There is a mystery which I must not tell you now; but I may warn you. Keep your eyes open and your heart shut. If, through pitying that girl, you ever come to love her, you are lost. If you deal carelessly with her, beware! This is not all. There are other eyes on you beside Elsie Venner's.--Do you go armed?" "I do!" said Mr. Bernard,--and he 'put his hands up' in the shape of fists, in such a way as to show that he was master of the natural weapons at any rate. The Doctor could not help smiling. But his face fell in an instant. "You may want something more than those tools to work with. Come with me into my sanctum." The Doctor led Mr. Bernard into a small room opening out of the study. It was a place such as anybody but a medical man would shiver to enter. There was the usual tall box with its bleached rattling tenant; there were jars in rows where "interesting cases" outlived the grief of widows and heirs in alcoholic immortality,--for your "preparation-jar" is the true "_monumentum aere perennius_"; there were various semipossibilities of minute dimensions and unpromising developments; there were shining instruments of evil aspect, and grim plates on the walls, and on one shelf by itself, accursed and apart, coiled in a long cylinder of spirit, a huge _crotalus_, rough-scaled, flat-headed, variegated with dull bands, one of which partially encircled the neck like a collar,--an awful wretch to look upon, with murder written all over him in horrid hieroglyphics. Mr. Bernard's look was riveted on this creature,--not fascinated certainly, for its eyes looked like white beads, being clouded by the action of the spirits in which it had been long kept,--but fixed by some indefinite sense of the renewal of a previous impression;--everybody knows the feeling, with its suggestion of some past state of existence. There was a scrap of paper on the jar with something written on it. He was reaching up to read it when the Doctor touched him lightly. "Look here, Mr. Langdon!" he said, with a certain vivacity of manner, as if wishing to call away his attention,--"this is my armory." The Doctor threw open the door of a small cabinet, where were disposed in artistic patterns various weapons of offence and defence,--for he was a virtuoso in his way, and by the side of the implements of the art of healing had pleased himself with displaying a collection of those other instruments, the use of which renders them necessary. "See which of these weapons you would like best to carry about you," said the Doctor. Mr. Bernard laughed, and looked at the Doctor as if he half doubted whether he was in earnest. "This looks dangerous enough," he said,--"for the man that carries it, at least." He took down one of the prohibited Spanish daggers or knives which a traveller may occasionally get hold of and smuggle out of the country. The blade was broad, trowel-like, but the point drawn out several inches, so as to look like a skewer. "This must be a jealous bull-fighter's weapon," he said, and put it back in its place. Then he took down an ancient-looking broad-bladed dagger, with a complex aspect about it, as if it had some kind of mechanism connected with it. "Take care!" said the Doctor; "there is a trick to that dagger." He took it and touched a spring. The dagger split suddenly into three blades, as when one separates the forefinger and the ring-finger from the middle one. The outside blades were sharp on their outer edge. The stab was to be made with the dagger shut, then the spring touched and the split blades withdrawn. Mr. Bernard replaced it, saying, that it would have served for side-arm to old Suwarrow, who told his men to work their bayonets back and forward when they pinned a Turk, but to wriggle them about in the wound when they stabbed a Frenchman. "Here," said the Doctor, "this is the thing you want." He took down a much more modern and familiar implement,--a small, beautifully finished revolver. "I want you to carry this," he said; "and more than that, I want you to practise with it often, as for amusement, but so that it may be seen and understood that you are apt to have a pistol about you. Pistol-shooting is pleasant sport enough, and there is no reason why you should not practise it like other young fellows. And now," the Doctor said, "I have one other weapon to give you." He took a small piece of parchment and shook a white powder into it from one of his medicine-jars. The jar was marked with the name of a mineral salt, of a nature to have been serviceable in case of sudden illness in the time of the Borgias. The Doctor folded the parchment carefully and marked the Latin name of the powder upon it. "Here," he said, handing it to Mr. Bernard,--"you see what it is, and you know what service it can render. Keep these two protectors about your person day and night; they will not harm you, and you may want one or the other or both before you think of it." Mr. Bernard thought it was very odd, and not very old-gentleman like, to be fitting him out for treason, stratagem, and spoils, in this way. There was no harm, however, in carrying a doctor's powder in his pocket, or in amusing himself with shooting at a mark, as he had often done before. If the old gentleman had these fancies, it was as well to humor him. So he thanked old Doctor Kittredge, and shook his hand warmly as he left him. "The fellow's hand did not tremble, nor his color change," the Doctor said, as he watched him walking away. "He is one of the right sort." CHAPTER XVI. EPISTOLARY. _Mr. Langdon to the Professor._ MY DEAR PROFESSOR,-- You were kind enough to promise me that you would assist me in any professional or scientific investigations in which I might become engaged. I have of late become deeply interested in a class of subjects which present peculiar difficulty, and I must exercise the privilege of questioning you on some points upon which I desire information I cannot otherwise obtain. I would not trouble you, if I could find any person or books competent to enlighten me on some of these singular matters which have so excited me. The leading doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man, but not versed in the curiosities of medical literature. I proceed, with your leave, to ask a considerable number of questions,--hoping to get answers to some of them, at least. Is there any evidence that human beings can be infected or wrought upon by poisons, or otherwise, so that they shall manifest any of the peculiarities belonging to beings of a lower nature? Can such peculiarities be transmitted by inheritance? Is there anything to countenance the stories, long and widely current, about the "evil eye"? or is it a mere fancy that such a power belongs to any human being? Have you any personal experience as to the power of fascination said to be exercised by certain animals? What can you make of those circumstantial statements we have seen in the papers of children forming mysterious friendships with ophidians of different species, sharing their food with them, and seeming to be under some subtile influence exercised by those creatures? Have you read, critically, Coleridge's poem of "Christabel," and Keats's "Lamia"? If so, can you understand them, or find any physiological foundation for the story of either? There is another set of questions of a different nature I should like to ask, but it is hardly fair to put so many on a single sheet. There is one, however, you must answer. Do you think there may be predispositions, inherited or ingrafted, but at any rate constitutional, which shall take out certain apparently voluntary determinations from the control of the will, and leave them as free from moral responsibility as the instincts of the lower animals? Do you not think there may be a _crime_ which is not a _sin_? Pardon me, my dear Sir, for troubling you with such a list of notes of interrogation. There are some _very strange_ things going on here in this place, country-town as it is. Country-life is apt to be dull; but when it once gets going, it beats the city hollow, because it gives its whole mind to what it is about. These rural sinners make terrible work with the middle of the Decalogue, when they get started. However, I hope I shall live through my year's school-keeping without catastrophes, though there are queer doings about me which puzzle me and might scare some people. If anything _should_ happen, you will be one of the first to hear of it, no doubt. But I trust not to help out the editors of the "Rockland Weekly Universe" with an obituary of the late lamented, who signed himself in life Your friend and pupil, BERNARD C. LANGDON. _The Professor to Mr. Langdon._ MY DEAR MR. LANGDON,-- I do not wonder that you find no answer from your country friends to the curious questions you put. They belong to that middle region between science and poetry which sensible men, as they are called, are very shy of meddling with. Some people think that truth and gold are always to be washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion, that, unless there are so many grains to the peck of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not pay to wash for either, as long as one can find anything else to do. I don't doubt there is some truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism, for instance; but when you ask me to cradle for it, I tell you that the hysteric girls cheat so, and the professionals are such a set of pickpockets, that I can do something better than hunt for the grains of truth among their tricks and lies. Do you remember what I used to say in my lectures?--or were you asleep just then, or cutting your initials on the rail? (You see I can ask questions, my young friend.) _Leverage_ is everything,--was what I used to say;--don't begin to pry till you have got the long arm on your side. To please you, and satisfy your doubts as far as possible, I have looked into the old books,--into Schenckius and Turner and Kenelm Digby and the rest, where I have found plenty of curious stories which you must take for what they are worth. Your first question I can answer in the affirmative upon pretty good authority. Mizaldus tells, in his "Memorabilia," the well-known story of the girl fed on poisons, who was sent by the king of the Indies to Alexander the Great. "When Aristotle saw her eyes _sparkling and snapping like those of serpents_, he said, 'Look out for yourself, Alexander! this is a dangerous companion for you!'" --and sure enough, the young lady proved to be a very unsafe person to her friends. Cardanus gets a story from Avicenna, of a certain man bit by a serpent, who recovered of his bite, the snake dying therefrom. This man afterwards had a daughter whom no venomous serpent could harm, though _she had a fatal power over them_. I suppose you may remember the statements of old authors about _lycanthropy_, the disease in which men took on the nature and aspect of wolves. Aetius and Paulus, both men of authority, describe it. Altomaris gives a horrid case; and Fincelius mentions one occurring as late as 1541, the subject of which was captured, still _insisting that he was a wolf_, only that the hair of his hide was turned in! _Versipelles_, it may be remembered, was the Latin name for these "were-wolves." As for the cases where rabid persons have barked and bit like dogs, there are plenty of such on record. More singular, or at least more rare, is the account given by Andreas Baccius, of a man who was struck in the hand by a cock, with his beak, and who died on the third day thereafter, looking for all the world _like a fighting-cock_, to the great horror of the spectators. As to impressions transmitted _at a very early period of existence_, every one knows the story of King James's fear of a naked sword and the way it is accounted for. Sir Kenelm Digby says,--"I remember when he dubbed me Knight, in the ceremony of putting the point of a naked sword upon my shoulder, he could not endure to look upon it, but turned his face another way, insomuch, that, in lieu of touching my shoulder, he had almost thrust the point into my eyes, had not the Duke of Buckingham guided his hand aright." It is he, too, who tells the story of the _mulberry mark_ upon the neck of a certain lady of high condition, which "every year, in mulberry season, did swell, grow big, and itch." And Gaffarel mentions the case of a girl born with the figure of a _fish_ on one of her limbs, of which the wonder was, that, when the girl did eat fish, this mark put her to sensible pain. But there is no end to cases of this kind, and I could give some of recent date, if necessary, lending a certain plausibility at least to the doctrine of transmitted impressions. I never saw a distinct case of _evil eye_, though I have seen eyes so bad that they might produce strange effects on very sensitive natures. But the belief in it under various names, fascination, _jettatura_, etc., is so permanent and universal, from Egypt to Italy, and from the days of Solomon to those of Ferdinand of Naples, that there must be some _peculiarity_, to say the least, on which the opinion is based. There is very strong evidence that some such power is exercised by certain of the lower animals. Thus, it is stated on good authority that "almost every animal becomes panic-struck at the sight of the _rattlesnake_, and seems at once deprived of the power of motion, or the exercise of its usual instinct of self-preservation." Other serpents seem to share this power of fascination, as the _Cobra_ and the _Bucephalus Capensis_. Some think that it is nothing but fright; others attribute it to the "strange powers that lie Within the magic circle of the eye,"-- as Churchill said, speaking of Garrick. You ask me about those mysterious and frightful intimacies between children and serpents of which so many instances have been recorded. I am sure I cannot tell what to make of them. I have seen several such accounts in recent papers, but here is one published in the seventeenth century which is as striking as any of the more modern ones:-- "Mr. _Herbert Jones_ of _Monmouth_, when he was a little Boy, was used to eat his Milk in a Garden in the Morning, and was no sooner there, but a large Snake always came, and eat out of the Dish with him, and did so for a considerable time, till one Morning, he striking the Snake on the Head, it hissed at him. Upon which he told his Mother that the Baby (for so he call'd it) cry'd _Hiss_ at him. His Mother had it kill'd, which occasioned him a great _Fit of Sickness_, and 'twas thought would have dy'd, but did recover." There was likewise one "_William Writtle_, condemned at _Maidston Assizes_ for a double murder, told a Minister that was with him after he was condemned, that his mother told him, that when he was a Child, there crept always to him a Snake, wherever she laid him. Sometimes she would convey him up Stairs, and leave him never so little, she should be sure to find a Snake in the Cradle with him, but never perceived it did him any harm." One of the most striking alleged facts connected with the mysterious relation existing between the serpent and the human species is the influence which the poison of the _Crotalus_, taken internally, seemed to produce over the _moral faculties_, in the experiments instituted by Dr. Hering at Surinam. There is something frightful in the disposition of certain ophidians, as the whip-snake, which darts at the eyes of cattle without any apparent provocation or other motive. It is natural enough that the evil principle should have been represented in the form of a serpent, but it is strange to think of introducing it into a human being like cow-pox by vaccination. You know all about the _Psylli_, or ancient serpent-tamers, I suppose. Savary gives an account of the modern serpent-tamers in his "Letters on Egypt." These modern jugglers are in the habit of making the venomous _Naja_ counterfeit death, lying out straight and stiff, _changing it into a rod_, as the ancient magicians did with their serpents, (probably the same animal,) in the time of Moses. I am afraid I cannot throw much light on "Christabel" or "Lamia" by any criticism I can offer. Geraldine, in the former, seems to be simply a malignant witch-woman, with the _evil eye_, but with no absolute ophidian relationship. Lamia is a serpent transformed by magic into a woman. The idea of both is mythological, and not in any sense physiological. Some women unquestionably suggest the image of serpents; men rarely or never. I have been struck, like many others, with the ophidian head and eye of the famous Rachel. Your question about inherited predispositions, as limiting the sphere of the will, and, consequently, of moral accountability, opens a very wide range of speculation. I can give you only a brief abstract of my own opinions on this delicate and difficult subject. Crime and sin, being the _preserves_ of two great organized interests, have been guarded against all reforming poachers with as great jealousy as the Royal Forests. It is so easy to hang a troublesome fellow! It is so much simpler to consign a soul to perdition, or gay masses, for money, to save it, than to take the blame on ourselves for letting it grow up in neglect and run to ruin for want of humanizing influences! They hung poor, crazy Bellingham for shooting Mr. Perceval. The ordinary of Newgate preached to women who were to swing at Tyburn for a petty theft as if they were worse than other people,--just as though he would not have been a pickpocket or shoplifter, himself, if he had been born in a den of thieves and bred up to steal or starve! The English law never began to get hold of the idea that a crime was not necessarily a sin, till Hadfield, who thought he was the Saviour of mankind, was tried for shooting at George the Third;--lucky for him that he did not hit his Majesty! It is very singular that we recognize all the bodily defects that unfit a man for military service, and all the intellectual ones that limit his range of thought, but always talk at him as if all his moral powers were perfect I suppose we must punish evil-doers as we extirpate vermin; but I don't know that we have any more right to judge them than we have to judge rats and mice, which are just as good as cats and weasels, though we think it necessary to treat them as criminals. The limitations of human responsibility have never been properly studied, unless it be by the phrenologists. You know from my lectures that I consider phrenology, as taught, a pseudo-science, and not a branch of positive knowledge; but, for all that, we owe it an immense debt. It has melted the world's conscience in its crucible and cast it in a new mould, with features less like those of Moloch and more like those of humanity. If it has failed to demonstrate its system of special correspondences, it has proved that there are fixed relations between organization and mind and character. It has brought out that great doctrine of moral insanity, which has done more to make men charitable and soften legal and theological barbarism than any one doctrine that I can think of since the message of peace and good-will to men. Automatic action in the moral world; the _reflex movement_ which _seems_ to be self-determination, and has been hanged and howled at as such (metaphorically) for nobody knows how many centuries: until somebody shall study this as Marshall Hall has studied reflex nervous action in the bodily system, I would not give much for men's judgments of each other's characters. Shut up the robber and the defaulter, we must. But what if your oldest boy had been stolen from his cradle and bred in a North-Street cellar? What if you are drinking a little too much wine and smoking a little too much tobacco, and your son takes after you, and so your poor grandson's brain being a little injured in physical texture, he loses the fine moral sense on which you pride yourself, and doesn't see the difference between signing another man's name to a draft and his own? I suppose the study of automatic action in the moral world (you see what I mean through the apparent contradiction of terms) may be a dangerous one in the view of many people. It is liable to abuse, no doubt. People are always glad to get hold of anything which limits their responsibility. But remember that our moral estimates come down to us from ancestors who hanged children for stealing forty shillings' worth, and sent their souls to perdition for the sin of being born,--who punished the unfortunate families of suicides, and in their eagerness for justice executed one innocent person every three years, on the average, as Sir James Mackintosh tells us. I do not know in what shape the practical question may present itself to you; but I will tell you my rule in life, and I think you will find it a good one. _Treat bad men exactly as if they were insane_. They are _in-sane_, out of health, morally. Reason, which is food to sound minds, is not tolerated, still less assimilated, unless administered with the greatest caution; perhaps, not at all. Avoid collision with them, as far as you honorably can; keep your temper, if you can,--for one angry man is as good as another; restrain them from injury, promptly, completely, and with the least possible injury, just as in the case of maniacs,--and when you have got rid of them, or got them tied hand and foot so that they can do no mischief, sit down and contemplate them charitably, remembering that nine-tenths of their perversity comes from outside influences, drunken ancestors, abuse in childhood, bad company, from which you have happily been preserved, and for some of which you, as a member of society, may be fractionally responsible. I think also that there are _special influences_ which _work in the blood like ferments_, and I have a suspicion that some of those curious old stories I cited may have more recent parallels. Have you ever met with any cases which admitted of a solution like that which I have mentioned? Yours very truly, * * * * * _Bernard Langdon to Philip Staples._ MY DEAR PHILIP,-- I have been for some months established in this place, turning the main crank of the machinery for the manufactory of accomplishments superintended by, or rather worked to the profit of, a certain Mr. Silas Peckham. He is a poor wretch, with a little thin fishy blood in his body, lean and flat, long-armed and large-handed, thick-jointed and thin-muscled,--you know those unwholesome, weak-eyed, half-fed creatures, that look not fit to be round among live folks, and yet not quite dead enough to bury. If you ever hear of my being in court to answer to a charge of assault and battery, you may guess that I have been giving him a thrashing to settle off old scores; for he is a tyrant, and has come pretty near killing his principal lady-assistant with overworking her and keeping her out of all decent privileges. Helen Darley is this lady's name,--twenty-two or -three years old, I should think,--a very sweet, pale woman,--daughter of the usual country-clergyman,--thrown on her own resources from an early age, and the rest: a common story, but an uncommon person,--very. All conscience and sensibility, I should say,--a cruel worker,--no kind of regard for herself,--seems as fragile and supple as a young willow-shoot, but try her and you find she has the spring in her of a steel crossbow. I am glad I happened to come to this place, if it were only for her sake. I have saved that girl's life; I am as sure of it as if I had pulled her out of the fire or water. Of course I'm in love with her, you say,--we always love those whom we have benefited: "saved her life,--her love was the reward of his devotion," etc., etc., as in a regular set novel. In love, Philip? Well, about that,--I love Helen Darley--very much: there is hardly anybody I love so well. What a noble creature she is! One of those that just go right on, do their own work and everybody else's, killing themselves inch by inch without ever thinking about it,--singing and dancing at their toil when they begin, worn and saddened after a while, but pressing steadily on, tottering by-and-by, and catching at the rail by the wayside to help them lift one foot before the other, and at last falling, face down, arms stretched forward---- Philip, my boy, do you know I am the sort of man that locks his door sometimes and cries his heart out of his eyes,--that can sob like a woman and not be ashamed of it? I come of fighting-blood on my mother's side, you know; I think I could be savage on occasion. But I am tender,--more and more tender as I come into my fulness of manhood. I don't like to strike a man, (laugh, if you like,--I know I hit hard when I do strike,)--but what I can't stand is the sight of these poor, patient, toiling women, that never find out in this life how good they are, and never know what it is to be told they are angels while they still wear the pleasing incumbrances of humanity. I don't know what to make of these cases. To think that a woman is never to be a woman again, whatever she may come to as an unsexed angel,--and that she should die unloved! Why does not somebody come and carry off this noble woman, waiting here all ready to make a man happy? Philip, do you know the pathos there is in the eyes of unsought women, oppressed with the burden of an inner life unshared? I can see into them now as I could not in those earlier days. I sometimes think their pupils dilate on purpose to let my consciousness glide through them; indeed, I dread them, I come so close to the nerve of the soul itself in these momentary intimacies. You used to tell me I was a Turk,--that my heart was full of pigeon-holes, with accommodations inside for a whole flock of doves. I don't know but I am still as Youngish as ever in my ways,--Brigham-Youngish, I mean; at any rate, I always want to give a little love to all the poor things that cannot have a whole man to themselves. If they would only be contented with a little! Here now are two girls in this school where I am teaching. One of them, Rosa M., is not more than sixteen years old, I think they say; but Nature has forced her into a tropical luxuriance of beauty, as if it were July with her, instead of May. I suppose it is all natural enough that this girl should like a young man's attention, even if he were a grave schoolmaster; but the eloquence of this young thing's look is unmistakable,--and yet she does not know the language it is talking,--they none of them do; and there is where a good many poor creatures of our good-for-nothing sex are mistaken. There is no danger of my being rash, but I think this girl will cost somebody his life yet. She is one of those women men make a quarrel about and fight to the death for,--the old feral instinct, you know. Pray, don't think I am lost in conceit, but there is another girl here that I begin to think looks with a certain kindness on me. Her name is Elsie V., and she is the only daughter and heiress of an old family in this place. She is a portentous and mysterious creature. If I should tell you all I know and half of what I fancy about her, you would tell me to get my life insured at once. Yet she is the most painfully interesting being,--so handsome! so lonely!--for she has no friends among the girls, and sits apart from them,--with black hair like the flow of a mountain-brook after a thaw, with a low-browed, scowling beauty of face, and such eyes as were never seen before, I really believe, in any human creature. Philip, I don't know what to say about this Elsie. There is a mystery around her I have not fathomed. I have conjectures about her which I could not utter to any living soul. I dare not even hint the possibilities which have suggested themselves to me. This I will say,--that I do take the most intense interest in this young person, an interest much more like pity than love in its common sense. If what I guess at is true, of all the tragedies of existence I ever knew this is the saddest, and yet so full of meaning! Do not ask me any questions,--I have said more than I meant to already; but I am involved in strange doubts and perplexities,--in dangers too, very possibly,--and it is a relief just to speak ever so guardedly of them to an early and faithful friend. Yours ever, BERNARD. P. S. I remember you had a copy of Fortunius Licetus "De Monstris" among your old books. Can't you lend it to me for a while? I am curious, and it will amuse me. ANNO DOMINI, 1860. My youth is past!--this morn I stand, With manhood's signet of command, Firm-planted on life's middle-land! Behind, the scene recedes afar, Where cloudy mists and vapors mar The lustre of my morning-star. I mark the courses of my days, Inwound through many a doubtful maze,-- To marvel at those devious ways! They lead through hills and levels lone, Green fields, and woodlands overgrown, And where deep waters pulse and moan;-- By ruined tower, by darksome dell, The home of night-birds fierce and fell, Wherein strange shapes of Horror dwell;-- Out to the blessed sunshine free, The breezy moors of liberty, And skies outpouring harmony;-- By palace-wall, by haunted tomb, Through bright and dark, through joy and gloom: My life hath known both blight and bloom. And now, as from some mountain-height, Backward I strain my eager sight, Till all the landscape melts in night;-- Then, whispering to my Heart, "Be bold!" I turn from years whose "tale is told," To greet the Future's dawn of gold: High hopes and nobler labors wait Beyond that Future's opening gate,-- Brave deeds which hold the seeds of Fate. Thy strength, O Lord, shall fire my blood, Shall nerve my soul, make wise my mood, And win me to the pure and good! Or if, O Father, thou shouldst say, "Dark Angel, close his mortal day!" And smite me on my vanward way,-- Grant that in armor firm and strong, Whilst pealing still Life's battle-song, And struggling, manful, 'gainst the wrong, Thy soldier, who would fight to win No crown of dross, no bays of sin, May fall amidst the foremost din Of Truth's grand conflict, blest by Thee,-- And even though Death should conquer, see How false, how brief his victory! * * * * * DARWIN ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES. "I can entertain no doubt, after the most deliberate study and dispassionate judgment of which I am capable, that the view which most naturalists entertain, and which I formerly entertained,--namely, that each species has been independently created,--is erroneous. I am fully convinced that species are not immutable; but that those belonging to what are called the same genera are lineal descendants of some other and generally extinct species, in the same manner as the acknowledged varieties of any one species are the descendants of that species. Furthermore, I am convinced that Natural Selection has been the main, but not exclusive means of modification." This is the kernel of the new theory, the Darwinian creed, as recited at the close of the introduction to the remarkable book under consideration. The questions, "What will he do with it?" and "How far will he carry it?" the author answers at the close of the volume: "I cannot doubt that the theory of descent with modification embraces all the members of the same class." Furthermore, "I believe that all animals have descended from at most only four or five progenitors, and plants from an equal or lesser number." Seeing that analogy as strongly suggests a further step in the same direction, while he protests that "analogy may be a deceitful guide," yet he follows its inexorable leading to the inference that "probably all the organic beings which have ever lived on this earth have descended from some one primordial form, into which life was first breathed." In the first extract we have the thin end of the wedge driven a little way; in the last, the wedge is driven home. We have already (in the preceding number) sketched some of the reasons suggestive of such a theory of derivation of species,--reasons which give it plausibility, and even no small probability, as applied to our actual world and to changes occurring since the latest tertiary period. We are well pleased at this moment to find that the conclusions we were arriving at in this respect are sustained by the very high authority and impartial judgment of Pictet, the Swiss palaeontologist. In his review of Darwin's book,--much the fairest and most admirable opposing one that has yet appeared,--he freely accepts that _ensemble_ of natural operations which Darwin impersonates under the now familiar name of Natural Selection, allows that the exposition throughout the first chapters seems "_a la fois prudent et fort_" and is disposed to accept the whole argument in its foundations, that is, so far as it relates to what is now going on, or has taken place in the present geological period,--which period he carries back through the diluvial epoch to the borders of the tertiary. Pictet accordingly admits that the theory will very well account for the origination by divergence of nearly related species, whether within the present period or in remoter geological times: a very natural view for him to take; since he appears to have reached and published, several years ago, the pregnant conclusion, that there most probably was some material connection between the closely related species of two successive faunas, and that the numerous close species, whose limits are so difficult to determine, were not all created distinct and independent. But while accepting, or ready to accept, the basis of Darwin's theory, and all its legitimate direct inferences, he rejects the ultimate conclusions, brings some weighty arguments to bear against them, and is evidently convinced that he can draw a clear line between the sound inferences, which he favors, and the unsound or unwarranted theoretical deductions, which he rejects. We hope he can. [Footnote a: P. 484, Engl. ed. In the new American edition, (_Vide_ Supplement, pp. 431, 432,) the principal analogies which suggest the extreme view are referred to, and the remark is appended,--"But this inference is chiefly grounded on analogy, and it is immaterial whether or not it be accepted. The case is different with the members of each great class, as the Vertebrata or Articulata; for here we have in the laws of homology, embryology, etc., some distinct evidence that all have descended from a single primordial parent."] [Footnote c: This we learn from his very interesting article, _De la Question de l'Homme Fossile_, in the same (March) number of the _Bibliotheque Universelle_.] This raises the question, Why does Darwin press his theory to these extreme conclusions? Why do all hypotheses of derivation converge so inevitably to one ultimate point? Having already considered some of the reasons which suggest or support the theory at its outset,--which may carry it as far as such sound and experienced naturalists as Pictet allow that it may be true,--perhaps as far as Darwin himself unfolds it in the introductory proposition cited at the beginning of this article,--we may now inquire after the motives which impel the theorist so much farther. Here proofs, in the proper sense of the word, are not to be had. We are beyond the region of demonstration, and have duly probabilities to consider. What are these probabilities? What work will this hypothesis do to establish a claim to be adopted in its completeness? Why should a theory which may plausibly enough account for the _diversification_ of the species of each special type or genus, be expanded into a general system for the _origination_ or successive diversification of all species, and all special types or forms, from four or five remote primordial forms, or perhaps from one? We accept the theory of gravitation because it explains all the facts we know, and bears all the tests that we can put it to. We incline to accept the nebular hypothesis, for similar reasons; not because it is proved,--thus far it is wholly incapable of proof,--but because it is a natural theoretical deduction from accepted physical laws, is thoroughly congruous with the facts, and because its assumption serves to connect and harmonize these into one probable and consistent whole. Can the derivative hypothesis be maintained and carried out into a system on similar grounds? If so, however unproved, it would appear to be a tenable hypothesis, which is all that its author ought now to claim. Such hypotheses as from the conditions of the case can neither be proved nor disproved by direct evidence or experiment are to be tested only indirectly, and therefore imperfectly, by trying their power to harmonize the known facts, and to account for what is otherwise unaccountable. So the question comes to this: What will an hypothesis of the derivation of species explain which the opposing view leaves unexplained? Questions these which ought to be entertained before we take up the arguments which have been advanced against this theory. We can only glance at some of the considerations which Darwin adduces, or will be sure to adduce in the future and fuller exposition which is promised. To display them in such wise as to indoctrinate the unscientific reader would require a volume. Merely to refer to them in the most general terms would suffice for those familiar with scientific matters, but would scarcely enlighten those who are not. Wherefore let these trust the impartial Pictet, who freely admits, that, "in the absence of sufficient direct proofs to justify the possibility of his hypothesis, Mr. Darwin relies upon indirect proofs, the bearing of which is real and incontestable"; who concedes that "his theory accords very well with the great facts of comparative anatomy and zooelogy,--comes in admirably to explain unity of composition of organisms, also to explain rudimentary and representative organs, and the natural series of genera and species,--equally corresponds with many palaeontological data,--agrees well with the specific resemblances which exist between two successive faunas, with the parallelism which is sometimes observed between the series of palaeontological succession and of embryonal development," etc. ; and finally, although he does not accept the theory in these results, he allows that "it appears to offer the best means of explaining the manner in which organized beings were produced in epochs anterior to our own." What more than this could be said for such an hypothesis? Here, probably, is its charm, and its strong hold upon the speculative mind. Unproven though it be, and cumbered _prima facie_ with cumulative improbabilities as it proceeds, yet it singularly accords with great classes of facts otherwise insulated and enigmatic, and explains many things which are thus far utterly inexplicable upon any other scientific assumption. We have said (p. 116) that Darwin's hypothesis is the natural complement to Lyell's uniformitarian theory in physical geology. It is for the organic world what that popular view is for the inorganic; and the accepters of the latter stand in a position from which to regard the former in the most favorable light. Wherefore the rumor that the cautious Lyell himself has adopted the Darwinian hypothesis need not surprise us. The two views are made for each other, and, like the two counterpart pictures for the stereoscope, when brought together, combine into one apparently solid whole. If we allow, with Pictet, that Darwin's theory will very well serve for all that concerns the present epoch of the world's history,--an epoch which this renowned palaeontologist regards as including the diluvial or quaternary period,--then Darwin's first and foremost need in his onward course is a practicable road from this into and through the tertiary period, the intervening region between the comparatively near and the far remote past. Here Lyell's doctrine paves the way, by showing that in the physical geology there is no general or absolute break between the two, probably no greater between the latest tertiary and the quaternary period than between the latter and the present time. So far, the Lyellian view is, we suppose, generally concurred in. Now as to the organic world, it is largely admitted that numerous tertiary species have continued down into the quaternary, and many of them to the present time. A goodly percentage of the earlier and nearly half of the later tertiary mollusca, according to Des Hayes, Lyell, and, if we mistake not, Bronn, still live. This identification, however, is now questioned by a naturalist of the very highest authority. But, in its bearings on the new theory, the point here turns not upon absolute identity so much as upon close resemblance. For those who, with Agassiz, doubt the specific identity in any of these cases, and those who say, with Pictet, that "the later tertiary deposits contain in general the _debris_ of species _very nearly related_ to those which still exist, belonging to the same genera, but specifically different," may also agree with Pictet that the nearly related species of successive faunas must or may have had "a material connection." Now the only material connection that we have an idea of in such a case is a genealogical one. And the supposition of a genealogical connection is surely not unnatural in such cases,--is demonstrably the natural one as respects all those tertiary species which experienced naturalists have pronounced to be identical with existing ones, but which others now deem distinct. For to identify the two is the same thing as to conclude the one to be the ancestors of the other. No doubt there are differences between the tertiary and the present individuals, differences equally noted by both classes of naturalists, but differently estimated. By the one these are deemed quite compatible, by the other incompatible, with community of origin. But who can tell us what amount of difference is compatible with community of origin? This is the very question at issue, and one to be settled by observation alone. Who would have thought that the peach and the nectarine came from one stock? But, this being proved, is it now very improbable that both were derived from the almond, or from some common amygdaline progenitor? Who would have thought that the cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, kale, and kohlrabi are derivatives of one species, and rape or colza, turnip, and probably rutabaga, of another species? And who that is convinced of this can long undoubtingly hold the original distinctness of turnips from cabbages as an article of faith? On scientific grounds may not a primordial cabbage or rape be assumed as the ancestor of all the cabbage races, on much the same ground that we assume a common ancestry for the diversified human races? If all our breeds of cattle came from one stock, why not this stock from the auroch, which has had all the time between the diluvial and the historic periods in which to set off a variation perhaps no greater than the difference between some sorts of cattle? That considerable differences are often discernible between tertiary individuals and their supposed descendants of the present day affords no argument against Darwin's theory, as has been rashly thought, but is decidedly in its favor. If the identification were so perfect that no more differences were observable between the tertiary and the recent shells than between various individuals of either, then Darwin's opponents, who argue the immutability of species from the ibises and cats preserved by the ancient Egyptians being just like those of the present day, could triumphantly add a few hundred thousand years more to the length of the experiment and to the force of their argument. As the facts stand, it appears, that, while some tertiary forms are essentially undistinguishable from existing ones, others are the same with a difference, which is judged not to be specific or aboriginal, and yet others show somewhat greater differences, such as are scientifically expressed by calling them marked varieties, or else doubtful species; while others, differing a little more, are confidently termed distinct, but nearly related species. Now is not all this a question of degree, of mere gradation of difference? Is it at all likely that these several gradations came to be established in two totally different ways,--some of them (though naturalists can't agree which) through natural variation, or other secondary cause, and some by original creation, without secondary cause? We have seen that the judicious Pictet answers such questions as Darwin would have him do, in affirming, that, in all probability, the nearly related species of two successive faunas were materially connected, and that contemporaneous species, similarly resembling each other, were not all created so, but have become so. This is equivalent to saying that species (using the term as all naturalists do and must continue to employ the word) have only a relative, not an absolute fixity; that differences fully equivalent to what are held to be specific may arise in the course of time, so that one species may at length be naturally replaced by another species a good deal like it, or may be diversified through variation or otherwise into two, three, or more species, or forms as different as species. This concedes all that Darwin has a right to ask, all that he can directly infer from evidence. We must add that it affords a _locus standi_, more or less tenable, for inferring more. Here another geological consideration comes in to help on this inference. The species of the later tertiary period for the most part not only resembled those of our days, many of them so closely as to suggest an absolute continuity, but, also occupied in general the same regions that their relatives occupy now. The same may be said, though less specially, of the earlier tertiary and of the later secondary; but there is less and less localization of forms as we recede, yet some localization even in palaeozoic times. While in the secondary period one is struck with the similarity of forms and the identity of many of the species which flourished apparently at the same time in all or in the most widely separated parts of the world, in the tertiary epoch, on the contrary, along with the increasing specialization of climates and their approximation to the present state, we find abundant evidence of increasing localization of orders, genera, and species; and this localization strikingly accords with the present geographical distribution of the same groups of species. Where the imputed forefathers lived, their relatives and supposed descendants now flourish. All the actual classes of the animal and vegetable kingdoms were represented in the tertiary faunas and floras, and in nearly the same proportions and the same diversities as at present. The faunas of what is now Europe, Asia, America, and Australia differed from each other much as they now differ: in fact,--according to Adolphe Brongniart, whose statements we here condense,--the inhabitants of these different regions appear for the most part to have acquired, before the close of the tertiary period, the characters which essentially distinguish their existing faunas. The eastern continent had then, as now, its great pachyderms, elephants, rhinoceros, and hippopotamus; South America its armadillos, sloths, and ant-eaters; Australia a crowd of marsupials; and the very strange birds of New Zealand had predecessors of similar strangeness. Everywhere the same geographical distribution as now, with a difference in the particular area, as respects the northern portion of the continents, answering to a warmer climate then than ours, such as allowed species of hippopotamus, rhinoceros, and elephant to range even to the regions now inhabited by the reindeer and the musk-ox, and with the serious disturbing intervention of the glacial period within a comparatively recent time. Let it be noted, also, that those tertiary species which have continued with little change down to our days are the marine animals of the lower grades, especially mollusca. Their low organization, moderate sensibility, and the simple conditions of an existence in a medium like the ocean, not subject to great variation and incapable of sudden change, may well account for their continuance; while, on the other hand, the more intense, however gradual, climatic vicissitudes on land, which have driven all tropical and sub-tropical forms out of the higher latitudes and assigned to them their actual limits, would be almost sure to extinguish such huge and unwieldy animals as mastodons, mammoths, and the like, whose power of enduring altered circumstances must have been small. This general replacement of the tertiary species of a country by others so much like them is a noteworthy fact. The hypothesis of the independent creation of all species, irrespective of their antecedents, leaves this fact just as mysterious as is creation itself; that of derivation undertakes to account for it. Whether it satisfactorily does so or not, it must be allowed that the facts well accord with that assumption. The same may be said of another conclusion, namely, that the geological succession of animals and plants appears to correspond in a general way with their relative standing or rank in a natural system of classification. It seems clear, that, though no one of the _grand types_ of the animal kingdom can be traced back farther than the rest, yet the lower _classes_ long preceded the higher; that there has been on the whole a steady progression within each class and order; and that the highest plants and animals have appeared only in relatively modern times. It is only, however, in a broad sense that this generalization is now thought to hold good. It encounters many apparent exceptions and sundry real ones. So far as the rule holds, all is as it should be upon an hypothesis of derivation. The rule has its exceptions. But, curiously enough, the most striking class of exceptions, if such they be, seems to us even more favorable to the doctrine of derivation than is the general rule of a pure and simple ascending gradation. We refer to what Agassiz calls prophetic and synthetic types; for which the former name may suffice, as the difference between the two is evanescent. "It has been noticed," writes our great zooelogist, "that certain types, which are frequently prominent among the representatives of past ages, combine in their structure peculiarities which at later periods are only observed separately in different, distinct types. Sauroid fishes before reptiles, Pterodactyles before birds, Ichthyosauri before dolphins, etc. There are entire families, of nearly every class of animals, which in the state of their perfect development exemplify such prophetic relations.... The sauroid fishes of the past geological ages are an example of this kind. These fishes, which preceded the appearance of reptiles, present a combination of ichthyic and reptilian characters not to be found in the true members of this class, which form its bulk at present. The Pterodactyles, which preceded the class of birds, and the Ichthyosauri, which preceded the Cetaeca, are other examples of such prophetic types." [Footnote a: Agassiz, _Contributions: Essay on Classification_, p. 117, where, we may be permitted to note, the word "Crustacea" is by a typographical error printed in place of _Cetacea_.] Now these reptile-like fishes, of which gar-pikes are the living representatives, though of earlier appearance, are admittedly of higher rank than common fishes. They dominated until reptiles appeared, when they mostly gave place to--or, as the derivationists will insist, were resolved by divergent variation and natural selection into--common fishes, destitute of reptilian characters, and saurian reptiles, the intermediate grades, which, according to a familiar piscine saying, are "neither fish, flesh, nor good red-herring," being eliminated and extinguished by natural consequence of the struggle for existence which Darwin so aptly portrays. And so, perhaps, of the other prophetic types. Here type and antitype correspond. If these are true prophecies, we need not wonder that some who read them in Agassiz's book will read their fulfilment in Darwin's. Note also, in tins connection, that, along with a wonderful persistence of type, with change of species, genera, orders, etc., from formation to formation, no species and no higher group which has once unequivocally died out ever afterwards reappears. Why is this, but that the link of generation has been sundered? Why, on the hypothesis of independent originations, were not failing species re-created, either identically or with a difference, in regions eminently adapted to their well-being? To take a striking case. That no part of the world now offers more suitable conditions for wild horses and cattle than the Pampas and other plains of South America is shown by the facility with which they have there run wild and enormously multiplied, since introduced from the Old World not long ago. There was no wild American stock. Yet in the times of the Mastodon and Megatherium, at the dawn of the present period, wild horses and cattle--the former certainly very much like the existing horse--roamed over those plains in abundance. On the principle of original and direct created adaptation of species to climate and other conditions, why were these types not reproduced, when, after the colder intervening era, those regions became again eminently adapted to such animals? Why, but because, by their complete extinction in South America, the line of descent was here utterly broken? Upon the ordinary hypothesis, there is no scientific explanation possible of this series of facts, and of many others like them. Upon the new hypothesis, "the succession of the same types of structure within the same areas during the later geological periods ceases to be mysterious, and is simply explained by inheritance." Their cessation is failure of issue. Along with these considerations the fact (alluded to on p. 114) should be remembered, that, as a general thing, related species of the present age are geographically associated. The larger part of the plants, and still more of the animals, of each separate country are peculiar to it; and, as most species now flourish over the graves of their by-gone relatives of former ages, so they now dwell among or accessibly near their kindred species. Here also comes in that general "parallelism between the order of succession of animals and plants in geological times, and the gradation among their living representatives" from low to highly organized, from simple and general to complex and specialized forms; also "the parallelism between the order of succession of animals in geological times--and the changes their living representatives undergo during their embryological growth,"--as if the world were one prolonged gestation. Modern science has much insisted on this parallelism, and to a certain extent is allowed to have made it out. All these things, which conspire to prove that the ancient and the recent forms of life "are somehow intimately connected together in one grand system," equally conspire to suggest that the connection is one similar or analogous to generation. Surely no naturalist can be blamed for entering somewhat confidently upon a field of speculative inquiry which here opens so invitingly; nor need former premature endeavors and failures utterly dishearten him. All these things, it may naturally be said, go to explain the order, not the mode, of the incoming of species. But they all do tend to bring out the generalization expressed by Mr. Wallace in the formula, that "every species has come into existence coincident both in time and space with preexisting closely allied species." Not, however, that this is proved even of existing species as a matter of general fact. It is obviously impossible to _prove_ anything of the kind. But we must concede that the known facts strongly suggest such an inference. And since species are only congeries of individuals, and every individual came into existence in consequence of preexisting individuals of the same sort, so leading up to the individuals with which the species began, and since the only material sequence we know of among plants and animals is that from parent to progeny, the presumption becomes exceedingly strong that the connection of the incoming with the preexisting species is a genealogical one. Here, however, all depends upon the probability that Mr. Wallace's inference is really true. Certainly it is not yet generally accepted; but a strong current is setting towards its acceptance. So long as universal cataclysms were in vogue, and all life upon the earth was thought to have been suddenly destroyed and renewed many times in succession, such a view could not be thought of. So the equivalent view maintained by Agassiz, and formerly, we believe, by D'Orbigny, that, irrespectively of general and sudden catastrophes, or any known adequate physical cause, there has been a total depopulation at the close of each geological period or formation, say forty or fifty times, or more, followed by as many independent great acts of creation, at which alone have species been originated, and at each of which a vegetable and an animal kingdom were produced entire and complete, full-fledged, as flourishing, as wide-spread and populous, as varied and mutually adapted from the beginning as ever afterwards,--such a view, of course, supersedes all material connection between successive species, and removes even the association and geographical range of species entirely out of the domain of physical causes and of natural science. This is the extreme opposite of Wallace's and Darwin's view, and is quite as hypothetical. The nearly universal opinion, if we rightly gather it, manifestly is, that the replacement of the species of successive formations was not complete and simultaneous, but partial and successive; and that along the course of each epoch some species probably were introduced, and some, doubtless, became extinct. If all since the tertiary belongs to our present epoch, this is certainly true of it: if to two or more epochs, then the hypothesis of a total change is not true of them. Geology makes huge demands upon time; and we regret to find that it has exhausted ours,--that what we meant for the briefest and most general sketch of some geological considerations in favor of Darwin's hypothesis has so extended as to leave no room for considering "the great facts of comparative anatomy and zooelogy" with which Darwin's theory "very well accords," nor for indicating how "it admirably serves for explaining the unity of composition of all organisms, the existence of representative and rudimentary organs, and the natural series which genera and species compose." Suffice it to say that these are the real strongholds of the new system on its theoretical side; that it goes far towards explaining both the physiological and the structural gradations and relations between the two kingdoms, and the arrangement of all their forms in groups subordinate to groups, all within a few great types; that it reads the riddle of abortive organs and of morphological conformity, of which no other theory has ever offered a scientific explanation, and supplies a ground for harmonizing the two fundamental ideas which naturalists and philosophers conceive to have ruled the organic world, though they could not reconcile them, namely: Adaptation to Purpose and the Conditions of Existence, and Unity of Type. To reconcile these two undeniable principles is a capital problem in the philosophy of natural history; and the hypothesis which consistently does so thereby secures a great advantage. We all know that the arm and hand of a monkey, the foreleg and foot of a dog and of a horse, the wing of a bat, and the fin of a porpoise are fundamentally identical; that the long neck of the giraffe has the same and no more bones than the short one of the elephant; that the eggs of Surinam frogs hatch into tadpoles with as good tails for swimming as any of their kindred, although as tadpoles they never enter the water; that the Guinea-pig is furnished with incisor teeth which it never uses, as it sheds them before birth; that embryos of mammals and birds have branchial slits and arteries running in loops, in imitation or reminiscence of the arrangement which is permanent in fishes; and that thousands of animals and plants have rudimentary organs which, at least in numerous cases, are wholly useless to their possessors, etc., etc. Upon a derivative theory this morphological conformity is explained by community of descent; and it has not been explained in any other way. Naturalists are constantly speaking of "related species," of the "affinity" of a genus or other group, and of "family resemblance,"--vaguely conscious that these terms of kinship are something more than mere metaphors, but unaware of the grounds of their aptness. Mr. Darwin assures them that they have been talking derivative doctrine all their lives without knowing it. If it is difficult and in some cases practically impossible to fix the limits of species, it is still more so to fix those of genera; and those of tribes and families are still less susceptible of exact natural circumscription. Intermediate forms occur, connecting one group with another in a manner sadly perplexing to systematists, except to those who have ceased to expect absolute limitations in Nature. All this blending could hardly fail to suggest a former material connection among allied forms, such as that which an hypothesis of derivation demands. Here it would not be amiss to consider the general principle of gradation throughout organic Nature,--a principle which answers in a general way to the law of continuity in the inorganic world, or rather is so analogous to it that both may fairly be expressed by the Leibnitzian axiom, _Natura non agit saltatim_. As an axiom or philosophical principle, used to test modal laws or hypotheses, this in strictness belongs only to physics. In the investigation of Nature at large, at least in the organic world, nobody would undertake to apply this principle as a test of the validity of any theory or supposed law. But naturalists of enlarged views will not fail to infer the principle from the phenomena they investigate,--to perceive that the rule holds, under due qualifications and altered forms, throughout the realm of Nature; although we do not suppose that Nature in the organic world makes no distinct steps, but only short and serial steps,--not infinitely fine gradations, but no long leaps, or few of them. To glance at a few illustrations out of many that present themselves. It would be thought that the distinction between the two organic kingdoms was broad and absolute. Plants and animals belong to two very different categories, fulfil opposite offices, and, as to the mass of them, are so unlike that the difficulty of the ordinary observer would be to find points of comparison. Without entering into details, which would fill an article, we may safely say that the difficulty with the naturalist is all the other way,--that all these broad differences vanish one by one as we approach the lower confines of the two kingdoms, and that no _absolute_ distinction whatever is now known between them. It is quite possible that the same organism may be both vegetable and animal, or may be first the one and then the other. If some organisms may be said to be at first vegetables and then animals, others, like the spores and other reproductive bodies of many of the lower Algae, may equally claim to have first a characteristically animal, and then an unequivocally vegetable existence. Nor is the gradation purely restricted to these simple organisms. It appears in general functions, as in that of reproduction, which is reducible to the same formula in both kingdoms, while it exhibits close approximations in the lower forms; also in a common or similar ground of sensibility in the lowest forms of both, a common faculty of effecting movements tending to a determinate end, traces of which pervade the vegetable kingdom,--while on the other hand, this indefinable principle, this vegetable _animula vagula, blandula_, graduates into the higher sensitiveness of the lower class of animals. Nor need we hesitate to recognize the fine gradations from simple sensitiveness and volition to the higher instinctive and other psychical manifestations of the higher brute animals. The gradation is undoubted, however we may explain it. Again, propagation is of one mode in the higher animals, of two in all plants; but vegetative propagation, by budding or offshoots, extends through the lower grades of animals. In both kingdoms there may be separation of the offshoots, or indifference in this respect, or continued and organic union with the parent stock; and this either with essential independence of the offshoots, or with a subordination of these to a common whole, or finally with such subordination and amalgamation, along with specialization of function, that the same parts, which in other cases can be regarded only as progeny, in these become only members of an individual. This leads to the question of individuality, a subject quite too large and too recondite for present discussion. The conclusion of the whole matter, however, is, that individuality--that very ground of _being_ as distinguished from _thing_--is not attained in Nature at one leap. If anywhere truly exemplified in plants, it is only in the lowest and simplest, where the being is a structural unit, a single cell, memberless and organless, though organic,--the same thing as those cells of which all the more complex plants are built up, and with which every plant and (structurally) every animal began its development. In the ascending gradation of the vegetable kingdom individuality is, so to say, striven after, but never attained; in the lower animals it is striven after with greater, though incomplete success; it is realized only in animals of so high a rank that vegetative multiplication or offshoots are out of the question, where all parts are strictly members and nothing else, and all subordinated to a common nervous centre,--fully realized, perhaps, only in a conscious person. So, also, the broad distinction between reproduction by seeds or ova and propagation by buds, though perfect in some of the lowest forms of life, becomes evanescent in others; and even the most absolute law we know in the physiology of genuine reproduction, that of sexual co-operation, has its exceptions in both kingdoms in parthenogenesis, to which in the vegetable kingdom a most curious series of gradations leads. In plants, likewise, a long and most finely graduated series of transitions leads from bisexual to unisexual blossoms; and so in various other respects. Everywhere we may perceive that Nature secures her ends, and makes her distinctions on the whole manifest and real, but everywhere without abrupt breaks. We need not wonder, therefore, that gradations between species and varieties should occur; the more so, since genera, tribes, and other groups into which the naturalist collocates species are far from being always absolutely limited in Nature, though they are necessarily represented to be so in systems. From the necessity of the case, the classifications of the naturalist abruptly define where Nature more or less blends. Our systems are nothing, if not definite. They are intended to express differences, and perhaps some of the coarser gradations. But this evinces, not their perfection, but their imperfection. Even the best of them are to the system of Nature what consecutive patches of the seven colors are to the rainbow. Now the principle of gradation throughout organic Nature may, of course, be interpreted upon other assumptions than those of Darwin's hypothesis,--certainly upon quite other than those of materialistic philosophy, with which we ourselves have no sympathy. Still we conceive it not only possible, but probable, that this gradation, as it has its natural ground, may yet have its scientific explanation. In any case, there is no need to deny that the general facts correspond well with an hypothesis like Darwin's, which is built upon fine gradations. We have contemplated quite long enough the general presumptions in favor of an hypothesis of the derivation of species. We cannot forget, however, while for the moment we overlook, the formidable difficulties which all hypotheses of this class have to encounter, and the serious implications which they seem to involve. We feel, moreover, that Darwin's particular hypothesis is exposed to some special objections. It requires no small strength of nerve steadily to conceive not only of the variation, but of the formation of the organs of an animal through cumulative variation and natural selection. Think of such an organ as the eye, that most perfect of optical instruments, as so produced in the lower animals and perfected in the higher! A friend of ours, who accepts the new doctrine, confesses that for a long while a cold chill came over him whenever he thought of the eye. He has at length got over that stage of the complaint, and is now in the fever of belief, perchance to be succeeded by the sweating stage, during which sundry peccant humors may be eliminated from the system. For ourselves, we dread the chill, and have some misgiving about the consequences of the reaction. We find ourselves in the "singular position" acknowledged by Pictet,--that is, confronted with a theory which, although it can really explain much, seems inadequate to the heavy task it so boldly assumes, but which, nevertheless, appears better fitted than any other that has been broached to explain, if it be possible to explain, somewhat of the manner in which organized beings may have arisen and succeeded each other. In this dilemma we might take advantage of Mr. Darwin's candid admission, that he by no means expects to convince old and experienced people, whose minds are stocked with a multitude of facts all viewed during a long course of years from the old point of view. This is nearly our case. So, owning no call to a larger faith than is expected of us, but not prepared to pronounce the whole hypothesis untenable, under such construction as we should put upon it, we naturally sought to attain a settled conviction through a perusal of several proffered refutations of the theory. At least, this course seemed to offer the readiest way of bringing to a head the various objections to which the theory is exposed. On several accounts some of these opposed reviews specially invite examination. We propose, accordingly, to conclude our task with an article upon "Darwin and his Reviewers." * * * * * REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. _Modern Painters_. By J. RUSKIN. Vol. V. Smith, Elder, & Co. London. The completion of a work of the importance of the "Modern Painters," which has occupied in its production the thought and a large portion of the labor of fourteen years, is an event of more interest than it often falls to the lot of a book to excite; but when, as in this case, the result shows the development of an individual taste and critical ability entirely without peer in the history of art-letters, the value of the whole work is immensely enhanced by the time which its publication covers. The first volume of "Modern Painters" was, as everybody will remember, one of the sensation-books of the time, and fell upon the public opinion of the day like a thunderbolt from the clear sky. Denying, and in many instances overthrowing, the received canons of criticism, and defying all the accepted authorities in it, the author excited the liveliest astonishment and the bitterest hostility of the professional critics in general, and at once divided the world of art, so far as his influence reached, into two parts: the one embracing most of the reverent and conservative minds, and by far the larger; the other, most of the enthusiastic, the radical, and earnest; but this, small in numbers at first, was increased, and still increases, by the force of those qualities of enthusiasm and earnestness, until now, in England, it embraces nearly all of the true and living art of our time. But that volume, professedly treating art with reference to its superficial attributes and for a special purpose, the redemption of a great and revered artist from unjust disparagement and undeserved neglect, touched in scarcely the least degree the vital questions of taste or art-production. It had no considerations of sentiment or discussion of principles to offer: it dealt with facts, and touched the simple truths of Nature with an enthusiastic fire and lucidness which were proof positive of the knowledge and feeling of the author; and the public, either conversant with those facts or capable of being satisfied of them without much thought, abandoned itself to the fascination of his eloquence and acquiesced in his teachings, or arrayed itself in utter hostility to him and his new ideas. The second volume was more abstruse and deeper in feeling, and comparatively few of Mr. Ruskin's followers through the first cared to get entangled in the metaphysical mazes of the second, and it is generally neglected, although containing some of the deepest and most satisfactory studies on the fundamental principles of art and taste which have ever been printed. The third and fourth volumes, coming up again nearer the surface, made an application of the principles investigated to the material for art which Nature furnishes; and here again the author found in part his audience diminished among those who had at first been carried away by his enthusiasm or silenced and convinced by his unhesitating dogmatism. A partial reaction took place, owing not only to the change in the tone of the "Modern Painters," but to the springing up of a new school of painting, the consequence, mainly and legitimately, of the teachings of the work,--the pre-Raphaelite,--which, at once attacked virulently and immeasurably by the old school of critics, and defended as earnestly by Mr. Ruskin, became the subject of the war which was still waged between him and them. Turner in the meanwhile had passed away and was admitted to apotheosis, the malignant critics of yesterday becoming the ignorant adulators of to-day: _his_ position was conceded, but the hostility to Ruskin was sustained with unabated bitterness on the new field. He was demolished anew, and proved, many useless times over and over, an ignorant pretender; the public in the meanwhile, even his opponents, taking up in turn his _proteges_, as he pointed them out to their notice. The effect of his criticisms in enhancing the value of the works they approved would be incredible, if one did not know how glad an English public is to be led. As a single instance,--a drawing which was sold from one of the water-color exhibitions at fifty guineas, sold again, after Ruskin's notice, at two hundred and fifty; and in the lists of pictures sold or to be sold at auction, one sees constantly, "Noticed by Mr. Ruskin," "Approved by Mr. Ruskin," appended to the title. The third volume, being devoted to the correction of the ideas of Style and the Ideal, to Finish, and a review of the Past Landscape-Painting, recurs to Turner in its closing chapter, "On his Teachers"; the fourth was given to Mountain _Beauty_, following the parallel of the first, which treated of the _Truth_ of Mountains, and bearing as its burden of moral the expression of that Ideal by Turner; and the fifth now comes to conclude the investigations on the Ideal by chapters: first, on "Leaf Beauty," an exceedingly interesting investigation of the development of the forms of trees and plants as concerned with the laws of beauty; second, "Cloud Beauty"; and then of the "Ideas of Relation," in which the author comes finally to the demonstration of the right of Turner to his position amongst the thinking and poetic painters. From the first division, "Leaf Beauty," we must make one extract. The author has been speaking of the, influence of the Pine on Swiss character. "But the point which I desire the reader to note is, that the character of the scene which, if any, appears to have been impressive to the inhabitant is not that which we ourselves feel when we enter the district. It was not from their lakes, nor their cliffs, nor their glaciers, though these were all peculiarly their possession, that the three venerable cantons or states received their name. They were not called the States of the Rock, nor the States of the Lake, but the States of the _Forest_. And the one of the three which contains the most touching record of the spiritual power of Swiss religion, in the name of the convent of the 'Hill of Angels,' has for its own none but the sweet, childish name of 'Under the Woods.' "And, indeed, you may pass under them, if, leaving the most sacred spot in Swiss history, the Meadow of the Three Fountains, you bid the boatman row southward a little way by the Bay of Uri. Steepest there, on its western side, the walls of its rocks ascend to heaven. Far in the blue of evening, like a great cathedral-pavement, lies the lake in its darkness; and you may hear the whisper of innumerable falling waters return from the hollows of the cliff like the voices of a multitude praying under their breath. From time to time, the beat of a wave, slow lifted, where the rocks lean over the black depth, dies heavily as the last note of a requiem. Opposite, green with steep grass and set with chalet villages, the Tron Alp rises in one solemn glow of pastoral light and peace; and above, against the clouds of twilight, ghostly on the gray precipice, stand, myriad by myriad, the shadowy armies of the Unterwalden pine. "I have seen that it is possible for the stranger to pass through this great chapel, with its font of waters, and mountain pillars, and vaults of cloud, without being touched by one noble thought or stirred by any sacred passion; but for those who received from its waves the baptism of their youth, and learned beneath its rocks the fidelity of their manhood, and watched amidst its clouds the likeness of the dream of life, with the eyes of age,--for these I will not believe that the mountain-shrine was built or the calm of its forest-shadows guarded by their God in vain." But perhaps that conclusion of Ruskin's, in the new volume, which will most interest his earnest readers, is that the Venetian school is _the only religious school that has ever existed_. So much has Ruskin's development seemed to contradict itself, that one is scarcely surprised at one conclusion being apparently opposed to the former one; but a change so great as this, from Giotto, Perugino, and Cima, to Tintoret, Titian, and Veronese, as the religious ideals, will, indeed, amaze all who read it. Yet this is but the logical consequence of his progression hitherto. If he commenced with a belief that asceticism was religion, he would recognize Perugino and Giotto as the true religious artists; but if, as seems to be the case, he has learned at last that religion is a thing of daily life, mingling in all that we do, caring for body as well as soul, sense as well as spirit, and that a complete man must be a man who _lives_ in every sense of the word, then the Venetians, as the painters of the truth of life in _all_ its joy and sorrow, are the true painters, and the only ones whose art was inhabited by a religion worth following. It is interesting to follow what are called Ruskin's contradictions and see how perfectly they represent the whole system of artistic truth, as seen from the different points of a young artist's or student's growth up to mature and ripened judgment; so that there is no stage of artistic development which has not some form of truth particularly adapted to it, in the "Modern Painters." If it be urged that the book should have been written only from the point of final development, it can only be said that no true book will ever he so written, for no man can ever be certain of his having attained final truth. "Modern Painters" has value in this very showing of the critical development, which to an intelligent student is greater than that a complete and infallible guide could have. The chapter on Invention is full of the most delightful artistic truth, and shows completely, by copious illustrations, how well Turner deserved the rank Ruskin gives him amongst great composers. The analyses of the compositions of Turner are most curious and interesting, but, of course, depend on the accompanying plates. Some most valuable mental philosophy bearing on the production of art-works concludes Part VIII., which is devoted to "Invention Formal," of which we quote the concluding paragraphs:-- "Until the feelings can give strength enough to the will to enable it to conquer them, they are not strong enough. If you cannot leave your picture at any moment, cannot turn from it and go on with another while the color is drying, cannot work at any part of it you choose with equal contentment, you have not firm enough grasp of it. "It follows, also, that no vain or selfish person can possibly paint, in the noble sense of the word. Vanity and selfishness are troublous, eager, anxious, petulant: painting can only be done in calm of mind. Resolution is not enough to secure this; it must be secured by disposition as well. You may resolve to think of your picture only; but, if you have been fretted before beginning, no manly or clear grasp of it will be possible for you. No forced calm is calm enough: only honest calm, natural calm. You might as well try by external pressure to smooth a lake till it could reflect the sky, as by violence of effort to secure the peace through which only you can reach imagination. That peace must come in its own time, as the waters settle themselves into clearness as well as quietness: you can no more filter your mind into purity than you can compress it into calmness; you must keep it pure, if you would have it pure; and throw no stones into it, if you would have it quiet. Great courage and self-command may to a certain extent give power of painting without the true calmness underneath, but never of doing first-rate work. There is sufficient evidence of this in even what we know of great men, though of the greatest we nearly always know the least (and that necessarily; they being very silent, and not much given to setting themselves forth to questioners,--apt to be contemptuously reserved no less than unselfishly). But in such writings and sayings as we possess of theirs we may trace a quite curious gentleness and serene courtesy. Rubens's letters are almost ludicrous in their unhurried politeness. Reynolds, swiftest of painters, was gentlest of companions; so also Velasquez, Titian, and Veronese. "It is gratuitous to add that no shallow or petty person can paint. Mere cleverness or special gift never made an artist. It is only perfectness of mind, unity, depth, decision, the highest qualities, in fine, of the intellect, which will form the imagination. "And, lastly, no false person can paint. A person false at heart may, when it suits his purposes, seize a stray truth here or there; but the relations of truth, its perfectness, that which makes it wholesome truth, he can never perceive. As wholeness and wholesomeness go together, so also sight with sincerity; it is only the constant desire of and submissiveness to truth, which can measure its strange angles and mark its infinite aspects, and fit them and knit them into sacred invention. "Sacred I call it deliberately; for it is thus in the most accurate senses, humble as well as helpful,--meek in its receiving as magnificent in its disposing; the name it bears being rightly given even to invention formal, not because it forms, but because it finds. For you cannot find a lie; you must make it for yourself. False things may be imagined, and false things composed; but only truth can be invented." One of those cardinal doctrines by which we may learn the bearings of a writer's system of truth is that of Ruskin's of the intimate connection between landscape art and humanity. "Fragrant tissue of flowers, golden circlet of clouds, are only fair when they meet the fondness of human thoughts and glorify human visions of heaven. "It is the leaning on this truth which more than any other has been the distinctive character of all my own past work. And in closing a series of art-studies, prolonged during so many years, it may be perhaps permitted me to point out this specialty,--the rather that it has been, of all their characters, the one most denied. I constantly see that the same thing takes place in the estimation formed by the modern public of the work of almost any true person, living or dead. It is not needful to state here the causes of such error; but the fact is indeed so, that precisely the distinctive root and leading force of any true man's work and way are the things denied him. "And in these books of mine, their distinctive character, as essays on art, is their bringing everything to a root in human passion or human hope. Arising first not in any desire to explain the principles of art, but in the endeavor to defend an individual painter from injustice, they have been throughout, nay, continually altered in shape, and even warped and broken, by digressions respecting social questions, which had for me an interest tenfold greater than the work I had been forced into undertaking. Every principle of painting which I have stated is traced to some vital or spiritual fact; and in my works on architecture the preference accorded finally to one school over another is founded on a comparison of their influences on the life of the workman,--a question by all other writers on the subject of architecture wholly forgotten or despised. "The essential connection of the power of landscape with human emotion is not less certain because in many impressive pictures the link is slight or local. That the connection should exist at a single point is all that we need.... That difference, and more, exists between the power of Nature through which humanity is seen, and her power in the desert. Desert,--whether of leaf or sand,--true desertness, is not in the want of leaves, but of life. Where humanity is not and was not, the best natural beauty is more than vain. It is even terrible; not as the dress cast aside from the body, but as an embroidered shroud hiding a skeleton." The volume, as a whole, will be found less dogmatic, calmer, more convincing, and more directly applicable to artistic judgment, than any of the others. There is the same love of mysticism and undermeanings, but freighted with deeper and more central truths: a charming conclusion to a fourteen-years' diary of such study of Art and Nature, so severe, so unremitting, as never critic gave before. _Syntax of the Moods and Tenses of the Greek Verb._ By W.W. GOODWIN, Ph.D. Cambridge: Sever and Francis. Grammarians had once a simple way of disposing of the subject on which Professor Goodwin has given us this elaborate treatise of three hundred pages. In the Greek Grammar of the Messieurs de Port Royal, which Gibbon praises so highly in his charming autobiography, and which has passed through several editions in England within the present century, we are taught, that, "though the moods are not to be rejected entirely, yet their signification is sometimes so very arbitrary, that they are put for one another through all tenses." Lancelot himself seems to have had a glimmering of the essential incredibility of this statement; for, though he attempts to substantiate it by citing from Greek authors a number of passages in which the Greek idiom happens to differ from the Latin,--passages, however, which Mr. Goodwin would have been glad to use, had they fallen in his way, to illustrate the regular constructions of the language,--he feels it necessary to appeal to the authority of the learned Budaeus, the greatest of the early Greek scholars. Strange as it seems that really accomplished Greek scholars should have charged Plato and Demosthenes, speaking the most perfect of tongues, with arbitrary interchanges of moods and tenses, yet the same views continued to be presented in grammatical works down to the close of the last century. The transition to the new school of grammarians was made in 1792, by the publication of a Greek Grammar by Philip Buttmann, which, in the greatly improved form which it afterwards received from his hands, is familiar to all Greek scholars. In our frequent boasts of the great strides that knowledge has taken in the present century, we commonly have in mind the physical sciences; but we doubt whether in any department of physical science the manuals in use seventy-five years ago are so utterly inferior to those of the present day as are, for instance, the remarks of Viger, and his commentators before Hermann, on the syntax of the Greek verb, to the philosophical treatment of the same points by Professor Goodwin. This work is entitled, we think, to rank with the best grammars of the Greek language that have appeared in German or English, in all the points that constitute grammatical excellence; while its monographic character justified and required an exhaustive treatment of its particular topic, not to be found even in the huge grammars of Matthiae and Kuehner. Indeed, not the least of its merits is this, that, in addition to the excellent matter which is original with Professor Goodwin, it furnishes to the student, American or English,--for we hope to see its merits recognized on the other side of the Atlantic,--a digest, as it were, of all that is most valuable on the subject of the syntax of the Greek verb in the best German grammars, from Buttmann to Madvig, enhanced, too, in value by being recast and worked into a homogeneous system by an acute scholar and experienced teacher. One excellence of the book we would by no means pass over, an excellence which we are sure will be particularly appreciated by all who have used translations of German grammars,--the precision both of thought and expression by which it is characterized, which releases the student from the labor of constructing the meaning of a rule from the data of the appended examples. Not that Mr. Goodwin is chary of examples; on the contrary, one of the most attractive and not least profitable features of the book is the copiousness and freshness of the illustrative quotations from Greek authors. These are as welcome as the brightness of newly minted coin to the eye which, in consulting grammar after grammar, has been condemned to meet under corresponding rules always the same examples, till they begin to produce that effect upon the nerves which all have experienced at the mention of the deadly upas-tree, or the imminence of the dissolution of the Union. We must not omit to speak of the typographical merit of the work,--and especially of what constitutes the first and the last merit of books of this class, the excellent table of contents, and the indexes, Greek and English, which leave nothing to be desired in the way of facility of reference, except, perhaps, an index to the quotations. _The Law of the Territories_. Philadelphia: C. Sherman & Son. The author of the two able essays contained in this volume will be remembered by many of our readers under his assumed name of "Cecil." The second, as he himself tells us, on "Popular Sovereignty in the Territories," was published, as one of a series of essays on Southern politics, in the Philadelphia _North American and United States Gazette_. The first, we believe, has never been published before. Our author, whom we may designate, without violating any confidence, as Mr. George Sidney Fisher, devotes an elaborate preface, which is itself a third essay, to discussing the invasion of Virginia by John Brown and the Southern threats of secession, drawing from the foray of Harper's Ferry a conclusion very different from that of the disunionists. In his own words,-- "Disunion is a word of fear. Is it not strange that it should have been as yet pronounced only by the South? The danger of insurrection and servile war belongs to the nature of slavery. It is, perhaps, not too much to assert that the safety and tranquillity of Southern society depend on the fact that the Northern people are close at hand to aid in case of need,--that the power of the General Government is ever ready for the same purpose. Four millions of barbarians, growing with tropical vigor, and soon to be eight millions, with tropical passions boiling in their blood, endowed with native courage, with sinews strong by toil, and stimulated by the hope of liberty and unbounded license, are not to be trifled with. Take away from them the idea of an irresistible power in the North, ready at any moment to be invoked by their masters, or let them expect in the North, not enemies, but friends and supporters, which even now they are told every day by these masters they may expect,--and how soon might a flame be lighted which no power in the South could extinguish!" Mr. Fisher treats of the "Law of the Territories" in two essays,--the first considering more particularly "The Territories and the Constitution," the second, "Popular Sovereignty in the Territories." The first commences with a quotation so happy that it has all the effect of original wit:-- "The wily and witty Talleyrand was once asked the meaning of the word 'non-intervention,' so often used in European diplomacy. 'It is a word,' he replied, 'metaphysical and political, not accurately defined, but which means--much the same thing as intervention!' The same word has been frequently employed, of late years, in our politics, with the same difference between its professed and its practical signification. It was introduced for the first time in reference to the government of the Territories, when it became an object for the South to gain Kansas as a Slave State. Two obstacles were to be overcome. One was the Missouri Compromise, which was a solemn compact between North and South to settle a disturbing and dangerous question; the other was a possible majority in Congress, that, it was feared, might prohibit slavery in the new Territory. Southern politicians had at the time control of the government; and they got rid of both difficulties by repealing the Missouri Compromise in the Kansas and Nebraska Bill. By necessary implication, arising from the relation of the Territories to the rest of the nation, by the language of the Constitution, and by the uniform construction of it and practice under it from the earliest period of our history, the Territories had been subjected to the absolute control of the General Government. By the Kansas and Nebraska Bill they were withdrawn from that control. The principle of Popular Sovereignty, it was said, applied to them as well as to the States; and this bill declared that the people of the Territories should be perfectly free to choose their own domestic institutions and regulate their own affairs in their own way." The means employed to carry out this plan and the ultimate failure of the plan itself are sketched with a boldness and vigor that our limits, much to our regret, forbid our reproducing. Mr. Fisher, however, fails to notice the wretched plea put forth by the Democratic managers, in favor of the recognition by Congress of the Lecompton Constitution,--that it had been officially authenticated. All might be wrong, but the official record pronounced it right; and behind that record Congress had no authority to go. And this plea was advanced in the face of overwhelming evidence tending to show that the officials, for whose record so inviolable a sanctity was claimed, were appointed for the express purpose of falsifying that record! If confirmation be wanted, we need go no farther than the fate of Robert J. Walker, who was eager to make Kansas a Slave State, but was so false to every principle of Democratic integrity as to confine himself to legitimate means to bring about that result,--a remissness for which he was promptly removed by President Buchanan! Mr. Fisher pertinently says,-- "Two great facts were plainly visible through the flimsy web of attorney logic and quibbling technicality, not very ingeniously woven to conceal them. One of these facts was, that the people of Kansas were heartily and almost unanimously averse to slavery; the other was, that the Government was trying by every means in its power to impose slavery upon them." After describing the contemptuous rejection by the people of Kansas of the pro-slavery constitution, Mr. Fisher proceeds with an analysis of the Kansas-Nebraska fraud, so clear and so masterly that we must again quote his own language, with an occasional condensation or omission. "It was clear, therefore, that the principle of Popular Sovereignty, introduced by the Kansas and Nebraska Bill, a principle before unknown to the law and practice of our government, would not suit the South. It appeared too probable that not only the people to inhabit all the territory north of 36 deg. 30', but also much territory south of it, would, like the people of Kansas, reject slavery, if left to regulate their domestic institutions in their own way. What, then, were Southern politicians to do? Invoke the ancient and long exercised, but now denied and derided power of Congress over the Territories? This might prove a dangerous weapon in the hands of possible future Northern majorities. It was obviously necessary to withdraw slavery alike from the control of Congress and of the people of a Territory. Some ingenuity was required for this. The doctrine that the Constitution extends to the Territories (a doctrine broached before by Mr. Calhoun, but always defeated on the ground that the Constitution, by its language and the practice under it, was made for States only, and that the Territories were subject to the supreme control of Congress,--a control frequently exercised, not only independently of the Constitution, but in a manner incompatible with it) was introduced, with other innovations, into the Kansas and Nebraska Bill. The Dred Scott decision of the Supreme Court followed, by which the Constitution recognizes slavery as a national institution. It recognizes slaves as mere property, differing in no respect from other merchandise. The Territories belong to the nation. Every citizen has equal rights to them and in them. Why, therefore, may not a Southern man, as well as a Northern man, go into them with his _property_? What right has Congress to place the South under an ignominious bar of restriction? The Constitution declares that slaves are property; that all the States and the people have equal rights. The Territories belong to all. Therefore, under the Constitution, they should be enjoyed by all. "By this ingenious logic the Kansas and Nebraska Bill is made to contradict itself. It first declares that the Constitution extends to the Territories; in other words, slavery exists there by force of the Constitution, without reference to the will of the people. It then says that the people of the Territories shall be 'perfectly free to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way.' "The contradictions, duplicity, and absurdity of the law are obvious at once. The first sentence announces a change in the settled principles and policy of the Government; else why declare that the Constitution '_shall_' extend to Nebraska, if it already extended there? Then comes the repeal of the Missouri Compromise. The reason given for this is, that it is inconsistent with the non-intervention by Congress with slavery, recognized in the Compromise of 1850. But that law declares positively that Congress does not intervene, _because it is 'inexpedient'_ to do so; and gives the reason why it is inexpedient. The _power_ of Congress _was asserted_ by Mr. Clay, who made the law, and the terms of it were chosen for the very purpose of preventing any inference being drawn from it against that power. "It is remarkable, too, that the Bill, whilst declaring the _perfect_ freedom of the Territories, should still have left them subject to the power of the President, who, as before, is permitted to appoint their Governor, Judges, and Marshals, officers who are his agents, and without whose sanction the acts of the Territorial Legislature can neither become laws, nor be construed and applied, nor executed. So that the will of the people may be defeated, should it happen to be opposed to the will of the President: as was seen in the case of Kansas. "Why," Mr. Fisher asks, "is the anomalous monster of Popular Sovereignty to be introduced with reference to slavery? Is it because slaves are 'mere property'? Why, then, not subject all property, land included, to popular control? Is it because the subject of slavery is an exciting topic, a theme for dangerous agitation, to be checked only by placing the subject beyond the power of Congress? The answer is, that Congress cannot abdicate its power on the ground of expediency. If it may give up one power, it may give up all. Nor can Congress delegate its power for the same reason. Trust power, from its very nature, cannot be delegated. To break down great principles, to set aside ancient usage, to abandon legal authority, in order to appease the contests of parties, is too great a sacrifice. No true peace can come of it; only suppressed and adjourned war." The natural inference from the extracts we have given would be that Mr. Fisher was a member of the Republican party. But such is not the fact: Mr. Fisher rests his hope upon a party "yet to be organized." "The extreme Northern, or Free-soil, or Abolition party is only less guilty than the extreme Southern and Democratic party." Which? Does Mr. Fisher mean that "Northern," "Free-soil," and "Abolition" are synonymous terms? And does any or do all of them mean the Republican party? Or, finally, does Mr. Fisher shrink from the conclusions presented by his logic, and is his vaguely convenient linking together of different words intended to leave his position gracefully doubtful? And in that case, do the Baltimore nominations, with their innocent unconsciousness, supply his political needs? It is not easy to answer these questions. We begin now upon the views of a Pennsylvania Oppositionist; and quicksilver defied not more utterly the skill of Raymond Lullius than the doctrines of the Philadelphia school perplex the inquiries of sharply defined New England minds. The rudimentary state of Republican principles may nowhere else be so clearly seen as in Pennsylvania. Four years of the Democratic administration of her "favorite son" have done much to make her less favored sons into good Republicans; but the State needs another Democratic President. Mr. Fisher appears to much more advantage in pulling down than in building up. We have hitherto seen only the keen, fearless dissector of fraud and hypocrisy; we are now to contemplate a circumspect alarmist, who dreads to call things by their right names for fear of unpleasant consequences. He is such a master of English, so judicious in the use of middle terms,--so shrewd a fencer altogether,--that even his timidity cannot make him other than a formidable opponent. Mr. Fisher, believing that slavery receives ample protection from a fair interpretation of the Constitution, holds that "Congress has plenary power over the Territories, often exercised on this subject of slavery. It may be said that Congress has on various occasions prohibited slavery in the Territories. True; but with the consent and cooeperation of the Southern States. The people of all the States have equal right in the Territories. To exclude the people of the Slave States, therefore, _without their consent_, would be unequal and opposed to the spirit of the Constitution." Certainly it would. Who proposes to do it? No living man, woman, or child. It is worth noticing, by the way, that the Republican party is not committed to the doctrine of carrying out the principle of the Wilmot Proviso. But supposing it were, Mr. Fisher's argument has no force or direction, unless he can establish his suppressed premise,--that the exclusion of slavery from the Territories is the exclusion of "the people of the Slave States" from the Territories. And to make that good, all Mr. Fisher's skill and ingenuity will be required. Why so many Northern politicians should have weakly surrendered this point is a mystery. Because the slaveholders (who are not, Mr. Fisher, "the people of the Slave States," by any means, but a small portion of them) are at home a privileged aristocracy, have they any claim to the same position abroad? If so, on what does it rest? The laws of the Southern States? They are now beyond their jurisdiction. The common law? To that wise and beneficent law slavery is a thing unknown. The Constitution? It is silent. There is no exclusion of the Southerners even proposed. Let them come: but when they claim to carry with them the right to hold a certain class of men as property because they are recognized as property by certain local regulations elsewhere prevailing, they must not complain, if such a claim be disallowed. The Southerner's complaint, that he is accustomed to the institution of slavery, is fairly met by the Northerner's retort, that he is accustomed to the institution of freedom. Now, which voice shall prevail? Neither party has any more right than the other; and neither party has any right at all. The Territories are in a state of wardship; and Congress is to decide as it thinks best for their welfare, present and future; and if Congress thinks that a nation prospers with free institutions and droops under slavery, then let Congress admit the Territory as a Free State. True, there is some inconvenience to the slave-holder; but from so abnormal a relation as slavery some inconvenience must result. When admitted to be a necessary evil, it is barely tolerable; when boastingly proclaimed to be a sovereign good, it is fairly intolerable. And it is both criminal and foolish to try to make good all the evils inseparable from slavery by systematic injustice to other interests. "Slavery has changed. When Southern men consented to its prohibition, they hoped and believed that the time would come when it could be abolished altogether. They have as much right to these as to their former opinions, and to have them represented in the Government." Here Mr. Fisher hints at, rather than fully states, the grand retort of the Southerners,--"Our fathers, you say, were opposed to slavery: very good; but we are not: why should we be bound by their opinions?" A mere misapprehension of the force of the argument. The Southerner of 1860 is _not_ bound by the opinions of Madison and Jefferson; but the North may fairly adduce the opinions of those men, who were framers of the Constitution, not as binding upon their descendants, but as serving to explain the meaning of disputed provisions in that Constitution. The Constitution binds us all, North and South: then recurs the question, What is the meaning of its provisions? and _then_ the contemporaneous opinions of its framers come legitimately into play as an argument. Of the Missouri Compromise Mr. Fisher says,-- "It may be said that this law was a violation of the equal rights of the Southern people, by excluding them from a large portion of the national domain. The answer is, not merely that this was done with their consent, their representatives having approved the law, but that the law did recognize their rights, by dividing between them and the Northern people all the territory then possessed by the Government." We are surprised that upon his own presentation of the case this simple question does not occur to Mr. Fisher: Supposing the South and the North to have had equal and conflicting rights in the national domain, and supposing that there was need of some arbiter, and remembering that Congress undertook the duties of arbiter and decided that the division under the Missouri Compromise gave each section its rightful share,--then, with what propriety can the South, after occupying its own share, call for a portion in the share allotted to the North? The second essay, on "Popular Sovereignty in the Territories," presents comparatively few salient points. A very spirited and just history of the working of the Administration schemes in Kansas, a restating of some of the arguments against the Kansas-Nebraska Act set forth in the preceding essay, and a remonstrance against the headstrong course of Southern politicians are its most noticeable features. "The Union, the Constitution, and the friendship of the North: these are the pillars on which rest the peace, the safety, the independence of the South. The extraordinary thing is, that for some years past the South has been, and now is, sedulously employed in undermining this triple foundation of its power and safety. Its extravagant pretensions, its excesses, its crimes, are rapidly cooling the friendship of the North,--converting it, indeed, into positive enmity. Its leading politicians are ever plotting and threatening disunion. disunion will he proffered to them from the North, not as a vague and passionate threat, but as a positive and well-considered plan, backed by a force of public opinion which nothing can resist. Ere long, the South is likely to be left with no other defence than the Union it has weakened and the Constitution it has mutilated and defaced. "The makers of the Kansas and Nebraska law were clumsy workmen. They forgot to provide for the case of an anti-slavery President. They will, perhaps, learn wisdom by experience. "'To wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters.' "Those who framed the Constitution and laid the foundation of this Union understood their business better. That Constitution was intended to protect the South, and has protected it. Southern politicians cannot improve it. For their own sakes they had better let it alone." We have given enough to show that in discussing Mr. Fisher we are dealing with two different men. The field is now clear for the great political contest of 1860. Mr. Fisher may have allied himself before this with the Republicans, or may look to have his anticipations fulfilled by that third party who are as unconscious of wrong as powerless to rectify it, "the world-forgetting, by the world forgot." We wish him well through his troubles. _A Dictionary of English Etymology._ By HENSLEIGH WEDGWOOD, M. A. Late Fellow of Chr. Coll. Cam. Vol. I. (A-D.) London: Truebner and Co., 60 Paternoster Row. 1859. pp. xxiv., 507. There is nothing more dangerously fascinating than etymologies. To the uninitiated the victim seems to have eaten of "insane _roots_ that take the reason prisoner"; while the illuminate too often looks upon the stems and flowers of language, the highest achievements of thought and poesy, as mere handles by which to pull up the grimy tubers that lie at the base of articulate expression, shapeless knobs of speech, sacred to him as the potato to the Irishman. The sarcasms of Swift were not without justification; for crazier analogies than that between Andromache and Andrew Mackay have been gravely insisted on by persons who, like the author of "Amilec," believed that the true secret of philosophizing _est celui de rever heureusement_. It is only within a few years that etymological investigations have been limited by anything; like scientific precision, or that profound study, patient thought, and severity of method have asserted in this, as in other departments of knowledge, their superiority to point-blank guessing and the bewitching generalization conjured out of a couple or so of assumed facts, which, even if they turn out to be singly true, are no more nearly related than Hecate and green cheese. We do not object to that milder form of philology of which the works of Dean Trench offer the readiest and most pleasing example, and which confines itself to the mere study of words, to the changes of form and meaning they have undergone and the forgotten moral that lurks in them. But the interest of Dr. Trench and others like him sticks fast in words, it is almost wholly an aesthetic interest, and does not pretend to concern itself with the deeper problems of language, its origin, its comparative anatomy, its bearing upon the prehistoric condition of mankind and the relations of races, and its claim to a place among the natural sciences as an essential element in any attempt to reconstruct the broken and scattered annals of our planet. It would not be just to find fault with Dr. Trench's books for lacking a scientific treatment to which they make no pretension, but they may fairly be charged with smelling a little too much of the shop. There is a faint odor of the sermon-case about every page, and we learn to dread, sometimes to skip, the inevitable homily, as we do the moral at the end of an AEsopic fable. We enter our protest, not against Dr. Trench in particular, for his books have other and higher claims to our regard, but because we find that his example is catching, the more so as verbal morality is much cheaper than linguistic science. If there be anything which the study of words should teach, it is their value. There are two theories as to the origin of language, which, for shortness, may be defined as the poetic and the matter-of-fact. The former (of which M. Ernest Renan is one of the most eloquent advocates) supposes a primitive race or races endowed with faculties of cognition and expression so perfect and so intimately responsive one to the other, that the name of a thing came into being coincidently with the perception of it. Verbal inflections and other grammatical forms came into use gradually to meet the necessities of social commerce between man and man, and were at some later epoch reduced to logical system by constructive minds. If we understand him rightly, while not excluding the influence of _onomatopeia_, (or physical imitation,) he would attach a far greater importance to metaphysical causes. He says admirably well, "La liaison du sens et du mot n'est jamais _necessaire_, jamais _arbitraire_; toujours elle est _motivee_." His theory amounts to this: that the fresh perfection of the senses and the mental faculties made the primitive man a poet. The other theory seeks the origin of language in certain imitative radicals out of which it has analogically and metaphorically developed itself. This system has at least the merits of clearness and simplicity, and of being to a certain extent capable of demonstration. Its limitation in this last respect will depend upon that mental constitution which divides men naturally into Platonists and Aristotelians. It has never before received so thorough an exposition or been tested by so wide a range of application as in Mr. Wedgwood's volume, nor could it well be more fortunate in its advocate. Mr. Wedgwood is thorough, scrupulous, and fair-minded. It will be observed that neither theory brings any aid to the attempt of Professor Max Mueller and others to demonstrate etymologically the original unity of the human race. Mr. Wedgwood leaves this question aside, as irrelevant to his purpose. M. Renan combats it at considerable length. The logical consequence of admitting either theory would be that the problem was simply indemonstrable. At first sight, so imaginative a scheme as that of M. Renan is singularly alluring; for, even when qualified by the sentence we have quoted, we may attach such a meaning to the word _motivee_ as to find in words the natural bodies of which the Platonic ideas are the soul and spirit. We find in it a correlative illustration of that notion not uncommon among primitive poets, and revived by the Cabalists, that whoever knew the Word of a thing was master of the thing itself, and an easy way of accounting for the innate fitness and necessity, the fore ordination, which stamps the phrases of real poets. If, on the other hand, we accept Mr. Wedgwood's system, we must consider speech, as the theologians of the Middle Ages assumed of matter, to be only _potentiated_ with life and soul, and shall find the phenomenon of poetry as wonderful, if less mysterious, when we regard the fineness of organization requisite to a perception of the remote analogies of sense and thought, and the power, as of Solomon's seal, which can compel the unwilling genius back into the leaden void which language becomes when used as most men use it. There is a large class of words which every body admits to be imitative of sounds,--such, for example, as _bang, splash, crack_,--and Mr. Wedgwood undertakes to show that their number and that of their derivative applications is much larger than is ordinarily supposed. He confines himself almost wholly to European languages, but not always to the particular class of etymologies which it is his main object to trace out. Some of his explanations of words, not based upon any real or assumed radical, but showing their gradual passage toward their present forms and meanings, are among the most valuable parts of the book. As striking proofs of this, we refer our readers to Mr. Wedgwood's treatment of the words _abide, abie, allow, danger, and denizen_. When he differs from other authorities, it is never inconsiderately or without examination. Now and then we think his derivations are far-fetched, when simpler ones were lying near his hand. He makes the Italian _balcone_ come from the Persian _baia khaneh_, an upper chamber. An upper chamber over a gate in the Persian caravanserais is still called by that name, according to Rich. (p. 97.) Yet under the word _balk_ we find, "A hayloft is provincially termed the _balks_, (Halliwell,) because situated among the rafters. Hence also, probably, the Ital. _balco_, or _pulcoy_ a scaffold; a loftlike erection supported upon beams." As a _balcone_ is not an upper chamber, nor a chamber over a gate, but is precisely "a loftlike erection supported upon beams," it seems more reasonable to suppose it an augmentative formed in the usual way from _balco_. Mr. Wedgwood's derivation of barbican from _bala khaneh_ seems to us more happy. (Ducange refers the word to an Eastern source.) He would also derive the Fr. _ebaucher_ from _balk_, though we have a correlative form, _sbozzare_, in Italian, (old Sp. _esbozar_, Port, _esboyar_, Diez,) with precisely the same meaning, and from a root _bozzo_, which is related to a very different class of words from _balk_. So bewitched is Mr. Wedgwood with this word _balk_, that he prefers to derive the Ital. _valicam, varcare_, from it rather than from the Latin _varicare_. We should think a deduction from the latter to the English _walk_ altogether as probable. Mr. Wedgwood also inclines to seek the origin of _acquaint_ in the Germ, _kund_, though we have all the intermediate steps between it and the Mid. Lat. _adcognitare_. Again, under _daunt_ he says, "Probably not directly from Lat. _domare_, but from the Teutonic form _damp_, which is essentially the same word." It may be plain that the Fr. _dompter_ (whence _daunt_) is not directly from _domare_, but not so plain, as it seems to us, that it is not directly from the frequentative form domitare.--"_Decoy_. Properly _duck-coy_, as pronounced by those who are familiar with the thing itself. '_Decoys_, vulgarly _duck-coys_.' --Sketch of the Fens, in Gardener's Chron. 1849. Du. _koye_, cavea, septum, locus in quo greges stabulantur.--Kil. _Kooi, konw, kevi_, a cage; _vogel-kooi_, a bird-cage, decoy, apparatus for entrapping waterfowl. Prov. E. _Coy_, a decoy for ducks, a coop for lobsters.--Forby. The name was probably imported with the thing itself from Holland to the fens." (p. 447.) _Duck-coy_, we cannot help thinking, is an instance of a corruption like _bag o' nails_ from _bacchanals_, for the sake of giving meaning to a word not understood. Decoys were and are used for other birds as well as ducks, and _vogel-kooi_ in Dutch applies to all birds, (answering to our trap-cage,) the special apparatus for ducks being an _eende-kooi_. The French _coi_ adverbialized by the prefix _de_, and meaning quietly, slyly, as a hunter who uses decoys must demean himself, would seem a more likely original.--_Andiron_ Mr. Wedgwood derives from Flem. _wend-ijser_, turn-irons, because the spit rested upon them. But the original meaning seems to have no reference to the spit. The French _landier_ is plainly a corruption of the Mid. Lat. _anderia_, by the absorption of the article (_l'andier_). This gives us an earlier form _andier_, and the augmentative _andieron_ would be our word.--_Baggage_. We cannot think Mr. Wedgwood's derivation of this word from _bague_ an improvement on that of Ducange from _baga_, area.--_Coarse_ Mr. Wedgwood considers identical with _course_,--that is, of course, ordinary. He finds a confirmation of this in the old spelling. Old spelling is seldom a safe guide, though we wonder that the archaic form _boorly_ did not seem to him a sufficient authority for the common derivation of _burly_. If _coarse_ be not another form of _gross_, (Fr. _gros_, _grosse_,) then there is no connection between _corn_ and _granum_, or _horse_ and _ross_.--"_Cullion_. It. _Coglione_, a cullion, a fool, a scoundrel, properly a dupe. See Cully. It. _cogionare_, to deceive, to make a dupe of.... In the Venet. _coglionare_ becomes _cogionare_, as _vogia_ for _voglia_.... Hence E. to _cozen_, as It. _fregio_, frieze; _cugino_, cousin; _prigione_, prison." (p. 387.) Under _cully_, to which Mr. Wedgwood refers, he gives another etymology of _coglione_, and, we think, a wrong one. _Coglionare_ is itself a derivative form from _coglione_, and the radical meaning is to be sought in _cogliere_, to gather, to take in, to pluck. Hence a _coglione_ is a sharper, one who takes in, plucks. _Cully_ and _gull_ (one who is taken in) must be referred to the same source. Mr. Wedgwood's derivation of _cozen_ is ingenious, and perhaps accounts for the doubtful Germ, _kosen_, unless that word itself be the original.--"_To chaff_, in vulgar language to rally one, to chatter or talk lightly. From a representation of the inarticulate sounds made by different kinds of animals uttering rapidly repeated cries. Du. _keffen_, to yap, to bark, also to prattle, chatter, tattle. Halma," etc. We think it demonstrable that _chaff_ is only a variety of _chafe_, from Fr. _ecauffer_, retaining the broader sound of the _a_ from the older form _chaufe_. So _gaby_, which Mr. Wedgwood (p. 84) would connect with _gaewisch_, (Fr. _gauche_,) is derived immediately from O. Fr. _gabe_, (a laughing-stock, a butt,) the participial form of _gaber_, to make fun of, which would lead us to a very different root. (See the _Fabliaux, passim_.)--_Cress_. "Perhaps," says Mr. Wedgwood, (p. 398,) "from the crunching sound of eating the crisp, green herb." This is one of the instances in which he is lured from the plain path by the Nixy _Onomatopoeia_. The analogy between _cress_ and _grass_ flies in one's eyes; and, perhaps, the more probable derivation of the latter is from the root meaning to grow, rather than from that meaning to eat, unless, indeed, the two be originally identical. The A. S. forms _coers_ and _goers_ are almost identical. The Fr. _cresson_, from It. _crescione_, which Mr. Wedgwood cites, points in the direction of _crescere_; and the O. Fr. _cressonage_, implying a verb _cressoner_, means the right of _grazing_.--Under _dock_ Mr. Wedgwood would seem (he does not make himself quite clear) to refer It. _doccia_ to a root analogous with _dyke_ and _ditch_. He cites Prov. _doga_, which he translates by _bank_. Raynouard has only "_dogua_, douve, creux, cavite," and refers to It. _doga_. The primary meaning seems rather the hollow than the bank, though this would matter little, as the same transference of meaning may have taken place as in _dyke_ and _ditch_, But when Mr. Wedgwood gives mill-_dam_ as the first meaning of the word _doccia_, his wish seems to have stood godfather. Diez establishes the derivation of _doccia_ from _ductus_; and certainly the sense of a channel to lead (_ducere_) water in any desired direction is satisfactory. The derivative signification of _doccia_ (a gouge, a tool to make channels with) coincides. Moreover, we have the masculine form _doccio_, answering exactly to the Sp. _ducho_ in _aguaducho_, the _o_ for _u_, as in _doge_ for _duce_, from the same root _ducere_. Another instance of Mr. Wedgwood's preferring the bird in the bush is to be found in his refusing to consider _dout_, to extinguish, (_do out_,) as analogous to _don, _doff_, and _dup_. He would rather connect it with _toedten, tuer_. He cites as allied words Bohemian _dusyti_, to choke, to extinguish; Polish _dusic_, to choke, stifle, quell; and so arrives at the English slang phrase, "_dowse_ the glim." As we find several other German words in thieves' English, we have little doubt that _dowse_ is nothing more than _thu' aus_, do (thou) out, which would bring us back to our starting-point. We have picked out a few instances in which we think Mr. Wedgwood demonstrably mistaken, because they show the temptation which is ever lying in wait to lead the theoretical etymologist astray. Mr. Wedgwood sometimes seems to reverse the natural order of things, and to reason backward from the simple to the more complex. He does not always respect the boundaries of legitimate deduction. On the other hand, his case becomes very strong where he finds relations of thought as well as of sound between whole classes of words in different languages. But it is very difficult to say how long ago instinctive imitation ceased and other elements are to be admitted as operative. We see words continually coming into vogue whose apparent etymologies, if all historical data of their origin were lost, would inevitably mislead. If we did not know, for example, the occasion which added the word _chouse_ to the English language, we have little doubt that the twofold analogy of form and meaning would have led etymologists to the German _kosen_, (with the very common softening of the _k_ to _ch_,) and that the derivation would have been perfectly satisfactory to most minds.--_Tantrums_ would look like a word of popular coinage, and yet we find a respectable Old High German verb _tantaron_, delirare, (Graff, V. 437,) which may perhaps help us to make out the etymology of _dander_, in our vulgar expression of "getting one's dander up," which is equivalent to flying into a passion.--_Jog_, in the sense of _going_, (to _jog_ along,) has a vulgar look. Richardson derives it from the same root with the other _jog_, which means to shake, ("A. S. _sceac-an_, to _shake_, or _shock_, or _shog_.") _Shog_ has nothing whatever to do with shaking, unless when Nym says to Pistol, "Will you _shog_ off?" he may be said to have shaken him off. When the Tinker in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Coxcomb" says, "Come, prithee, let's _shog_ off," what possible allusion to shaking is there, except, perhaps, to "shaking stumps"? The first _jog_ and _shog_ are identical in meaning and derivation, and may be traced, by whosoever chooses, to the Gothic _tiuhan_, (Germ, _ziehen_,) and are therefore near of kin to our _tug_. _Togs_ and _toggery_ belong here also. (The connecting link may be seen in the preterite form _zog_.) The other _jog_ probably comes to us immediately from the French _choquer_; and its frequentative _joggle_ answers to the German _schutkeln_, It. _cioccolare_. Whether they are all remotely from the same radical is another question. We only cited it as a monosyllabic word, having the air of being formed by the imitative process, while its original _tiuhan_ makes quite another impression.--Had the word _ramose_ been a word of English slang-origin, (and it might easily have been imported, like so many more foreign phrases, by sailors,) we have as little doubt that a derivation of it from the Spanish _vamos_ would have failed to convince the majority of etymologists. This word is a good example of the way in which the people (and it is always the people, never the scholars, who succeed in adding to the spoken language) proceed in naturalizing a foreign term. The accent has gone over to the last syllable, in accordance with English usage in verbs of two syllables; and though the sharp sound of the _s_ has been thus far retained, it is doubtful how long it will maintain itself against a fancied analogy with the grave sound of the same letter in such words as _inclose_ and _suppose_.--We should incline to think the slang verb _to mosey_ a mere variety of form, and that its derivation from a certain absconding Mr. Moses (who broke the law of his great namesake through a blind admiration of his example in spoiling the Egyptians) was only a new instance of that tendency to mythologize which is as strong as ever among the uneducated. _Post, ergo propter_, is good people's-logic; and if an antecedent be wanting, it will not be long before one is invented. If we once admit the principle of _onomatopoeia_, the difficulty remains of drawing the line which shall define the territory within which those capable of judging would limit its operation. Its boundary would be a movable one, like that of our own Confederacy. Some students, from natural fineness of ear, would be quicker to recognize resemblances of sound; others would trace family likeness in spite of every disguise; others, whose exquisiteness of perception was mental, would find the scent in faint analogies of meaning, where the ordinary brain would be wholly at fault. In the original genesis of language, also, we should infer the influence of the same idiosyncrasies. We were struck with this the other day in a story we heard of a little boy, who, during a violent thunder-storm, asked his father what that was out there,--all the while winking rapidly to explain his meaning. Had his vocabulary been more complete, he would have asked what that _winking_ out there was. The impression made upon him by the lightning was not the ordinary one of brightness, (as in _blitz_, (?) _eclair_, _fulmen_, _flash_,) but of the rapid alternations of light and dark. Had he been obliged to make a language for himself, like the two unfortunate children on whom King Psarnmetichus made his linguistic experiment, he would have christened the phenomenon accordingly. Mr. Wedgwood has by no means carried out his theory fully even in reference to the words contained in his first volume, nor does the volume itself nearly exhaust the vocabulary of the letters it includes (A to D). Sometimes, where we should have expected him to apply his system, he refrains, whether from caution or oversight it is not easy to discover. The word _cow_, which is commonly referred to an imitative radical, he is provokingly reserved about; and under _chew_ he hints at no relation between the name of the action and that of the capital ruminant animal. Even where he has derived a word from an imitative radical, he sometimes fails to carry the process on to some other where it would seem equally applicable, sometimes pushes it too far. For instance, "_Crag_. 1. The neck, the throat.--Jam. Du. _kraeghe_, the throat; Pol. _kark_, the nape, crag, neck; Bohem. _krk_, the neck; Icel. _krage_, Dan. _krave_, the collar of a coat. The origin is an imitation of the noise made by clearing the throat. Bohem. _krkati_, to belch, _krcati_, to vomit; Pol. _krzakae_, to hem, to hawk. The same root gives rise to the Fr. _cracher_, to spit, and It. _recere_, to vomit; E. _reach_, to strain in vomiting; Icel. _hraki_, spittle; A. S. _hrara_, cough, phlegm, the throat, jaws; G. _rachen_, the jaws." (As _crag_ is not an English word, all this should have come under the head of _craw_.) "_Crag_. 2. A rock. Gael. _creag_, a rock; W. _careg_, a stone; _caregos_, pebbles." We do not see why the rattling sound of stones should not give them a claim to the same pedigree,--the name being afterwards transferred to the larger mass, the reverse of which we see in the popular _rock_ for _stone_. Nay, as Mr. Wedgwood (_sub voce draff_, p. 482) assumes _rac_ (more properly _rk_) as the root, it would answer equally well for _rock_ also. Indeed, as the chief occupation of crags, and their only amusement, in mountainous regions, is to pelt unwary passengers and hunters of scenery with their _debris_, we might have _creag, quasi caregos faciens sive dejiciens, sicut rupes a rumpere_. Indeed, there is an analogous Sanscrit root, meaning _break, crack_. But though Mr. Wedgwood lets off this coughing, hawking, spitting, and otherwise unpleasant old patriarch _Rac_ so easily in the case of the foundling _Crag_, he has by no means done with him. Stretched on the unfilial instrument of torture that bears his name, he is made to confess the paternity of _draff_, and _dregs_, and _dross_, and so many other uncleanly brats, that we feel as if he ought to be nailed by the ear to the other side of the same post on which Mr. Carlyle has pilloried August _der starke_ forever. But we honestly believe the old fellow to be belied, and that he is as guiltless of them as of that weak-witted Hebrew _Raca_ who looks so much like him in the face. [Footnote a: An etymology of this kind would have been particularly interesting in the hands of so learned and acute a man as Mr. Wedgwood. It would have afforded him a capital example of the fact that considerable differences in the form and sound of words meaning the same thing prove nothing against the onomatopoeic theory, but merely that the same sound represents a different thing to different ears. L. _Boare, mugire_, E. _moo_; F. _beugler_, E. _bellow_; G. _leuen_, L. _lugere_, E. _low_, are all attempts at the same sound, or, which would not affect the question, variations of an original radical _go_ or _gu_. For a full discussion of the matter, admirable for its thorough learning, see Pictet, _Les Origines Indo-Europeennes_, Vol. I. Section 86.] In the case of _crag_, Mr. Wedgwood argues from a sound whose frequency and marked character (and colds must have been frequent when the fig-tree was the only draper) gave a name to the organ producing it. We can easily imagine it. One of these early pagans comes home of an evening, heated from the chase, and squats himself on the damp clay floor of a country-seat imperfectly guarded against draughts. The next morning he says to his helpmeet, "Mrs. Barbar, I have a dreadful cold in my--_hrac_! _hrac_!" Here he is interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, and resorts to semeiology by pointing to his throat. Similar incidents carrying apprehension (as Lord Macaulay would say) to the breezy interiors of a thousand shanties on the same fatal morning, the domestic circle would know no name so expressive as _hrac_ for that fatal tube through which man, ingenious in illegitimate perversion, daily compels the innocent breath to discharge a plumbeous hail of rhetoric. But seriously, we think Mr. Wedgwood's derivation of _crag_ (or rather, that which he adopts, for it has had other advocates) a very probable one, at least for more northern tribes. There is no reason why men should have escaped the same law of nomenclature which gave names to the _cuckoo_ and the _pavo_. But when he approaches _draff_, he gets upon thinner ice. Where a metaphorical appropriateness is plainly wanting to one etymology and another as plainly supplies it, other considerations being equal, probability may fairly turn the scale in favor of the latter. Mr. Wedgwood is here dealing with a sound translated to another meaning by an intellectual process of analogy; and no one knows better than he--for his book shows everywhere the fair-mindedness of a thorough scholar--the extreme difficulty of convincing other minds in such matters. He seems to have been unconsciously influenced in this case by a desire to give more support to a very ingenious etymology of the word _dream_. His process of reasoning may be briefly stated thus: _draff_ and _dregs_ are refuse, they are things thrown away, sometimes (as in German _dreck_, sordes) they are even disgustful; and as there is no expression of contempt and disgust so strong as spitting, the sound _rac_ transferred itself by a natural association of ideas from the act to the object of it. He cites Du. _drabbe_, Dan. _drav_, Ger. _traebern_, Icel. _dregg_, Prov. _draco_, Ger., Du. _dreck_, O. F. _drache, dreche_, (and he might have added E. _trash_,) E. _dross_, all with nearly the same meaning. We have selected such as would show the different forms of the word. To the same radical Mr. Wedgwood refers G. _truejen_, _betruegen_, and this would carry with it our English _trick_ (Prov. _tric_, in Diez, Fr. _triche_). In our opinion he is wrong, doubly wrong, inasmuch as we think he has confounded two widely different roots. He has taken his O. Fr. forms from Roquefort (Gloss. Rom. I. 411,) but has omitted one of his definitions, _coque qui enveloope le grain_, that is, the husk, or hull. Mr. Wedgwood might perhaps found an argument on this in support of our old friend _Rac_ and his relation to huskiness; but it seems to us one of those trifles, the turned leaf, or broken twig, that put one on the right trail. We accept Mr. Wedgwood's derivative signification of _refuse, worthless, contemptible_, and ask if all these terms do not apply equally well to the chaff of the threshing-floor? It is more satisfactory to us, then, to attribute a part of the words given above to the Gothic _dragan_, (L. _trahere_, G. _tragen_,) to drag, to draw, and a part to Goth. _thriskan_, to thresh. The conjecture of Diez, (cited by Diefenbach,) that the Italian _trescare_ (to stamp with the feet, to dance) should be referred to the same root, is confirmed by the ancient practice of threshing grain by treading it out with cattle. We might, indeed, refer all to one root, by deriving _dross_ (a provincial form of which is _drass_) through the O. Fr. _drache_, (as in O. Fr. _treche_, Fr. _tresse_, E. _tress_,) but we have A. S. _dresten_, which is better accounted for by _therscan_. The other forms, such as _drabbe_, _dregg_, and _dragan_, the _b_ and _v_ being analogous to E. _draggle, drabble, draught, draft_, all equally from _dragan_. We have a suspicion that _dragon_ is to be referred to the same root. Mr. Wedgwood follows Richardson, who follows Vossius in a fanciful etymology from the Greek to see. Sharpness of sight, it is true, was attributed to the mythologized reptile, but the primitive _draco_ was nothing but a large serpent, supposed to be the boa. This sense must accordingly be comparatively modern. The eagle is the universal type of keenness of vision. The reptile's way of moving himself without legs is his most striking peculiarity; and if we derive _dragon_ from the root meaning to drag, to draw, (because he draws himself along,) we find it analogous to _serpent_, _reptile_, _snake_. The relation between and _dragan_ may be seen in G. _ziehen_, meaning both to draw and to go. Mr. Wedgwood says that he finds it hard to conceive any relation between the notion of _treachery_, _betrayal_, (_truegen_, _betruegen_,) and that of drawing. It would seem that to _draw_ into an ambush, the _drawing_ of a fowler's net, and the more sublimated _drawing_ a man on to his destruction, supplied analogies enough. The contempt we feel for treachery (for it is only in this metaphysical way that Mr. Wedgwood can connect the word with his radical _rac_) is a purely subsidiary, derivative, and comparatively modern notion. Many, perhaps most, kinds of treachery were looked upon as praiseworthy in early times, and are still so regarded among savages. Does Mr. Wedgwood believe that Romulus lost caste by the way in which he made so many respectable Sabines fathers-in-law against their will, or that the wise Odysseus was a perfectly admirable gentleman in our sense of the word? Even in the sixteenth century, in the then most civilized country of the world, the grave irony with which Macchiavelli commends the frightful treacheries of Caesar Borgia would have had no point, if he had not taken it for granted that almost all who read his treatise would suppose him to be in earnest. In the same way _dregs_ is explained simply as the sediment left after _drawing off_ liquids. _Dredge_ also is certainly, in one of its meanings, a derivative of _dragan_; so, too, _trick_ in whist, and perhaps _trudge_. Indeed, all the words above-cited are more like each other than Fr. _toit_ and E. _deck_, both from one root, or the Neapol. _sciu_ and the Lat. _flos_, from which it is corrupted. [Footnote a: The German _pfau_ retains the imitative sound which the English _pea_-cock has lost, and of which our system of pronunciation robs the Latin.] [Footnote b: And to _worm_, (another word for _dragon_,) if, as has been conjectured, there be any radical affinity between that and _schwaermen_, whose primitive sense of crawl or creep is seen in the _swarming_ of bees, and _swarming_ up a tree.] [Footnote c: That is, unless he takes the _rag_ in _dragan_ to be the same thing, which he might support with several plausible analogies, such as E. _rake_, It. _recare_, etc.] But the same subtilty of mind, which sometimes seduces Mr. Wedgwood into making distinctions without a difference and preferring an impalpable relation of idea to a plain derivative affinity, is of great advantage to him when the problem is to construct an etymology by following the gossamer clews that lead from sensual images to the metaphorical and tropical adaptations of them to the demands of fancy and thought. The nice optics that see what is not to be seen have passed into a sarcastic proverb; yet those are precisely the eyes that are in the heads and brains of all who accomplish much, whether in science, poetry, or philosophy. With the kind of etymologies we are speaking of, it is practically useful to have the German gift of summoning a thing up from the depths of one's inward consciousness. It is when Mr. Wedgwood would reverse the order of Nature, and proceed from the tropical to the direct and simple, that we are at issue with him. For it is not philosophers who make language, though they often unmake it. Mr. Wedgwood's most successful application of his system may be found, as we think, under the words, _dim_, _dumb_, _deaf_, and _death_. He might have confirmed the relation between dumbness and darkness from the acutest metaphysician among poets, in Dante's _ove il sol tace_. We have not left ourselves room enough to illustrate Mr. Wedgwood's handling of these etymologies by extracts; we must refer our readers to the book itself. Apart from its value as suggesting thought, or quickening our perception of shades of meaning, and so freshening our feeling of the intimate harmony of sense and spirit in language, and of the thousand ways in which the soul assumes the material world into her own heaven and transfigures it there, the volume will be found practically the most thorough contribution yet made to English etymology. We are glad to hear that we are to have an American edition of it under the able supervision of Mr. Marsh. Etymology becomes of practical importance, when, as the newspapers inform us, two members of a New York club have been fighting a duel because one of them doubted whether Garry Baldy were of Irish descent. 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LEGAL STATUS OF WOMEN IN IOWA. COMPILED BY JENNIE L. WILSON, LL. B. Member of the Polk County Bar. DES MOINES: IOWA PRINTING COMPANY. 1894. Preface. This book has been prepared for the purpose of presenting to the women of Iowa, in a brief and concise form, those laws which pertain to subjects in which they are most deeply interested, and about which there is a strong and growing demand for certain and accurate information. In this age of general intelligence, when learning in some degree is so readily attainable, the maxim, that "Ignorance of the law excuses no one," has a measure of justice in it, which could not be claimed for it in former times, and it is most certainly true that, "As the subjects of law, if not as its makers, all ought to know enough to avoid its penalties and reap its benefits." Every woman should understand the law of her own state concerning marriage, divorce, the care and custody of children, and the mutual rights and duties of husband and wife incident to the marriage relation. She should know something of the law of minors and guardianship, of administration, and descent of property, and her knowledge should certainly embrace that class of crimes which necessarily includes her own sex, either as the injured party, or as _particeps criminis_. In the arrangement of this work, a very brief synopsis of the common law upon these subjects is given, as the principles of the common law underlie our entire statute law, and a knowledge of the former is absolutely essential to render much of the latter intelligible. The statute law of the state has been given in the exact words of the statutes, with but few exceptions, and the explanations or notes following these have been gathered from decisions of our supreme court. The references are to sections of McClain's Annotated Code and Supplement. The design of the work is not broad enough to give to the most careful reader that knowledge of the _minutiae_ of the law necessary in the application of its principles to particular cases and under a special state of facts. It is in nowise adequate, even though its contents should be thoroughly mastered, to make every woman her own lawyer, in matters where she would otherwise require legal advice, but it is hoped that its statements are sufficiently plain and free from technical phraseology and legal terms, that even the casual reader may readily comprehend them, and be able to gain a general understanding of the law of our state upon these subjects. J.L.W. Des Moines, Iowa, May 1894. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. SYNOPSIS OF COMMON LAW. Common law in force--Changes--Marriage--Dissolution of marriage--Power of husband--Disabilities of wife--Custody of children--Property rights--Descent of property--Discrimination in criminal matters--Right of appeal--Reason for subjection of women CHAPTER II. MARRIAGE. Contract of marriage--Legal age--No express form necessary--Who may solemnize--When void CHAPTER III. HUSBAND AND WIFE. Property rights of married women--Remedy by husband or wife against the other--Wife's torts--Conveyances to each other--Conveyances to third parties--Wages of wife--Contracts of wife--Family expenses--Removal from homestead--Conveyance of property when husband or wife is insane CHAPTER IV. DIVORCE, ANNULLING MARRIAGES AND ALIMONY. Jurisdiction of court--Evidence--Causes for divorce--Husband from wife--Maintenance during litigation--Alimony--Custody of children--Annulling illegal marriages--Causes--Legitimacy of children CHAPTER V. MINORS AND GUARDIANSHIP. Majority--Contracts of minors--Natural guardians--Guardians of property--Powers and duties of guardian--Guardians of drunkards, spendthrifts and lunatics CHAPTER VI. APPRENTICING AND ADOPTION OF CHILDREN. Method of apprenticing--Schooling and treatment of minors--Who may adopt--Method and effect of adoption--Home for the friendless--Powers CHAPTER VII. WILLS AND LETTERS OF ADMINISTRATION. Who may make wills--Of what property--Verbal wills--Wills in writing--Revocation--Cancellation--Executors--Administration--Who entitled--Time allowed CHAPTER VIII. SETTLEMENT OF THE ESTATE--DESCENT AND DISTRIBUTION OF PROPERTY. Exempt personal property--Life insurance--Allowance to widow and children--Descent and distribution--Personal property--Real property--Dower--Curtesy--Widow's share not affected by will--Descent to children--To parents--To wife and her heirs--Illegitimate children inherit from mother--When they may inherit from father--When father may inherit from child CHAPTER IX. HOMESTEAD AND EXEMPTIONS. Homestead exempt--Family defined--Conveyance or encumbrance--Liability for taxes and debts--What constitutes homestead--Exemptions to head of family--Insurance--Personal earnings--Pension money--Damages producing death CHAPTER X. CRIMINAL LAW--ILLEGITIMATE CHILDREN. Rape--Intent to commit--Compelling to marry--Carnal knowledge--Producing miscarriage--Enticing female child--Seduction--Marriage a bar to prosecution--Adultery--Evidence in cases of rape or seduction--Bigamy--Lewdness--Houses of ill fame--Penalty for prostitution--Incest--Illegitimate children--Support of--Rendered legitimate by marriage of parents CHAPTER XI. MISCELLANEOUS PROVISIONS. Damages under prohibitory liquor law--Parties in actions for seduction--In actions for injury to minor child--Married women--When husband or wife deserts family--Husband or wife as witness--Communications between husband and wife--Women eligible to office--Police matrons--Right of suffrage CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION. Common law in Iowa--Law will not always protect married women--It may cause hardship and suffering--Change or modification needed Common Law CHAPTER I. SYNOPSIS OF COMMON LAW. Until a comparatively recent period the laws of England in force at the time of the independence of the American colonies, relating to married women, the mutual duties of husband and wife, their property rights and the care and custody of children, were everywhere in force in this country except in those states which were originally settled by other nations than the English. The agitation of the last fifty years, caused by the demand for equality in educational opportunities and in professional, business and trade relations, as well as for the legal and political recognition of women, has brought about great changes in these laws, until they are in many instances almost entirely superseded by statutory enactments more in accordance with the spirit of justice and in greater harmony with the requirements of a higher form of civilization. In many states they have reached a condition in which the legal status of husband and wife is nearly, if not wholly, one of equality. It must always be borne in mind, however, that the common law is the foundation upon which almost the entire structure of our American system of jurisprudence is based, although it is claimed that it has only been recognized by our courts so far as it has been "applicable to the habits and conditions of our society and in harmony with the genius, spirit and objects of our institutions." As it became apparent from time to time that it was not thus applicable, or where it failed to meet the requirements of the changed conditions of society the strictness of its rules was relaxed by giving to them a broader construction, or, when this could not be done, they were modified or entirely changed by statute. Marriage was regarded by the common law as a civil contract and might be entered into legally by a boy of fourteen or a girl of twelve years of age, provided they were under no legal disability to contract marriage. This was called the age of consent, or discretion, and a marriage contracted prior to this time was inchoate only, and might be repudiated by either party upon arriving at the legal age. If one of the parties was above and the other under the required age, the marriage might still be disaffirmed by either. If after reaching the age of consent the parties continued to live together as husband and wife, this would be regarded as an affirmance of the marriage. The mutual consent of the parties themselves, followed by cohabitation, was sufficient to constitute a legal marriage, without the observance of any formalities. The formal ceremonies provided by statute for the celebration of marriages, and the penalties imposed upon clergymen and others who married those who had not complied with these formalities, were solely for the purpose of providing a convenient and certain proof of marriage, should it be afterwards necessary to establish that fact by evidence, rather than to invalidate marriages which would otherwise be legal. Having established the marriage relation, it could only be dissolved by death or divorce granted by act of parliament, or, in this country after the declaration of independence, by act of legislature. No absolute divorce could be granted for any cause arising after the marriage, but a separation might be decreed in case of adultery by either party. By the rules of the common law, the person and property of women were under the absolute control of their husbands. The maxim, _Uxor non est juris, sed sub potestate viri_, "a wife is not her own mistress, but is under the power of her husband," is but an expression of the actual legal status of a woman from the instant she entered the matrimonial state, until released therefrom by death or divorce. Marriage was the act by which she ceased to have a legal existence, by which, we are told, her very being became incorporated or consolidated into that of her husband. From the time her identity became thus merged, she was presumed by the law to be under the protection and influence of her husband, to be so absolutely and entirely one person with him, that she had henceforth no life in law apart from his. The legal fiction of the unity of the persons of husband and wife dates back to feudal times, and may, perhaps, have been a necessity of the age and of the peculiar social and political systems of that period. Like many another law having its inception in a sincere desire to secure the greatest good to the greatest number, and apparently necessary for that purpose at the period of social development which gave it birth, it existed for centuries after it had ceased to result in any benefit or afford any protection, and after the reason for its being had passed away and been forgotten. We are told that at marriage the husband "adopted his wife and her circumstances together." He might exercise his power over her person by restraining her of her liberty in case of gross misbehavior, or by giving her moderate chastisement in the same degree that he might administer correction to his children. An early decision of one of our state courts interpreted this to mean that a man might whip his wife with a switch as large as his finger, but not larger than his thumb, without being guilty of an assault. Husband and wife being one person could not contract nor enter into a business partnership with each other; neither could one convey property to the other without the intervention of a third party. The wife was incapable of receiving a legacy unless it was willed to another person as trustee, for her use and benefit, and if a legacy were paid directly to her, the husband could compel the executor to pay it again to him. The wife had no power to contract a legal debt nor to bind herself by any kind of an agreement, neither could she make her husband liable for any debt or contract, except for necessaries. These, the husband was under obligation to provide, and in contracting for them, the law assumed that the wife was acting as his agent. She might release her right of dower in lands of her husband, but only when examined separately she acknowledged that the conveyance or release was not secured by his influence or coercion. Her earnings though acquired by her individual labor and in a business separate and apart from her husband belonged to him, and he could collect them by action. This was the law though husband and wife were living apart. They could be subjected to the payment of his debts, by his creditors, and if he died without a will they descended to his heirs as other personal property. They were not considered the property of the wife, even in equity, without a clear, express, irrevocable gift, or some distinct affirmative act of the husband, divesting himself of them and setting them apart for her separate use. A wife had no power to convey her real property, nor could she devise her personal property by will, without the consent of her husband. The husband had the legal right to establish his home or domicile in any part of the world where "his interests, his tastes, his convenience, or possibly, his caprice might suggest," and it was the wife's duty to follow him. If she refused to accompany him, no matter upon what ground she based her refusal, she was guilty of desertion. A promise by the husband before marriage as to the establishment of the place of residence of the family, created a moral obligation only and was a mere nullity in law. Whenever there was a difference of opinion between husband and wife in regard to the location of the common home, the will of the wife had to yield to that of the husband. This law of domicile was based upon the grounds of the "identity of the husband and wife, the subjection of the wife to the husband, and the duty of the wife to make her home with her husband." Neither husband nor wife was competent as a witness to testify either for or against the other in civil or criminal cases. The husband was entitled to the society and services of his wife and he might bring an action for damages against anyone who harbored her, or persuaded or enticed her to leave him or live separate from him. If injuries were wrongfully inflicted upon her, two actions might be brought against the party responsible for the wrong, one by husband and wife for the personal injury to the wife, and one by the husband for loss of the wife's services. In either case, the amount recovered belonged to the husband. The wife could neither sue or be sued unless her husband was joined with her in the suit. A judgment recovered against her alone was void, because she was unknown to the law apart from her husband. One entered in her favor became the property of her husband. The consent of the husband was necessary to enable a married woman to act as executor, administrator, guardian or trustee. The husband became responsible for the maintenance of the wife according to her rank and station, and if he failed to make suitable provision for her, tradesmen might furnish her with necessaries at her request and could collect payment from the husband. He was liable for all of her debts contracted before marriage, and this was the case, though he may have received no property with her. He was responsible for certain wrongs committed by her after marriage, such as libel and slander, and judgment could be recovered against him. If a wrong were committed jointly by both, action might be brought against the husband alone. When a judgment was recovered upon contract, or because of the wrongful act of the wife, if the husband failed to pay it, he might be imprisoned. After the death of the husband the law gave the widow a right to remain forty days in his house, during which time her dower might be assigned. This right was known as the "widow's quarantine." The father was legally entitled to the custody of his children,--the right of the mother was never recognized, it being expressly stated by Blackstone that "a mother, as such, is entitled to no power, but only to reverence and respect." He might by will appoint a guardian for them after his death, though yet unborn, and might apprentice them or give them into the custody of others without the consent of the mother. All personal property belonging to the wife vested absolutely in the husband at marriage. He could will it to whom he pleased or, if he died without a will, it descended to his heirs. Even her wearing apparel and ornaments known by the term "paraphernalia," belonged to the husband. During his life he had the power to sell or give them away, but he could not devise them by will. If they remained in the possession of the wife while the husband lived, she was entitled to them over and above her dower, but even then creditors of the husband might claim them, if there chanced to be a deficiency of other assets with which to pay the debts of the estate. The wife's choses in action, or evidences of money or property due to her, such as notes, bonds, contracts or the like, belonged to the husband if he reduced them to possession during her life, and they could be taken for his debts. He might bequeath them by will, but if he died without a will they descended to his heirs. If he failed to reduce them to possession while the wife lived, after his death they would revert to her heirs. If she outlived her husband they belonged to her. After the husband's death the wife took one-third of his personal estate if there were children, and one-half if there were no children. The husband was entitled to the control, use and enjoyment, together with the rents and profits of his wife's real estate during the marriage, and if a living child were born, he had, after the wife's death, a life estate in such property and might retain possession of it while he lived. This was known as the husband's title by curtsy. The wife took a dower, or life estate in one-third of the husband's lands after his death, whether there were children or not. This estate of dower was forfeited should the husband be found guilty of treason, but his interest in her lands was not disturbed by the treason of the wife. His life interest in her real estate attached to trust estates, but she could claim no interest in trust estates of her husband. If the wife owned leases of land they could be sold or assigned by the husband during marriage. If he survived his wife they belonged to him, if she survived him, they belonged to her, provided he had not disposed of them while living. Personal property descended to males and females in equal shares, but the oldest son was entitled to the whole of his father's real property. The unity of husband and wife was not so strongly affirmed by the common law when it dealt with their relation to criminal matters. When a wife committed an offense against the state she possessed a separate and distinct life and personalty, for the purposes of punishment. It is true that she was still inferior and this distinction was recognized and emphasized by the difference in the penalties imposed for the commission of the same crimes, these penalties being in inverse ratio to the importance of the criminal. If a wife committed theft, burglary or other offenses in the company or presence of her husband, the law presumed that she acted under compulsion and held her not guilty, but this presumption did not extend to cases of murder or treason, and it might always be overcome by proof that she acted independently. The exception in cases of murder or treason, we are informed, was not alone because of the magnitude of the crimes, but rather on account of "the husband having broken through the most sacred tie of social community by rebellion against the state, had no right to that obedience from a wife which he himself, as a subject, had forgotten to pay." If a man murdered his wife it was as if he had murdered a stranger, and he might avail himself of the benefit of clergy, and secure immunity from punishment, provided he could read, but women were denied all benefit of clergy because of their sex, and because they "were not called upon to read." If a wife killed her husband it was a much more serious offense, he being her lord, and she was guilty of treason and subject to the same punishment as if she had killed the king. In cases of petit treason the penalty depended upon the sex of the criminal, men being sentenced to be drawn and hanged, while women were drawn and burnt alive. In larceny, bigamy, manslaughter and other crimes, men might claim the benefit of clergy and by taking holy orders, escape all punishment, except branding in the hand and a few months imprisonment, while women might receive sentence of death and be executed for the first offense. Later the law was changed so that in cases of simple larceny under the value of ten shillings, they might be burned in the hand and whipped, stocked or imprisoned for any time not exceeding one year. The disability of sex and of ignorance were both finally removed and all men and women admitted to benefit of clergy. By the common law, adultery and seduction were not classed with crimes, but were only civil injuries for which compensation might be recovered by husband, father or guardian, but the woman, who might be wronged, had no right of action for the injury to herself, and the State did not recognize any wrong to society by an injury to the person of one who was civilly dead. The crime of rape was punishable by death, and consent, though proved, was no defense, if the offense was committed upon a child under ten years of age. Magna Charta, granted by King John, while redressing many hardships and grievances incident to feudal times, and confirming and securing to the people many rights and liberties, among which was the right of the wife to dower in her husband's property, denied to women the right of appeal except in case of the death of their husbands. The right of appeal was the privilege of private prosecution for crime. (Analogus to our present method of commencing prosecutions by information.) According to Blackstone, even the disabilities of the wife were for the most part intended for her protection and benefit, and he adds: "So great a favorite is the female sex of the laws of England!" The discrimination made by the common law between men and women, was based alone upon the assumption that women were, and must be always dependent by reason of their sex. In the light of a broader humanity, the distinctions seem cruel and barbarous, but that they were the result of any spirit of injustice or intentional tyranny, or of any desire on the part of men to oppress women or impose upon them any hardship or burden because of their physical weakness, is not at all probable. They were merely the outgrowth of the conditions incident to ruder stages of social development, and were, perhaps, as favorable to women at that period, as the laws of our own times will be considered when judged in the light of the civilization of the future, after successive centuries of intellectual and moral growth have been added to the enlightenment of to-day. Law of Iowa. CHAPTER II. MARRIAGE. Marriage is a civil contract requiring the consent of parties capable of entering into other contracts, except as herein otherwise declared. While marriage is defined to be a contract, it is rather a status or relation assumed by the act of marriage. Society is recognized as a third party to the agreement and as having a well defined interest in the duties and obligations of such relation. It is because of this interest, that the law defines the qualifications of the parties, the terms, rights and obligations of the contract, and also for what causes and in what manner it may be terminated. "It stands alone and can be assimilated to no other contract." A marriage between a male person of sixteen and a female of fourteen years of age is valid, but if either party has not attained the age thus fixed, the marriage is a nullity or not at the option of such party made known at any time before he or she is six months older than the age thus fixed. The common law rule fixing the age of consent to marriage at fourteen for males and twelve for females is not repealed in Iowa. The time in which the parties may disaffirm the marriage is merely extended by the statute. Previous to any marriage within this state, a license for that purpose must be obtained from the clerk of the district court of the county wherein the marriage is to be solemnized. As under the common law, no express form or ceremony is necessary to constitute a valid marriage, any mutual agreement between the parties to assume the relation of husband and wife, followed by cohabitation, being sufficient, provided there is no legal disability on the part of either existing at the time. It is immaterial how the intention to marry is expressed. It has been held in this state that a marriage was legal, where the woman intended present marriage, though the man did not, where they had assumed the relation of husband and wife, and his conduct had been such as to justify her in believing that he had intended present marriage. Marriages by consent only, are not rendered void by a provision punishing parties for solemnizing marriages in any other manner than that prescribed by law. Such license must not in any case be granted where either party is under the age necessary to render the marriage absolutely valid, nor shall it be granted where either party is a minor, without the previous consent of the parent or guardian of such minor, nor where the condition of either party is such as to disqualify him from making any other civil contract. Unless such clerk is acquainted with the age and condition of the parties for the marriage of whom the license is applied for, he must take the testimony of competent and disinterested witnesses on the subject. He must cause due entry of the application for the issuing of the license to be made in a book to be procured and kept for that purpose, stating that he was acquainted with the parties and knew them to be of competent age and condition, or that the requisite proof of such fact was made known to him by one or more witnesses, stating their names, which book shall constitute a part of the records of his office. If either party is a minor, the consent of the parent or guardian must be filed in the clerk's office after being acknowledged by the said parent or guardian, or proved to be genuine, and a memorandum of such facts must also be entered in said book. If the clerk of the district court grants a license contrary to the provisions of the preceding sections, he is guilty of a misdemeanor, and if a marriage is solemnized without such license being procured, the parties so married and all persons aiding in such marriage are likewise guilty of a misdemeanor. The punishment provided for misdemeanors is imprisonment in the county jail not more than one year, or by fine not exceeding five hundred dollars, or by both fine and imprisonment. Marriages must be solemnized either: 1. By a justice of the peace or mayor of the city or incorporated town wherein the marriage takes place; 2. By some judge of the supreme or district court of this state; 3. By some officiating minister of the gospel ordained or licensed according to the usages of his denomination. After the marriage has been solemnized the officiating minister or magistrate shall, on request, give each of the parties a certificate thereof. Marriages solemnized with the consent of parties in any other manner than is herein prescribed, are valid, but the parties themselves, and all other parties aiding or abetting, shall forfeit to the school fund the sum of fifty dollars each. The person solemnizing marriage shall forfeit a like amount, unless within ninety days after the ceremony he shall make return thereof to the clerk of the district court. The clerk of the district court shall keep a register containing the names of the parties, the date of the marriage, and the name of the person by whom the marriage was solemnized, which, or a certified transcript therefrom, is receivable in all courts and places as evidence of the marriage and the date thereof. The register of marriages kept by the clerk is always sufficient to establish marriage, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, but record evidence is not indispensable. The fact of marriage may be shown in various ways. It may be proved by the admissions or uncontradicted testimony of either party, or a legal presumption may be raised by the testimony of either husband or wife with proof of continued cohabitation. The evidence of witnesses who were present and witnessed the marriage is always sufficient. These provisions so far as they relate to procuring licenses and to the solemnizing of marriages, are not applicable to members of any particular denomination having, as such, any peculiar mode of entering the marriage relation . But when any mode is thus pursued which dispenses with the services of a clergyman or magistrate, the husband is responsible for the return directed to be made to the clerk and is liable to the above named penalty if the return is not made . Marriages between persons whose marriage is prohibited by law, or who have a husband or wife living, are void; but if the parties live and cohabit together after the death of the former husband or wife, such marriage shall be deemed valid . A judicial decree is not necessary to annul a marriage between parties one of whom has a wife or husband living at the time, as such marriages are absolutely void, nor does such marriage confer any right upon either in the property of the other. A marriage procured by fraud or force is void, because it lacks the essential element of consent. Such marriages may be annulled by a court of equity, but false representations as to character, social position or fortune do not constitute such fraud on the opposite party as to avoid a marriage induced thereby. CHAPTER III. HUSBAND AND WIFE A married woman may own in her own right, real and personal property acquired by descent, gift or purchase, and manage, sell, convey, and devise the same by will, to the same extent and in the same manner that the husband can property belonging to him. The husband is the legal head of the family and household furniture, pictures and all similar property used in the house occupied by husband and wife, is considered as being in the possession of the husband and under his control. Such property may be sold or mortgaged by the husband without the consent of the wife. Property conveyed to both jointly is held by them as tenants-in-common. Each owns an undivided one-half interest in such property, and this interest may be sold on execution to satisfy claims against husband or wife as the case may be. Property purchased with funds belonging to both husband and wife is owned by them jointly, the interest of each being in proportion to the amount of the purchase price contributed by each. A married woman may convey or encumber any real estate or interest therein belonging to her, and may control the same, or contract with reference thereto, to the same extent, and in the same manner as other persons . Every conveyance made by a husband and wife shall be deemed sufficient to pass any and all right of either to the property conveyed, unless the contrary appears on the face of the conveyance . While Iowa was still a territory, in 1840, power was conferred upon a married woman to release her dower and to convey her real estate by any conveyance executed by herself and husband and acknowledged by a separate examination and acknowledgment. This law was re-enacted in 1846, and was the first law passed in the State of Iowa for the better protection of married women. This remained the law until 1851, when an act was passed by which she might convey her interest in real estate "the same as any other person." When property is owned by either the husband or wife, the other has no interest therein which can be the subject of contract between them, or such interest as will make the same liable for the contracts or liabilities of either the husband or wife who is not the owner of the property, except as provided in this chapter. The distributive share or dower interest of each in the property of the other, is inchoate and becomes complete only upon the death of the owner of the property; consequently any agreement between the husband and wife relinquishing their respective interests in each other's property, though such agreement should be made in contemplation of separation is invalid. Upon a dissolution of the marriage relation by divorce, the husband and wife may contract with each other with reference to a division of the property, provided the contract is reasonable, just and right. A husband may pay taxes and interest on an incumbrance on a homestead owned by his wife, but occupied by both, and may make repairs upon the same. He may make improvements on land owned by the wife and may expend time and labor in caring for any of her property, without rendering such property liable for his debts, provided there is no collusion between them and no evidence of fraud on the part of either. A wife's property cannot be taken for her husbands debts, although it may be in possession of the husband and the creditors have no notice of the wife's ownership. Should either the husband or wife obtain possession or control of property belonging to the other, either before or after marriage, the owner of the property may maintain an action therefor, or for any right growing out of the same, in the same manner and extent as if they were unmarried. If property or money belonging to the wife, but in possession of the husband is used by him, with her knowledge and consent, in the payment of debts incurred for family expenses, or for other purposes connected with the support of the family, she cannot recover for the same, in the absence of an express agreement on his part to repay her. If a wife advances money or property to her husband to be used as he may choose, the presumption is that she does so in view of the mutual benefits which may accrue from the advancement and she cannot recover the same unless there is an agreement for its repayment. For all civil injuries committed by a married woman, damages may be recovered from her alone, and her husband shall not be responsible therefor except in cases where he would be jointly responsible with her if the marriage did not exist This statute abrogates the rule of the common law, making a husband responsible for civil injuries committed by his wife. The common law presumption that criminal acts done in the presence of the husband were by compulsion, is still recognized in this State but may be overcome by proof to the contrary. A conveyance, transfer or lien executed by either husband or wife, to or in favor of the other shall be valid to the same extent as between other persons When the rights of creditors might be prejudiced by transfers of property between husband and wife, such transactions will be closely scrutinized, and the utmost good faith must plainly appear, but where no fraudulent intention is shown they will be upheld if based upon an adequate consideration. If a conveyance is made by the husband to the wife when the husband is largely indebted and insolvent, such conveyance is presumptively fraudulent, but a conveyance to a wife in payment of a valid claim, even though made at a time when the husband is largely indebted to others, will not be considered fraudulent the wife having the same right as other creditors to obtain payment. All contracts between husband and wife where no other consideration appears than an agreement to perform some duty already incumbent upon the parties, because of their relations as husband and wife, are against public policy, and will not be enforced in law. Such, for example, as a promise by the husband to pay money to the wife to induce her to live with him, when she has no legal ground for not living with him; or an agreement to allow the husband to obtain a divorce when he has no legal cause for divorce, or a conveyance of property in consideration of future care and support because the husband is growing old; or a contract between husband and wife by which the husband agrees to pay the wife at stated intervals, sums of money, in consideration of the faithful performance by the wife of the obligations incident to the marriage relation. But our courts have held that exempt property may be transferred by the husband to the wife without any consideration; that a deed from husband to wife in consideration of a dismissal by the latter, of a proceeding for divorce, is valid; that a contract between husband and wife by which the wife, for a consideration, after a decree of divorce, agrees to release all her dower interest in the real estate of the husband, is binding. Voluntary conveyances, in favor of third parties, by a man or woman in contemplation of marriage, and with the evident intention of defeating the marital rights of the other party, in such property, will be held fraudulent, and may be set aside in an action by the injured party after marriage. Contracts and conveyances made before marriage and duly recorded, will not be set aside on account of the marriage relation, as the fact of recording is sufficient to charge the wife with notice of the transactions. Ante-nuptial contracts, if free from fraud and imposition, are valid, and such a contract stipulating that each is to have the untrammeled and sole control of his or her own property, real and personal, as though no marriage had taken place, will be enforced. The dower right of each in the other's property is completely waived by such contract. In case the husband or wife abandons the other and leaves the state, and is absent therefrom for one year without providing for the maintenance and support of his or her family, or is confined in jail or the penitentiary for the period of one year or upward, the district court of the county where the husband or wife, so abandoned or not confined, resides, may, on application by petition setting forth fully the facts, authorize him or her, to manage, control, sell and encumber the property of the husband or wife for the support and maintenance of the family and for the purpose of paying debts. Notice of such proceedings shall be given as in ordinary actions, and anything done under or by virtue of the order of the court, shall be valid to the same extent as if the same was done by the party owning the property. A wife who is abandoned by her husband without her fault, may pledge his credit for necessaries, and if left in the management of his business may make all contracts incident to such management. She may also sell exempt property and apply the proceeds towards the support of the family before absolutely forced to do so by the destitution of the family. All contracts, sales or incumbrances made by either husband or wife by virtue of the power contemplated in the preceding section, shall be binding on both, and during such absence or confinement, the person acting under such power, may sue and be sued thereon, and for all acts done, the property of both shall be liable. No suit or proceeding shall abate or be in anywise affected by the return or release of the person confined, but he or she may be permitted to prosecute or defend jointly with the other. The husband or wife affected by the proceedings contemplated in the preceding sections, may have the order or decree of the court set aside or annulled, but the setting aside of such decree or order shall in nowise affect any act done thereunder. A husband or wife may constitute the other his or her attorney in fact, to control and dispose of his or her property for their mutual benefit, and may revoke the same to the same extent and manner as other persons. The fact of the marital relation does not, of itself, establish the presumption that the husband is the agent of the wife, for the transaction of business for her, but in order to bind her, he must be expressly authorized to act as agent, or she must, after knowledge of the act, expressly or impliedly ratify it. Such agency or ratification may be established by circumstances, and the degree of evidence required in such cases, is less than is necessary to establish an agency between independent parties, or the ratification by the husband, of acts done by the wife or his agent. A wife may receive the wages of her personal labor and maintain an action therefor in her own name, and hold the same in her own right; she may prosecute and defend all actions at law or in equity for the preservation and protection of her rights and property as if unmarried. The husband is entitled to the wife's labor and assistance in the duties and obligations growing out of the marriage relation, and to her earnings, if she is not engaged in a separate business on her own account; but her earnings for services performed for others than her husband or acquired in carrying on an independent business, belong to her alone. Such earnings may be invested in property and it will be exempt from seizure for debts of her husband. She may bring actions for injuries to herself, whether of person, property or reputation in the same manner as if she were unmarried. If she suffers personal injury by which the husband is deprived of her services or society he has a right of recovery for such loss and for expenses for medicine and medical treatment. The wife cannot recover in such case, unless it appears that she has expended her own money in payment of such expenses. If, at the time of the injury she is engaged in a separate business, and death results, the husband may still recover for loss of society and expenses, but an action for damages can be brought only by the administrator of her estate. Although husband or wife may maintain an action against the other for the recovery of property, neither has a right of action for damages sustained by the infliction of personal injury, and this is true even though the one inflicting the injury has been criminally convicted and fined for the assault. Neither husband or wife is liable for the debts or liabilities of the other incurred before marriage, and except as herein otherwise declared, they are not liable for the separate debts of each other; nor are the wages, earnings, or property of either, nor is the rent or income of such property liable for the separate debts of the other The husband is liable for necessaries furnished the wife, upon an implied obligation to provide for her a reasonable support. The term "necessaries," is not confined to the supply of things actually demanded for her sustenance, such as food, clothing and medicine, but includes all that may be needful for her comfort and happiness according to her rank and station in society. In determining the extent of the husband's liability, it is always proper to consider the wife's social position and the circumstances and condition of the family, and these will, of course, vary in each particular case. It has been held that jewelry is included in the term necessaries and that attorney's fees in divorce proceedings by the wife, can be recovered from the husband. If the wife is compelled to leave her husband because of cruel and improper conduct on his part, the husband is still presumed to have extended to her a general credit for necessaries, such as meat, drink, clothes, medicine, etc., suitable to his degree and circumstances. Contracts may be made by a wife and liabilities incurred, and the same enforced by or against her to the same extent and in the same manner as if she were unmarried By this provision a wife is clothed with the same rights enjoyed by her husband, and must, therefore, assume the same liabilities. She has the same freedom to contract in reference to her property, or other matters, and will be held to the same strict accountability. The law will enforce her obligations with the same impartiality, whether such obligations are express or implied. She may contract with reference to all kinds of property, including real estate, and may mortgage her property as security for the debt of another, in precisely the same manner that her husband could do in similar cases. The expenses of the family and the education of the children are chargeable upon the property of both husband and wife, or of either of them, and in relation thereto they may be sued jointly or separately. Both husband and wife are personally responsible for family expenses. The credit may be extended to the husband and the contract made with him alone, and the wife will be liable though she may have no knowledge of the purchase and has given no consent thereto. It is sufficient to show that the articles were used, or kept for use in the family, and a judgment may be rendered against the wife alone. But the husband cannot subject the property of his wife to any liability for articles for family use when it appears that such articles were not a necessity, if the wife has objected to the purchase and notified the seller that she will not pay for the same. "Expenses of the family," are not limited to necessary expenses, but whatever is kept or used in the family is included in the term. A piano, an organ, a watch and other jewelry, a cook stove and fixtures, have all been held to come within the term "family expense," for which the property of the wife is liable. But a reaping machine, though used by the husband in the business by which he supports his family, is not a legitimate item of family expense, nor can a plow be included therein. The expense of treatment of a wife at a hospital for the insane, has been held not to be a family expense. Money borrowed by the husband and used in the purchase of articles which, if obtained on credit, would constitute items of family expense, cannot itself form such an item of family expense, that the wife may be held liable, unless the money was furnished at her request, and the account assigned to the party furnishing the money. If a merchant with whom the husband has no account is notified in writing, not to sell goods to the wife and charge them to him, the merchant cannot hold the husband responsible, unless it appears that the latter fails to provide necessaries otherwise for his family. If the family is supported in whole, or in part, by the wife, she cannot recover back the money thus expended, from her husband or his estate, as the law places such duty equally on both. Neither husband nor wife can remove the other, nor their children from their homestead without his or her consent, and if he abandons her, she is entitled to the custody of their minor children, unless the district court, upon application for that purpose, shall, for good cause, otherwise direct When either the husband or wife is insane, and incapable of executing a deed, and relinquishing or conveying his or her right to the real property of the other, the sane person may petition the district court of the county where such petitioner resides, or of the county where said real estate is situated, setting forth the facts and praying for an order authorizing the applicant or some other person to execute a deed of conveyance and thereby relinquish the interest of either in the real property of the other Upon such application the court has power to appoint some person or attorney guardian of the person alleged to be insane, who shall ascertain as to the propriety, good faith and necessity of the prayer of the petitioner, and who shall have power to resist said application. If the court is satisfied that the petition is made in good faith, and that the petitioner is the proper person to exercise the power and make the conveyance, and that such power is necessary and proper, said court shall enter up a decree authorizing the execution of all such conveyances, for and in the name of such husband or wife, by such person as the court may appoint All deeds executed by the person thus appointed shall be valid in law, and shall convey the interest of such insane person in the real estate so conveyed; said power shall cease and become void as soon as he or she shall become sane and of sound mind, and apply to the court to revoke said power, and the same shall be evoked; but such revocation shall in nowise affect conveyances previously made. CHAPTER IV. The district court where either party resides, has, jurisdiction of the subject matter of this chapter. . State legislatures have power to grant divorces in all cases where such power has not been conferred on the courts of the state by some constitutional provision or legislative enactment. The legislature of this state has been deprived of the power to grant divorces for any cause by Article 3, Sec.27, of the constitution, which provides that "no divorce shall be granted by the general assembly." A divorce obtained from a court not having jurisdiction is absolutely void. The residence necessary to give the court jurisdiction must be permanent, or at least of a sufficient period of time to indicate an intention of continued residence and citizenship. The general rule is that the domicile of the wife and children is to be considered the same as that of the husband, but in a proceeding for divorce the law recognizes that husband and wife have separate domiciles, and a valid divorce may be granted where only one of the parties resides, but if they reside in different states, the court having jurisdiction of the party making application for the divorce may grant the decree, but it has no authority to make a decree as to the custody of the children, if they are non-residents of the state where the decree of divorce is rendered. A decree of divorce can always be set aside for fraud in obtaining it. When the application for divorce is against a party not residing in this state, the petition, in addition to the facts on account of which the applicant claims the relief sought, must state that such applicant has been for the last year a resident of the state, stating the town and county in which he has resided, and the length of his residence therein, after deducting all absences from the state; that he is now a resident thereof; that such residence has been in good faith and not for the purpose of obtaining a divorce only; and it must in all cases state that the application is made in good faith and for the purpose set forth in the petition. All the allegations of the petition must be verified by oath and proved by competent evidence. No divorce shall be granted on the evidence of the applicant alone, and all such actions shall be heard in open court on the testimony of witnesses or depositions. No divorce can be granted by consent of parties unless grounds therefor can be shown by competent evidence, and if collusion or conrivance on the part of the defendant can be shown, such fact will be a valid defense. Divorce from the bonds of matrimony may be decreed against the husband for the following causes: 1. When he has committed adultery subsequent to the marriage; 2. When he wilfully deserts his wife and absents himself without a reasonable cause for the space of two years; 3. When he is convicted of felony after the marriage; 4. When, after marriage, he becomes addicted to habitual drunkenness; 5. When he is guilty of such inhuman treatment as to endanger the life of his wife. A previous law of our state provided that when it was fully apparent to the court that the parties could not live in peace and happiness together, and that their welfare required a separation, a decree of divorce might be granted, but no valid divorce can now be granted for any other cause than for some one of those enumerated above; and this is true, although it may plainly appear that a party has wholly disregarded his marriage vows and obligations in various other ways. As the direct fact of adultery can seldom be proved, when a divorce is asked on this ground, it will be sufficient if the fact can be shown by circumstances which would be inconsistent with any rational theory of innocence, and such as would lead the guarded discretion of a just mind to the conclusion of the truth of the facts. The disposition of the parties may be shown, with the fact of their being together and having an opportunity to commit the act. A reasonable cause for desertion must be some wrongful conduct on the part of the other party, and must be of such a serious nature that it would _prima facie_ entitle the party deserting to a divorce. If husband and wife mutually agree to separate, such separation will not constitute ground for divorce, unless the party applying for the divorce, in good faith expresses a desire to live with the other. Where the wife is compelled to leave her husband on account of inhuman treatment, such as would entitle her to a divorce, such desertion cannot be made the basis of proceedings for divorce by the husband, for in such case he and not she is guilty of desertion, and this may be alleged by the wife, with other causes, in seeking a divorce. A wife may be justified in leaving her husband because of his failure to protect her from insult and abuse, and when she leaves him for this cause, her desertion will not be grounds for divorce. A conviction for felony which may be subject to reversal does not constitute ground for divorce, but such conviction must be final and absolute. If a woman marries a man knowing him to be intemperate, though she does so in the hope of reforming him, the courts will not interfere after marriage to grant her relief from the result of her misplaced confidence, but where the habit has been acquired subsequent to the marriage and has become fixed and the husband is habitually drunk, though not in such condition during business hours, it is such habitual drunkenness as will entitle the wife to a divorce. Cruel and inhuman treatment, to constitute ground for divorce must be of such a nature as to endanger life, but need not necessarily consist of physical violence. Even where no single act or number of acts can be shown which might cause reasonable apprehension of harm to life, if the ill treatment as an entirety is of a nature to affect the mind and undermine health to such a degree that the life will be ultimately endangered, it will entitle the injured party to a divorce. Ungovernable outbursts of rage, the use of profane and obscene language, applying insulting epithets to the wife in the presence of others, acts of cruelty and neglect in sickness, coupled with failure to provide suitable food and clothing, have all been held to be such cruelty, which, if long continued, would result in danger to life. Condonation is always a valid defense in proceedings for divorce. If the wrong is once forgiven, it cannot afterwards be made a ground for divorce, but the mere fact that a wife continues to live in the same house with her husband, and does the household work, is not such condonation as will defeat her action. The husband may obtain a divorce from his wife for like causes, and also when the wife at the time of the marriage was pregnant by another than her husband, unless such husband had an illegitimate child or children then living, which was unknown to the wife at the time of the marriage. In many other states, divorce will be granted to the husband, for the cause here named, but in no other state is it provided that in such case, a husband who had an illegitimate child at the time of the marriage, unknown to the wife, cannot take advantage of this fact to obtain a divorce. The defendant may obtain a divorce for the causes as above stated, by filing a cross petition. The court may order either party to pay the clerk a sum of money for the separate support and maintenance of the adverse party and the children, and to enable such party to prosecute or defend the action. In applying for an order granting temporary alimony it is not necessary to show that the party making the application is entitled to a divorce. It is sufficient if it appears that such party is without means of support and unable to prosecute the action without such allowance. The fact of marriage must be either admitted or proved. The court may allow attorney's fees in proceedings for divorce and alimony, but the party against whom the action is brought, is not liable, if the other party is unsuccessful. Where the applicant for divorce is ordered to pay a certain sum of money to enable the defendant to defend, it he fails to obey this order, the action may be dismissed. If it appears that the father is an unfit person to have the custody of the children, pending a proceeding for divorce, the court has power to provide for their custody and maintenance as may be for the best interest of the children. A judgment or order for temporary alimony is a lien upon the property of the person against whom the order is directed, and such property may be levied upon by attachment and held to satisfy the decree of the court. Attachment may be allowed without bond and it may be granted in a suit to annul an illegal marriage as well as in one for divorce. It may be levied on the homestead as well as other property. The disposition of property by the defendant may also be restrained by injunction. In making such orders, the court or judge shall take into consideration the age, condition, sex and pecuniary condition of the parties, and such other matters as are deemed pertinent, which may be shown by affidavits in addition to the pleadings or otherwise, as the court or judge may direct. When a divorce is decreed, the court may make such order in relation to the children, property, parties, and the maintenance of the parties as shall be right and proper. Subsequent changes may be made by the court, in these respects when circumstances render them expedient. In granting a divorce, full power is given the court over the questions of permanent alimony and custody of children, and the amount of alimony will be determined by a careful consideration of the circumstances of the parties. The allowance is usually for a certain sum of money, but the court may set apart a specific portion of property as alimony. Only in rare cases and under peculiar circumstances will alimony be granted to the party in fault. A judgment for alimony may be made a lien upon specific property, and the court may declare it a lien on the homestead. The court granting a divorce and alimony retains jurisdiction of the same, and upon a subsequent change in the circumstances of the parties, may modify or change the decree in relation to alimony and custody of children as may seem just and proper and for the best interests of all parties. A suit for alimony without divorce may be brought, where the wife has been compelled to leave her husband on account of misconduct on his part justifying the separation. The disposition of the children is entirely within the discretion of the court, and the custody may be given to either party or may be taken from both and given to a guardian, if it can be shown that neither parent is a proper person to care for them. The best good of the child will be the first and most important consideration in determining to whom the custody shall be given. When a divorce is decreed the guilty party forfeits all rights acquired by the marriage. After a decree of divorce neither party can have any interest in the property of the other except that which is granted by the decree, and this applies to claim for dower in case of survival. Marriages may be annulled for the following causes: 1. Where marriage between the parties is prohibited by law. 2. Where either party was impotent at the time of the marriage. 3. Where either party has a husband or wife at the time of the marriage, provided they have not continued to live and cohabit together after the death of the former husband or wife. 4. Where either party was insane or idiotic at the time of the marriage. If a person marries who has a husband or wife living such marriage is absolutely void. In case of absence of the husband a presumption of death does not arise until he has been absent seven years without intelligence concerning him. Where a party is insane or idiotic, and is therefore incapable of consenting, a marriage with such person will be void. When a marriage is absolutely void by law, it is not necessary to bring an action to annul it, before contracting a subsequent legal marriage. A petition shall be filed in such cases as in actions for divorce, and all the provisions of this chapter shall apply to such cases except as otherwise provided. When the validity of a marriage is doubted, either party may file a petition and the court shall decree it annulled or affirmed according to the proof. When a marriage is annulled on account of the consanguinity or affinity of the parties, or because of impotency, the issue shall be illegitimate, but when on account of non-age, or insanity, or idiocy, the issue is the legitimate issue of the party capable of contracting marriage. When a marriage is annulled on account of a prior marriage, and the parties contracted the second in good faith, believing the prior husband or wife to be dead, that fact shall be stated in the degree of nullity; and the issue of the second marriage, begotten before the decree of the court, is the legitimate issue of the parent capable of contracting. In case either party entered into the contract of marriage in good faith, supposing the other to be capable of contracting, and the marriage is declared a nullity, such fact shall be entered in the decree, and the court may decree such innocent party compensation as in cases of divorce. CHAPTER V. MINORS AND GUARDIANSHIP. The period of minority extends in males to the age of twenty-one years, and in females to that of eighteen, but all minors attain their majority by marriage. The disability of minority may also be terminated by death. A minor is bound not only by contracts for necessaries, but also for his other contracts, unless he disaffirms them within a reasonable time after he attains his majority, and restores to the other party all money or property received by him by virtue of the contract and remaining within his control at any time after his attaining his majority. The rule respecting the contract of an infant is, that when the court can pronounce it to be to the infant's prejudice, it is void, and when to his benefit, as for necessaries, it is good, and when of uncertain nature, it is voidable, at the election of the infant. As to what will be "a reasonable time," within which a minor must disaffirm his contract, must depend upon the peculiar circumstances of each case. In case of the marriage of a minor the time for disaffirmance will commence from the date of the marriage. The intention of this law is to limit the time in which a minor may take advantage of his minority and disaffirm his contracts, but the disaffirmance may be either before or after majority, if within a reasonable time after becoming of age. The minor is under no obligation to restore money or property, unless it is the identical money or property received by virtue of the contract, and he may therefore disaffirm his contract without rendering back the consideration, if such consideration is no longer under his control. No contract can be thus disaffirmed in cases, where on account of the minor's own misrepresentations as to his majority, or from his having engaged in business as an adult, the other party had good reason to believe the minor capable of contracting. If the fact of minority is known to the other party, the minor will not be bound by his contracts, although he may be engaged in business as an adult. The fact that he is engaged in business on his own account will alone be sufficient evidence to authorize others to conclude that he has attained his majority and will make all contracts to which he is a party, binding upon him. The parents are the natural guardians of their minor children and are equally entitled to the care and custody of them. While a parent is the natural guardian of his child, this guardianship is not absolute, and may be lost by any misconduct on the part of the parent which would render it not best for the child to remain in his care and under his control. The duty of furnishing support to minor children rests equally upon both parents, but neither one is legally liable for the support of their adult children. An adult child living at home in the family of the parent, being supported as a member of the family, and performing services in the household, cannot recover payment for such services in the absence of an express contract on the part of the parent to pay for them. A stepfather stands in the position of a parent to the children of his wife by a former husband, _provided_, he receives them into his family. He is entitled to their services and is responsible for their education and maintenance. The parents can at any time consent to surrender the custody of their minor children and transfer this custody to another by agreement. Articles of adoption properly executed according to the requirements of the law upon that subject, are necessary to invest another with the rights and responsibilities of a parent. Either parent dying before the other, the survivor becomes the guardian. If there be no parent or guardian qualified and competent to discharge the duty, the district court shall appoint a guardian. If the minor has property not derived from either parent, a guardian must be appointed to manage such property, which may be either parent, if suitable and proper. If the minor be over the age of fourteen years and of sound intellect, he may select his own guardian, subject to the approval of the district court of the county where his parents, or either of them resides; or, if such minor is living separate and apart from his parents, the district court of the county where he resides has jurisdiction. Guardians of the persons of minors have the same power and control over them that parents would have if living. Guardians of the property of minors must prosecute and defend for their wards. They must also in other respects manage their interests under the direction of the court. They may thus lease their lands or loan their money during their minority, and may do all other acts which the court may deem for the benefit of the ward. All power of the guardian over the estate of his ward is derived from the appointment of the court, but an appointment as guardian will not authorize a sale of property, nor an investment or disposal of money belonging to the ward, without a special order of the court. All expenses for the education and maintenance of the ward must be kept within the income of his estate. If this should not be sufficient the principal may be resorted to, but not without an order of the court. All transactions between guardian and ward, where the former has secured an apparent advantage, by way of gift, or contract or settlement, will be presumed to have been the result of undue influence, and will be set aside by a court of equity, unless it can be shown that they were made in good faith and for a fair and valuable consideration. The foreign guardian of any non-resident minor, may be appointed the guardian in this state of such minor, by the district court of the county wherein he has any property, for the purpose of selling or otherwise controlling that and all other property of such minor within the state, unless a guardian has previously been appointed under the preceding section. The foreign guardian of any non-resident idiot, lunatic or person of unsound mind may be appointed the guardian of such ward by the district court in like manner and with like effect in all cases where the foreign guardian of a non-resident minor could be appointed the guardian of such minor in this state. Such guardian shall have the same powers and be subject to the same liabilities as guardians of resident minors. When a petition is presented to the district court, verified by affidavit, that any inhabitant of the county is: 1. An idiot, lunatic, or person of unsound mind; 2. An habitual drunkard incapable of managing his affairs; 3. A spendthrift who is squandering his property, and the allegations of the petition have been satisfactorily proved upon the trial, such court may appoint a guardian of the property of any such person, who shall be the guardian of the minor children of his ward, unless the court otherwise orders. Such court may also appoint the guardian of the property of an habitual drunkard as the guardian of his person. If the person adjudged to be an habitual drunkard has no property, the court may appoint a guardian of his person. The district court or any judge thereof, may, from time to time, enter such orders as may be necessary, authorizing the guardian of the person of such habitual drunkard to confine and restrain him in such manner and in such place within the state as may, by the court or judge, be considered best for the purpose of preventing such drunkard from using intoxicating liquors, and as may tend to his reformation. When it is sought to have a guardian appointed for a person of unsound mind, the test of his mental capacity is not the degree of prudence and foresight he manifests in the management of his affairs, for "the law does not assume to measure the different degrees of power of the human intellect, or to distinguish between them where the power of thought and reason exists," but the question to be determined is whether or not he possesses sufficient ability to understand in a reasonable manner the nature and effect of his acts, or the business he is transacting. "Although the mind of an individual may be to some extent impaired by age or disease, still, if he is capable of transacting his ordinary business, if he understands the nature of the business in which he is engaged and the effect of what he is doing and can exercise his will with reference thereto, his acts will be valid," and he will not be adjudged to be of unsound mind and incapable of managing his business affairs. Whenever the sale of the real estate of such ward is necessary for his support or the support of his family or the payment of his debts, or will be for the interest of his estate or children, the guardian may sell the same under like proceedings as required by law to authorize the sale of real estate by the guardian of a minor. The court shall, if necessary, set off to the wife and children under fifteen years of age, of the insane person or to either sufficient of his property of such kind as it shall deem appropriate to support them for twelve months from the time he was adjudged insane. The priority of claim to the custody of any insane person, habitual drunkard, or spendthrift aforesaid, shall be: 1. The legally appointed guardian. 2. The husband or wife. 3. The parents. 4. The children. CHAPTER VI. Any minor child may be bound to service until the attainment of the age of legal majority as hereinafter described. Such binding must be by written indenture, specifying the age of the minor and the terms of agreement. If the minor is more than twelve years of age and not a pauper, the indenture must be signed by him of his own free will. A written consent must be appended to or endorsed upon such agreement, and signed by one of the following persons, to-wit: 1. By the father of the minor; but if he is dead or has abandoned his family, or is for any cause incapacitated from giving his assent, then 2. By the mother; and if she be dead or unable, or incapacitated for giving such assent, then, 3. By the guardian; and if there be no guardian, then by the clerk of the district court. Upon complaint being made to the district court of the proper county, verified by affidavit, that the father or mother of a minor child is from habitual intemperance and vicious and brutal conduct, or from vicious, brutal and criminal conduct toward said minor child, an unsuitable person to retain the guardianship and control the education of such child, the court may, if it find the allegations in the complaint manifestly true, appoint a proper guardian for the child, and may if expedient, also direct that said child be bound as an apprentice to some suitable person until he attains his majority. But nothing herein shall be so construed as to take such minor child if the mother be a proper guardian. The same proceedings may take place and a like order be made, when the mother, who for any cause became the guardian of her minor child, is in like manner found to be manifestly an improper person to retain such guardianship. The master shall send said minor child, after the same be six years old, to school at least four months in each year, if there be a school in the district, and at all times the master shall clothe the minor in a comfortable and becoming manner. Any person competent to make a will is authorized in manner hereinafter set forth, to adopt as his own the minor child of another, conferring thereby upon such child all the rights, privileges and responsibilities which would pertain to the child if born to the person adopting, in lawful wedlock. In order thereto, the consent of both parents if living and not divorced or separated, and if divorced or separated, or, if unmarried, the consent of the parent lawfully having the care and providing for the wants of the child, or if either parent is dead, then the consent of the survivor, or if both parents be dead, or the child shall have been and remain abandoned by them, then the consent of the mayor of the city where the child is living, or if not in a city, then the clerk of the district court of the county where the child is living, shall be given to such adoption, by an instrument in writing signed by the parties or party consenting, and stating the names of the parents, if known, the name of the child, if known, the name of the person adopting such child, and the residence of all, if known, and declaring the name by which such child is hereafter to be called and known, and stating also that such child is to be given to the person adopting, for the purpose of adoption as his own child. Such instrument in writing shall be also signed by the person adopting and shall be acknowledged by all parties thereto in the same manner as deeds affecting real estate are required to be acknowledged; and shall be recorded in the recorder's office in the county where the person adopting resides, and shall be indexed with the name of the parents by adoption as grantors and the child as grantee, in its original name if stated in the instrument, A strict compliance in every particular with the provisions of the statutes is essential to constitute a legal adoption and to confer upon the adopted child rights of inheritance. If a minor child has a guardian his consent must be obtained before the child can be legally adopted. Upon the execution, acknowledgment and filing for record of such instrument, the rights, duties and relations between the parent and child by adoption, shall, thereafter, in all respects, including the right of inheritance, be the same that exists by law between parent and child by lawful birth. . The right of a child by adoption to inherit from the parents by adoption, depends upon a strict compliance with the requirements of the law in every particular, including the acknowledgment and recording of the articles of adoption. It is also essential that the instrument shall be filed for record before the death of the adopted parent and while the child is a minor. A child by adoption does not lose the right to inherit from his natural parents, but is entitled to all rights of inheritance from both natural and adopted parents. In case of maltreatment committed or allowed by the adopted parent, or palpable neglect of duty on his part, toward such child, the custody thereof may be taken from him and entrusted to another at his expense, if so ordered by the district court of the county where the parent resides; or the court may, on showing of the facts, require from the adopted parent, bond with security, in a sum to be fixed by him, the county being the obligee, and for the benefit of the child, conditioned for the proper treatment and performance of duty towards the child on the part of the parent; but no action of the court in the premises shall affect or diminish the acquired right of inheritance on the part of the child, to the extent of such right in a child of natural birth. Any home for the friendless incorporated under the laws of this state, shall have authority to receive, control and dispose of minor children, under the following provisions. In case of the death or legal incapacity of the father, or in case of his abandoning or neglecting to provide for his children, the mother shall be considered their legal guardian for the purpose of making surrender of them to the charge and custody of such corporation; and in all cases where the person or persons legally authorized to act as the guardian or guardians of any child are not known, the mayor of the town or city where such home is located, may, in his discretion, surrender such child to said home. In case it shall be shown to any judge of a court of record, or to the mayor, or to any justice of the peace, within such city or town, that the father of any child is dead, or has abandoned his family, or is an habitual drunkard, or imprisoned for crime, and the mother of such child is an habitual drunkard or is in prison for crime, or the inmate of a house of ill-fame, or is dead or has abandoned her family, or that the parents of any child have abandoned or neglected to provide for it, then such judge, mayor, or justice of the peace may, if he thinks the welfare of the child requires it, surrender such child to said home. When a child has been surrendered to any home for the friendless according to the provisions of these sections, such home becomes the legal guardian of such child, and may exercise the rights and authority of parents over such children and may apprentice or provide for the adoption of the same. CHAPTER VII. Any person of full age and sound mind may dispose, by will, of all his property except what is sufficient to pay his debts, or what is allowed as a homestead, or otherwise given by law as privileged property to his wife and family. The validity of a will depends upon the mental capacity of a testator and the fact that he was uninfluenced in making the disposition of his property. If it appears that the testator was incapable of exercising discretion and sound judgment and of fully realizing the effect and consequences of the will, though he may not be absolutely insane, he will not be in such mental condition that he can make a legal will. If he is of weak mind and it appears that he was imposed upon or unduly influenced, such facts will invalidate the will. A testator having testamentary capacity may dispose of his property in any manner, and to any person he may choose, and may deprive his heirs of any share in his estate, without any explanation or any express declaration of disinheritance. The fact that a will is unjust and unreasonable, in the absence of proof of undue influence, or insufficient capacity, will not render the will void. Property to be subsequently acquired may be devised when the intention is clear and explicit. If the intention to convey property acquired after the execution of the will is apparent or may be inferred from a fair construction of the language used, it will be sufficient, although the intention may not be directly expressed. Personal property to the value of three hundred dollars may be bequeathed by a verbal will, if witnessed by two competent witnesses. A soldier in actual service, or a mariner at sea, may dispose of all his personal estate by a will so made and witnessed. All other wills, to be valid, must be in writing, witnessed by two competent witnesses and signed by the testator, or by some other person in his presence and by his express direction. It is necessary that the witnesses shall subscribe the will, but not that they shall have any knowledge of its contents, nor that they shall see the testator sign it. It is sufficient if the signature is adopted or acknowledged in their presence. If a will is made with the intention of disposing of real property it must be executed according to the requirements of the laws of the state where the real property is situated. No subscribing witness to any will can derive any benefit therefrom, unless there be two disinterested and competent witnesses to the same. But if, without a will, he would be entitled to any portion of the testator's estate, he may still receive such portion to the extent in value of the amount devised. Wills can be revoked in whole or in part, only by being canceled or destroyed by the act or direction of the testator with the intention of so revoking them, or by the execution of subsequent wills. The birth of a child after the execution of a will but before the death of the testator, operates as a revocation of the will, and the birth and recognition of an illegitimate child has the same effect. Declarations of the testator to the effect that he intended to revoke the will, will not be sufficient to prove a cancellation. When done by cancellation, the revocation must be witnessed in the same manner as the making of a new will. If no executors are named in the will, one or more may be appointed to carry it into effect. Posthumous children unprovided for by the father's will, shall inherit the same interest as though no will had been made. If a devisee die before the testator, his heirs shall inherit the amount so devised to him unless from the terms of the will a contrary intent is manifest. The word heir in this section does not include the widow of the testator, and she cannot inherit from a child to whom property has been devised by his father, but who has died before the father. A married woman may act as executor independent of her husband. If a minor under eighteen years of age is appointed executor, there is a temporary vacancy as to him until he reaches that age. In other cases where an executor is not appointed by will, administration shall be granted: 1. To the wife of the deceased; 2. To his next of kin; 3. To his creditors; 4. To any other person whom the court may select. Individuals belonging to the same or different classes, may be united as administrators whenever such course is deemed expedient. To each of the above classes in succession a period of twenty days, commencing with the burial of the deceased, is allowed within which to apply for administration upon the estate. CHAPTER VIII. When the deceased leaves a widow, all the personal property which, in his hands as head of the family, would be exempt from execution, after being inventoried and appraised, shall be set apart to her as her property in her own right, and be exempt in her hands as in the hands of the decedent. This provision secures an advantage to the wife which does not exist in favor of the husband. Upon the death of the wife all personal property belonging to her, whether exempt or not, passes to her administrator to be distributed by him among her heirs. A widow is not entitled to pension money, although the same was exempt in the hands of her husband, the exemption being for the benefit of the pensioner as such, and not as head of a family. The avails of any life insurance or any other sum of money made payable by any mutual aid or benevolent society upon the death of a member of such society, are not subject to the debts of the deceased, except by special contract or arrangement, but shall in other respects, be disposed of like other property left by the deceased. A policy of insurance on the life of an individual, in the absence of an agreement or assignment to the contrary shall inure to the separate use of the husband or wife and children of said individual, independently of his or her creditors. And the avails of all policies of insurance on the life of an individual payable to his surviving widow, shall be exempt from liabilities for all debts of such beneficiary contracted prior to the death of the deceased, provided that in any case the total exemption for the benefit of any one person shall not exceed the sum of five thousand dollars. The contract between the assured and the insurance company, cannot be changed in any particular without the consent of the company, and a testator cannot, by will, change the beneficiary named in the policy unless it is expressly so provided in the contract. Where a policy is made payable to the assured or his legal representatives, the proceeds of the policy will pass to the administrator of his estate, and will be paid to the wife and children, but no part can be distributed to other heirs. If the assured leaves a wife or husband and no children, the entire proceeds of the policy will go to the wife or husband, and after they have passed into the hands of the beneficiary, they will not be subject to execution for the payment of his or her debts, provided they do not exceed the sum of five thousand dollars. A wife is not her husband's "legal heir" and the entire proceeds of a policy or certificate of insurance made payable to the assured or his "legal heirs" will go to the children of the deceased. The court shall if necessary, set off to the widow and children under fifteen years of age, of the decedent, or to either, sufficient of the property of such kind as it shall deem appropriate to support them for twelve months from the time of his death. The allowance to the widow takes priority over all other claims against the estate, and should be paid immediately. If the widow and children have no other means of support the allowance may be made though the estate is insolvent. It is no part of the dower interest, but is a separate and distinct right which may be made in addition to dower, or even in cases where by contract made before marriage, all rights to dower and inheritance have been relinquished. Real estate may be sold if necessary, where the personal property is not sufficient to provide for the allowance to the widow and children, and the widow may claim the allowance although there are no children, and she may have property of her own, if the income of such property is not sufficient for her support. As soon as the executors are possessed of sufficient means, over and above the expenses of administration, they shall pay off the charges of the last sickness and funeral of deceased. They shall, in the next place, pay any allowance which may be made by the court for the maintenance of the widow and minor children. After the funeral expenses and the allowance to the widow and children have been paid, the claims against the estate will be discharged in the order provided by law, after which, the balance of the property, devised by will after all expenses of administration have been paid, will be distributed to the different legatees. The personal property of the deceased, not necessary for the payment of debts, nor otherwise disposed of as hereinbefore provided, shall be distributed to the same persons and in the same proportions as though it were real estate. A husband cannot, by will, deprive his wife of her share in his personal estate, after his death, but he may dispose of it during his lifetime in any manner he may choose. The distributive shares shall be paid over as fast as the executors can properly do so. The property itself shall be distributed in kind whenever that can be done satisfactorily and equitably. In other cases the court may direct the property to be sold, and the proceeds to be distributed. When the circumstances of the family require it, the court, in addition to what is hereinbefore set apart for their use, may direct a partial distribution of the money or effects on hand. One-third in value of all the legal or equitable estates in real property, possessed by the husband at any time during the marriage, which have not been sold on execution or other judicial sale, and to which the wife has made no relinquishment of her right, shall be set apart as her property in fee-simple, if she survive him. The same share of the real estate of a deceased wife shall be set apart to the surviving husband. All provisions made in this chapter in regard to the widow of a deceased husband, shall be applicable to the surviving husband of a deceased wife. The estates of dower and curtesy are hereby abolished. While the estate of dower is abolished by statute, and a wife takes her distributive share of the property in its stead, yet this distributive share is still commonly designated by the term "dower." The dower interest of the wife is not subject to the debts of her husband. A wife may release her right of dower in real property by joining in a joint deed with her husband, although the deed may contain no express relinquishment of dower. Contracts between husband and wife, though for a legal and valuable consideration, or with a view to separation are invalid, the interest of either during the lifetime of both, being merely contingent and inchoate, but an agreement previous to marriage by which each waives all right in the other's estate, or by which the wife relinquishes her right of dower, is valid. A woman can claim no dower in her husband's estate, after his death, if she has procured a divorce from him while living and the divorce is in force at the time of his death. Where the provisions of a will gives the wife a certain interest in the estate, she may always elect whether she will take her dower interest or under the will. The distributive share of the widow shall be so set off as to include the ordinary dwelling-house given by law to the homestead, or so much thereof as will be equal to the share allotted to her by the last section, unless she prefers a different arrangement. But no different arrangement shall be permitted where it would have the effect of prejudicing the rights of creditors. If the distributive share of either husband or wife is set out to the survivor from the homestead, it will still retain its homestead character, and will be exempt from execution for the payment of debts. The widow of a non-resident alien shall be entitled to the same rights in the property of her husband, as a resident, except as against a purchaser from the decedent. The term "non-resident alien" does not refer to one who resides out of the United States, but to non-residents of the state, who may reside in other states; the purpose of the statute being to encourage the purchase of lands within the state from non-resident owners, and to protect purchasers of such real estate from claims for dower or distributive share therein. The share thus allotted to her may be set off by the mutual consent of all parties interested, when such consent can be obtained, or it may be set off by referees appointed by the court. The application for such measurement by referees, may be made any time after twenty days and within ten years after the death of the husband, and must specify the particular tracts of land in which she claims her share, and ask the appointment of referees. The widow's share cannot be affected by any will of her husband, unless she consents thereto within six months after notice to her of the provisions of the will by the other parties interested in the estate, which consent shall be entered on the proper records of the district court. This provision applies equally to the husband's rights under the will of the wife, and it applies to wills made before marriage, as well as to those executed after marriage. Where there is no express provision in the will that a devise to the wife is in lieu of dower, she will take her distributive share of the estate in addition to the property devised to her by will, unless the allowance of dower would be inconsistent with other provisions of the will. The devise of a life estate to a wife will not defeat her right to her distributive share in the real estate owned by the husband at the time of his death. Subject to the rights and charges hereinbefore contemplated, the remaining estate of which the decedent died, shall, in the absence of other arrangements by will, descend in equal shares to his children. If any one of his children be dead, the heirs of such child shall inherit his share in accordance with the rules herein prescribed in the same manner as though such child had outlived his parents. The mother of a child which dies while both of its parents are living cannot, upon the death of its father, claim any share in his estate, as heir of such child. If the intestate leave no issue, the one-half of his estate shall go to his parents and the other half to his wife; if he leaves no wife, the portion which would have gone to her, shall go to his parents, The one-third which the wife takes as her distributive share is all that may be held exempt from debts. The additional share of the estate which she takes in case there are no children, is subject to claims by creditors of the husband. If one of his parents be dead, the portion which would have gone to such deceased parent, shall go to the surviving parent, including the portion which would have gone to the intestate's wife had she been living. If both parents be dead, then the portion which would have fallen to their share, by the above rules shall be disposed of in the same manner as if they had outlived the intestate and died in the possession and ownership of the portion thus falling to their share, and so on through ascending ancestors and their issue. If heirs are not thus found, the portion uninherited shall go to the wife of the intestate, or to her heirs if dead, according to like rules; and if he has had more than one wife who either died or survived in lawful wedlock, it shall be equally divided between the one who is living and the heirs of those who are dead, or between the heirs of all, if all are dead, such heirs taking by right of representation. Property given by an intestate by way of advancement to an heir, shall be considered part of the estate so far as regards the division and distribution thereof, and shall be taken by such heir, towards his share of the estate at what it would now be worth if in the condition in which it was given to him. But if such advancement exceeds the amount to which he would be entitled, he cannot be required to refund any portion thereof. A gift to an heir by way of advancement, cannot be considered as any part of the estate for the purpose of increasing the distributive share of the widow, but is to be estimated as part of such heir's share of the property, after the allowance to the wife of her interest. If there be property remaining uninherited, it shall escheat to the state. Illegitimate children inherit from the mother and the mother from the children. A child born at any time during lawful wedlock is presumed by the law to be legitimate, but where questions of inheritance are involved, this presumption may be overcome by proof to the contrary. They shall inherit from the father whenever the paternity is proven during the life of the father, or they have been recognized by him as his children, but such recognition must have been general and notorious or else in writing. The recognition in writing need not be a formal avowal. Any writing, as by letter or otherwise, is sufficient. For the purposes of inheritance an illegitimate child stands on exactly the same footing as if it were legitimate after it has been recognized by the father, and the birth and recognition of such child revoke a will in the same manner as the birth of a legitimate child, subsequent to the execution of the will. Under such circumstances, if the recognition of relationship has been mutual, the father may inherit from his illegitimate children. CHAPTER IX. Where there is no special declaration of the statute to the contrary, the homestead of every family, whether owned by the husband or wife is exempt from judicial sale, A homestead right may exist in property purchased under a bond for a deed, if payments have been made and the purchaser is in possession. Actual occupancy is necessary to invest property with the homestead character, but as the exemption right is for the benefit of the whole family and not alone of the owner, the fact that the head of the family is absent, and may even have acquired property and residence in another state with the intention of removing his family there, will not divest the homestead of its exemption right, so long as the family continues to occupy it. And the fact that the husband has abandoned the homestead will not affect the homestead right, so long as the wife and family remain in occupancy. The homestead right may belong to one of several tenants in common of undivided property, or in a leasehold interest. It may attach to portions of a building--as where rooms or floors in a building are used for homestead purposes and the rest of the building is not so used. Where part of a building is owned or occupied by a family as a home, and the other part is used for a different purpose, that part used as a home may be exempt, while the other portion may be sold under execution. The exemption right may be lost by the execution of a mortgage or contract expressly making the homestead liable, in which both husband and wife join; or it may be forfeited when the homestead is used as a saloon or for any other purpose in violation of the prohibitory liquor law, with the knowledge and consent of the owner, and this is true even though such unlawful use is without the consent of the wife of the owner. In such case it is subject to judgment obtained because of such illegal use. If the homestead is sold, the proceeds are exempt only when invested in the purchase of another homestead, but the exemption does not follow the proceeds out of the state, and where the homestead was sold and the proceeds invested in a homestead in another state, and this was afterwards sold and the proceeds again invested in a homestead in this state, it was held that the homestead exemption did not attach to the second homestead in Iowa. Removal from the homestead without intention of returning will be sufficient to forfeit the homestead right, but the length of time of absence, in itself, will not constitute abandonment, so long as the intention to return exists. A widow or widower, though without children, shall be deemed a family while continuing to occupy the house used as such at the time of the death of the husband or wife. A conveyance or incumbrance by the owner is of no validity unless the husband and wife, if the owner is married, concur in, and sign the joint instrument. Any conveyance or contract, such as a mortgage, lease, assignment of contract of purchase, or any act in any manner affecting the title or right of occupancy of the homestead by either party, will be absolutely void, unless concurred in by the other. If the consent of the wife is fraudulently obtained by the husband, the conveyance or incumbrance will be valid, unless it appears that the purchaser or mortgagee had knowledge of the fraud. A mortgage given for the purchase money will be valid though given alone by the party taking the legal title. The homestead is liable for taxes accruing thereon, and if platted as hereinafter directed, is liable only for such taxes and subject to mechanics' liens for work, labor, or material, done or furnished exclusively for the improvement of the same, and the whole or a sufficient portion thereof may be sold to pay the same. All the taxes against the owner of the homestead become liens thereon, unless it is platted as directed by statute. The homestead may be sold on execution for debts contracted prior to the purchase thereof, but it shall not in such case be sold except to supply the deficiency remaining after exhausting the other property of the debtor liable to execution. Debts contracted after the acquisition of the property, but before it has acquired the homestead character by actual occupancy, may be enforced against the property. A judgment upon a debt contracted prior to the purchase of the homestead, although such judgment is not rendered until after the property has acquired the homestead character, is a lien upon the homestead. The homestead may be sold for debts created by written contract, executed by the persons having the power to convey and expressly stipulating that the homestead is liable therefor, but it shall not in such case be sold except to supply the deficiency remaining after exhausting the other property pledged for the payment of the debt in the same written contract. Any written contract other than a mortgage or other conveyance, will be sufficient to render the homestead liable for debts, provided it contains the necessary stipulations, and is signed by the proper parties. The homestead must embrace the house used as a home by the owner thereof, and if he has two or more houses thus used by him at different times and places, he may select which he will retain as his homestead. The husband may select his homestead and make the same his home without the consent of his wife, and the absence of the wife will not affect its homestead character. The fact that the husband is the legal head of the family invests him with the power of establishing his home wherever he may choose, with or without the assent of his wife. Use is essential to give property a homestead character, and an intention to occupy is not sufficient in the absence of actual residence. It may contain one or more lots or tracts of land with the buildings thereon and other appurtenances, subject to the limitations contained in the next section, but must in no case embrace different lots or tracts, unless they are contiguous, or unless they are habitually and in good faith used as a part of the same homestead. If within a town plat it must not exceed one-half an acre in extent, and if not within a town plat, it must not embrace in the aggregate more than forty acres. But if, when thus limited, in either case, its value is less than five hundred dollars, it may be enlarged until it reaches that amount. It must not embrace more than one dwelling house, or any other buildings except as such are properly appurtenant to the homestead; but a shop or other building situated thereon, and really used and occupied by the owner in the prosecution of his own ordinary business, and not exceeding three hundred dollars in value, may be deemed appurtenant to such homestead. The owner or the husband or wife, may select the homestead and cause it to be marked out, platted, and recorded as provided in the next section. A failure in this respect does not leave the homestead liable, but the officer having an execution against the property of such defendant, may cause the homestead to be marked off, platted and recorded and may add the expense thence arising to the amount embraced in the execution. The homestead shall be marked off by fixed and visible monuments, and in giving the description thereof, the direction and distance of the starting point from some corner of the dwelling-house shall be stated. The description and plat shall then be recorded by the recorder in a book to be called the "homestead book," which shall be provided with a proper index. The owner may from time to time change the limits of the homestead by changing the metes and bounds, as well as the record of the plat and description, or may change it entirely, but such changes shall not prejudice conveyances or liens made or created previously thereto, and no change of the entire homestead made without the concurrence of the husband or wife, shall affect his or her right or those of the children. The new homestead, to the extent in value of the old, is exempt from execution in all cases where the old or former homestead would have been exempt, but in no other, nor in any greater degree. Upon the death of either husband or wife, the survivor may continue to possess and occupy the whole homestead until it is disposed of according to law. The survivor may elect to retain the homestead in lieu of his or her distributive stare of the estate, but in such case the interest is not one which confers any title to the property which can be conveyed or which will descend to heirs or be subject to the lieu of a judgment, but it is merely a life interest which may be terminated whenever the survivor ceases to use and occupy the homestead as such. Whenever the survivor elects to retain the homestead during life in lieu of dower, it cannot be changed for another homestead, and the right will be lost by abandonment. The setting off of the distributive share of the husband or wife in the real estate of the deceased, shall be such a disposal of the homestead as is contemplated in the preceding section. But the survivor may elect to retain the homestead for life in lieu of such share in the real estate of the deceased; but if there be no such survivor, the homestead descends to the issue of either husband or wife according to the rules of descent, unless otherwise directed by will, and is to be held by such issue exempt from any antecedent debts of their parents or their own. If there is no such survivor or issue the homestead is liable to be sold for the payment of any debts to which it might at that time be subjected, if it had never been held as a homestead. Subject to the rights of the surviving husband or wife, as declared by law, the homestead may be devised like other real estate of the testator. The homestead will remain exempt in the hands of the heirs because of the homestead right of the ancestors, although the property is not occupied as a homestead by such heirs. If a debtor is a resident of this state, and is the head of a family, he may hold exempt from execution the following property: All wearing apparel of himself and family kept for actual use and suitable to their condition, and the trunks or other receptacles necessary to contain the same; one musket or rifle and shot-gun; all private libraries, family bibles, portraits, pictures, musical instruments, and paintings, not kept for the purpose of sale; a seat or pew occupied by the debtor or his family in any house of public worship; an interest in a public or private burying ground, not exceeding one acre for any defendant; two cows and calf; one horse, unless a horse is exempt as hereinafter provided; fifty sheep and the wool therefrom and the materials manufactured from such wool; six stands of bees; five hogs, and all pigs under six months; the necessary food for all animals exempt from execution, for six months; all flax raised by the defendant on not exceeding one acre of ground and the manufactures therefrom; one bedstead and the necessary bedding for every two in the family; all cloth manufactured by the defendant, not exceeding one hundred yards in quantity; household and kitchen furniture, not exceeding two hundred dollars in value; all spinning-wheels and looms, one sewing machine and other instruments of domestic labor kept for actual use; the necessary provisions and fuel for the use of the family for six months; the proper tools, instruments or books of the debtor, if a farmer, mechanic, surveyor, clergyman, lawyer, physician, teacher or professor; the horse or the team consisting of not more than two horses or mules, or two yoke of cattle, and the wagon or other vehicle with the proper harness or tackle, by the use of which the debtor, if a physician, public officer, farmer, teamster, or other laborer habitually earns his living; and to the debtor, if a printer, there shall also be exempt a printing press and a newspaper office connected therewith, not to exceed in all the value of twelve hundred dollars. Any person entitled to any of the exemptions mentioned in this section does not waive his rights thereto by failing to designate or select such exempt property or by failing to object to a levy thereon, unless failing or refusing so to do when required to make such designation or selection by the officers about to levy. The husband and not the wife is recognized by law as the "head of the family," but upon the death of the husband the wife becomes the head of the family and as such is entitled to these exemptions. All life insurance is exempt from the debts of the assured and from those of his widow contracted prior to his death, provided such exemption does not exceed the sum of five thousand dollars. The word "family," as used in section 4297, does not include strangers or boarders lodging with the family. The earnings of such debtor for his personal services, or those of his family, at any time within ninety days next preceding the levy, are also exempt from execution and attachment. There shall be exempt to an unmarried man not the head of a family, and to non-residents their ordinary wearing apparel and trunk necessary to contain the same. When the debtor, if the head of a family, has started to leave this state, he shall have exempt only the ordinary wearing apparel of himself and family, and such other property, in addition, as he may select, in all not exceeding seventy-five dollars in value; which property shall be selected by the debtor and appraised; but any person coming into this state with the intention of remaining shall be considered a resident. None of the exemptions prescribed in this chapter shall be allowed against an execution issued for the purchase money of property claimed to be exempt, and on which such execution is levied. Where a debtor absconds and leaves his family, such property shall be exempt in the hands of the wife and children, or either of them. If the debtor is a seamstress, one sewing-machine shall be exempt from execution and attachment. All money received by any person, resident of the state, as a pension from the United States government; whether the same shall be in the actual possession of such pensioner, or deposited, loaned, or invested by him, shall be exempt from execution or attachment, or seizure by or under any legal process whatever, whether such pensioner shall be the head of a family or not. The homestead of every such pensioner, whether the head of a family or not, purchased and paid for with any such pension money, or the proceeds or accumulations of such pension money, shall also be exempt as is now provided by law of this state in relation to homesteads; and such exemption shall also apply to debts of such pensioner contracted prior to the purchase of such homestead. Where a wrongful act produces death, and the deceased leaves a husband, wife, child or parent, the damages shall not be liable for the payment of debts. CHAPTER X. If any person ravish or carnally know any female of the age of thirteen years or more, by force and against her will, or carnally know and abuse any female child under the age of thirteen years, he shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary for life or any term of years. If any person assault a female with intent to commit a rape he shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not exceeding twenty years. If any person take any woman unlawfully and against her will, and by force, menace or duress, compel her to marry him, or to be defiled, he shall be fined not exceeding one thousand dollars and imprisoned in the penitentiary not exceeding ten years. If any person have carnal knowledge of any female by administering to her any substance, or by any other means producing such stupor or such imbecility of mind or weakness of body as to prevent effectual resistance, or have such carnal knowledge of an idiot or female naturally of such imbecility of mind or weakness of body, as to prevent effectual resistance, he shall upon conviction, be punished as provided in the section relating to ravishment. If any person with intent to produce the miscarriage of any pregnant woman, wilfully administer to her any drug or substance whatever, or, with such intent, use any instrument or any means whatever, unless such miscarriage shall be necessary to save her life, he shall be imprisoned in the state prison for a term not exceeding five years, and be fined in a sum not exceeding one thousand dollars. If any person take or entice away any unmarried female, under eighteen years of age, from her father, mother, guardian, or other person having the legal charge of her person, for the purpose of prostitution, he shall upon conviction be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary for not more than three years, or by fine of not more than one thousand dollars and imprisonment in the county jail not more than one year. If any person maliciously, forcibly or fraudulently lead, take, decoy, or entice away any child under the age of fourteen years, with the intent to detain or conceal such child from its parent, guardian, or any other person having the lawful charge of such child, he shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not more than ten years, or by a fine not exceeding one thousand dollars or by both such fine and imprisonment. If any person seduce and debauch any unmarried woman of previously chaste character, he shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not more than five years, or by fine not exceeding one thousand dollars and imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding one year. If, before judgment upon an indictment, the defendant marry the woman thus seduced, it is a bar to any further prosecution for the offense. An offer, by the defendant, to marry the woman, will not be a bar to a prosecution for seduction, as nothing but actual marriage will constitute such bar. Every person who commits the crime of adultery shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not more than three years, or by a fine not exceeding three hundred dollars and imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding one year; and when the crime is committed between parties, only one of whom is married, both are guilty of adultery and shall be punished accordingly. No prosecution for adultery can be commenced but on complaint of the husband or wife. The defendant in a prosecution for a rape, or for an assault with intent to commit a rape, or for enticing or taking away an unmarried female of previously chaste character, for the purpose of prostitution, or aiding or assisting therein, or for seducing or debauching any unmarried woman of previously chaste character, cannot be convicted upon the testimony of the person injured, unless she be corroborated by other evidence tending to connect the defendant with the commission of the offense. The corroboration required by this section need not be by evidence of witnesses to the act, but may be wholly by circumstances and facts which tend to connect the accused with the commission of the crime. If any person who has a former husband or wife living, marry another person, or continue to cohabit with such second husband or wife in this state, he or she, except in cases mentioned in the following section, is guilty of bigamy, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not more than five years, or by fine not exceeding five hundred dollars and imprisonment in the county jail not more than one year. The provisions of the preceding section do not extend to any person whose husband or wife has continuously remained beyond seas, or who has voluntarily withdrawn from the other and remained absent for the space of three years together, the party marrying again, not knowing the other to be living within that time; nor to any person who has been legally divorced from the bonds of matrimony. Every unmarried person who knowingly marries the husband or wife of another, when such husband or wife is guilty of bigamy thereby, shall be imprisoned in the penitentiary not exceeding three years, or by fine of not more than three hundred dollars and imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding one year. If any man or woman not being married to each other lewdly and viciously associate and cohabit together, or if any man or woman, married or unmarried, is guilty of gross lewdness and designedly make an open and indecent, or obscene exposure of his or her person, or the person of another, every such person shall be punished by imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding six months, or by fine not exceeding two hundred dollars. If any person keep a house of ill-fame, resorted to for the purpose of prostitution or lewdness, such person shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not less than six months nor more than five years. Houses of ill-fame kept for the purpose of prostitution and lewdness, gambling houses, or houses where drunkenness, quarreling, fighting or breaches of the peace are carried on or permitted, to the disturbance of others, are nuisances, and may be abated and punished as provided in this chapter. When the lessee of a dwelling house is convicted of keeping the same as a house of ill-fame, the lease or contract for letting such house is, at the option of the lessor, void, and such lessor may thereupon have the like remedy to secure possession as against a tenant holding over after the expiration of his term. If any person let any house, knowing that the lessee intends to use it as a place of resort for the purpose of prostitution or lewdness, or knowingly permit such lessee to use the same for such purpose, he shall be punished by fine not exceeding three hundred dollars, or imprisoned in the county jail not exceeding six months. If any person entice back into a life of shame any person who has heretofore been guilty of the crime of prostitution, or who shall inveigle or entice any female, before reputed virtuous, to a house of ill-fame, or knowingly conceal or assist or abet in concealing such female, so deluded or enticed for the purpose of prostitution or lewdness, he shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not less than three nor more than ten years. If any person, for the purpose of prostitution or lewdness resorts to, uses, occupies or inhabits any house of ill-fame, or place kept for such purpose, or if any person be found at any hotel, boarding house, cigar store or other place, leading a life of prostitution and lewdness, such person shall be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary not more than five years. If any person marry his father's sister, mother's sister, father's widow, wife's mother, daughter, son's widow, sister, son's daughter, daughter's daughter, son's son's widow, daughter's son's widow, brother's daughter, or sister's daughter, or, if any woman marry her father's brother, mother's brother, mother's husband, husband's father, son, husband's son, daughter's husband, brother, son's son, daughter's son, son's daughter's husband, daughter's daughter's husband, brother's son, or sister's son; or if any person, being within the degrees of consanguinity or affinity in which marriages are prohibited by this section, carnally know each other, they shall be deemed guilty of incest, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the state penitentiary for a term not exceeding ten years and not less than one year. When any woman residing in any county in the state is delivered of a bastard child, or is pregnant with a child, which, if born alive, will be a bastard, complaint may be made in writing by any person to the district court of the county where she resides, stating that fact, and charging the proper person with being the father thereof. If the accused be found guilty, he shall be charged with the maintenance of the child in such sum or sums and in such manner as the court shall direct, and with the costs of the suit. Illegitimate children become legitimate by the subsequent marriage of their parents. CHAPTER XI. Every wife, child, parent, guardian, employer or other person who shall be injured in person or property or means of support, by any intoxicated person, or in consequence of the intoxication habitual or otherwise, of any person, shall have a right of action in his or her name, against any person, who shall, by selling intoxicating liquors, cause the intoxication of such person, for all damages actually sustained, as well as exemplary damages; and a married woman shall have the same right to bring suits, prosecute and control the same, and the amount recovered, as if a single woman, and all damages recovered by a minor under this action, shall be paid to such minor, or his parent, guardian, or next friend, as the court shall direct, and all suits for damages under this section shall be by civil action in any court having jurisdiction thereof. Under this section a woman is entitled to recover for the death of her husband, or for personal injuries to him, or to herself caused by intoxication. She may recover damages for mental anguish, shame, or suffering, resulting from injuries to the person, and for injuries to, or loss of property, and means of support. An unmarried female may prosecute as plaintiff, an action for her own seduction and recover such damages as may be found in her favor. In a civil action for damages it is not necessary that an unmarried woman be of previously chaste character to enable her to recover for loss of health, physical suffering, etc., but without that she cannot recover for loss of character. A father, or in case of his death, or imprisonment, or desertion of his family, the mother may prosecute as plaintiff, an action for the expenses and actual loss of service resulting from the injury or death of a minor child. A married woman may, in all cases, sue and be sued without joining her husband with her, to the same extent as if she were unmarried, and an attachment or judgment in such action shall be enforced by or against her as if she were a single woman. If husband or wife are sued together, the wife may defend for her own right; and if either neglect to defend, the other may defend for that one also. When a husband has deserted his family, the wife may prosecute or defend in his name any action which he might have prosecuted or defended, and shall have the same powers and rights therein as he might have had; and under like circumstances the same right shall apply to the husband upon the desertion of the wife. Neither the husband nor wife shall in any case, be a witness against the other, except in a criminal prosecution for a crime committed one against the other, or in a civil action or proceeding one against the other; but they may in all civil and criminal cases, be witness for each other. In prosecutions for adultery or bigamy the husband or wife, as the case may be, is a competent witness against the other. Neither husband nor wife can be examined in any case as to any communication made by one to the other while married, nor shall they after the marriage relation ceases, be permitted to reveal in testimony any such communication made while the marriage subsisted. Women are eligible to all school offices in the state, including those of county superintendent and school director. No person shall be disqualified for holding the office of county recorder on account of sex. Mayors of all cities having a population of twenty-five thousand or more, are authorized, by act of the Twenty-fifth General Assembly to appoint police matrons to take charge of all women and children confined at police stations. They are to search the persons of such women and children, accompany them to court, and "give them such comfort as may be in their power." No woman is eligible to this office who is under thirty years of age. She must be of good moral character, and sound physical health. Her application must be endorsed by at least ten women of good standing and residents of the city in which such appointment is made. When appointed she shall hold office until removed by death, resignation or discharge, but she can be dismissed only after charges have been made against her conduct and such charges have been investigated. She has the right to enter work houses where women are confined, at all times. She shall be subject to the board of police or to the chief of police. Her salary shall not be less than the minimum paid to patrolmen. In any election hereafter held in any city, incorporated town, or school district, for the purpose of issuing any bonds for municipal or school purposes, or for the purpose of borrowing money, or for the purpose of increasing the tax levy, the right of any citizen to vote shall not be denied or abridged on account of sex, and women may vote at such elections, the same as men, under the same qualifications and restrictions. CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION. The rules of the common law have never prevailed in all their harshness in Iowa. At the time when the young state was born, public sentiment already demanded a code more just, and, as before noted, the first law for the protection or extension of the property rights of married women, was passed in 1846. Modifications and changes have followed each other through the entire history of our state legislation, until our present law approaches a condition so nearly one of equal and exact justice between the sexes, that it might serve as a model for other states less progressive than our own. Except in the way of political disabilities our law makes no discrimination against or in favor of women. They have all the rights and privileges enjoyed by men, and are subject to the same duties and responsibilities. Before the law they are equal, but, as a matter of fact, where the law does not interfere, how is it in regard to the property rights of the wife? The unmarried woman has control of her property, if she has any, to the same extent that an unmarried man has control of his. If she accumulates money or property by an expenditure of her time and labor, it belongs to her alone. She can keep it, give it away, will it, spend it, enjoy it, with the same unquestioned right and freedom enjoyed by her brother. But a married woman possesses no such independence, notwithstanding the laws in her favor. The circumstances of her life may be such, that the law will be powerless to protect her in the enjoyment of property which by right belongs to her. The relations and respective duties of husband and wife are such that the husband usually and necessarily controls the business and the family income. The amount of that income over and above the expenditures for family expenses, he invests as he chooses. If it is his will to invest it in real estate, the law says she may have a share of it after his death. If he deposits it in a bank or purchases stocks, bonds, mortgages, or other personal property, the law again says part of it shall be hers, if she survives him, and he has not disposed of it while living, as he has a legal right to do. In either case, she cannot control a single dollar during the life of her husband, if he chooses to deprive her of that privilege. The property accumulated during the marriage may be acquired by the wise judgment, strict economy and self-denial of the wife in connection with the time and labor of the husband. It may even be obtained wholly by her efforts, even though not arising from the profits of any "separate business" recognized by the law. Her contribution to the family income may, and generally does, come into the possession of the husband and he invests it in property to which he naturally and as a matter of course takes the title. During his life he controls it. After his death one-third will belong to the wife, if there are children. If there are no children one-half will go to his heirs no matter how distant the relationship may be. In cases where the joint accumulations of husband and wife are only sufficient to support the wife in comfort after the death of her husband, the law of descent as it now stands, may result in positive hardship and suffering. No matter how small the amount of property belonging to a deceased husband may be, one-half of it will descend to his heirs, if he has no children, and the wife be left with no means of support. Of course the result would be the same in the case of the husband upon the death of the wife, if she held the title to all of the common property. That this law of descent has not operated to the disadvantage of the husband, but invariably to the disadvantage of the wife, is not due to any defect in either the letter or spirit of the existing law, but is the natural and inevitable result of the custom which gives the husband the title to and the control of the joint earnings of himself and wife. It is difficult to suggest a remedy or to conceive of any law which would adjust and equalize the relations of husband and wife in the ownership and control of common property during the lifetime of both, but if some just and wise legislator can devise some change or modification of the present law, which will not interfere with the husband's proper and necessary position as breadwinner and manager of the business of the family partnership, and which will give to the wife control of a portion of the family income while the husband lives, and when the total amount of property held by either, is only sufficient to afford a comfortable support to the other, will after the death of the owner of the property, secure it all to husband or wife, as the case may be, he will add to the laws of the state the one requisite necessary to secure to women equal property rights with men, and a more just distribution of intestate property.
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Arachnophobia is a specific phobia brought about by the irrational fear of spiders and other arachnids such as scorpions and ticks. The word Arachnophobia comes from the Greek words arachne and phobia. Signs and symptoms People with arachnophobia tend to feel uneasy in any area they believe could harbour spiders or that has visible signs of their presence, such as webs. If arachnophobes see a spider, they may not enter the general vicinity until they have overcome the panic attack that is often associated with their phobia. Some people scream, cry, have emotional outbursts, experience trouble breathing, sweat and experience increased heart rates when they come in contact with an area near spiders or their webs. In some extreme cases, even a picture, a toy, or a realistic drawing of a spider can trigger intense fear. Reasons Arachnophobia may be an exaggerated form of an instinctive response that helped early humans to survive or a cultural phenomenon that is most common in predominantly European societies. Evolutionary An evolutionary reason for the phobia remains unresolved. One view, especially held in evolutionary psychology, is that the presence of venomous spiders led to the evolution of a fear of spiders, or made acquisition of a fear of spiders especially easy. Like all traits, there is variability in the intensity of fear of spiders, and those with more intense fears are classified as phobic. Being relatively small, spiders do not fit the usual criterion for a threat in the animal kingdom where size is a factor, but they can have medically significant venom and/or cause skin irritation with their setae. However, a phobia is an irrational fear as opposed to a rational fear. By ensuring that their surroundings were free from spiders, arachnophobes would have had a reduced risk of being bitten in ancestral environments, giving them a slight advantage over non-arachnophobes in terms of survival. However, having a disproportionate fear of spiders in comparison to other, potentially dangerous creatures present during Homo sapiens environment of evolutionary adaptiveness may have had drawbacks. In The Handbook of the Emotions (1993), psychologist Arne hman studied pairing an unconditioned stimulus with evolutionarily-relevant fear-response neutral stimuli (snakes and spiders) versus evolutionarily-irrelevant fear-response neutral stimuli (mushrooms, flowers, physical representation of polyhedra, firearms, and electrical outlets) on human subjects and found that ophidiophobia (fear of snakes) and arachnophobia required only one pairing to develop a conditioned response while mycophobia, anthophobia, phobias of physical representations of polyhedra, firearms, and electrical outlets required multiple pairings and went extinct without continued conditioning while the conditioned ophidiophobia and arachnophobia were permanent. Psychiatrist Randolph M. Nesse notes that while conditioned fear responses to evolutionarily novel dangerous objects such as electrical outlets is possible, the conditioning is slower because such cues have no prewired connection to fear, noting further that despite the emphasis of the risks of speeding and drunk driving in driver's education, it alone does not provide reliable protection against traffic collisions and that nearly one-quarter of all deaths in 2014 of people aged 15 to 24 in the United States were in traffic collisions. Nesse, psychiatrist Isaac Marks, and evolutionary biologist George C. Williams have noted that people with systematically deficient responses to various adaptive phobias (e.g. arachnophobia, ophidiophobia, basophobia) are more temperamentally careless and more likely to receive unintentional injuries that are potentially fatal and have proposed that such deficient phobia should be classified as "hypophobia'" due to its selfish genetic consequences. A 2001 study found that people could detect images of spiders among images of flowers and mushrooms more quickly than they could detect images of flowers or mushrooms among images of spiders. The researchers suggested that this was because fast response to spiders was more relevant to human evolution. Cultural An alternative view is that the dangers, such as from spiders, are overrated and not sufficient to influence evolution. Instead, inheriting phobias would have restrictive and debilitating effects upon survival, rather than being an aid. For some communities, such as in Papua New Guinea and Cambodia, spiders are included in traditional foods. This suggests arachnophobia may, at least in part, be a cultural, rather than genetic trait. Stories about spiders in the media often contain errors and use sensationalistic vocabulary, which could contribute to the fear of spiders. Treatments The fear of spiders can be treated by any of the general techniques suggested for specific phobias. The first line of treatment is systematic desensitization also known as exposure therapy. Before engaging in systematic desensitization, it is common to train the individual with arachnophobia in relaxation techniques, which will help keep the patient calm. Systematic desensitization can be done in vivo (with live spiders) or by getting the individual to imagine situations involving spiders, then modelling interaction with spiders for the person affected and eventually interacting with real spiders. This technique can be effective in just one session, although it generally takes more time. Recent advances in technology have enabled the use of virtual or augmented reality spiders for use in therapy. These techniques have proven to be effective. It has been suggested that exposure to short clips from the Spider-Man movies may help to reduce an individual's arachnophobia. Epidemiology Arachnophobia affects 3.5 to 6.1 percent of the global population. See also Apiphobia, fear of bees Entomophobia, fear of insects Myrmecophobia, fear of ants References External links National Geographic: "Fear of Snakes, Spiders Rooted in Evolution, Study Finds" Zoophobias Arachnids and humans Spiders and humans
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Ahmed I ( ; ; 18 April 1590 22 November 1617) was the sultan of the Ottoman Empire from 1603 to 1617. Ahmed's reign is noteworthy for marking the first breach in the Ottoman tradition of royal fratricide; henceforth, Ottoman rulers would no longer systematically execute their brothers upon accession to the throne. He is also well known for his construction of the Blue Mosque, one of the most famous mosques in Turkey. Early life Ahmed was probably born in 18 April 1590 at the Manisa Palace, Manisa, when his father Mehmed was still a prince and the governor of the Sanjak of Manisa. His mother was Handan Sultan. After his grandfather Murad III's death in 1595, his father came to Constantinople and ascended the throne as Sultan Mehmed III. Mehmed ordered the execution of his nineteen half brothers. Ahmed's elder brother ehzade Mahmud was also executed by his father Mehmed on 7 June 1603, just before Mehmed's own death on 22 December 1603. Mahmud was buried along with his mother in a separate mausoleum built by Ahmed in ehzade Mosque, Constantinople. Reign Ahmed ascended the throne after his father's death in 1603, at the age of thirteen, when his powerful grandmother Safiye Sultan was still alive. With his accession to the throne, the power struggle in the harem flared up; Between his mother Handan Sultan and his grandmother Safiye Sultan, who in the previous reign had absolute power within the walls (behind the throne), in the end, with the support of Ahmed, the fight ended in favor of his mother. A far lost uncle of Ahmed, Yahya, resented his accession to the throne and spent his life scheming to become Sultan. Ahmed broke with the traditional fratricide following previous enthronements and did not order the execution of his brother Mustafa. Instead, Mustafa was sent to live at the old palace at Bayezit along with their grandmother, Safiye Sultan. This was most likely due to Ahmed's young age - he had not yet demonstrated his ability to sire children, and Mustafa was then the only other candidate for the Ottoman throne. His brother's execution would have endangered the dynasty, and thus he was spared. His mother tried to interfere in his affairs and influence his decision, especially she wanted to control his communication and movements. In the earlier part of his reign, Ahmed I showed decision and vigor, which were belied by his subsequent conduct. The wars in Hungary and Persia, which attended his accession, terminated unfavourably for the empire. Its prestige was further tarnished in the Treaty of Zsitvatorok, signed in 1606, whereby the annual tribute paid by Austria was abolished. Following the crushing defeat in the OttomanSafavid War (160318) against the neighbouring rivals Safavid Empire, led by Shah Abbas the Great, Georgia, Azerbaijan and other vast territories in the Caucasus were ceded back to Persia per the Treaty of Nasuh Pasha in 1612, territories that had been temporarily conquered in the OttomanSafavid War (157890). The new borders were drawn per the same line as confirmed in the Peace of Amasya of 1555. Relations with Morocco During his reign the ruler of Morocco was Mulay Zidan whose father and predecessor Ahmad al-Mansur had paid a tribute of vassalage as a vassal of the Ottomans until his death. The Saadi civil wars had interrupted this tribute of vassalage, but Mulay Zidan proposed to submit to it in order to protect himself from Algiers, and so he resumed paying the tribute to the Ottomans. Ottoman-Safavid War: 160406 The OttomanSafavid War had begun shortly before the death of Ahmed's father Mehmed III. Upon ascending the throne, Ahmed I appointed Cigalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha as the commander of the eastern army. The army marched from Constantinople on 15 June 1604, which was too late, and by the time it had arrived on the eastern front on 8 November 1604, the Safavid army had captured Yerevan and entered the Kars Eyalet, and could only be stopped in Akhaltsikhe. Despite the conditions being favourable, Sinan Pasha decided to stay for the winter in Van, but then marched to Erzurum to stop an incoming Safavid attack. This caused unrest within the army and the year was practically wasted for the Ottomans. In 1605, Sinan Pasha marched to take Tabriz, but the army was undermined by Kse Sefer Pasha, the Beylerbey of Erzurum, marching independently from Sinan Pasha and consequently being taken prisoner by the Safavids. The Ottoman army was routed at Urmia and had to flee firstly to Van and then to Diyarbekir. Here, Sinan Pasha sparked a rebellion by executing the Beylerbey of Aleppo, Canbulatolu Hseyin Pasha, who had come to provide help, upon the pretext that he had arrived too late. He soon died himself and the Safavid army was able to capture Ganja, Shirvan and Shamakhi in Azerbaijan. War with the Habsburgs: 160406 The Long Turkish War between the Ottomans and the Habsburg monarchy had been going on for over a decade by the time Ahmed ascended the throne. Grand Vizier Malko Ali Pasha marched to the western front from Constantinople on 3 June 1604 and arrived in Belgrade, but died there, so Sokolluzade Lala Mehmed Pasha was appointed as the Grand Vizier and the commander of the western army. Under Mehmed Pasha, the western army recaptured Pest and Vc, but failed to capture Esztergom as the siege was lifted due to unfavourable weather and the objections of the soldiers. Meanwhile, the Prince of Transylvania, Stephen Bocskay, who struggled for the region's independence and had formerly supported the Habsburgs, sent a messenger to the Porte asking for help. Upon the promise of help, his forces also joined the Ottoman forces in Belgrade. With this help, the Ottoman army besieged Esztergom and captured it on 4 November 1605. Bocskai, with Ottoman help, captured Nov Zmky (Uyvar) and forces under Tiryaki Hasan Pasha took Veszprm and Palota. Sarho brahim Pasha, the Beylerbey of Nagykanizsa (Kanije), attacked the Austrian region of Istria. However, with Jelali revolts in Anatolia more dangerous than ever and a defeat in the eastern front, Mehmed Pasha was called to Constantinople. Mehmed Pasha suddenly died there, whilst preparing to leave for the east. Kuyucu Murad Pasha then negotiated the Peace of Zsitvatorok, which abolished the tribute of 30,000 ducats paid by Austria and addressed the Habsburg emperor as the equal of the Ottoman sultan. The Jelali revolts were a strong factor in the Ottomans' acceptance of the terms. This signaled the end of Ottoman growth in Europe. Jelali revolts Resentment over the war with the Habsburgs and heavy taxation, along with the weakness of the Ottoman military response, combined to make the reign of Ahmed I the zenith of the Jelali revolts. Tavil Ahmed launched a revolt soon after the coronation of Ahmed I and defeated Nasuh Pasha and the Beylerbey of Anatolia, Kecdehan Ali Pasha. In 1605, Tavil Ahmed was offered the position of the Beylerbey of Shahrizor to stop his rebellion, but soon afterwards he went on to capture Harput. His son, Mehmed, obtained the governorship of Baghdad with a fake firman and defeated the forces of Nasuh Pasha sent to defeat him. Meanwhile, Canbulatolu Ali Pasha united his forces with the Druze Sheikh Ma'nolu Fahreddin to defeat the Amir of Tripoli Seyfolu Yusuf. He went on to take control of the Adana area, forming an army and issuing coins. His forces routed the army of the newly appointed Beylerbey of Aleppo, Hseyin Pasha. Grand Vizier Bonak Dervish Mehmed Pasha was executed for the weakness he showed against the Jelalis. He was replaced by Kuyucu Murad Pasha, who marched to Syria with his forces to defeat the 30,000-strong rebel army with great difficulty, albeit with a decisive result, on 24 October 1607. Meanwhile, he pretended to forgive the rebels in Anatolia and appointed the rebel Kalenderolu, who was active in Manisa and Bursa, as the sanjakbey of Ankara. Baghdad was recaptured in 1607 as well. Canbulatolu Ali Pasha fled to Constantinople and asked for forgiveness from Ahmed I, who appointed him to Timioara and later Belgrade, but then executed him due to his misrule there. Meanwhile, Kalenderolu was not allowed in the city by the people of Ankara and rebelled again, only to be crushed by Murad Pasha's forces. Kalenderolu ended up fleeing to Persia. Murad Pasha then suppressed some smaller revolts in Central Anatolia and suppressed other Jelali chiefs by inviting them to join the army. Due to the widespread violence of the Jelali revolts, a great number of people had fled their villages and a lot of villages were destroyed. Some military chiefs had claimed these abandoned villages as their property. This deprived the Porte of tax income and on 30 September 1609, Ahmed I issued a letter guaranteeing the rights of the villagers. He then worked on the resettlement of abandoned villages. Ottoman-Safavid War: Peace and continuation The new Grand Vizier, Nasuh Pasha, did not want to fight with the Safavids. The Safavid Shah also sent a letter saying that he was willing to sign a peace treaty, with which he would have to send 200 loads of silk every year to Constantinople. On 20 November 1612, the Treaty of Nasuh Pasha was signed, which ceded all the lands the Ottoman Empire had gained in the war of 157890 back to Persia and reinstated the 1555 boundaries. However, the peace ended in 1615 when the Shah did not send the 200 loads of silk. On 22 May 1615, Grand Vizier kz Mehmed Pasha was assigned to organize an attack on Persia. Mehmed Pasha delayed the attack till the next year, until when the Safavids made their preparations and attacked Ganja. In April 1616, Mehmed Pasha left Aleppo with a large army and marched to Yerevan, where he failed to take the city and withdrew to Erzurum. He was removed from his post and replaced by Damat Halil Pasha. Halil Pasha went for the winter to Diyarbekir, while the Khan of Crimea, Canibek Giray, attacked the areas of Ganja, Nakhichevan and Julfa. Capitulations and trade treaties Ahmed I renewed trade treaties with England, France and Venice. In July 1612, the first ever trade treaty with the Dutch Republic was signed. He expanded the capitulations given to France, specifying that merchants from Spain, Ragusa, Genoa, Ancona and Florence could trade under the French flag. Architect and service to Islam Sultan Ahmed constructed the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, the magnum opus of the Ottoman architecture, across from the Hagia Sophia. The sultan attended the breaking of the ground with a golden pickaxe to begin the construction of the mosque complex. An incident nearly broke out after the sultan discovered that the Blue Mosque contained the same number of minarets as the grand mosque of Mecca. Ahmed became furious at this fault and became remorseful until the Shaykh-ul-Islam recommended that he should erect another minaret at the grand mosque of Mecca and the matter was solved. Ahmed became delightedly involved in the eleventh comprehensive renovations of the Kaaba, which had just been damaged by flooding. He sent craftsmen from Constantinople, and the golden rain gutter that kept rain from collecting on the roof of the Kaba was successfully renewed. It was again during the era of Sultan Ahmed that an iron web was placed inside the Zamzam Well in Mecca. The placement of this web about three feet below the water level was a response to lunatics who jumped into the well, imagining a promise of a heroic death. In Medina, the city of the Islamic prophet Muhammad, a new pulpit made of white marble and shipped from Istanbul arrived in the mosque of Muhammad and substituted the old, worn-out pulpit. It is also known that Sultan Ahmed erected two more mosques in Uskudar on the Asian side of Istanbul; however, neither of them has survived. The sultan had a crest carved with the footprint of Muhammad that he would wear on Fridays and festive days and illustrated one of the most significant examples of affection to Muhammad in Ottoman history. Engraved inside the crest was a poem he composed: Character Sultan Ahmed was known for his skills in fencing, poetry, horseback riding, and fluency in several languages. Ahmed was a poet who wrote a number of political and lyrical works under the name Bahti. Ahmed patronized scholars, calligraphers, and pious men. Hence, he commissioned a book entitled The Quintessence of Histories to be worked upon by calligraphers. He also attempted to enforce conformance to Islamic laws and traditions, restoring the old regulations that prohibited alcohol, and he attempted to enforce attendance at Friday prayers and paying alms to the poor in the proper way. Death Ahmed I died of typhus and gastric bleeding on 22 November 1617 at the Topkap Palace, Istanbul. He was buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque. He was succeeded by his younger half-brother Mustafa as Sultan Mustafa I. Later three of Ahmed's sons ascended to the throne: Osman II (r. 161822), Murad IV (r. 162340) and Ibrahim (r. 164048). Family Consorts Ahmed had two known consorts, plus several unknown concubines, mothers of the other princes and princesses. The known consorts are: Mahpeyker Ksem Sultan. His favorite, Haseki Sultan and probably legal wife, mother of many of his children. Hatice Mahfiruz Hatun. Also called Mahfiruze Hatun, she was his first concubine and mother of his firstborn Osman II. Sons Ahmed I had at least thirteen sons: Osman II (3 November 1604, Constantinople, Topkap Palace murdered by janissaries, 20 May 1622, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - with Mahfiruz Hatun. 16th Sultan of the Ottoman Empire; ehzade Mehmed (11 March 1605, Constantinople, Topkap Palace murdered by Osman II, 12 January 1621, Istanbul, Topkap Palace, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan; ehzade Orhan (1609, Constantinople 1612, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) maybe with Ksem Sultan. ehzade Cihangir (1609, Constantinople 1609, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque). ehzade Selim (27 June 1611, Constantinople 27 July 1611, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - maybe with Ksem Sultan. Murad IV (27 July 1612, Constantinople 8 February 1640, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan. 17th Sultan of the Ottoman Empire; ehzade Hasan (25 November 1612, Constantinople 1615, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque). ehzade Bayezid (December 1612, Constantinople murdered by Murad IV, 27 July 1635, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque); ehzade Selim (1613?, Constantinople murdered by Murad IV, 27 July 1635, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - maybe with Ksem Sultan; ehzade Sleyman (1613?/1615?, Constantinople murdered by Murad IV, 27 July 1635, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - maybe with Ksem Sultan; ehzade Hseyin (14 November 1614, Constantinople 1617, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Mehmed III Mausoleum, Hagia Sophia Mosque); ehzade Kasm (1614, Constantinople murdered by Murad IV, 17 February 1638, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, buried in Murad III Mausoleum, Hagia Sophia Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan; Ibrahim I (5 November 1615, Constantinople 18 August 1648, Constantinople, Topkap Palace, murdered by janissaries and buried in Ibrahim I Mausoleum, Hagia Sophia Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan. 18th Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Daughters Ahmed I had at least ten daughters: Aye Sultan (1605 or 1608, Constantinople 1657, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan, Fatma Sultan (1606, Constantinople 1667, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan; Gevherhan Sultan (1605 or 1608, Constantinople 1660, Constantinople, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan, Hatice Sultan (Constantinople, 1608 Constantinople, 1610, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) Hanzade Sultan (1609, Constantinople 21 September 1650, Constantinople, buried in Ibrahim I Mausoleum, Hagia Sophia Mosque) - with Ksem Sultan; Esma Sultan (Constantinople, 1612 Constantinople, 1612, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) Zahide Sultan (Constantinople, 1613 Constantinople, 1620, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) Burnaz Atike Sultan ( 1614/1616?, Constantinople 1674, Constantinople, buried in Ibrahim I Mausoleum, Hagia Sophia Mosque) - maybe with Ksem Sultan; Zeynep Sultan (Constantinople, 1617 Constantinople, 1619, buried in Ahmed I Mausoleum, Sultan Ahmed Mosque) Abide Sultan (Constantinople, 1618 Constantinople, 1648). Called also beyde Sultan, married in 1642 to Koca Musa Pasha. Legacy Today, Ahmed I is remembered mainly for the construction of the Sultan Ahmed Mosque (also known as the Blue Mosque), one of the masterpieces of Islamic architecture. The area in Fatih around the Mosque is today called Sultanahmet. He died at Topkap Palace in Constantinople and is buried in a mausoleum right outside the walls of the famous mosque. In popular culture In the 2015 TV series Muhteem Yzyl: Ksem, Ahmed I is portrayed by Turkish actor Ekin Ko. See also Transformation of the Ottoman Empire Abbas I's Kakhetian and Kartlian campaigns References External links 1590 births 1617 deaths Deaths from typhus Modern child monarchs Ottoman people of the OttomanPersian Wars Infectious disease deaths in the Ottoman Empire 17th-century Ottoman sultans Turks from the Ottoman Empire Greeks from the Ottoman Empire People from the Ottoman Empire of Greek descent
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Andocides (; , Andokides; c. 440 c. 390 BC) was a logographer (speech writer) in Ancient Greece. He was one of the ten Attic orators included in the "Alexandrian Canon" compiled by Aristophanes of Byzantium and Aristarchus of Samothrace in the third century BC. Life Andocides was the son of Leogoras, and was born in Athens around 440 BC. He belonged to the ancient Eupatrid family of the Kerykes, who traced their lineage up to Odysseus and the god Hermes. During his youth, Andocides seems to have been employed on various occasions as ambassador to Thessaly, Macedonia, Molossia, Thesprotia, Italy, and Sicily. And although he was frequently attacked for his political opinions, he maintained his ground until, in 415, he became involved in the charge brought against Alcibiades for having profaned the mysteries and mutilated the Herms on the eve of the departure of the Athenian expedition against Sicily. It appeared particularly likely that Andocides was an accomplice in the latter of these crimes, which was believed to be a preliminary step towards overthrowing the democratic constitution, since the Herm standing close to his house in the phyle Aegeis was among the very few which had not been injured. Andocides was accordingly seized and thrown into prison, but after some time recovered his freedom by a promise that he would become an informer and reveal the names of the real perpetrators of the crime; and on the suggestion of one Charmides or Timaeus, he mentioned four, all of whom were put to death. He is also said to have denounced his own father on the charge of profaning the mysteries, but to have rescued him again in the hour of danger - a charge he strenuously denied. But as Andocides was unable to clear himself from the charge, he was deprived of his rights as a citizen, and left Athens. Andocides traveled about in various parts of Greece, and was chiefly engaged in commercial enterprise and in forming connections with powerful people. The means he employed to gain the friendship of powerful men were sometimes of the most disreputable kind; among which a service he rendered to a prince in Cyprus is mentioned in particular. In 411, Andocides returned to Athens on the establishment of the oligarchic government of the Four Hundred, hoping that a certain service he had rendered the Athenian ships at Samos would secure him a welcome reception. But no sooner were the oligarchs informed of the return of Andocides, than their leader Peisander had him seized, and accused him of having supported the party opposed to them at Samos. During his trial, Andocides, who perceived the exasperation prevailing against him, leaped to the altar which stood in the court, and there assumed the attitude of a supplicant. This saved his life, but he was imprisoned. Soon afterwards, however, he was set free, or escaped from prison. Andocides then went to Cyprus, where for a time he enjoyed the friendship of Evagoras; but, by some circumstance or other, he exasperated his friend, and was consigned to prison. Here again he escaped, and after the restoration of democracy in Athens and the abolition of the Four Hundred, he ventured once more to return to Athens; but as he was still suffering under a sentence of civil disenfranchisement, he endeavored by means of bribes to persuade the prytaneis to allow him to attend the assembly of the people. The latter, however, expelled him from the city. It was on this occasion, in 411, that Andocides delivered the speech still extant "On his return", on which he petitioned for permission to reside at Athens, but in vain. In his third exile, Andocides went to reside in Elis, and during the time of his absence from his native city, his house there was occupied by Cleophon, the leading demagogue. Andocides remained in exile until after the overthrow of the tyranny of the Thirty by Thrasybulus, when the general amnesty then proclaimed made him hope that its benefit would be extended to him also. He himself says that he returned to Athens from Cyprus, where he claimed to have great influence and considerable property. Because of the general amnesty, he was allowed to remain at Athens, enjoyed peace for the next three years, and soon recovered an influential position. According to Lysias, it was scarcely ten days after his return that he brought an accusation against Archippus or Aristippus, which, however, he dropped on receiving a sum of money. During this period Andocides became a member of the boule, in which he appears to have possessed a great influence, as well as in the popular assembly. He was gymnasiarch at the Hephaestaea, was sent as architheorus to the Isthmian Games and Olympic Games, and was even entrusted with the office of keeper of the sacred treasury. But in 400, Callias, supported by Cephisius, Agyrrhius, Meletus, and Epichares, urged the necessity of preventing Andocides from attending the assembly, as he had never been formally freed from the civil disenfranchisement. Callias also charged him with violating the laws respecting the temple at Eleusis. The orator pleaded his case in the oration still extant "on the Mysteries" ( ), in which he argued that he had not been involved in the profanation of the mysteries or the mutilation of the herms, that he had not violated the laws of the temple at Eleusis, that anyway he had received his citizenship back as a result of the amnesty, and that Callias was really motivated by a private dispute with Andocides over inheritance. He was acquitted. After this, he again enjoyed peace until 394, when he was sent as ambassador to Sparta regarding the peace to be concluded in consequence of Conon's victory off Cnidus. On his return he was accused of illegal conduct during his embassy. The speech "On the peace with the Lacedaemonians" ( ), which is still extant, refers to this affair. It was delivered in 393 (though some scholars place it in 391). Andocides was found guilty, and sent into exile for the fourth time. He never returned afterwards, and seems to have died soon after this blow. Andocides appears to have fathered no children, since he is described at the age of 70 as being childless, although the scholiast on Aristophanes mentions Antiphon as a son of Andocides. The large fortune which he had inherited from his father, or acquired in his commercial undertakings, was greatly diminished in the latter years of his life. Oratory As an orator Andocides does not appear to have been held in very high esteem by the ancients, as he is seldom mentioned, though Valerius Theon is said to have written a commentary on his orations. We do not hear of his having been trained in any of the sophistical schools of the time, and he had probably developed his talents in the practical school of the popular assembly. Hence his orations have no mannerism in them, and are really, as Plutarch says, simple and free from all rhetorical pomp and ornament. Sometimes, however, his style is diffuse, and becomes tedious and obscure. The best among his orations is that "on the Mysteries"; but, for the history of the time, all are of the highest importance. Besides the three orations already mentioned, which are undoubtedly genuine, there is a fourth against Alcibiades ( ), said to have been delivered by Andocides during the ostracism of 415; but it is probably spurious, though it appears to contain genuine historical matter. Some scholars ascribed it to Phaeax, who took part in the ostracism, according to Plutarch. But it is more likely that it is a rhetorical exercise from the early fourth century BC, since formal speeches were not delivered during ostracisms and the accusation or defence of Alcibiades was a standing rhetorical theme. Besides these four orations we possess only a few fragments and some very vague allusions to other orations. List of extant speeches On the Mysteries ( "De Mysteriis"). Andocides' defense against the charge of impiety in the profanation of the Eleusinian Mysteries and the mutilation of the Hermae. On His Return ( "De Reditu"). Andocides' plea for his return and removal of civil disabilities. On the Peace with Sparta ( "De Pace"). An argument for peace with Sparta. Against Alcibiades ( "Contra Alcibiadem"). Generally considered spurious. Notes Attribution External links Speeches at the Perseus Project Attic orators 5th-century BC Athenians 4th-century BC Athenians Ancient Greeks accused of sacrilege Athenians of the Peloponnesian War 440s BC births 390s BC deaths
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Sir Alan Ayckbourn (born 12 April 1939) is a prolific British playwright and director. He has written and produced as of 2023, 89 full-length plays in Scarborough and London and was, between 1972 and 2009, the artistic director of the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough, where all but four of his plays have received their first performance. More than 40 have subsequently been produced in the West End, at the Royal National Theatre or by the Royal Shakespeare Company since his first hit Relatively Speaking opened at the Duke of York's Theatre in 1967. Major successes include Absurd Person Singular (1975), The Norman Conquests trilogy (1973), Bedroom Farce (1975), Just Between Ourselves (1976), A Chorus of Disapproval (1984), Woman in Mind (1985), A Small Family Business (1987), Man of the Moment (1988), House & Garden (1999) and Private Fears in Public Places (2004). His plays have won numerous awards, including seven London Evening Standard Awards. They have been translated into over 35 languages and are performed on stage and television throughout the world. Ten of his plays have been staged on Broadway, attracting two Tony nominations, and one Tony award. Life Childhood Ayckbourn was born in Hampstead, London. His mother, Irene Worley ("Lolly") (19061998), was a writer of short stories who published under the name "Mary James". His father, Horace Ayckbourn (19041965), was an orchestral violinist and was the lead violinist at the London Symphony Orchestra. His parents, who separated shortly after World War II, never married, and Ayckbourn's mother divorced her first husband to marry again in 1948. Ayckbourn wrote his first play at Wisborough Lodge (a preparatory school in the village of Wisborough Green) when he was about 10. While he was at prep school as a boarder, his mother wrote to tell him she was marrying Cecil Pye, a bank manager. His new family consisted of his mother, his stepfather and Christopher, his stepfather's son by an earlier marriage. This relationship too, reportedly ran into difficulties early on. Ayckbourn attended Haileybury and Imperial Service College, in the village of Hertford Heath and, while there, he toured Europe and America with the school's Shakespeare company. Adult life After leaving school at 17, Ayckbourn took several temporary jobs in various places before starting a temporary position at the Scarborough Library Theatre, where he was introduced to the artistic director, Stephen Joseph. It is said that Joseph became both a mentor and father figure for Ayckbourn until his untimely death in 1967, and Ayckbourn has consistently spoken highly of him. Ayckbourn's career was briefly interrupted when he was called up for National Service. He was swiftly discharged, officially on medical grounds, but it is suggested that a doctor who noticed his reluctance to join the Armed Forces deliberately failed the medical as a favour. Although Ayckbourn continued to move wherever his career took him, he settled in Scarborough, eventually buying Longwestgate House, which had previously been owned by his mentor, Joseph. In 1957, Ayckbourn married Christine Roland, another member of the Library Theatre company. Ayckbourn's first two plays were, in fact, written jointly with her under the pseudonym of "Roland Allen". They had two sons, Steven and Philip. However, the marriage had difficulties, which eventually led to their separation in 1971. Ayckbourn said that his relationship with Roland became easy once they agreed their marriage was over. About this time, he shared a home with Heather Stoney, an actress he had first met ten years earlier. Like his mother, neither he nor Roland sought an immediate divorce and it was not until thirty years later, in 1997, that they were formally divorced and Ayckbourn married Stoney. One side effect of the timing is that, when Ayckbourn was awarded a knighthood a few months before the divorce, both his first and second wives were entitled to take the title of Lady Ayckbourn. In February 2006, he suffered a stroke in Scarborough, and stated: "I hope to be back on my feet, or should I say my left leg, as soon as possible, but I know it is going to take some time. In the meantime I am in excellent hands and so is the Stephen Joseph Theatre." He left hospital after eight weeks and returned to directing after six months. The following year, Ayckbourn announced he would step down as artistic director of the Stephen Joseph Theatre. He continues, however, to write and direct his own work at the theatre. Influence on plays Since the time Ayckbourn's plays became established in the West End, interviewers have raised the question of whether his work is autobiographical. There is no clear answer to this question. There has been only one biography, written by Paul Allen, which primarily covers his career in the theatre. Ayckbourn has frequently said he sees aspects of himself in all of his characters. In Bedroom Farce (1975), for example, he admitted to being, in some respects, all four of the men in the play. It has been suggested that, after Ayckbourn himself, the person who is used most often in his plays is his mother, particularly as Susan in Woman in Mind (1985). What is less clear is the extent to which events in Ayckbourn's life have influenced his writing. It is true that the theme of marriages in difficulty was heavily present throughout his plays in the early seventies, at about the time his own marriage was coming to an end. However, by that time, he had also witnessed the failure of his parents' relationships and those of some of his friends. Which relationships, if any, he drew on for his plays, is unclear. In Paul Allen's biography, Ayckbourn is briefly compared with Dafydd and Guy in A Chorus of Disapproval (1984). Both characters feel themselves to be in trouble and there was speculation that Ayckbourn himself might have felt the same way. At the time, he had reportedly become seriously involved with another actress, which threatened his relationship with Stoney. It is unclear whether this had any effect on the writing; Paul Allen's view is that Ayckbourn did not use his personal experiences to write his plays. It is possible that Ayckbourn wrote plays with himself and his own situation in mind but, as Ayckbourn is portrayed as a guarded and private man, it is hard to imagine him exposing his own life in his plays to any great degree. In the biography, Paul Allen writes, with regard to a suggestion in Cosmopolitan that Ayckbourn's plays were becoming autobiographical: "If we take that to mean that his plays tell his own life story, he still hasn't started." Career Early career and acting On leaving school, Ayckbourn's theatrical career began immediately, when his French master introduced him to Sir Donald Wolfit. Ayckbourn joined Wolfit on tour to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe as an acting assistant stage manager (a role that involved both acting and stage management) for three weeks. His first experiences on the professional stage were various roles in The Strong are Lonely by Fritz Hochwlder. In the following year, Ayckbourn appeared in six other plays at the Connaught Theatre, Worthing and the Thorndike theatre, Leatherhead. In 1957, Ayckbourn was employed by the director Stephen Joseph at the Library Theatre, Scarborough, the predecessor to the modern Stephen Joseph Theatre. Again, his role was initially as acting stage manager. This employment led to Ayckbourn's first professional script commission, in 1958. When he complained about the quality of a script he was performing, Joseph challenged him to write a better one. The result was The Square Cat, written under the pseudonym Roland Allen and first performed in 1959. In this play, Ayckbourn himself played the character of Jerry Watiss. In 1962, after thirty-four appearances in plays at the Library Theatre, including four of his own, Ayckbourn moved to Stoke-on-Trent to help set up the Victoria Theatre (now the New Vic), where he appeared in a further eighteen plays. His final appearance in one of his own plays was as the Crimson Gollywog in the disastrous children's play Christmas v Mastermind. He left the Stoke company in 1964, officially to commit his time to the London production of Mr. Whatnot, but reportedly because was having trouble working with the artistic director, Peter Cheeseman. By now, his career as a writer was coming to fruition and his acting career was sidelined. His final role on stage was as Jerry in Two for the Seesaw by William Gibson, at the Civic Theatre in Rotherham. He was left stranded on stage because Heather Stoney (his future wife) was unable to re-appear due to her props not being ready for use. This led to his conclusion that acting was more trouble than it was worth. The assistant stage manager on the production, Bill Kenwright, would go on to become one of the UK's most successful producers. Writing Ayckbourn's earliest plays were written and produced at a time when the Scarborough Library theatre, like most regional theatres, regularly commissioned work from their own actors to keep costs down. Another actor whose work was being commissioned was David Campton). Ayckbourn's first play, The Square Cat, was sufficiently popular locally to secure further commissions, although neither this nor the following three plays had much impact beyond Scarborough. After his transfer to Victoria Theatre in Stoke-on-Trent, Christmas v Mastermind, flopped; this play is now universally regarded as Ayckbourn's greatest disaster. Ayckbourn's fortunes revived in 1963 with Mr. Whatnot, which also premiered at the Victoria Theatre. This was the first play that Ayckbourn was sufficiently happy with to allow performances today, and the first play to receive a West End performance. However, the West End production flopped, in part due to misguided casting. After this, Ayckbourn experimented by collaborating with comedians, first writing a monologue for Tommy Cooper, and later with Ronnie Barker, who played Lord Slingsby-Craddock in the London production of Mr Whatnot in 1964, on the scripts for LWT's Hark at Barker. Ayckbourn used the pseudonym Peter Caulfield because he was under exclusive contract to the BBC at the time. In 1965, back at the Scarborough Library Theatre, Meet my Father was produced, and later retitled Relatively Speaking. This time, the play was a massive success, both in Scarborough and in the West End, earning Ayckbourn a congratulatory telegram from Nol Coward. This was not quite the end of Ayckbourn's hit-and-miss record. His next play, The Sparrow ran for only three weeks at Scarborough but the following play, How the Other Half Loves, secured his runaway success as a playwright. The height of Ayckbourn's commercial success came with plays such as Absurd Person Singular (1975), The Norman Conquests trilogy (1973), Bedroom Farce (1975) and Just Between Ourselves (1976). These plays focused heavily on marriage in the British middle classes. The only failure during this period was a 1975 musical with Andrew Lloyd Webber, Jeeves; even this did little to dent Ayckbourn's career. From the 1980s, Ayckbourn moved away from the recurring theme of marriage to explore other contemporary issues. One example was Woman in Mind, a play performed entirely from the perspective of a woman going through a nervous breakdown. He also experimented with unconventional ways of writing plays: Intimate Exchanges, for example, has one beginning and sixteen possible endings, and in House & Garden, two plays take place simultaneously on two separate stages. He also diversified into children's theatre, such as Mr A's Amazing Maze Plays and musical plays, such as By Jeeves (a more successful rewrite of the original Jeeves). With a rsum of over seventy plays, of which more than forty have played at the National Theatre or in the West End, Alan Ayckbourn is one of England's most successful living playwrights. Despite his success, honours and awards (which include a prestigious Laurence Olivier Award), Alan Ayckbourn remains a relatively anonymous figure, dedicated to regional theatre. Throughout his writing career, all but four of his plays premiered at the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough in its three different locations. Ayckbourn received the CBE in 1987 and was knighted in the 1997 New Year Honours. It is frequently claimed (but not proved) that Alan Ayckbourn is the most performed living English playwright, and the second most performed of all time, after Shakespeare. Although Ayckbourn's plays no longer dominate the theatrical scene on the scale of his earlier works, he continues to write. Among major success has been Private Fears in Public Places, which had a hugely successful Off-Broadway run at 59E59 Theaters and, in 2006, was made into a film, Curs, directed by Alain Resnais. After Ayckbourn suffered a stroke, there was uncertainty as to whether he could continue to write. The play that premiered immediately after his stroke, If I Were You, had been written before his illness; the first play written afterwards, Life and Beth, premiered in the summer of 2008. Ayckbourn continues to write for the Stephen Joseph Theatre on the invitation of his successor as artistic director, Chris Monks. The first new play under this arrangement, My Wonderful Day, was performed in October 2009. Ayckbourn continues to experiment with theatrical form. The play Roundelay opened in September 2014; before each performance, members of the audience are invited to extract five coloured ping pong balls from a bag, leaving the order in which each of the five acts is played left to chance, and allowing 120 possible permutations. In Arrivals and Departures (2013), the first half of the play is told from the point of view of one character, only for the second half to dramatise the same events from the point of view of another. Many of Ayckbourn's plays, including Private Fears in Public Places, Intimate Exchanges, My Wonderful Day and Neighbourhood Watch, have had their New York premiere at 59E59 Theaters as part of the annual Brits Off Broadway Festival. In 2019, Ayckbourn had published his first novel, The Divide, which had previously been showcased during a reading at the Stephen Joseph Theatre. As a consequence of the Covid lockdown, Ayckbourn's 2020 play, Anno Domino, was recorded as a radio production, with Ayckbourn and his wife Heather playing all the roles. Similarly, Ayckbourn's Covid-period 2021 play, The Girl Next Door, was streamed online and made available behind a paywall on the Stephen Joseph Theatre's website. In 2022, the first Ayckbourn play in around 60 years premiered in a venue other than Scarborough: All Lies at the Old Laundry in Bowness-on-Windermere. Directing Although Ayckbourn is best known as a writer, it is said that he only spends 10% of his time writing plays. Most of the remaining time is spent directing. Ayckbourn began directing at the Scarborough Library Theatre in 1961, with a production of Gaslight by Patrick Hamilton. During that year and the next, he directed five other plays in Scarborough and, after transferring to the Victoria Theatre, in 1963 directed a further six plays. Between 1964 and 1967, much of his time was taken up by various productions of his early successes, Mr. Whatnot and Relatively Speaking and he directed only one play, The Sparrow, which he wrote and which was later withdrawn. In 1968, he resumed directing plays regularly, mostly at Scarborough. At this time he also worked as a radio drama producer for the BBC, based in Leeds. At first, his directing career was kept separate from his writing career. It was not until 1963 that Ayckbourn directed a play of his own (a revival of Standing Room Only) and 1967 before he directed a premiere of his own (The Sparrow). The London premieres remained in the hands of other directors for longer; the first of his own plays to be directed by him in London was Bedroom Farce, in 1977. After the death of Stephen Joseph in 1967, the Director of Productions was appointed on an annual basis. Ayckbourn was offered the position in 1969 and 1970, succeeding Rodney Wood, but he handed the position over to Caroline Smith in 1971, having spent most that year in the US with How the Other Half Loves. He became Director of Productions again in 1972 and, on 12 November of that year, he was made the permanent artistic director of the theatre. In mid-1986, Ayckbourn accepted an invitation to work as a visiting director for two years at the National Theatre in London, to form his own company, and perform a play in each of the three auditoria, provided at least one was a new play of his own. He used a stock company that included performers such as Michael Gambon, Polly Adams and Simon Cadell. The three plays became four: Tons of Money by Will Evans and Valentine, with adaptations by Ayckbourn (Lyttelton); Arthur Miller's A View From the Bridge (Cottesloe); his own play A Small Family Business (Olivier) and John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore (Olivier again). During this time, Ayckbourn shared his role of artistic director of the Stephen Joseph Theatre with Robin Herford and returned in 1987 to direct the premiere of Henceforward.... He announced in 1999 that he would step back from directing the work of other playwrights, to concentrate on his own plays, the last one being Rob Shearman's Knights in Plastic Armour in 1999; he made one exception in 2002, when he directed the world premiere of Tim Firth's The Safari Party. In 2002, following a dispute over the Duchess Theatre's handling of Damsels in Distress, Ayckbourn sharply criticised both this and the West End's treatment of theatre in general and, in particular, their casting of celebrities. Although he did not explicitly say he would boycott the West End, he did not return to direct in there again until 2009, with a revival of Woman in Mind. He did, however, allow other West End producers to revive Absurd Person Singular in 2007 and The Norman Conquests in 2008. Ayckbourn suffered a stroke in February 2006 and returned to work in September; the premiere of his 70th play If I Were You at the Stephen Joseph Theatre came the following month. He announced in June 2007 that he would retire as artistic director of the Stephen Joseph Theatre after the 2008 season. His successor, Chris Monks, took over at the start of the 20092010 season but Ayckbourn remained to direct premieres and revivals of his work at the theatre, beginning with How the Other Half Loves in June 2009. In March 2010, he directed an in-the-round revival of his play Taking Steps at the Orange Tree Theatre, winning universal press acclaim. In July 2014, Ayckbourn directed a musical adaptation of The Boy Who Fell into A Book, with musical adaptation and lyrics by Paul James and music by Eric Angus and Cathy Shostak. The show ran in The Stephen Joseph Theatre and received critical acclaim. Honours and awards 1973: Evening Standard Award, Best Comedy, for Absurd Person Singular 1974: Evening Standard Award, Best Play, for The Norman Conquests 1977: Evening Standard Award, Best Play, for Just Between Ourselves 1981: Honorary Doctor of Letters degree (Litt.D.) from University of Hull 1985: Evening Standard Award, Best Comedy, for A Chorus of Disapproval 1985: Laurence Olivier Award, Best Comedy, for A Chorus of Disapproval 1986: Freedom of the Borough of Scarborough. 1987: Evening Standard Award, Best Play, for A Small Family Business 1987: Plays and Players Award 1987: Honorary Doctor of Letters degree (Litt.D.) from Keele University 1987: Honorary Doctor of Letters degree (Litt.D.) from University of Leeds 1987: Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) 1989: Evening Standard Award, Best Comedy, for Henceforward... 1990: Evening Standard Award, Best Comedy, for Man of the Moment 1997: Knight Bachelor 1998: Honorary Doctor of the University degree (D.Univ.) from Open University 2008: Induction into the American Theater Hall of Fame 2009: Laurence Olivier Special Award 2009: The Critics' Circle annual award for Distinguished Service to the Arts 2011: Honorary Doctor of Letters degree (Litt.D.) from York St. John University Ayckbourn also sits on the Council of the Society of Authors. Works Full-length plays One-act plays Alan Ayckbourn has written eight one-act plays. Five of them (Mother Figure, Drinking Companion, Between Mouthfuls, Gosforth's Fete and Widows Might) were written for Confusions, first performed in 1974. The other three one-act plays are: Countdown, first performed in 1962, most well known as part of Mixed Doubles, a set of short one-act plays and monologues contributed by nine different authors. Ernie's Incredible Illucinations, written in 1969 for a collection of short plays and intended for performance by schools. A Cut in the Rates, performed at the Stephen Joseph Theatre in 1984, and filmed for a BBC documentary. Books Ayckbourn, Alan (2019) The Divide. UK: PS Publishing. ISBN 978-1-786364-47-0. Film adaptations of Ayckbourn plays Plays adapted as films include: A Chorus of Disapproval (play) filmed as A Chorus of Disapproval (1988 film), directed by Michael Winner; Intimate Exchanges (play) filmed as Smoking/No Smoking (1993 film), directed by Alain Resnais; The Revengers' Comedies (play) filmed as The Revengers' Comedies (also known as Sweet Revenge), directed by Malcolm Mowbray; Private Fears in Public Places (play) filmed as Curs (2006 film) directed by Alain Resnais. Life of Riley (play) filmed as Life of Riley (2014 film) directed by Alain Resnais. Notes References External links Archival material at 1939 births Living people English dramatists and playwrights Knights Bachelor Commanders of the Order of the British Empire People educated at Haileybury and Imperial Service College Laurence Olivier Award winners Writers from Scarborough, North Yorkshire Writers from Hampstead Fellows of St Catherine's College, Oxford Fellows of the Royal Society of Literature 20th-century British dramatists and playwrights 21st-century British dramatists and playwrights English male dramatists and playwrights Special Tony Award recipients
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AD (Anno Domini) is a designation used to label years following 1 BC in the Julian and Gregorian calendars while Ad (advertisement) is a form of marketing communication. AD, A.D. or Ad may also refer to: Art, entertainment, and media Film and television A.D. (film), a 2010 animated zombie horror film A.D. (miniseries), a 1985 television miniseries set in ancient Rome A.D. The Bible Continues, a 2015 biblical drama television miniseries Arrested Development, an American television sitcom Attarintiki Daredi, 2013 Indian film by Trivikram Srinivas Audio description, a service for visually impaired audience on some TV programs Music AD (band), a Christian rock band A.D. (album), by Solace Publications A.D.: New Orleans After the Deluge, a nonfiction graphic novel about Hurricane Katrina Algemeen Dagblad, a Dutch newspaper Architectural Digest, an interior design and landscaping magazine AD (poem), by Kenneth Fearing Other art, entertainment, and media Audio description track, a narration track for visually impaired consumers of visual media Brands and enterprises Alexander Dennis, a British bus manufacturer Akcionersko drutvo (a ), a Macedonian name for a type of company Aktsionerno drujestvo ( ), a Bulgarian name for a type of company akcionarsko drutvo (a ), a Serbian name for a type of company Analog Devices, a semiconductor company Military Accidental discharge, a mechanical failure of a firearm causing it to fire Active duty, a status of full duty or service, usually in the armed forces Air defense, anti-aircraft weaponry and systems Air Department, part of the British Admiralty Destroyer tender, a type of support ship (US Navy hull classification symbol AD) AD Skyraider, former name of the Douglas A-1 Skyraider, a Navy attack aircraft Organizations Action Directe, French far-left militant group Democratic Action (Venezuela) (Spanish: Accin Democrtica), social democratic and center-left political party Democratic Alliance (Portugal) (Portuguese: Aliana Democrtica), a former centre-right political alliance Democratic Alternative (Malta) (Maltese: Alternattiva Demokratika), a green political party People Ad (name), a given name, and a list of people with the name Ad, great-grandson of Shem, son of Noah Anthony Davis (born 1993), American basketball player Antonio Davis (born 1968), American basketball player A. D. Loganathan (18881949), officer of the Indian National Army A. D. Whitfield (born 1943), American football player A. D. Winans (born 1936), American poet, essayist, short story writer and publisher A.D., nickname of Adrian Peterson (born 1985), American football player Places AD, ISO 3166-1 country for Andorra Abu Dhabi, capital of the United Arab Emirates AD, herbarium code for the State Herbarium of South Australia Professions Art director, for a magazine or newspaper Assistant director, a film or television crew member Athletic director, the administrator of an athletics program Science and technology Biology and medicine Addison's disease, an endocrine disorder Adenovirus, viruses of the family Adenoviridae Alzheimer's disease, a neurodegenerative disease Anaerobic digestion, processes by which microorganisms break down biodegradable material Anti-diarrheal, medication which provides symptomatic relief for diarrhea Approximate digestibility, an index measure of the digestibility of animal feed Atopic dermatitis, form of skin inflammation Atypical depression, a type of depression Autosomal dominant, a classification of genetic traits Autonomic dysreflexia, a potential medical emergency Chemistry Adamantyl, abbreviated "Ad" in organic chemistry Sharpless asymmetric dihydroxylation, a type of organic chemical reaction Computing .ad, the top level domain for Andorra Administrative distance, a metric in routing Active Directory, software for the management of Microsoft Windows domains Administrative domain, a computer networking facility Analog-to-digital converter, a type of electronic circuit Automatic differentiation, a set of computer programming techniques to speedily compute derivatives AD16, the hexadecimal number equal to decimal number 173 Mathematics Adjoint representation of a Lie group, abbreviated "Ad" in mathematics Axiom of determinacy, a set theory axiom Physics Antiproton Decelerator, a device at the CERN physics laboratory Autodynamics, a physics theory Other uses in science and technology Active disassembly, a technology supporting the cost-effective deconstruction of complex materials Transportation AD, IATA code for: Air Paradise, a defunct Indonesian airline Azul Brazilian Airlines Airworthiness Directive, an aircraft maintenance requirement notice Other uses d, an ancient Arab tribe, mentioned in the Quran Aggregate demand, in macroeconomics Anno Diocletiani, an alternative year numbering system United States Academic Decathlon, a high school academic competition See also Anno Domini (disambiguation) BC (disambiguation) Domino (disambiguation) Dominus (disambiguation)
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A file archiver is a computer program that combines a number of files together into one archive file, or a series of archive files, for easier transportation or storage. File archivers may employ lossless data compression in their archive formats to reduce the size of the archive. Basic archivers just take a list of files and concatenate their contents sequentially into archives. The archive files need to store metadata, at least the names and lengths of the original files, if proper reconstruction is possible. More advanced archivers store additional metadata, such as the original timestamps, file attributes or access control lists. The process of making an archive file is called archiving or packing. Reconstructing the original files from the archive is termed unarchiving, unpacking or extracting. History An early archiver was the Multics command archive, descended from the CTSS command of the same name, which was a basic archiver and performed no compression. Multics also had a "tape_archiver" command, abbreviated ta, which was perhaps the forerunner of the Unix command tar. Unix archivers The Unix tools ar, tar, and cpio act as archivers but not compressors. Users of the Unix tools use additional compression tools, such as gzip, bzip2, or xz, to compress the archive file after packing or remove compression before unpacking the archive file. The filename extensions are successively added at each step of this process. For example, archiving a collection of files with tar and then compressing the resulting archive file with gzip results a file with .tar.gz extension. This approach has two goals: It follows the Unix philosophy that each program should accomplish a single task to perfection, as opposed to attempting to accomplish everything with one tool. As compression technology progresses, users may use different compression programs without having to modify or abandon their archiver. The archives use solid compression. When the files are combined, the compressor can exploit redundancy across several archived files and achieve better compression than a compressor that compresses each files individually. This approach, however, has disadvantages too: Extracting or modifying one file is difficult. Extracting one file requires decompressing an entire archive, which can be time- and space-consuming. Modifying one means the file needs to be put back into archive and the archive recompressed again. This operation requires additional time and disk space. The archive becomes damage-prone. If the area holding shared data for several files is damaged, all those files are lost. It is impossible to take advantage of redundancy between files unless the compression window is larger than the size of an individual file. For example, gzip uses DEFLATE, which typically operates with a 32768-byte window, whereas bzip2 uses a BurrowsWheeler transform roughly 27 times bigger. xz defaults to 8MiB but supports significantly larger windows. Windows archivers The built-in archiver of Microsoft Windows as well as third-party archiving software, such as WinRAR and 7-zip, often use a graphical user interface. They also offer an optional command-line interface, while Windows itself does not. Windows archivers perform both archiving and compression. Solid compression may or may not be offered, depending on the product: Windows itself does not support it; WinRAR and 7-zip offer it as an option that can be turned on or off. See also Comparison of file archivers Archive format List of archive formats Comparison of archive formats References External links Computer storage systems Computer file systems Computer archives Utility software types
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The Lhop or Doya people are a little-known tribe of southwest Bhutan. The Bhutanese believe them to be the aboriginal inhabitants of the country. The Lhop are found in the low valleys of Dorokha Gewog and near Phuntsholing in the Duars. The dress of the Lhop resembles the Lepcha, but they bear little similarity with the Bhutia in the North and the Toto in the west. The Doya trace their descent matrilineally, marry their cross cousins, and embalm the deceased who are then placed in a foetal position in a circular sarcophagus above the ground. They follow a blend of Tibetan Buddhism mixed with animism. See also Ethnic groups in Bhutan Sharchop References External links RAOnline Bhutan: The Lhop Ethnic groups in Bhutan
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The Book of Proverbs (, , "Proverbs (of Solomon)") is a book in the third section (called Ketuvim) of the Hebrew Bible and a book of the Christian Old Testament. When translated into Greek and Latin, the title took on different forms: in the Greek Septuagint (LXX) it became (, "Proverbs"); in the Latin Vulgate the title was , from which the English name is derived. Proverbs is not merely an anthology but a "collection of collections" relating to a pattern of life which lasted for more than a millennium. It is an example of the biblical wisdom literature, and raises questions of values, moral behaviour, the meaning of human life, and right conduct, and its theological foundation is that "the fear of God (meaning submission to the will of God) is the beginning of wisdom". Wisdom is praised for her role in creation; God acquired her before all else, and through her he gave order to chaos; and since humans have life and prosperity by conforming to the order of creation, seeking wisdom is the essence and goal of life. The Book of Proverbs is divided into sections: the initial invitation to wisdom, contrasting the wise and the fool, and moral discourses on various topics. Chapters 2529 discuss justice, the wicked, and the rich and poor, while Chapter 30 introduces the "sayings of Agur" on creation and divine power. Structure The superscriptions divide the collections as follows: Proverbs 19: "Proverbs of Solomon, Son of David, King of Israel" Proverbs 1022:16: "Proverbs of Solomon" Proverbs 22:1724:22: "The Sayings of the Wise" Proverbs 24:2334: "These Also are Sayings of the Wise" Proverbs 2529: "These are Other Proverbs of Solomon that the Officials of King Hezekiah of Judah Copied" Proverbs 30: "The Words of Agur" Proverbs 31:19: "The Words of King Lemuel of Massa,{{Efn|Most translate: Lemuel, an oracle (masa) which his mother . . ."}} Which his Mother Taught Him" Proverbs 31:1031: the ideal wise woman (elsewhere called the "woman of substance"). Contents "Proverb" is a translation of the Hebrew word mashal, but "mashal" has a wider range of meanings than the short, catchy saying implied by the English word. Thus, roughly half the book is made up of "sayings" of this type, while the other half is made up of longer poetic units of various types. These include "instructions" formulated as advice from a teacher or parent addressed to a student or child, dramatic personifications of both Wisdom and Folly, and the "words of the wise" sayings, longer than the Solomonic "sayings" but shorter and more diverse than the "instructions". The first section (chapters 19) comprises an initial invitation to young men to take up the course of wisdom, ten "instructions", and five poems on personified Woman Wisdom. Verses 1:1-7 constitute an introduction to the whole of this section. Proverbs 10:122:16, with 375 sayings, consists of two parts, the first part (1014) contrasting the wise man and the fool (or the righteous and the wicked), the second (1522:16) addressing wise and foolish speech. Verse 22:17 opens the words of the wise, until verse 24:22, with short moral discourses on various subjects. An additional section of sayings which "also belong to the wise" follows in verses 24:23-34. Chapters 2529, attributed to the editorial activity of "the men of Hezekiah", contrast the just and the wicked and broach the topic of rich and poor. Chapter 30:1-4, the "sayings of Agur", introduces creation, divine power, and human ignorance. Composition It is impossible to offer precise dates for the sayings in Proverbs, a "collection of collections" relating to a pattern of life which lasted for more than a millennium. The phrase conventionally used for the title is taken from chapter 1:1, mishley shelomoh, Proverbs of Solomon (the phrase is repeated at 10:1 and 25:1), is likely more concerned with labeling the material than ascribing authorship. The book is an anthology made up of six discrete units. The Proverbs of Solomon section, chapters 19, was probably the last to be composed, in the Persian or Hellenistic periods. This section has parallels to prior cuneiform writings. The second, chapters 1022:16, carries the superscription "the proverbs of Solomon", which may have encouraged its inclusion in the Hebrew canon. The third unit, 22:1724:22, is headed "bend your ear and hear the words of the wise". A large part of this section is a recasting of a second-millennium BCE Egyptian work, the Instruction of Amenemope, and may have reached the Hebrew author(s) through an Aramaic translation. Chapter 24:23 begins a new section and source with the declaration, "these too are from the wise". The next section at chapter 25:1 has a superscription to the effect that the following proverbs were transcribed "by the men of Hezekiah", indicating at face value that they were collected in the reign of Hezekiah in the late 8th century BCE. Chapters 30 and 31 (the "words of Agur," the "words of Lemuel," and the description of the ideal woman) are a set of appendices, quite different in style and emphasis from the previous chapters. The "wisdom" genre was widespread throughout the ancient Near East, and reading Proverbs alongside the examples recovered from Egypt and Mesopotamia reveals the common ground shared by international wisdom. The wisdom literature of Israel may have been developed in the family, the royal court, and houses of learning and instruction; nevertheless, the overwhelming impression is of instruction within the family in small villages. Themes Along with the other examples of the biblical wisdom tradition Job and Ecclesiastes and some other writings Proverbs raises questions of values, moral behavior, the meaning of human life, and righteous conduct. The three retain an ongoing relevance for both religious and secular readers, Job and Ecclesiastes through the boldness of their dissent from received tradition, Proverbs in its worldliness and satiric shrewdness. Wisdom is as close as biblical literature comes to Greek philosophy, of which it was a contemporary; it shares with the Greeks an inquiry into values and reflections on the human condition, although there is no discussion of ontology, epistemology, metaphysics, and the other abstract issues raised by the Greeks. The rabbinic college almost excluded the Book of Proverbs from the Bible in the late first century. They did this because of its contradictions (the result of the book's origins as not just an anthology but an anthology of anthologies). The reader is told, for example, both to "not answer a fool according to his folly", according to 26:4, and to "answer a fool according to his folly", as 26:5 advises. More pervasively, the recurring theme of the initial unit (chapters 19) is that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, but the following units are much less theological, presenting wisdom as a transmissible human craft, until with 30:114, the "words of Agur", we return once more to the idea that God alone possesses wisdom. "The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom" (Proverbs 9:10 the phrase implies submission to God's will). Wisdom is praised for her role in creation ("God by wisdom founded the earth; by understanding, he established the heavens" Proverbs 3:19). God acquired her before all else, and through her, he gave order to chaos ("When established the heavens when he drew a circle on the face of the Deeps when he marked out the foundations of the earth, then I was beside him" Proverbs 8:2731). Since humans have life and prosperity by conforming to the order of creation, seeking wisdom is the essence and goal of the religious life. Wisdom, or the wise person, is compared and contrasted with foolishness or the fool, meaning one who is lacking in wisdom and uninterested in instruction, not one who is merely silly or playful (though see the words of Agur for a "fool" who has wisdom and could be seen as playful). For the most part, Proverbs offers a simplistic view of life with few grey areas: a life lived according to the rules brings reward, and life in violation of them is certain to bring disaster. In contrast, Job and Ecclesiastes appear to be direct contradictions of the simplicities of Proverbs, each in its own way all but dismissing the assumptions of the "wise". Noteworthy also is the fact that the "mighty acts of God" (the Exodus, the giving of the Torah at Sinai, the Covenant between God and Israel, etc.) which make up Israel's history are completely or almost completely absent from Proverbs and the other Wisdom books: in contrast to the other books of the Hebrew Bible, which appeal to divine revelation for their authority ("Thus says the Lord! "), wisdom appeals to human reason and observation. Later interpretation and influence The pre-Exilic (i.e. pre-586 BCE) Old Testament allowed no equals to YHWH in heaven, despite the continued existence of an assembly of subordinate servant-deities. The post-Exilic writers of the Wisdom tradition developed the idea that Wisdom existed before creation and was used by God to create the universe: "Present from the beginning, Wisdom assumes the role of master builder while God establishes the heavens, restricts the chaotic waters, and shapes the mountains and fields." Borrowing ideas from Greek philosophers who held that reason bound the universe together, the Wisdom tradition taught that God's Wisdom, Word and Spirit were the ground of cosmic unity. Christianity in turn adopted these ideas and applied them to Jesus: the Epistle to the Colossians calls Jesus "...image of the invisible God, first-born of all creation...", while the Gospel of John identifies him with the creative word ("In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God"). In the 4th century, when Christianity was caught up in heresies and still developing the creeds which would define its beliefs, Proverbs 8:22 was used both to support and refute the claims of the Arians. The Arians, assuming that Christ could be equated with the "Wisdom of God" (1 Corinthians 1:24), argued that the Son, like Wisdom, was "created", and therefore subordinate to the Creator; their opponents, who argued that the relevant Hebrew word should be translated as "begot", won the debate, and the Nicene Creed declared that the Son was "begotten, not made", meaning that God and Christ were consubstantial. See also "As a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool repeats his folly" Proverbs 30 Proverbs 31 Notes References Bibliography Works cited Further reading Crenshaw, James L. "Book of Proverbs", The Anchor Bible Dictionary, 1992 Dockery, David S. (general ed. ), Holman Bible Handbook, Holman Bible Publishers, Nashville, 1992 Lasor, William Sanford, Hubbard, David Allan, & Bush, Frederic Wm., Old Testament Survey: The Message, Form, and Background of the Old Testament, 1996 Murphy, Roland E., Wisdom Literature: Job, Proverbs, Ruth, Canticles, Ecclesiastes, and Esther. Grand Rapids, 1981 Steinmann, Andrew, "Proverbs 19 as a Solomonic Composition", Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society, 43, no. 4 External links Online translations of Book of Proverbs'': Jewish translations: Mishlei Proverbs (Judaica Press) translation at Chabad.org Christian translations: Bible Gateway 35 languages/50 versions Unbound Bible 100+ languages/versions at Biola University Introductions: Introduction to the Book of Proverbs a Forward Movement publication Various versions 8th-century BC books Ketuvim Solomon Wisdom literature Anthologies Poetic Books
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Buffalo most commonly refers to: True buffalo or Bubalina, a subtribe of wild cattle, including most "Old World" buffalo, such as water buffalo Buffalo (bison), a genus of wild cattle, including the American buffalo Buffalo, New York, a city in the northeastern United States Buffalo or buffaloes may also refer to: Animals Bubalina, a subtribe of the tribe Bovini within the subfamily Bovinae African buffalo or Cape Buffalo (Syncerus caffer) Bubalus, a genus of bovines including various water buffalo species Wild water buffalo (Bubalus arnee) Water buffalo (Bubalus bubalis) Italian Mediterranean buffalo, a breed of water buffalo Anoa Tamaraw (Bubalus mindorensis) Bubalus murrensis, an extinct species of water buffalo that occupied riverine habitats in Europe in the Pleistocene Bison, large, even-toed ungulates in the genus Bison within the subfamily Bovinae American bison (Bison bison), also commonly referred to as the American buffalo or simply "buffalo" in North America European bison is also known as the European buffalo Aurochs, a primitive ox Ictiobus, a North American genus of fish, known as buffalos Places Canada Buffalo, Alberta, a ghost town Buffalo National Park, Alberta Rural Municipality of Buffalo No. 409, Saskatchewan, a rural municipality Calgary-Buffalo, Alberta, a provincial electoral district Province of Buffalo, a proposed Canadian province United States Buffalo, New York, the largest city by population with its name BuffaloNiagara Falls metropolitan area Buffalo Niagara International Airport Buffalo, Illinois Buffalo, Indiana Buffalo, Iowa Buffalo, Kansas Buffalo, Kentucky Buffalo, Minnesota Buffalo, Missouri Buffalo, Montana Buffalo, Nebraska Buffalo, North Carolina Buffalo, North Dakota Buffalo, Guernsey County, Ohio Buffalo, Jackson County, Ohio Buffalo, Oklahoma Buffalo, South Carolina Buffalo, South Dakota Buffalo, Tennessee (disambiguation) Buffalo, Texas Buffalo, Henderson County, Texas Buffalo, West Virginia Buffalo, Jackson County, West Virginia Buffalo, Buffalo County, Wisconsin Buffalo, Marquette County, Wisconsin Buffalo, Wyoming Elsewhere Buffalo, Victoria, Australia Buffalo City Metropolitan Municipality, Eastern Cape Province, South Africa Multiple entities Buffalo City (disambiguation) Buffalo County (disambiguation) Buffalo Gap (disambiguation) Buffalo Township (disambiguation) Buffalo Trace (disambiguation) Clothing Buffalo (footwear), a clothing brand Buffalo robe, a cured bison hide with the hair, used for saddles, blankets, and padding in carriages and sleighs Buffalo coat, a heavy winter coat made from a buffalo robe or hide Coins American Buffalo (coin), a 24-karat bullion coin introduced 2006 Buffalo nickel, a copper-nickel coin minted 19131938 Games Buffalo (card game), a card game Buffalo (game), a drinking game Music Buffalo (band), an Australian hard rock group Buffalo (EP), by Buffalo Buffalo (Frank Zappa album) Buffalo (The Phoenix Foundation album) "Buffalo", by Tyler, the Creator from Cherry Bomb People Chief Buffalo (disambiguation) Norton Buffalo (19512009), American singer-songwriter and musician Ted Buffalo (18851969), Native American football player Tishynah Buffalo, Indigenous Canadian fashion designer John Buffalo Mailer (born 1978), American writer and actor Black Buffalo (wrestler) (born 1974), Japanese professional wrestler Buffalo Bill, William Frederick "Buffalo Bill" Cody (18461917), an American scout, bison hunter, and showman Schools University at Buffalo, known as Buffalo, is a public research university with campuses in Buffalo and Amherst, New York Buffalo State College, a public college in Buffalo, New York Sport Baseball Northern Territory Buffaloes, a defunct Australian baseball team Orix Buffaloes, a 2004present Japanese baseball team Osaka Kintetsu Buffaloes, a 19502004 Japanese baseball team Buffalo Bisons, a professional minor league baseball team based in Buffalo, New York. Basketball Ciego de Avila (basketball), a Cuban basketball team, nicknamed Bfalos Football Buffalo Bills, a National Football League team Darwin Buffaloes, an Australian rules football team Green Buffaloes F.C., a Zambian football team K.A.A. Gent, a Belgian association football team South Africa national Australian rules football team, nicknamed the Buffaloes Hockey Basingstoke Buffalo, an English ice hockey team Calgary Buffaloes, a 196667 Western Canada Junior Hockey League team Calgary Buffaloes (AJHL), a 19631966 Alberta Junior Hockey League team Buffalo Sabres, a National Hockey League team Rugby Manitoba Buffalo, a Canadian rugby union team Other uses in sport Colorado Buffaloes, the athletic teams of the University of Colorado Boulder Buffalo Bulls, the athletic teams of the University at Buffalo Milligan College Buffaloes, the athletic teams for Milligan College Vlodrome Buffalo and Stade Buffalo, cycling tracks in Paris Technology Buffalo Inc., a Japanese technology company Buffalo AirStation, a line of wireless LAN equipment Buffalo network-attached storage series BUFFALO, the bootloader for the Freescale 68HC11 microcontroller family Transportation Air Buffalo Airways, a Canadian airline Avro 571 Buffalo, a 1920s prototype British biplane Brewster F2A Buffalo, a 1930s1940s American fighter aircraft de Havilland Canada DHC-5 Buffalo, a 19651972 Canadian turboprop aircraft Land Buffalo (mine protected vehicle) Buffalo (1901 automobile), a 19001902 American car Buffalo Electric Vehicle Company, a 19121915 American car company GM Buffalo bus South Devon Railway Buffalo class, a class of locomotives GWR 1076 Class, a class of locomotives often referred to as the "Buffalo Class". Water , any of several Royal Navy ships , any of several U.S. Navy ships Landing Vehicle Tracked, a WWII-era amphibious vehicle Other uses Buffalo wing, a style of chicken wing prepared with a spicy sauce coating, originally created in Buffalo, New York Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes, a fraternal organisation Pistol-whipping, or "buffaloing", using a handgun as a blunt weapon See also American buffalo (disambiguation) Buffalo Exchange, a fashion retailer Buffalo Soldier (disambiguation) Buffalo Trace (disambiguation) New Buffalo (disambiguation) Operation Buffalo (disambiguation) White Buffalo (disambiguation) Wood buffalo (disambiguation) Bfalo, a brand of hot sauce and other condiments Llama firearms Bufalo pistol Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo, a sentence illustrating homonyms and homophones Animal common name disambiguation pages
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Chariots of Fire is a 1981 British historical sports drama film directed by Hugh Hudson, written by Colin Welland and produced by David Puttnam. It is based on the true story of two British athletes in the 1924 Olympics: Eric Liddell, a devout Scottish Christian who runs for the glory of God, and Harold Abrahams, an English Jew who runs to overcome prejudice. Ben Cross and Ian Charleson star as Abrahams and Liddell, alongside Nigel Havers, Ian Holm, John Gielgud, Lindsay Anderson, Cheryl Campbell, Alice Krige, Brad Davis and Dennis Christopher in supporting roles. Kenneth Branagh makes his debut in a minor role. Chariots of Fire was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won four, including Best Picture, Best Original Screenplay and Best Original Score for Vangelis' electronic theme tune. At the 35th British Academy Film Awards, the film was nominated in 11 categories and won in three, including Best Film. It is ranked 19th in the British Film Institute's list of Top 100 British films. The film's title was inspired by the line "Bring me my Chariot of fire!" from the William Blake poem adapted into the British hymn and unofficial English anthem "Jerusalem"; the hymn is heard at the end of the film. The original phrase "chariot(s) of fire" is from 2 Kings 2:11 and 6:17 in the Bible. Plot During a 1978 funeral service in London in honour of the life of Harold Abrahams, headed by his former colleague Lord Andrew Lindsay, there is a flashback to when he was young and in a group of athletes running along a beach. In 1919, Harold Abrahams enters the University of Cambridge, where he experiences antisemitism from the staff but enjoys participating in the Gilbert and Sullivan club. He becomes the first person ever to complete the Trinity Great Court Run, running around the college courtyard in the time it takes for the clock to strike 12, and achieves an undefeated string of victories in various national running competitions. Although focused on his running, he falls in love with Sybil Gordon, a leading Gilbert and Sullivan soprano. Eric Liddell, born in China to Scottish missionary parents, is in Scotland. His devout sister Jennie disapproves of Liddell's plans to pursue competitive running. Still, Liddell sees running as a way of glorifying God before returning to China to work as a missionary. When they first race against each other, Liddell beats Abrahams. Abrahams takes it poorly, but Sam Mussabini, a professional trainer he had approached earlier, offers to take him on to improve his technique. This attracts criticism from the Cambridge college masters, who allege it is not gentlemanly for an amateur to "play the tradesman" by employing a professional coach. Abrahams dismisses this concern, interpreting it as cover for antisemitic and class-based prejudice. When Liddell accidentally misses a church prayer meeting because of his running, Jennie upbraids him and accuses him of no longer caring about God. Eric tells her that though he intends to return eventually to the China mission, he feels divinely inspired when running and that not to run would be to dishonour God. After years of training and racing, the two athletes are accepted to represent Great Britain in the 1924 Olympics in Paris. Also accepted are Abrahams' Cambridge friends, Andrew Lindsay, Aubrey Montague, and Henry Stallard. While boarding the boat to France for the Olympics, Liddell discovers the heats for his 100-metre race will be on a Sunday. Despite intense pressure from the Prince of Wales and the British Olympic Committee, he refuses to run the race because his Christian convictions prevent him from running on the Lord's Day. A solution is found thanks to Liddell's teammate Lindsay, who, having already won a silver medal in the 400 metres hurdles, offers to give his place in the 400-metre race on the following Thursday to Liddell, who gratefully accepts. Liddell's religious convictions in the face of national athletic pride make headlines around the world; he delivers a sermon at the Paris Church of Scotland that Sunday, and quotes from Isaiah 40. Abrahams is badly beaten by the heavily favoured United States runners in the 200 metre race. He knows his last chance for a medal will be the 100 metres. He competes in the race and wins. His coach Mussabini, who was barred from the stadium, is overcome that the years of dedication and training have paid off with an Olympic gold medal. Now Abrahams can get on with his life and reunite with his girlfriend Sybil, whom he had neglected for the sake of running. Before Liddell's race, the American coach remarks dismissively to his runners that Liddell has little chance of doing well in his now, far longer, 400 metre race. But one of the American runners, Jackson Scholz, hands Liddell a note of support that quotes . Liddell defeats the American favourites and wins the gold medal. The British team returns home triumphant. A textual epilogue reveals that Abrahams married Sybil and became the elder statesman of British athletics while Liddell went on to do missionary work and was mourned by all of Scotland following his death in Japanese-occupied China. Cast Other actors in smaller roles include John Young as Eric and Jennie's father Reverend J.D. Liddell, Yvonne Gilan as their mother Mary, Benny Young as their older brother Rob, Yves Beneyton as French runner Go Andr, Philip O'Brien as American coach George Collins, Patrick Doyle as Jimmie, and Ruby Wax as Bunty. Kenneth Branagh, who worked as a set gofer, appears as an extra in the Cambridge Society Day sequence. Stephen Fry has a likewise uncredited role as a Gilbert-and-Sullivan Club singer. Production Screenplay Producer David Puttnam was looking for a story in the mould of A Man for All Seasons (1966), regarding someone who follows his conscience, and felt that sport provided clear situations in this sense. He discovered Eric Liddell's story by accident in 1977, when he happened upon An Approved History of the Olympic Games, a reference book on the Olympics, while housebound from the flu, in a rented house in Malibu. Screenwriter Colin Welland, commissioned by Puttnam, did an enormous amount of research for his Academy Award-winning script. Among other things, he took out advertisements in London newspapers seeking memories of the 1924 Olympics, went to the National Film Archives for pictures and footage of the 1924 Olympics, and interviewed everyone involved who was still alive. Welland just missed Abrahams, who died on 14 January 1978, but he did attend Abrahams' February 1978 memorial service, which inspired the present-day framing device of the film. Aubrey Montague's son saw Welland's newspaper ad and sent him copies of the letters his father had sent home which gave Welland something to use as a narrative bridge in the film. Except for changes in the greetings of the letters from "Darling Mummy" to "Dear Mum" and the change from Oxford to Cambridge, all of the readings from Montague's letters are from the originals. Welland's original script also featured, in addition to Eric Liddell and Harold Abrahams, a third protagonist, 1924 Olympic gold medallist Douglas Lowe, who was presented as a privileged aristocratic athlete. However, Lowe refused to have anything to do with the film, and his character was written out and replaced by the fictional character of Lord Andrew Lindsay. Initial financing towards development costs was provided by Goldcrest Films, who then sold the project to Mohamed Al-Fayed's Allied Stars, but kept a percentage of the profits. Ian Charleson wrote Eric Liddell's speech to the post-race workingmen's crowd at the Scotland v. Ireland races. Charleson, who had studied the Bible intensively in preparation for the role, told director Hugh Hudson that he didn't feel the portentous and sanctimonious scripted speech was either authentic or inspiring. Hudson and Welland allowed him to write words he personally found inspirational instead. Puttnam chose Hugh Hudson, a multiple award-winning advertising and documentary filmmaker who had never helmed a feature film, to direct Chariots of Fire. Hudson and Puttnam had known each other since the 1960s when Puttnam was an advertising executive and Hudson was making films for ad agencies. In 1977, Hudson had also been second-unit director on the Puttnam-produced film Midnight Express. Casting Director Hugh Hudson was determined to cast young, unknown actors in all the major roles of the film, and to back them up by using veterans like John Gielgud, Lindsay Anderson, and Ian Holm as their supporting cast. Hudson and producer David Puttnam did months of fruitless searching for the perfect actor to play Eric Liddell. They then saw Scottish stage actor Ian Charleson performing the role of Pierre in the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of Piaf, and knew immediately they had found their man. Unbeknownst to them, Charleson had heard about the film from his father, and desperately wanted to play the part, feeling it would "fit like a kid glove". Ben Cross, who plays Harold Abrahams, was discovered while playing Billy Flynn in Chicago. In addition to having a natural pugnaciousness, he had the desired ability to sing and play the piano. Cross was thrilled to be cast, and said he was moved to tears by the film's script. 20th Century-Fox, which put up half of the production budget in exchange for distribution rights outside of North America, insisted on having a couple of notable American names in the cast. Thus the small parts of the two American champion runners, Jackson Scholz and Charley Paddock, were cast with recent headliners: Brad Davis had recently starred in Midnight Express (also produced by Puttnam), and Dennis Christopher had recently starred, as a young bicycle racer, in the popular indie film Breaking Away. All of the actors portraying runners underwent an intensive three-month training regimen with renowned running coach Tom McNab. This training and isolation of the actors also created a strong bond and sense of camaraderie among them. Filming The beach scenes showing the athletes running towards the Carlton Hotel at Broadstairs, Kent, were shot in Scotland on West Sands, St Andrews next to the 18th hole of the Old Course at St Andrews Links. A plaque now commemorates the filming. The impact of these scenes (as the athletes run in slow motion to Vangelis's music) prompted Broadstairs town council to commemorate them with a seafront plaque. All of the Cambridge scenes were actually filmed at Hugh Hudson's alma mater Eton College, because Cambridge refused filming rights, fearing depictions of anti-Semitism. The Cambridge administration greatly regretted the decision after the film's enormous success. Liverpool Town Hall was the setting for the scenes depicting the British Embassy in Paris. The Colombes Olympic Stadium in Paris was represented by the Oval Sports Centre, Bebington, Merseyside. The nearby Woodside ferry terminal was used to represent the embarkation scenes set in Dover. The railway station scenes were filmed in York, using locomotives from the National Railway Museum. The filming of the ScotlandFrance international athletic meeting took place at Goldenacre Sports Ground, owned by George Heriot's School while the ScotlandIreland meeting was at the nearby Inverleith Sports Ground. The scene depicting a performance of The Mikado was filmed in the Royal Court Theatre, Liverpool, with members of the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company who were on tour. Editing The film was slightly altered for the U.S. audience. A brief scene depicting a pre-Olympics cricket game between Abrahams, Liddell, Montague, and the rest of the British track team appears shortly after the beginning of the original film. For the American audience, this brief scene was deleted. In the U.S., to avoid the initial G rating, which had been strongly associated with children's films and might have hindered box office sales, a different scene was used one depicting Abrahams and Montague arriving at a Cambridge railway station and encountering two First World War veterans who use an obscenity in order to be given a PG rating. An off camera retort of "Win It For Israel" among exhortations of Abraham's fellow students before he takes on the challenge of The Great Court Run was curiously absent from the final cuts theatrically distributed in the U.S. but can be heard in versions broadcast on such cable outlets as TCM. Soundtrack Although the film is a period piece, set in the 1920s, the Academy Award-winning original soundtrack composed by Vangelis uses a modern 1980s electronic sound, with a strong use of synthesizer and piano among other instruments. This was a departure from earlier period films, which employed sweeping orchestral instrumentals. The title theme of the film has been used in subsequent films and television shows during slow-motion segments. Vangelis, a Greek-born electronic composer who moved to Paris in the late 1960s, had been living in London since 1974. Director Hugh Hudson had collaborated with him on documentaries and commercials, and was also particularly impressed with his 1979 albums Opera Sauvage and China. David Puttnam also greatly admired Vangelis's body of work, having originally selected his compositions for his previous film Midnight Express. Hudson made the choice for Vangelis and for a modern score: "I knew we needed a piece which was anachronistic to the period to give it a feel of modernity. It was a risky idea but we went with it rather than have a period symphonic score." The soundtrack had a personal significance to Vangelis: after composing the theme he told Puttnam, "My father is a runner, and this is an anthem to him." Hudson originally wanted Vangelis's 1977 tune "L'Enfant", from his Opera Sauvage album, to be the title theme of the film, and the beach running sequence was actually filmed with "L'Enfant" playing on loudspeakers for the runners to pace to. Vangelis finally convinced Hudson he could create a new and better piece for the film's main theme and when he played the "Chariots of Fire" theme for Hudson, it was agreed the new tune was unquestionably better. The "L'Enfant" melody still made it into the film: when the athletes reach Paris and enter the stadium, a brass band marches through the field, and first plays a modified, acoustic performance of the piece. Vangelis's electronic "L'Enfant" track eventually was used prominently in the 1982 film The Year of Living Dangerously. Some pieces of Vangelis's music in the film did not end up on the film's soundtrack album. One of them is the background music to the race Eric Liddell runs in the Scottish highlands. This piece is a version of "Hymne", the original version of which appears on Vangelis's 1979 album, Opra sauvage. Various versions are also included on Vangelis's compilation albums Themes, Portraits, and Odyssey: The Definitive Collection, though none of these include the version used in the film. Five lively Gilbert and Sullivan tunes also appear in the soundtrack, and serve as jaunty period music which counterpoints Vangelis's modern electronic score. These are: "He is an Englishman" from H.M.S. Pinafore, "Three Little Maids From School Are We" from The Mikado, "With Catlike Tread" from The Pirates of Penzance, "The Soldiers of Our Queen" from Patience, and "There Lived a King" from The Gondoliers. The film also incorporates a major traditional work: "Jerusalem", sung by a British choir at the 1978 funeral of Harold Abrahams. The words, written by William Blake in 180408, were set to music by Hubert Parry in 1916 as a celebration of England. This hymn has been described as "England's unofficial national anthem", concludes the film and inspired its title. A handful of other traditional anthems and hymns and period-appropriate instrumental ballroom-dance music round out the film's soundtrack. Release The film was distributed by 20th Century-Fox and selected for the 1981 Royal Film Performance with its premiere on 30 March 1981 at the Odeon Haymarket before opening to the public the following day. It opened in Edinburgh on 4 April and in Oxford and Cambridge on 5 April with other openings in Manchester and Liverpool before expanding further in May into 20 additional London cinemas and 11 others nationally. It was shown in competition at the 1981 Cannes Film Festival on 20 May. The film was distributed by The Ladd Company through Warner Bros. in North America and released on 25 September 1981 in Los Angeles, California and in New York Film Festival, on 26 September 1981 in New York and on 9 April 1982 in the United States. Reception Since its release, Chariots of Fire has received generally positive reviews from critics. , the film holds an 83% "Certified Fresh" rating on the review aggregator website Rotten Tomatoes, based on 111 reviews, with a weighted average of 7.7/10. The site's consensus reads: "Decidedly slower and less limber than the Olympic runners at the center of its story, Chariots of Fire nevertheless manages to make effectively stirring use of its spiritual and patriotic themes." On Metacritic, the film has a score of 78 out of 100 based on 19 critics' reviews, indicating "generally favorable reviews". For its 2012 re-release, Kate Muir of The Times gave the film five stars, writing: "In a time when drug tests and synthetic fibres have replaced gumption and moral fibre, the tale of two runners competing against each other in the 1924 Olympics has a simple, undiminished power. From the opening scene of pale young men racing barefoot along the beach, full of hope and elation, backed by Vangelis's now famous anthem, the film is utterly compelling." In its first four weeks at the Odeon Haymarket it grossed 106,484. The film was the highest-grossing British film for the year with theatrical rentals of 1,859,480. Its gross of almost $59 million in the United States and Canada made it the highest-grossing film import into the US (i.e. a film without any US input) at the time, surpassing Meatballs $43 million. Accolades The film was nominated for seven Academy Awards, winning four (including Best Picture). When accepting his Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, Colin Welland famously announced "The British are coming". It was the first film released by Warner Bros. to win Best Picture since My Fair Lady in 1964. American Film Institute recognition 1998: AFI's 100 Years...100 Movies - Nominated 2005: AFI's 100 Years of Film Scores - Nominated 2006: AFI's 100 Years...100 Cheers - No. 100 2007: AFI's 100 Years...100 Movies (10th Anniversary Edition) - Nominated 2008: AFI's 10 Top 10 - Nominated Sports Movie Other honours BFI Top 100 British films (1999) rank 19 Hot 100 No. 1 Hits of 1982 (USA) (8 May) Vangelis, Chariots of Fire theme Historical accuracy Chariots of Fire is a film about achieving victory through self sacrifice and moral courage. While the producers' intent was to make a cinematic work that was historically authentic, the film was not intended to be historically accurate. Numerous liberties were taken with the actual historical chronology, the inclusion and exclusion of notable people, and the creation of fictional scenes for dramatic purpose, plot pacing and exposition. Characters The film depicts Abrahams as attending Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, with three other Olympic athletes: Henry Stallard, Aubrey Montague, and Lord Andrew Lindsay. Abrahams and Stallard were, in fact, students there and competed in the 1924 Olympics. Montague also competed in the Olympics as depicted, but he attended Oxford, not Cambridge. Aubrey Montague sent daily letters to his mother about his time at Oxford and the Olympics; these letters were the basis of Montague's narration in the film. The character of Lindsay was based partially on Lord Burghley, a significant figure in the history of British athletics. Although Burghley did attend Cambridge, he was not a contemporary of Harold Abrahams, as Abrahams was an undergraduate from 1919 to 1923 and Burghley was at Cambridge from 1923 to 1927. One scene in the film depicts the Burghley-based "Lindsay" as practising hurdles on his estate with full champagne glasses placed on each hurdle this was something the wealthy Burghley did, although he used matchboxes instead of champagne glasses. The fictional character of Lindsay was created when Douglas Lowe, who was Britain's third athletics gold medallist in the 1924 Olympics, was not willing to be involved with the film. Another scene in the film recreates the Great Court Run, in which the runners attempt to run around the perimeter of the Great Court at Trinity College, Cambridge in the time it takes the clock to strike 12 at midday. The film shows Abrahams performing the feat for the first time in history. In fact, Abrahams never attempted this race, and at the time of filming the only person on record known to have succeeded was Lord Burghley, in 1927. In Chariots of Fire, Lindsay, who is based on Lord Burghley, runs the Great Court Run with Abrahams in order to spur him on, and crosses the finish line just a moment too late. Since the film's release, the Great Court Run has also been successfully run by Trinity undergraduate Sam Dobin, in October 2007. In the film, Eric Liddell is tripped up by a Frenchman in the 400-metre event of a ScotlandFrance international athletic meeting. He recovers, makes up a 20-metre deficit, and wins. This was based on fact; the actual race was the 440 yards at a Triangular Contest meet between Scotland, England, and Ireland at Stoke-on-Trent in England in July 1923. His achievement was remarkable as he had already won the 100- and 220-yard events that day. Also unmentioned with regard to Liddell is that it was he who introduced Abrahams to Sam Mussabini. This is alluded to: in the film, Abrahams first encounters Mussabini while he is watching Liddell race. Abrahams and Liddell did race against each other twice, but not as depicted in the film, which shows Liddell winning the final of the 100 yards against a shattered Abrahams at the 1923 AAA Championship at Stamford Bridge. In fact, they raced only in a heat of the 220 yards, which Liddell won, five yards ahead of Abrahams, who did not progress to the final. In the 100 yards, Abrahams was eliminated in the heats and did not race against Liddell, who won the finals of both races the next day. They also raced against each other in the 200 m final at the 1924 Olympics, and this was also not shown in the film. Abrahams' fiance is misidentified as Sybil Gordon, a soprano with the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company. In fact, in 1936, Abrahams married Sybil Evers, who also performed with D'Oyly Carte, but they did not meet until 1934. Also, in the film, Sybil is depicted as singing the role of Yum-Yum in The Mikado, but neither Gordon nor Evers ever sang that role with D'Oyly Carte, although Evers was known for her charm in singing Peep-Bo, one of the two other "little maids from school". Harold Abrahams' love of and heavy involvement with Gilbert and Sullivan, as depicted in the film, is factual. Liddell's sister was several years younger than she was portrayed in the film. Her disapproval of Liddell's track career was creative licence; she actually fully supported his sporting work. Jenny Liddell Somerville cooperated fully with the making of the film and has a brief cameo in the Paris Church of Scotland during Liddell's sermon. At the memorial service for Harold Abrahams, which opens the film, Lord Lindsay mentions that he and Aubrey Montague are the only members of the 1924 Olympic team still alive. However, Montague died in 1948, 30 years before Abrahams' death. Paris Olympics 1924 In the film, the 100m bronze medallist is a character called "Tom Watson"; the real medallist was Arthur Porritt of New Zealand, who refused permission for his name to be used in the film, allegedly out of modesty, and his wish was accepted by the film's producers, even though his permission was not necessary. However, the brief back-story given for Watson, who is called up to the New Zealand team from the University of Oxford, substantially matches Porritt's history. With the exception of Porritt, all the runners in the 100m final are identified correctly when they line up for inspection by the Prince of Wales. Jackson Scholz is depicted as handing Liddell an inspirational Bible-quotation message before the 400 metres final: "It says in the Old Book, 'He that honors me, I will honor.' Good luck." In reality, the note was from members of the British team, and was handed to Liddell before the race by his attending masseur at the team's Paris hotel. For dramatic purposes, screenwriter Welland asked Scholz if he could be depicted handing the note, and Scholz readily agreed, saying "Yes, great, as long as it makes me look good." The events surrounding Liddell's refusal to race on a Sunday are fictional. In the film, he does not learn that the 100-metre heat is to be held on the Christian Sabbath until he is boarding the boat to Paris. In fact, the schedule was made public several months in advance; Liddell did however face immense pressure to run on that Sunday and to compete in the 100 metres, getting called before a grilling by the British Olympic Committee, the Prince of Wales, and other grandees, and his refusal to run made headlines around the world. The decision to change races was, even so, made well before embarking to Paris, and Liddell spent the intervening months training for the 400 metres, an event in which he had previously excelled. It is true, nonetheless, that Liddell's success in the Olympic 400m was largely unexpected. The film depicts Lindsay, having already won a medal in the 400-metre hurdles, giving up his place in the 400-metre race for Liddell. In fact Burghley, on whom Lindsay is loosely based, was eliminated in the heats of the 110 hurdles (he would go on to win a gold medal in the 400 hurdles at the 1928 Olympics), and was not entered for the 400 metres. The film reverses the order of Abrahams' 100m and 200m races at the Olympics. In reality, after winning the 100 metres race, Abrahams ran the 200 metres but finished last, Jackson Scholz taking the gold medal. In the film, before his triumph in the 100m, Abrahams is shown losing the 200m and being scolded by Mussabini. And during the following scene in which Abrahams speaks with his friend Montague while receiving a massage from Mussabini, there is a French newspaper clipping showing Scholz and Charley Paddock with a headline which states that the 200 metres was a triumph for the United States. In the same conversation, Abrahams laments getting "beaten out of sight" in the 200. The film thus has Abrahams overcoming the disappointment of losing the 200 by going on to win the 100, a reversal of the real order. Eric Liddell actually also ran in the 200m race, and finished third, behind Paddock and Scholz. This was the only time in reality that Liddell and Abrahams competed in the same finals race. While their meeting in the 1923 AAA Championship in the film was fictitious, Liddell's record win in that race did spur Abrahams to train even harder. Abrahams also won a silver medal as an opening runner for the 4 x 100 metres relay team, not shown in the film, and Aubrey Montague placed sixth in the steeplechase, as depicted. London Olympics' 2012 revival Chariots of Fire became a recurring theme in promotions for the 2012 Summer Olympics in London. The film's theme was featured at the opening of the 2012 London New Year's fireworks celebrating the Olympics. The runners who first tested the new Olympic Park were spurred on by the Chariots of Fire theme, and the music was also used to fanfare the carriers of the Olympic flame on parts of its route through the UK. The beach-running sequence was also recreated at St. Andrews and filmed as part of the Olympic torch relay. The film's theme was also performed by the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Simon Rattle, during the Opening Ceremony of the games; the performance was accompanied by a comedy skit by Rowan Atkinson (as Mr. Bean) which included the opening beach-running footage from the film. The film's theme was again played during each medal ceremony of the 2012 Olympics. As an official part of the London 2012 Festival celebrations, a new digitally re-mastered version of the film screened in 150 cinemas throughout the UK. The re-release began 13 July 2012, two weeks before the opening ceremony of the London Olympics. A Blu-ray of the film was released on 10 July 2012 in North America, and was released 16 July 2012 in the UK. The release includes nearly an hour of special features, a CD sampler, and a 32-page "digibook". Stage adaptation A stage adaptation of Chariots of Fire was mounted in honour of the 2012 Olympics. The play, Chariots of Fire, which was adapted by playwright Mike Bartlett and included the Vangelis score, ran from 9 May to 16 June 2012 at London's Hampstead Theatre, and transferred to the Gielgud Theatre in the West End on 23 June, where it ran until 5 January 2013. It starred Jack Lowden as Eric Liddell and James McArdle as Harold Abrahams, and Edward Hall directed. Stage designer Miriam Buether transformed each theatre into an Olympic stadium, and composer Jason Carr wrote additional music. Vangelis also created several new pieces of music for the production. The stage version for the London Olympic year was the idea of the film's director, Hugh Hudson, who co-produced the play; he stated, "Issues of faith, of refusal to compromise, standing up for one's beliefs, achieving something for the sake of it, with passion, and not just for fame or financial gain, are even more vital today." Another play, Running for Glory, written by Philip Dart, based on the 1924 Olympics, and focusing on Abrahams and Liddell, toured parts of Britain from 25 February to 1 April 2012. It starred Nicholas Jacobs as Harold Abrahams, and Tom Micklem as Eric Liddell. See also List of films about the sport of athletics Chariots of Fire, a race, inspired by the film, held in Cambridge since 1991 Great Britain at the 1924 Summer Olympics Sabbath breaking References Notes External links Critics' Picks: Chariots of Fire retrospective video by A. O. Scott, The New York Times (2008) Four speeches from the movie in text and audio from AmericanRhetoric.com Chariots of Fire review by Roger Ebert Chariots of Fire review in Variety Chariots of Fire at the Arts & Faith Top 100 Spiritually Significant Films Chariots of Fire Filming locations Chariots of Fire screenplay, second draft, February 1980 Great Court Run Chariots of Fire play Hampstead Theatre 1981 films 1980s English-language films 1980s French-language films 20th Century Fox films 1980s biographical drama films Best Foreign Language Film Golden Globe winners Best Picture Academy Award winners British biographical drama films British sports drama films University of Cambridge in fiction Films about Christianity Films about competitions Films about religion Films directed by Hugh Hudson Films set in 1919 Films set in 1920 Films set in 1923 Films set in 1924 Films set in 1978 Films set in Cambridge Films set in Kent Films set in London Films set in Paris Films set in England Films set in France Films set in Scotland Films set in the University of Cambridge Films whose writer won the Best Original Screenplay Academy Award Films that won the Best Original Score Academy Award Goldcrest Films films Biographical films about Jewish people Films about the 1924 Summer Olympics Films about Olympic track and field Running films Sport at the University of Cambridge Sports films based on actual events Warner Bros. films Films scored by Vangelis Films that won the Best Costume Design Academy Award Films set on beaches Religion and sports Films shot in Edinburgh Best Film BAFTA Award winners Films produced by David Puttnam The Ladd Company films Biographical films about sportspeople Cultural depictions of track and field athletes 1981 directorial debut films 1981 drama films Films shot in York Films shot in North Yorkshire Films shot in Yorkshire Films shot in Liverpool Films shot in Merseyside Films shot in Kent Films about antisemitism 1980s British films Toronto International Film Festival People's Choice Award winners Cultural depictions of Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson
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William Newton Byers (February 22, 1831, in Madison County, Ohio March 25, 1903) was a founding figure of Omaha, Nebraska, serving as the first deputy surveyor of the Nebraska Territory, on the first Omaha City Council, and as a member of the first Nebraska Territorial Legislature. He was also an early settler of Denver, Colorado, and the founder and editor of the Rocky Mountain News in Denver. He was married to Elizabeth Byers who was a prominent woman in Denver for her philanthropic activities. They lived in the ByersEvans House, now a museum that is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Early life Byers was born in Madison County, Ohio, to Moses and Mary. In 1851, he moved with his parents to Iowa, and then to Omaha, Nebraska, as the city was being laid out in 1854. Career In Omaha, he became the first deputy surveyor in the Nebraska Territory, in which capacity he created the first official plat of Omaha. A partnership with Andrew J. Poppleton led Byers to make the first map of the city of Omaha. Soon afterwards he became a member of the first city council, and a member of the first session of the Nebraska Territorial Legislature, convened January 16, 1855, in Omaha. In 1859 Byers moved to Denver to take advantage of recent gold strikes in the area. Taking the printing presses of the defunct Bellevue Gazette by oxcart, he and J. H. Kellom were the authors of a handbook to the gold fields, published that year. Robert W. Furnas, in 1859 associated with the Nebraska Advertiser, later recalled that Byers had bought the equipment of the defunct and had it taken by ox team to Denver, then in western Kansas Territory, where he used it in the publication of the Rocky Mountain News. The Rocky Mountain News was the first newspaper printed in Colorado; it continued publication until 2009. In 1863 Byers purchased Hot Sulphur Springs in northern Colorado from a Minnesota Sioux woman in a shady deal, causing the real owners, the Ute tribe, to unsuccessfully sue. Byers' plans to turn it into "America's Switzerland" were foiled by the failure of the railroad to arrive until 1928. Byers wrote numerous editorials justifying the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, maintaining even years later that "Sand Creek saved Colorado, and taught the Indians the most salutary lesson they had ever learned." Personal life He was married to Elizabeth Byers who came to Denver during the Pikes Peak Gold Rush when it was a small settlement of tents. It was primarily inhabited by rough men who frequented the saloons. She had rough experiences during her 60 years in Denver. She lost both of her children with William. One of their houses was lost to fire, and another was flooded. She was active in establishment of charitable organizations in Denver. In 1860, she founded the Ladies United Aid Society. With Frances Wisebart Jacobs and Margaret Gray Evans, it was reorganized in 1872 to the Ladies Relief Society. One year later, Elizabeth Byers and Margaret Gray Evans founded the Old Ladies Home. To care for homeless girls, Byers established the Home of Good Shepherds in 1885. Upon moving to Denver he built and lived in several mansions, including the one now known as the Byers-Evans House. The Byers-Evans House is now a museum, and is located next to the Denver Art Museum in downtown Denver. In 1891 Byers and his wife relocated to a mansion they built on a large tract of land at 171 S. Washington St. Byers was an avid horticulturalist and planted a wide variety of tree species on his property; he used the majority of the land plot for personal farming and gardening. After the Byers couple vacated their mansion and farm, the house was demolished and the property was dedicated to the Denver Public Schools in 1921. Some of the trees he planted may still be on the property today, around the periphery of DSST Byers Middle and High Schools. The school was originally named William N. Byers Junior High School, then DSST: Byers, until 2023 when the name was changed in consideration of Byers' support for the Sand Creek Massacre. A branch of the Denver Public Library had been named for Byers, but it was renamed in 2021, also in consideration of the Sand Creek Massacre. Byers had a mistress, Hattie Sancomb, who tried to kill him. It created a scandal, and ended his political career, but Elizabeth stood by her husband. As a former territorial surveyor, it is not surprising that Byers was an accomplished outdoorsman. While living in Denver, he spent considerable time in the mountains. In 1863, the artist Albert Bierstadt asked him to serve as a guide, and he led Bierstadt on an expedition from Idaho Springs, Colorado, to the summit of the mountain Bierstadt named Mount Rosalie, later known as Mount Evans, and later as Mount Blue Sky. Bierstadt's masterpiece Storm in the rocky mountains was based on that trip. William N. Byers died on March 25, 1903, and was buried in Fairmount Cemetery in Denver, Colorado. Legacy A 1964 episode of the Western anthology series Death Valley Days purported to be the story of the establishment of the Rocky Mountain News, with Byers portrayed by actor Jerome Courtland. References External links Byers biography Longer biography of Byers Town of Hot Sulphur Springs website 1831 births 1903 deaths Politicians from Denver History of Denver Burials at Fairmount Cemetery (Denver, Colorado) American newspaper founders Members of the Nebraska Territorial Legislature 19th-century American politicians Omaha City Council members Rocky Mountain News people 19th-century American businesspeople
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Flock of Dodos: The Evolution-Intelligent Design Circus is a documentary film by American marine biologist and filmmaker Randy Olson. It highlights the debate between proponents of the concept of intelligent design and the scientific evidence and consensus that supports evolution, as well as the potential consequences of science rejection. The documentary was first screened publicly on February 2, 2006, in Kansas, where much of the public controversy on intelligent design began, as well as the starting point of discussion in the documentary. Other public screenings followed in universities, including Harvard and Stony Brook University, marking the celebration of Charles Darwin's birthday. Synopsis Flock of Dodos examines the disagreements that proponents of intelligent design have with the scientific consensus position of evolution. Olsen also expressed concerns in relation to the potential to distrust and reject science in general. The evolutionarily famous dodo (Raphus cucullatus) is a now-extinct bird that lived on the island of Mauritius. Due to its lack of fear of humans and inability to fly, the dodo was easy prey, and thus became known for its apparent stupidity. The film attempts to determine who the real "dodos" are in a constantly evolving world: the scientists who are failing to effectively promote evolution as a scientifically accepted fact, the intelligent design advocates, or the American public who get fooled by the "salesmanship" of evolution critics. The film gives equal air time to both sides of the argument, including intelligent design proponent Michael Behe and several of his colleagues. While Randy Olson ultimately sides with the scientists who accept evolution, the scientists are criticized for their elitism and inability to efficiently present science to the general public, which ultimately contributes to the spread of misconceptions. The film begins by going over the history of intelligent design thought from Plato and Paley to the present-day incarnation promoted by the Discovery Institute. Olson mixes in humorous cartoons of squawking dodos with commentary from his mother and interviews with proponents on both sides of the intelligent design/evolution debate. On the intelligent design side, Olson interviews Behe, John Calvart (founder of the Access Research Network) and a member of the Kansas school board. Olson also unsuccessfully tries to interview Kansas Board of Education member Connie Morris (associated with Kansas evolution hearings) and members of the Discovery Institute. Release The documentary premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York, in April 2006, and since then has played at film festivals all over the U.S. and abroad. The documentary was shown in museums and universities as part of a "Dodos Darwin Day" event (celebrating Charles Darwin's birthday) on or around February 12, 2007. Flock of Dodos: the Evolution-Intelligent Design Circus is currently (as of January 2008) in rotation on Showtime in the US and available on DVD. The documentary was praised by the journal Nature and a variety of other publications. In 2007, Olson released a collection of "pulled punches," of unreleased material that he chose to leave out that reflected poorly on intelligent design supporters. Discovery Institute response Olson invited the Discovery Institute, a hub of the intelligent design movement, to appear in the film. Instead the institute responded by creating a website, Hoax of Dodos, characterizing the documentary as "revisionist history," and a "hoax" filled with inaccuracies and misrepresentations. Biologist PZ Myers responded to the institute's "bogus complaint that Olson was lying in the movie" about Ernst Haeckel's drawings of embryos is false. Myers explained the drawings have not been used in recent biology textbooks "other than a mention that once upon a time Haeckel came up with this idea of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny." Myers and other critics of intelligent design have shown that each of these texts treats Haeckel's theory of ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny as an example of an outdated exaggeration. Myers notes in his rebuttal of the criticism from design proponents that, "I would add that progress in evolutionary biology has led to better explanations of the phenomenon that vertebrate embryos go through a period of similarity: it lies in conserved genetic circuitry that lays down the body plan." In early 2007, in response to Olson's claim, "the Discovery Institute is truly the big fish in this picture, with an annual budget of around $5 million," the Institute responded that their budget is only $4.2 million, and that they spend close to $1 million per year funding intelligent design. References External links Flock of Dodos Science Friday Commentary (Feb. 23. 07) Profile of "Flock of Dodos" director Randy Olson by Eric Sorensen in (2007) Forward thinkers: People to watch in 2007. Conservation, 8(1). PZ Myers responding to the criticisms about Haeckel's drawings 2006 films 2006 documentary films Works about creationism Intelligent design American documentary films Documentary films about education in the United States Documentary films about science 2000s English-language films 2000s American films
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Najas, the water-nymphs or naiads, is a genus of aquatic plants. It is cosmopolitan in distribution, first described for modern science by Linnaeus in 1753. Until 1997, it was rarely placed in the Hydrocharitaceae, and was often taken as constituting (by itself) the family Najadaceae. The APG II system, of 2003 (unchanged from the APG system, of 1998), places the genus in family Hydrocharitaceae, in the order Alismatales of the monocots. An infrageneric classification of two sections is proposed: Section Americanae and sect. Caulinia. Species Najas affinis Rendle - South America, Senegal, Guinea-Bissau Najas ancistrocarpa A.Braun ex Magnus - China, Japan, Taiwan Najas arguta Kunth - Cuba, Costa Rica, Panama, South America Najas australis Bory ex Rendle - India, Madagascar, Mauritius, KwaZulu-Natal, Seychelles Najas baldwinii Horn - West Africa Najas brevistyla Rendle - Assam Najas browniana Rendle - southern China, India, Taiwan, Java, Cavern Island in Northern Territory of Australia Najas chinensis N.Z.Wang - Primorye, China, Taiwan, Japan Najas conferta (A.Braun) A.Braun - Cuba, Hispaniola, Panama, Brazil Najas faveolata A. Br. ex Magnus Najas filifolia R.R.Haynes - southeastern United States (Georgia, Alabama, Florida) Najas flexilis (Willd.) Rostk. & W.L.E. Schmidt (1824) - temperate Northern Hemisphere Najas gracillima (A.Braun ex Engelm.) Magnus - Asia, North America Najas graminea Delile (1813) - Africa, Asia, New Guinea, Melanesia, northern Australia; naturalized in California and parts of Europe Najas grossareolata L.Triest - Sri Lanka Najas guadalupensis (Spreng.) Magnus - North and South America, Caribbean Najas hagerupii Horn - Ghana, Mali Najas halophila L.Triest - Java, New Guinea, Queensland Najas heteromorpha Griff. ex Voigt - eastern India Najas horrida A.Braun ex Magnus - Africa, Madagascar, Sinai Najas indica (Willd.) Cham. (1829) - Indian Subcontinent, China, Southeast Asia, New Guinea Najas kurziana Rendle - Bihar, East Timor Najas madagascariensis Rendle - Madagascar; naturalized in Mauritius Najas malesiana W.J.de Wilde - India, Bangladesh, Indochina, Malaysia, Indonesia, Philippines; naturalized in eastern Brazil Najas marina L. (1753) - widespread and nearly cosmopolitan Najas minor All. (1773) - widespread in Europe, Asia, Africa; naturalized in eastern North America Najas oguraensis Miki - East Asia, Himalayas (Pakistan, Nepal, northern India) Najas pectinata (Parl.) Magnus - Sahara Najas pseudogracillima L.Triest - Hong Kong Najas rigida Griff. - eastern India Najas schweinfurthii Magnus - Senegal, Cameroon, Ethiopia, Sudan, Tanzania Najas tenuicaulis Miki - Honshu Island in Japan Najas tenuifolia R.Br. - Hong Kong, Southeast Asia, Australia Najas tenuis Magnus India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar Najas tenuissima (A.Braun ex Magnus) Magnus - Finland, Russia, Hokkaido Najas testui Rendle - western + central Africa Najas welwitschii Rendle - tropical Africa, western India Najas wrightiana A.Braun - Mexico, Central America, Cuba, Bahamas, Venezuela; naturalized in Florida References External links Najadaceae in L. Watson and M.J. Dallwitz (1992 onwards) : descriptions, illustrations, identification, information retrieval. Version: 9 March 2006. . Najas japonica Nakai- Flavon's art gallery Najadaceae of Mongolia in FloraGREIF Aquatic plants Hydrocharitaceae genera Taxa named by Carl Linnaeus
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Francavilla Fontana (Francavillese: ) is a town and comune (municipality) in the province of Brindisi and region of Apulia, in southern Italy. It is also called the town of the "Imperiali", after the Imperiali, a family of feudal lords who ruled the town from the end of 16th century until the 18th century. With a population of 36,358, in 2017, it is the third municipality of its province after Brindisi and Fasano. Its one of the many towns in south Italy where the Greek dialect Griko is spoken. History The name Francavilla has French-Norman origins: "Franca" (tax-free) and "villa" (town). The specification Fontana ("fountain") alludes to a vision of the Virgin Mary witnessed by Prince Filippo d'Angi, who hence declaring the town a tax-free haven, according to the local legend. Geography Francavilla is located in the Altosalento, on the last Murge's hills, and it is equidistant, about , from Taranto and Brindisi. The municipality borders with Ceglie Messapica, Grottaglie, Latiano, Manduria, Oria, San Marzano di San Giuseppe, San Michele Salentino, San Vito dei Normanni, Sava and Villa Castelli. Main sights The massive square Castle (Palazzo Imperiali) of the Imperiali family, to whom, with Oria, it was sold by St. Charles Borromeo in the 16th century for 40,000ounces of gold, which he distributed in one day to poor and plague-infected people in Milan. Mother Church, built from 1743 over a former Angevine construction. Torre dell'Orologio (watchtower), built in 1750. Transport The town, 18km east of Taranto-Grottaglie Airport, is served by the SS7 "Appia" highway. The local railway station is a junction point between the lines TarantoBrindisi, owned by the national company FS, and MartinaLecce, owned by FSE. It is served by regional and, on the Taranto-Brindisi line, by long-distance trains also. Sport The local football club is the Virtus Francavilla, that has its home ground in John Paul II Stadium. People Ottaviano Andriani (b. 1974), marathon runner Cosimo Caliandro (19822011), middle-distance runner Clementina Forleo (b. 1963), judge Giuseppe Renato Imperiali (16511737), cardinal Michele Imperiali Simeana (17361782), prince Giacomo Leone (b. 1971), long-distance runner Francesco Ribezzo (b. 8 May 1875, died Lecce, 19 October 1952), glottologist - the science of tongues or languages; comparative philology, particularly the dialect of F. Fontana Twin towns San Giovanni al Natisone, Italy See also Minor Basilica of the Most Holy Rosary References External links Official website Cities and towns in Apulia Localities of Salento Castles in Italy
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Staincliffe, also known as Staincliff, was a wapentake of the West Riding of Yorkshire, England. The wapentake was named from a place called Staincliffe, now lost, in Bank Newton, not to be confused with Staincliffe near Dewsbury. Staincliffe was presumably where the wapentake originally met, although in the 12th century it met at Flasby. The wapentake was split into two divisions. The East Division included the ancient parishes of Barnoldswick, Bracewell, Broughton, Burnsall, Carleton, Gargrave, Hebden, Keighley, Kettlewell, Kildwick, Linton, Marton in Craven, Skipton, Thornton in Craven and parts of Arncliffe and Addingham. The West Division included the parishes of Bolton by Bowland, Giggleswick, Gisburn, Kirkby Malhamdale, Long Preston, Slaidburn and parts of Arncliffe, Browsholme, Mitton, and Sawley. Some parts of the Forest of Bowland attached to the Chapelry of Whitewell, were part of the Lancashire parish of Whalley in neighbouring Blackburnshire. Old Deanery of Craven The old Deanery of Craven was approximately equivalent to the Wapentake of Staincliff. References External links Wapentakes of the West Riding of Yorkshire
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USS George W. Ingram (DE-62/APD-43) was a in service with the United States Navy from 1943 to 1947. In 1967, she was transferred to Taiwan, serving as Kang Shan until being scrapped in 1979. History George W. Ingram was named in honor of Seaman George Washington Ingram (19181941), who was killed in action during the Japanese attack on the Hawaiian Islands. She laid down on 6 February 1943 at the Bethlehem-Hingham Shipyard, Inc., in Hingham, Massachusetts; launched on 8 May 1943, sponsored by Mrs. James L. Ingram, mother of Seaman Second Class Ingram, and commissioned on 11 August 1943. World War II, 19431945 After shakedown off Bermuda, George W. Ingram departed New York on 13 October for convoy escort duty in the Atlantic. Steaming via the West Indies, she escorted a supply convoy to North Africa, where she arrived at Algiers, Algeria, on 7 November. She departed four days later, as convoy escort, and returned via the West Indies and the Panama Canal Zone to New York, arriving on 4 December. Between 26 December 1943 and 12 July 1944, she made five round-trip trans-Atlantic escort voyages (four from New York and one from Boston) to Northern Ireland. After additional escort duty along the eastern seaboard, she departed Charleston, South Carolina, on 6 November to escort slow-moving convoy CK-4 to Plymouth, England. She arrived on 5 December, then sailed a week later, escorting ships and landing craft damaged during the Normandy invasion, back to the United States. On 20 December, attacked the slow-moving convoy northeast of the Azores, sinking and damaging the destroyer escort ; but prompt action by the escorts drove off the U-boat, preventing further damage. George W. Ingram reached New York on 12 January 1945. After escorting a captured Italian submarine from Portsmouth, New Hampshire to New London, Connecticut, George W. Ingram was re-designated APD-43 on 23 February. During the next few months, she underwent conversion to a Charles Lawrence-class high speed transport at the Tompkinsville, Staten Island Naval Base in Tompkinsville, New York. Shortly after V-E Day, she departed New York and sailed via the Panama Canal and San Diego to Pearl Harbor, where she arrived on 20 June for training with Underwater Demolition Teams. With UDT-26 embarked, she departed Pearl Harbor on 24 August and sailed via Eniwetok and Okinawa to Jinsen, Korea, where on 8 September, she supported the initial landings of American occupation troops in Korea. She steamed to Taku Bar, China, on 26 September, and from 29 September to 1 October, UDT-26 surveyed and sounded the approaches of the Peking River in preparation for landings by the III Marine Amphibious Corps. She supported additional landings by American troops at Chefoo and Tsingtao, China, before departing Tsingtao on 17 October. She steamed via Okinawa, Eniwetok, and Pearl Harbor to the West Coast, arriving at San Diego on 11 November. Decommissioning and sale to the Republic of China Remaining at San Diego, George W. Ingram decommissioned on 15 January 1947, and entered the Pacific Reserve Fleet at Bremerton, Washington. George W. Ingram was struck from the Navy List on 1 January 1967. Acquired by the Republic of China Navy on 19 September 1967, ex-George W. Ingram was commissioned as frigate ROCS Kang Shan (PF-43). With a different hull number, 323, she was discarded in 1978. References External links Buckley-class destroyer escorts Ships built in Hingham, Massachusetts 1943 ships World War II frigates and destroyer escorts of the United States Charles Lawrence-class high speed transports World War II amphibious warfare vessels of the United States Charles Lawrence-class high speed transports of the Republic of China Navy
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Haushabi or Hawshabi ( al-awshab or al-awshab), or the Haushabi Sultanate ( Salanat al-awshab), was a state in the British Aden Protectorate. Its capital was Musaymir. The area is now part of the Republic of Yemen. History Haushabi was established in the eighteenth century. On 14 June 1839 an engagement was entered into with Sultan Mana bin Salam of this tribe, of the same tenor as those with the Abdali, the Fadhli and the Yafai. In the previous January a treaty of friendship and peace had been signed by two other Shaikhs of the Haushabi tribe with the British representative. Sultan Mana bin Salam, though more than once invited by the Abdali and Fadhli Shaikhs to join them in their attacks upon Aden, steadily declined their overtures. He died in June 1858, and was succeeded by his nephew, Ubeid bin Yahya, during whose rule friendly relations were uninterruptedly maintained with the Haushabi. Ubeid bin Yahya died in 1863, and was succeeded by his cousin, Ali bin Mana. The relations of Sultan Ali bin Mana with the neighbouring Chiefs and the British Government were for a long time the reverse of cordial. In 1868 he cut off the supply of water from a rivulet which irrigates the Lahej territory, and destroyed the crops on lands belonging to the Sultan of Lahej. An action ensued in which the Haushabi Sultan was defeated. In payment of the loss suffered by the Sultan of Lahej, Sultan Ali bin Mana ceded to him the town of Zaida and its lands which had formerly belonged to Lahej, and the dispute was temporarily settled by the friendly intervention of the Resident. In October 1869 the Haushabi Sultan's stipend was stopped in consequence of the outrages committed by him on the Aden road; the proximate cause of this misconduct was the tenure of Zaida by the Sultan of Lahej, who was therefore induced to make over to his rival a small portion of that district. The Haushabi Sultan was not satisfied, and in 1873 commenced intrigues with the Turkish authorities at Taiz in the hope of thereby regaining possession of Zaida. Supported by Turkish troops he held for some little time a part of Zaida, but on their withdrawal from the neighbourhood of Lahej he was compelled to retire. The Sultan of Lahej was induced by the Resident to renew his offer of a portion of Zaida to the Hausliabi Sultan; but, as the latter insisted on receiving the fort of Shakaa, which commands the rivulet and consequently the supply of water to Lahej, the negotiations failed for the time. They were, however, renewed with success in 1881, when, as recorded in the account of the Abdali, an Agreement was signed by both Sultans. In 1886 this agreement was modified by the action of the Haushabi Sultan in selling his lands at Zaida to the Abdali. Sultan Ali bin Mana died in May 1886, and was succeeded by his son, Muhsin bin Ali. On 15 November 1888, the Sultan signed an Agreement in conjunction with the Alawi and Quteibi Shaikhs and the Amu of Dhala, fixing the rates to he levied on merchandise. In 1894, owing to the heavy taxes laid on qafilahs by Sultan Muhsin bin Ali, the Abdali entered bis country and he was obliged to flee. He was repudiated by his Shaikhs and at their request the Abdali Sultan was elected in his place. Muhsin bin Ali, having failed in his intrigues with the Turks, submitted to the Abdali Sultan and accepted an asylum at Ar Raha with a stipend. On 6 August 1895 he signed an Agreement by which his territory was restored to him under certain guarantees. On the same date a Protectorate Treaty was concluded with him. In 1900 Muhammad bin Nasir Muqbil, a Shaikh of the Humar tribe, and a Turkish Mudir, built a fort in Haushabi limits which the Turks garrisoned. The Turkish authorities were requested to evacuate it but refused, and the Haushabi Sultan was given permission to drive them out. The attempt, however, failed, and in July 1901 a force of 500 men was despatched from Aden. The Turks and Muhammad bin Nasir Muqbil's adherents were driven from their position at Ad Dareija on 26 July and the expedition returned to Aden. In 1902 several fights took place with the Abdali and the trade routes were stopped for a time. In 1903 the boundary commission demarcated the Haushabi frontier. On 28 September 1904 Sultan Muhsin bin Ali died. He was succeeded by Sultan Ali Mana. Subsequent to the election of Sultan Ali Mana, the question of his relations with the Abdali Sultan had been under the consideration of Government. The decision was that, with the consent of both the Sultans, the relations agreed upon by their predecessors in 1895 should continue. From 1905 the Abdali-Haushabi relations were revived in accordance with the arrangements made between their predecessors in 1895, and became satisfactory. Throughout 1906 the Haushabi Sultan was harassed by his Subeihi neighbours and an Abdali-Haushabi combination was formed against these marauders, resulting in the Haushabi imprisoning the leaders of the Jabbara section at Museimir. The Abdali assistance was, however, purely nominal. Certain Abdali working in the vicinity of the British post at Nobat Dukeim were attacked by Subeihi of the Jabbara section. The motive was to retaliate on the Abdali Sultan who had refused them presents at Lahej. The Subeilii retired after exchanging a few shots. In 1914 the Haushabi Sultan Ali Mana signed an Agreement for the safety of the trade routes in his territory. Under the terms of their agreement the Haushabi Sultan was granted a monthly payment of 64 dollars in addition to his stipend and agreed to keep a force of 50 men and to maintain posts in certain named places on the trade route. In July 1915 the Haushabi Sultan joined in the Turkish attack on Lahej, but came to Aden at the beginning of 1919 to ask for pardon. He explained that he did not go over to the Turks voluntarily, but was compelled by them to join their forces. This explanation was accepted, he was granted an amnesty and his stipend, which had been stopped during the war, was restored to him. In January 1922 the troops of the Imam of Sanaa encroached on Haushabi territory as far as Ad Dareija and only withdrew under pressure of air action. In August 1922 Sultan AH Maim died and was succeeded by his son, Muhsin bin Ali Mana. In 1931, the Haushabi numbered at about 15,000. The Sultan's gross annual revenue was estimated at Rs. 30,000. The last sultan, Faisal bin Surur Al Haushabi, was deposed and his state was abolished in 1967 upon the founding of the People's Republic of South Yemen. Rulers The rulers of Haushabi bore the title Sultan al-Saltana al-Hawshabiyya. Sultans c.1730 al-Fajjar al-Hawshabi c.1800 Sultan al-Hawshabi 1839? - 1 Jun 1858 Mani` ibn Sallam al-Hawshabi 1858 - 1863 `Ubayd ibn Yahya al-Hawshabi 1863 - 4 May 1886 `Ali ibn Mani` (I)al-Hawshabi 1886 - 1894 Muhsin ibn `Ali (I) al-Hawshabi (1st time) 1894 - 1895 al-Fadl ibn `Ali (usurper) 6 Mar 1895 28 Sep 1904 Muhsin ibn `Ali (I) al-Hawshabi (2nd time) 1904 - Aug 1922 `Ali ibn Mani` (II) al-Hawshabi 1922 - 19.. Muhsin ibn `Ali (II) al-Hawshabi 19.. - 19.. as-Surur ibn Muhammad al-Hawshabi 1947? - 1955 Muhammad ibn as-Surur al-Hawshabi (d. 1955) 1955 - 29 Nov 1967 Faysal ibn as-Surur al-Hawshabi See also Aden Protectorate References Sultanates States in the Aden Protectorate Federation of South Arabia Former countries Former sultanates
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The Castle is a video game released by ASCII Corporation in 1986 for the FM-7 and X1 computers. It was later ported to the MSX and NEC branded personal computers, and got a single console port for the SG-1000. The game is set within a castle containing 100 rooms, most of which contain one or more puzzles. It was followed by Castlequest (Castle Excellent in Japan). Both games are early examples of the Metroidvania genre. Gameplay The object of the game is to navigate through the Castle to rescue the Princess. The player can push certain objects throughout the game to accomplish progress. In some rooms, the prince can only advance to the next room by aligning cement blocks, Honey Jars, Candle Cakes, and Elevator Controlling Block. Additionally, the player's progress is blocked by many doors requiring a key of the same color to unlock, and a key is removed from the player's inventory upon use. The prince must be standing on a platform next to the door to be able to unlock it, and cannot simply jump or fall and press against the door. The player can navigate the castle with the help of a map that can be obtained early in the game. The map will provide the player with a matrix of 10x10 rooms and will highlight the room in which the princess is located and the rooms that he had visited. The player must also avoid touching enemies like Knights, Bishops, Wizards, Fire Spirits, Attack Cats and Phantom Flowers. References External links 1986 video games HAL Laboratory games Metroidvania games MSX games SG-1000 games NEC PC-6001 games NEC PC-8801 games NEC PC-9801 games FM-7 games Sharp X1 games Video games developed in Japan Video games set in castles Single-player video games
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Neil Michael Knight Smith (born 27 July 1967) is a former English cricketer who played in seven One Day Internationals from 1986 to 1996. He then went on to work at Warwick School for boys, Myton Road, Warwick as the Groundsman but has recently semi retired. He is the son of the former England Test captain, M J K Smith. Smith was part of a successful Warwickshire side which won the County Championship under the captaincy of Dermot Reeve in successive seasons in 1994 and 1995. Smith was particularly valuable in one-day cricket, and helped Warwickshire to win the NatWest Trophy in 1989, hitting Simon Hughes for a six in a tense last-over climax in the final. Warwickshire and Smith also won the NatWest Trophy in 1993 and 1995, the Benson and Hedges Cup in 1995, and the Sunday League in 1994 and 1997, the latter when Smith was captain (following his father as Warwickshire captain) and top run-scorer. The highlight of his brief international career comprised his mixed experiences during a match against the United Arab Emirates during the 1996 Cricket World Cup. He won the man of the match award in this fixture, one of only two that England won in a miserable world cup campaign, although he was also forced to retire ill after vomiting while batting. He also opened the batting in the following fixture against the Netherlands and made his highest one-day international score of 31, but his international career ended a few months later. References 1967 births Living people England One Day International cricketers English cricketers Warwickshire cricketers Warwickshire cricket captains Shropshire cricketers Cricketers from Solihull Cricketers from Warwickshire
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Smethwick Rangers Football Club is a football club based in Smethwick, West Midlands, England. They are currently members of the and play at the Trevor Brown Memorial Ground in Boldmere, groundsharing with Boldmere St Michaels. History The club first joined the West Midlands (Regional) League in 1996 under the name Smethwick Rangers, initially playing in Division One South. In their second season in the division they were champions and were promoted to the Premier Division, where they remained until 2006. In 2000 the club changed its name to Warley Rangers after signing a sponsorship deal with Warley Accident Repair Centre. In the same season former Wolverhampton Wanderers player Robbie Dennison served as their player-coach. In 2001 they reverted to their former name, but a year later they changed their name again, this time to Smethwick Sikh Temple. As a predominantly Asian team, they have competed in the UK Asian Football Championships, and in 1994 they played at Villa Park in the final of the Aston Villa Cup, a tournament for local teams hosted by the Premier League club. In 2005 they reverted to the name Smethwick Rangers. After dropping out of the league in 2006 they re-surfaced in the Midland Football Combination in 2008 under the name Smethwick Town, and were subsequently known as AFC Internazionale and AFC Smethwick before reverting to their present name in 2013. In 2010 they switched back to the West Midlands (Regional) League and won promotion twice in three seasons to return to the Premier Division. In 2015 Smethwick Rangers were crowned UK Asian Champions after beating IGFC Singh Sabha Hounslow at Ibrox. In the 201516 season Smethwick signed former Dinamo II Bucureti player Albert Alexandru, who led the club to the West Midlands (Regional) League Premier Division Cup, beating Wolverhampton Sporting Community 10 in the final at Long Lane Park. In the 201617 season Smethwick finished runners-up in the West Midlands Regional League Premier Division Cup as they lost to league winners Haughmond 10. For the 201718 season the club changed its name once more, this time to Smethwick to establish themselves as the number one club from the diverse area of Smethwick. They have also added Ahmed Ali a UEFA B Qualified coach and former Manchester United and England Schoolboy Stephen Cooke to the backroom staff. On 9 September 2017 Smethwick won their first ever game in the FA Vase beating Malvern Town 41, Joshua Small, Nathan Stone, Beni Kiembi and Stuart Hillman scoring the goals. In December 2018 Hayden Foote, former assistant manager at Bilston Town was appointed manager alongside Darsh Ram. After a poor start to the season, Foote decided to depart and return to Bilston Town. Grant Joshua was appointed as first team manager with Chris Rabone and Ross Harris coming in as assistant managers. At the end of the 202021 season the club were transferred to Division One of the Midland League when the Premier Division of the West Midlands (Regional) League lost its status as a step six division. In 2021, the club was once again renamed, this time to Smethwick Khalsa Football Federation with Manraj Singh Sucha appointed as manager in September, 7 games into the season and staying in charge until May 2023. The team finished the 202122 season in 13th position, only losing 3 games from January 2022 onwards. A year later in summer 2022, the club reverted to the name Smethwick Rangers. In 2023, after playing home games at Tividale's The Beeches ground, the club announced a groundsharing agreement with Boldmere St Michaels to play home games at the Trevor Brown Memorial Ground in Boldmere. Club records Best league position: 5th in West Midlands (Regional) League Premier Division, 199899 Best FA Cup performance: none Best FA Vase performance: none References External links Football clubs in England Football clubs in the West Midlands (county) Sport in Sandwell Smethwick West Midlands (Regional) League Midland Football League Diaspora association football clubs in England
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KREN-TV (channel 27) is a television station in Reno, Nevada, United States, affiliated with the Spanish-language Univision network. It is owned by Entravision Communications alongside low-power, Class A UniMs affiliate KRNS-CD (channel 46). The two stations share studios on Wells Avenue in Reno; KREN-TV's transmitter is located on Slide Mountain between SR 431 and I-580/US 395/US 395 ALT in unincorporated Washoe County. History The station was founded on March 1, 1982, and first signed on in October 1986 as a Univision affiliate owned by the Sainte Broadcasting Group, a company that was partially related to the present-day Sainte Partners II, L.P. Pappas Telecasting acquired the station at the end of 1994 and converted it to an English-language general entertainment station, taking the WB affiliation when that network launched on January 11, 1995. When Paxson Communications launched Pax TV in 1998, KREN took on a secondary affiliation with that network. In 2000, KREN lost the WB affiliation to the newly launched cable-only The WB 100+ channel known by the fictitious call letters KWBV ("WB6"). In 2002, the WB affiliation was moved back to KREN, effectively merging the two channels since KREN then took over the channel 6 position on cable. Pax TV's successor, Ion Television, would not return to Reno until 2018, when KTVN (channel 2) began carrying it on its third subchannel. The cable channel 6 position is now used by KRNS-CD. When The WB merged with UPN to create The CW in 2006, KREN became one of the charter affiliates of that network, with most of its programming provided by The CW Plus. On May 10, 2008, 13 of Pappas' stations, including KREN-TV and KAZR-CA, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection. Pappas cited "the extremely difficult business climate for television stations across the country" in papers filed with the U.S. Bankruptcy Court in Wilmington, Delaware. The company reported in court filings that it has more than $536 million in debt and $460 million in assets. Problems that led to bankruptcy included poor performance of The CW network, its now-former involvement with Azteca Amrica, and preparations for the 2009 analog shutdown. On September 17, 2008, bankruptcy trustee E. Roger Williams put KREN under contract to Entravision Communications for $4 million, which doubled as a minimum bid for the station as it went up for auction in late October. Since that time, there were no suitable bids for either KREN or KAZR-CA, and Entravision officially assumed ownership on April 1, 2009. On that day, Entravision moved Univision programming from KNVV-LP back to KREN's main channel while it moved The CW to what was then KAZR-CA (now KRNS-CD), thus displacing that station's former TuVision affiliation. That station had been rebroadcast on KREN's second digital subchannel for some time before the sale to Entravision was finalized (and this arrangement continues to this day under Entravision). The affiliation switch effectively returned KREN to its Spanish-language roots. Around August 2009, KREN began to rebroadcast KNVV-LP (which became a TeleFutura affiliate after the main KREN channel took over the Univision affiliation) on a new third subchannel. During Pappas' ownership, KREN's main digital signal was broadcast in 1080i HDTV with a 16:9 aspect ratio. However, when Entravision took over the primary KREN digital signal reverted to 480i SDTV with a 4:3 aspect ratio as all programs which aired on Univision at the time were still produced entirely in that format (and many such programs were produced in studios which still used analog video equipment rather than digital video equipment). However, as Univision transitioned to HD programming in 2010, KREN's signal remained in 4:3 SD until the spring of 2010 when the station's main signal was upgraded back to 1080i transmissions. News operation On December 27, 2006, KREN launched a one-hour newscast at 10 p.m., the first HD newscast on a CW station, as well as Reno's only primetime local newscast. The station adopted the "Videojournalist" model of news gathering whereby the reporter is also the photographer and editor. On June 1, 2007, KREN severed its ties with local ABC affiliate KOLO-TV, which originally produced a 10 p.m. newscast for KREN. Weekend 10 p.m. shows were launched in late 2007. In January 2008, all KREN newscasts were scaled back to 30 minutes, instead of the previous 1 hour. Weekend KAZR Spanish language newscasts were canceled, but the weekday KAZR news shows remained an hour long. On March 11, 2008, KREN and KAZR canceled all newscasts, and dismissed the entire news staff. Pappas Telecasting cited low advertising revenue as the reason for the cancellation. After Entravision took over in April 2009, a local Spanish-language newscast was initially expected to return to KREN. However, in October 2009, KREN began carrying the 6 p.m. and 11 p.m. newscasts of Las Vegas sister station KINC, with Reno-specific inserts produced by reporter Anya Archinga and videojournalist Enrique Chiabra. Technical information Subchannels The station's digital signal is multiplexed: Analog-to-digital conversion KREN-TV shut down its analog signal, over UHF channel 27, on February 17, 2009, the original target date on which full-power television stations in the United States were to transition from analog to digital broadcasts under federal mandate (which was later pushed back to June 12, 2009). The station's digital signal remained on its pre-transition UHF channel 26. Through the use of PSIP, digital television receivers display the station's virtual channel as its former UHF analog channel 27. Translators Former translator Until April 16, 2010, KREN-TV was rebroadcast in Susanville, California on KREN-LP, UHF channel 29. Entravision fully returned the KREN-LP license to the Federal Communications Commission in April 2011, and the KREN-LP call sign was deleted on the 27th of that month. References External links Univision network affiliates Grit (TV network) affiliates True Crime Network affiliates Bounce TV affiliates Court TV affiliates Television channels and stations established in 1986 1986 establishments in Nevada REN-TV REN-TV Entravision Communications stations
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Helmut Schelp was the director of advanced engine development at the RLM's T-Amt technical division leading up to and during World War II. He used his office to fund a widespread program in jet engine development, which led to many of the engine concepts still used today. In particular, he was instrumental in favoring the use of axial compressors over the simpler but "fatter" centrifugal compressors. Unlike in England where the jet had no single champion within the Air Ministry and their efforts were long delayed as a result, Schelp can be directly credited with the advancement and refinement of the jet in Germany over a few years. Biography Schelp received a MSc in engineering at Stevens University in Hoboken, NJ, before returning to Germany in 1936. On his return to Germany he was invited to join a new advanced course in aeronautical engineering being offered by the DVL research institute in Berlin. Following in Frank Whittle's footsteps of a few years earlier, Schelp became interested in the problems of high-speed flight, and attempted to calculate the maximum speed an aircraft could obtain. He eventually came to the conclusion that flights over Mach 0.82 were impossible due to the decreasing efficiency of propellers, which one of his professors at DVL demonstrated would be only 71% at Mach 0.82, and falling rapidly. For higher speeds a much larger engine would be needed, one whose weight would offset the amount of thrust that could be generated by the propeller. He was aware of developments in jet engines, and became convinced they were the only way forward. Career In August 1937 Schelp joined the T-Amt's LC1 technical department, their short-lived pure-research arm. Neither LC1 nor DVL shared his enthusiasm for the jet engine, but when the RLM was re-organized in 1938, he found himself in the LC8 division which organized aircraft engine development. Here he found an ally in Hans Mauch, in charge of rocket and pulsejet development within LC8, who had seen a demonstration of Hans von Ohain's engine at the Heinkel works. Mauch was adamant that engine companies work on such projects, however, and refused official funding for Heinkel's developments as they were taking place at an airframe company. Mauch and Schelp did meet with most of the larger engine companies, notably BMW, Bramo, Jumo and Daimler-Benz, none of whom proved to be terribly interested, mostly because they were in the midst of bringing new piston designs into production. Eventually the jet engine concept started to become more widely known within the RLM, and Schelp and Mauch started to push for the immediate development of a flightworthy model. Mauch left to form a consulting firm in 1939, and Schelp took over the development program. This program was directly opposed by Wolfram Eisenlohr, director of LC8 (now known as GL/C3 after yet another re-org), who felt that a longer term project was needed to develop such a new concept. Eventually matters came to a head when Ernst Udet, director of the T-Amt as a whole, overruled Eisenlohr, allowing development to continue. By 1941 the engines appeared to be maturing quickly and even Eisenlohr was convinced the project was worthwhile, becoming a strong supporter. Schelp proposed a program consisting of three classes of engines, Class I were early designs with under 1,000kg of thrust like the Junkers Jumo 004 and BMW 003 that were suitable only for light fighters or somewhat larger twin-engine designs, Class II were larger and more advanced engines of over 1,000kg thrust suitable for reasonably-sized single-engine fighters and twin-engine light bombers, and Class III were very large engines suitable for larger bombers. In order to move such a program along, Schelp told Heinkel to stop working on the Class I Heinkel HeS 8 and Heinkel HeS 30 engine designs, and concentrate only on the Class II Heinkel HeS 011. At the time, in 1942, this decision made sense considering that two other Class I engines appeared to be ready to enter production. The eventual three-year delay before the 003 or 004 entered service may have meant the HeS 30 would have beaten them to service, and in the end the HeS 011 would never leave the prototype phase. Schelp also used his influence to force Heinkel to develop one of his pet projects, the "diagonal compressor", a sort of combination of the centrifugal and axial designs. At the time the pure axial compressors were having problems with surging and air intake turbulence, while the centrifugal designs proved fairly immune to these problems. Although it was mechanically possible to arrange a centrifugal stage in front of axial ones, this arrangement would require a large frontal area, and a small frontal area was the only real reason to use an axial arrangement. Schelp's diagonal stage appeared to offer the best of both worlds, only slightly larger than an axial stage of the same air flow, but with much wider-chord blades that should be more resistant to airflow problems. Schelp demanded that the HeS 011 use this design, which proved to be much more difficult to build than originally thought, and led to lengthy delays in that project. After the war, Schelp was taken to London where he was on 24-hour call if anyone in the Air Ministry wanted to talk to him. This was rarely done, and Schelp found himself able to wander London at will. On one such trip he came across the Gloster E.28/39, bearing a plaque that stated it was the first turbojet powered aircraft to fly. It had actually been beaten into the air by over a year by the Heinkel He 178, and when Schelp pointed this out it was wryly suggested there may be some inaccuracy with the plaque. The correct lineage now appears on the E.28 display at the Science Museum. German aerospace engineers Jet engine pioneers
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Wood-Ridge is an active commuter railroad train station in the borough of Wood-Ridge, Bergen County, New Jersey. Located next to the interchange of Route17 and Moonachie (County Route36), the single low-level side platform station services trains of New Jersey Transit's Pascack Valley Line between Hoboken Terminal and Spring Valley. The next station to the north is Teterboro and to the south is Secaucus Junction. Wood-Ridge station is not accessible to handicapped persons and contains parking along Park Place East. Service through the Wood-Ridge section of Bergen Township began with the opening of the Hackensack and New York Railroad on January21, 1861 as WoodridgeMoonachie. The station contained a two-story wooden passenger station with dimensions of with two freight houses, a wooden structure and an old railroad car body serving as a secondary facility. With the reconstruction of Route17 in 1967, the railroad received approval to demolish the depot at WoodridgeMoonachie, which would be used by new right-of-way. As a result, a new concrete block depot would replace the wooden structure. This would also result in the elimination of stations at Hasbrouck Heights and Carlstadt. New Jersey Transit eliminated the station agent on July1, 1981, closing the station depot in 1987 due to vandalism. They reversed the decision in September1997. History On March20, 1967, the Erie Lackawanna Railroad and the Bergen County Board of Freeholders attended a meeting of the Board of Public Utility Commissioners. Due to upcoming roadwork in the area, the railroad wanted to abandon the two stations at Hasbrouck Heights and one at Carlstadt. A fourth station, the WoodridgeMoonachie stop would be moved to the south. The upcoming roadwork involved the widening of Route17, which results in the construction of multiple overpasses in the stretch: Paterson Plank Road, Moonachie Avenue (County Route36), along with Williams Avenue and Franklin Avenues in Hasbrouck Heights. The Public Utility Commissioners approved the decision to demolish the depots. As part of the station consolidation, Hasbrouck Heights and Carlstadt stops would be abandoned. WoodridgeMoonachie would be moved south and a new station depot would be built. Williams Avenue station in Hasbrouck Heights would be rebuilt with a new shelter and bus stop. In June1967, the New Jersey Department of Transportation announced they would open bids on reconstruction of Route17, including the construction of the Moonachie Avenue overpass to help eliminate the high accident rate at the Route17/Moonachie Avenue intersection. As part of the construction, Route17 would be a highway of six wide lanes and shoulders from the original pair of lanes with shoulders. The six lanes would be separated by a concrete Jersey barrier. Moonachie Avenue would be moved northward from its location to accommodate a new interchange. Anderson Avenue would go from a through street to a dead end and Bergen Street would be re-aligned to meet with the new Moonachie Avenue. Demolition of the WoodridgeMoonachie station and construction of its replacement. The Department of Transportation budgeted $7.25million for the project. In early July1967, the Department of Transportation announced they would begin accepting construction bids on the project on July27. They also announced that the reconstruction of the WoodridgeMoonachie station depot would be done entirely on state funding. The low-bid came in from George Brewster Construction and Equipment Company of Bogota at $2.5million for the first stage of construction. The new station depot would be a concrete block depot with ticket and freight offices, storage, waiting and boiler rooms, along with toilet facilities. The removal of the WoodridgeMoonachie, Carlstadt and Hasbrouck Heights stations would be under other contracts. Four other bids were received, ranging between $2,726,748.57 and $3,203,980.95. On September6, 1967, construction of the Route17 widening began. Demolition of buildings in the right-of-way began as well in September. A woodcraft building formerly known as Adelung's Hotel, near the station depot, would be a victim of the widening as well, much to the dismany of local residents. Demolition was underway by September25. On April20, 1981, the borough of Wood-Ridge announced that the station agent at Wood-Ridge would be eliminated on July1. New Jersey Transit told the municipality that the decision was made to help the agency reduce a $80million deficit they were facing. The elimination would be tied with a 50percent raise in railroad and bus fares. In September1997, New Jersey Transit received $185,000 to upgrade and rehabilitate the station depot at Wood-Ridge. As part of the funding, the station would get a newly-heated waiting room with fresh benches and restrooms. The single side platform would be repaved entirely and the parking lot would receive new lighting. NJ Transit noted that the station depot had fallen into massive disrepair for the ten years it had sat unused. The roof was leaking for at least several years, the tiles were grimed over and a graffiti artist had made themselves present. A lot of stenches from water and broken toilets were present in the building. New Jersey Transit noted that Wood-Ridge station saw a drop in ridership, believed to be partly due to the closed station building. The rehabilitated station depot opened to commuters on November14, 1997, with local politicians on site to greet commuters. Until 2016, the Wood-Ridge station was the only one to serve the town. This changed when the Wesmont station serving the Bergen County Line opened near Wood-Ridge's border with Wallington. Station layout The station has one track and one low-level side platform. Bibliography References External links Station from Moonachie Avenue from Google Maps Street View NJ Transit Rail Operations stations Former Erie Railroad stations Railway stations in Bergen County, New Jersey Wood-Ridge, New Jersey Railway stations in the United States opened in 1861 1861 establishments in New Jersey
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Abbot Academy (also known as Abbot Female Seminary and AA) was an independent boarding preparatory school for women boarding and day care for students in grades 912 from 1828 to 1973. Located in Andover, Massachusetts, Abbot Academy was notable as one of the first incorporated secondary schools for educating young women in New England. It merged with Phillips Academy in 1973 and campus buildings along School Street continue to be used for the combined school. Some Abbot traditions continue at the combined private boarding school such as Parent's Weekend. Since the 40th anniversary in 2013 of the merger of the two schools, there has been renewed interest in Abbot's history and traditions. History The school was founded during a time when the prevailing view was that women's education "should always be relative to men", with some believing that study of "higher subjects" such as philosophy and mathematics might render women to be infertile. One of the first formal discussions to propose a school for young women happened on February 19, 1828. The school was incorporated in 1829 with 70 or 85 pupils from eighteen to twenty years of age for the "exclusive work of educating women". According to one source, the official opening day was May 6, 1829. The early years The school received financial support from Sarah Abbot who pledged substantial money, which allowed for loans to begin construction; Sarah Abbot died in 1850 and left a substantial sum for educational purposes. After mid-century, Abbot faced several challenges: the addition of a public high school in Andover, followed by the challenges of coping with the American Civil War. In 1853, the first principalship was offered to a woman, and additional monies were raised for the construction of dormitories. In 1859, the "strong-willed" but "ideologically moderate" McKeen sisters headmistress Philena and Phebeexerted strong leadership by adopting a "school-home" approach. The years were marked by substantial expansion of buildings. The McKeens fostered the study of French and German and introduced a "systematic oral language program" on a par with that of Harvard University and which "far outdistanced Phillips Academy", which did not offer any modern language instruction until the mid 1870s. Under their "no-nonsense" leadership, teachers stayed longer, many for ten or more years. It was during the late 1800s that the school had a "golden age", according to one view. The campus was visited by Helen Keller and her teacher Anne Sullivan and Amos Bronson Alcott. The leadership of Philena and Phebe McKeen was characterized by substantial fundraising and growth. According to Susan McIntosh Lloyd, Abbot's curriculum "may have surpassed that of Phillips" during these years. After 1910, the only structures built were "gates". The school was like a "family" but commanded by women, in which "women and girls could enjoy one another as persons without self-consciousness or shame." Art education The academy emphasized art education. After starting a small art club in 1871 led by Professor E. A. Park, the academy introduced one of the nation's first History of Art courses in 1873. Painting and drawing were taught by professional painter and alumnus Emily A. Means who had studied with well-known painters in Europe for four years. Means guided the art department from 1877 to 1892 and later served as principal from 1898 to 1911. The 1930s through the 1960s The school went through challenging times during the Great Depression of the 1930s. In the Depression's first five years, the school lost approximately $60,000 annually as well as a sharp drop in its real-estate assets, and the school slipped from having 135 boarders in 192930 to 71 boarders in 193334. Despite financial concerns, the school continued to dismiss "unruly or lazy students" or those who tucked "dummies into their beds" to spend the night at Phillips Academy. Many other schools folded during the Depression years. During these years, the school taught the "basic college preparatory" program of 3 years of English, 5 years of languages (including 2 or 3 of Latin), 2 or 3 years of mathematics, 1 year of science and 1 year of history, as well as physical education, an "all school choral class" and Bible study of one hour a week, but requirements adjusted over time, largely dictated by preferences of college admissions departments. From World War II and afterwards, the academy experienced increasing enrollment; ten years after the attack on Pearl Harbor, a third of its teachers were either European born or European educated. The school opened its doors more widely to minority groups, such as African American women and Jews. Academic excellence improved. An alumna, Elizabeth Thomas '49, recalled her Abbot teaching as "the best she has ever had", with college being easier. However, during these years, there was a greater space between teachers and students, such that there were no "out-of-class relationships" between them; teachers seemed "miles away" unless they were enforcing rules about lipstick or patrolling the Phillips campus for errant women or checking mail for return addresses to "certain Phillips boys." Rules forbade smoking and drinking and sexual activity; one 1954 alumna described a "whole system of deception" designed to evade teachers, seen as "the enemy," with deceptions done to get messages to Phillips students, sometimes through day student intermediaries or by messages left in bushes. However, some students appreciated that the rules cleared "time and space for that peaceful collection of self". Nevertheless, applications to the school increased from the 1950s through the 1960s. During the 1960s, the ratio of applicants to acceptances was three to one. The 1960s featured rules easing somewhat, with more chaperoned dances, more phone calls and dating as well as "cattle-market mixers", but the easing sometimes encouraging girls to find "ways to be still naughtier." Lloyd described the coming changes: According to Lloyd, Abbot Academy seemed to be a "nineteenth century school" which was stagnant and insular and limited in comparison with the abrupt societal changes made during the 1960s. In 1967, there were greater ties between Phillips Academy and Abbot, including a Phillips-Abbot committee to explore a "wide range of shared activities" between the two schools. Abbot trustee Philip Allen had determined that both schools should merge, but that this was a "hidden agenda"; Allen brought in headmaster Donald Gordon, a graduate of Phillips Academy and Yale, to bring "Abbot up to the point where it could be part of Phillips Academy." Abbot's "old dress code" was abolished for a "neat and clean" requirement. The 1969-70 year was "tumultuous" nationwide, with student revolts on many college campuses and foreign policy failures abroad. The following is a description of Abbot campus life in 1969: The 1973 merger The late 1960s and early 1970s was marked by the merger between the two schools. The merger was brought about by many factors, including the sense of shared history and goals between the two schools, common activities, plus survey research showing that 94% of students in northeastern secondary schools wished for coeducation. The times "favored coeducation"; in 1968, 53 colleges and universities either became coeducational or began coordinate instruction. While Phillips Academy "held the cards" regarding whether the two schools should merge, there was a "crasser impetus" from admissions statistics, as Phillips was increasingly being turned down by applicants preferring newly-coeducational competitors such as St. Paul's, Taft, Northfield-Mount Hermon, and Exeter. Many committee meetings, including discussions between administrators and teachers, happened over a sixteen-month period. The Phillips headmaster, John Kemper, who had kinship ties with women graduates of Abbot, felt a merger was "practical, ethical, and educationally sound", although several times the Phillips Board of Trustees refused to sanction a merger. The school merged with Phillips Academy on June 28, 1973. Many Abbot traditions were included in the combined school, such as having a designated weekend in the fall for parents to visit. After the merger, $1 million of Abbot's endowment became the basis for the Abbot Academy Association, which funds various educational programs and projects submitted by students, faculty, and staff. Since the first Abbot Grant was awarded in the fall of 1973, nearly 2000 Abbot Grant proposals have been submitted by students and members of the faculty, staff and administration of Phillips Academy. The Abbot Academy Association has funded more than 1400 of these proposals with grants totaling $9,400,000. In 2014, the Abbot Academy Association's endowment had grown to $10 million. Campus life Activities included the Fidelio Chorus, school government, and the school newspaper. Athletic programs included basketball, crew, cycling, ballet and modern dance, fencing, soccer, softball, and tennis. In the late 1960s, Abbot's math department set up a paper-tape terminal connected to a computer at Merrimack College in North Andover, Massachusetts. This provided the high school students with early BASIC-language computer programming skills. In 1973, the languages taught included English, French, German, Latin, Russian, and Spanish. Academic prizes Abbot was a chapter member of the Cum Laude Honor Society. The school awarded the following student prizes annually: Anna Dawes Prize for History Betsy Waskowitz Rider Art Award Beatrice Farnsworth Powers Art Award Priscilla Bradley Prize for Art Pam Weidenman Prize for Art Ceramics Prize Photography Prize Music Department Award Kate Friskin Award for Music Mathematics Department Prize Science Prize Spanish Department Prize English Department Prize Latin Department Prize Ballet Prize Abbot Athletic Award Isabel Hancock Award The Madame Sarah Abbot award was established through a gift from the Abbot Class of 1973. The award is given to a female Phillips Academy senior who " best exemplifies 'strong character, effective leadership and outstanding scholarship.'" School publications In June 1873, the first issue of the Abbot Courant was published. This student literary magazine appeared two to three times a year. Later editions included art work and photographs. In 1992, with a grant from the Abbot Academy Association, the Courant was revived at Phillips Academy and continues to be published twice a year. In 2002, a 123-page alumni edition was published. The Abbot Academy yearbook was published from 1900 to 1973. Originally known as The Abbot Academy Class Book, the yearbook became The Circle in 1916 (this is the first year that the double-A logo used on senior class rings appeared on the book cover). Digital versions of the Abbot Courant and The Circle are available through the school Archives and Special Collections. The student newspaper was called Cynosure. In 1974, it moved to Phillips where it became a monthly magazine. Traditions Students were divided into two groups called Gargoyles and Griffins for sports teams and for other purposes that required dividing the students into groups; their colors were green and orange, respectively. Dual-color felt beanie hats with an image of a gargoyle or griffin were distributed to students. The locally based Clan MacPherson Pipes and Drums led graduation processions on the Abbot Circle. This tradition continues today at Phillips Academy. At graduation, after chapel, Seniors and Junior Middlers (eleventh graders) met in the Senior Courtyard for the Ring Ceremony. (This central garden was completely enclosed by the three sides of Draper Hall with the dining room wall as the fourth side.) By tradition, Junior Mids who purchased Abbot Academy class rings the year before wore them with the "AA" insignia upside-down. During the Ring Ceremony, each Junior Mid received a Senior sponsor. The Junior Mid, now recognized as a member of the new Senior class, turned her ring so that the insignia was upright. In 1973, all students who wanted to were allowed to buy Abbot class rings. Buildings and campus In 1863, the Abbot campus consisted of one acre surrounded by a fence. By 1878, it was approximately 22 acres. Abbot's three main buildings (Abbot Hall, Draper Hall, and McKeen Hall) are listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The first academy building, Abbot Hall, is an "exceptional" early example of the Greek Revival style. It was built in 182829. Since 1996, it has housed Phillips Academy's Brace Center for Gender Studies. An art gallery was added to the left side of Abbot Hall in 190607. It was designed by Andrews, Jaques & Rantoul of Boston. The art gallery housed the collection of Mrs. Esther Byers. The Merrill Memorial Gates and two side gates (the John P. Taylor and George G. Davis gates) were added in 1921 to the front and sides, respectively, of the Abbot Circle. Designed a few years earlier by the firm of McKim, Mead & White, similar gates appear at Harvard University, Princeton University, and Bowdoin College. The Abbot Circle, around which the main buildings are grouped, was re-dedicated on 3 May 1997. The tree-lined Maple Walk, which once connected the dining room at the back of Draper Hall with Phillips Street, remains in use. (The dining room was demolished.) Efforts for the Preservation of the Abbot Campus In 1988, Phillips Academy opened a proposal to repurpose buildings on the former Abbot Academy campus to increase rental and commercial use on the property. This plan was designed to prevent the academy from demolishing the land to make way for single-family homes or selling the acreage to private developers. The school argued that saving the buildings will ultimately allow for historical preservation. A town meeting was then set in place on April 4-6 of 1988, with the Phillips Academy historical preservation plan needing a two-thirds yes vote on Article 101 to get support in retaining the campus for the school's own use. However, some town members were hesitant to move forward with this plan. Those who wanted to vote no on Article 101, made the argument that the repurposed use of Abbot campus buildings for commercial use would in turn decrease the property value of existing Andover residential neighborhood homes. In the end, Phillips Academy ended up retaining the Abbot campus for its own use. Headmasters and headmistresses School principals: Charles Goddard 182931 Rev. Samuel Lamson 183234 Rev. Samuel Gilman Brown 183538 Rev. Lorenzo Lorraine Langstroth 183839 Rev. Timothy Dwight Porter Stone 183942 Rev. Asa Farwell 184252 Peter Smith Byers 1853 (Elected but did not serve) Nancy Judson Hasseltine 185456 Maria Jane Bancroft Brown 185657 Emma L. Taylor 185759 Philena McKeen 185992 Laura Sophia Watson 189298 Emily Adams Means 18981911 Bertha Bailey 191235 Marguerite Capen Hearsey 193655 Mary Hinckley Crane (Mrs. Alexander) 195566 Eleanor Tucker (Acting) 196668 Donald Gordon 196873 For further information, consult The Philippian: Distinguished alumnae and faculty Notable alumnae Julia Alvarez (1967) - Poet, novelist, essayist Harriette Newell Woods Baker (1833) - Story book author Alice Stone Blackwell (1867) - Editor Woman's Journal, activist, and translator Anna Brackett - Philosopher, educator Charlotte Emerson Brown - Clubwoman Eileen Christelow (1961) - Author of "Five Little Monkeys" children's book series Maria Susana Cummins (1845) - Author of international bestseller; domestic fiction writer Wendy Ewald (1969) - Photographer and educator, MacArthur Fellowship winner Julia Constance Fletcher - (1867) Mary H. Graves - Unitarian minister, literary editor, writer Marsha Kazarosian (PA 1974) - Attorney Lucy R. Lippard (1954) - Art theorist Sara Nelson (PA 1974) - Former editor-in-chief of Publishers Weekly Elizabeth Marshall Thomas (1949) - Anthropologist Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward (1858) - Early feminist author Kate Douglas Wiggin (1873) - Author of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm Francesca Woodman - Photographer Shirley Young (1951) - Businesswoman For additional alumnae, consult Notable Alumni: Long List: Notable faculty Emily Hale, speech and drama, muse of T.S. Eliot Maud Morgan See also Hartwell and Richardson architects Phillips Academy Suggested reading Susan McIntosh Lloyd. "A Singular School: Abbot Academy 1828-1973", Hanover, NH: Published by Phillips Academy, Andover, 1979. Susan J. Montgomery and Roger G. Reed. "The Campus Guide. Phillips Academy Andover", New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2000. Philena McKeen, headmistress. Author of "Annals of Fifty Years: A History of Abbot Academy, Andover, Mass., 1829-1879" and "Sequel to Annals of Fifty Years: A History of Abbot Academy, Andover, Mass., 1879-1892 References External links Abbot Academy Archives in Archives and Special Collections: Phillips Academy Andover Abbot Academy Photograph Collection - Digital Commonwealth Andover Historical Society Film on Abbot Boarding schools in Massachusetts Buildings and structures in Andover, Massachusetts Private preparatory schools in Massachusetts Private high schools in Massachusetts Defunct girls' schools in the United States 1829 establishments in Massachusetts Girls' schools in Massachusetts Abbot Academy
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The USSTRATCOM Center for Combating Weapons of Mass Destruction (SCC-WMD) is a United States Strategic Command center built in cooperation with the Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA). The SCC-WMD is housed in the Defense Threat Reduction Center (DTRC), the headquarters building of the Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA) that opened January 26, 2006, just outside Washington, D.C. History and background At the opening of the new DTRC on January 26, 2006, Dr. James A. Tegnelia, DTRA director, also announced the Initial Operating Capability (IOC) of the SCC-WMD. Guests at the ceremony included: Sen. Richard Lugar, R-Ind. ; Hon. Kenneth J. Kreig, Under Secretary of Defense for Acquisition, Technology, and Logistics; Gen. James E. Cartwright, USMC, Combatant Commander, U.S. Strategic Command; Dale E. Klein, assistant to the secretary of defense for nuclear and chemical and biological defense programs; Stephen Younger, former director of DTRA; and Maj. Gen. Trudy H. Clark, USAF, DTRA deputy director. Senator Lugar, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, was the keynote speaker for the ceremony. Resources The components of USSTRATCOM. DTRA News Release 26 Jan 06 See also Defense Threat Reduction Agency United States Strategic Command National Counterproliferation Center United States Department of Defense agencies
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Jacinta Patrice Stapleton (born 6 June 1979) is an Australian actress. Known for her role as Amy Greenwood in the Australian television soap opera Neighbours from 19972000, 2005 and 20202022). Her most notable role was playing an undercover detective in the primetime network television series Stingers. Her performance garnered an Australian Film Institute nomination for Best Supporting Actress in a Television Drama. She is the sister of Blindspot actor Sullivan Stapleton. Career Joining an acting agency at the age of six years old, along with her brother Sullivan Stapleton, she appeared in TV commercials, film and TV series. Jacinta studied drama, theatre and dance at Sandringham Secondary College before appearing in her first long running television series as Amy Greenwood in Neighbours from 1997 to 2000, making a cameo return in 2005 during the 20th anniversary of the series. In November 2020 it was announced that Stapleton would be reprising the role of Amy for a guest stint. From 2002 to 2004 she played Christina Dichiera in the TV drama Stingers, for which she was nominated for an Australian Film Institute award for Best Supporting Actress in a Television Drama. She also appeared in hit dramas MDA, Blue Heelers, All Saints, Dirt Game, Out of the Blue and Packed to the Rafters. In October 1999 she posed nude for Black+White magazine. She played Reen Nalli in the INXS: Never Tear Us Apart biopic, Mercedes Corby in the story of Schapelle and Madonna in the Molly Meldrum biopic Molly. She was won an award for her role as Bambi Steele in the film Musclecar. She studied under the tutelage of acting coach Ivana Chubbuck. Film Television References External links Jacinta Stapleton - Zimbio Jacinta Stapleton's own site Jacinta Stapleton's voice agent 1979 births Living people Actresses from Melbourne Australian soap opera actresses Australian child actresses 21st-century Australian actresses 20th-century Australian actresses
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Sastre is a town (comuna) in the west of the province of Santa Fe, Argentina, 139km west from the provincial capital. It had about 5,500 inhabitants at the and it is the head town of the San Martn Department. It is named after Marcos Sastre, a renowned Argentine lawyer, writer, and educator. Miguel Brasc, the noted Argentine writer and food critic, hails from Sastre. Twin towns sister cities Sastre is twinned with: Alba, Piedmont, Italy (1988) References :es:Sastre y Ortiz (Santa Fe) External links Sastre's map Populated places in Santa Fe Province
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Dorothy Jones Heydt (1942-2022) was a United States author of science fiction and fantasy. She lived on the U.S. West Coast and was an active participant in the Usenet newsgroups rec.arts.sf.written and rec.arts.sf.fandom, and in science fiction fandom in general. She was the originator of the "Eight Deadly Words" ("I don't care what happens to these people"), and other fan quotes. She was the originator and first editor of the Star Trek Concordance, an extensive resource guide first published in March 1969. A linguist, she invented one of the first widely used Vulcan conlangs in 1967 for a Star Trek fan fiction series. Its words were picked up and used by other fan fiction authors such as Claire Gabriel. One term, ni var, meaning "two form", an art form in which two contrasting aspects of a subject are compared, is still used on Star Trek: Enterprise, as the name of a Vulcan ship and on Star Trek: Discovery as the new name of the planet Vulcan itself. She wrote numerous short stories and two novels; she sometimes wrote as "Katherine Blake." Many of her stories appeared in collections edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley, including the Sword and Sorceress series, and stories in the Darkover series shared world. Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine published many of her stories. While not one of the founding members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, she did participate in the early years and helped establish important elements of the ceremonies, such as the oath of fealty used in peerage ceremonies. Dorothy Heydt died on June 28, 2022. Selected works Novels The Interior Life, as Katherine Blake. Baen Books (1990), A Point of Honor. Daw Books (1998) References External links Detailed list of published works. Review of The Interior Life by Jo Walton 20th-century American novelists American science fiction writers American women novelists Usenet people Women science fiction and fantasy writers 20th-century American women writers 21st-century American women
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Musical Starstreams (also known as Starstreams) is a terrestrial and internet radio program that first aired in the San Francisco bay area in December 1981. Originally known as Music for Your Inner Space, it has been produced, programmed and hosted by Forest, originally in Mill Valley and now from Maui, for its entire forty year history, except for a twelve-month period from mid-2002, when Madison Cole hosted the show. In 1983 the two-hour weekly show began syndication on commercial terrestrial radio, and in 1985 was picked up for distribution outside the US. It has been heard on over 200 noncommercial and commercial radio stations, cable systems, the internet, XM satellite radio channels and DirecTV. Although initially scoring good ratings nationwide, the show peaked in numbers of terrestrial stations in 1991, the same year it was nominated for Billboard magazine's 'Adult Syndicated Program of the Year.' With the volatile nature of commercial radio stations continually changing formats, terrestrial station coverage has significantly declined to a point where by their own website's count, they list around a dozen radio stations which they attribute to the decline in terrestrial station listening and the increased popularity of the internet where more listeners have chosen to listen online to the program in its current form. A more music intensive version of Starstreams can currently be heard online on Mixcloud and iHeart Media. Back in the 1980s the show played a mix of electronic, new-age and a small amount of jazz, Today, it has more of a Chill music core, sometimes characterized as mid- to down-tempo "exotic electronica". Back in the early days it was also sometimes described as "Marin County hot-tub music" a tongue in cheek reference to its former home just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. See also Echoes, a nightly ambient music show produced by music critic John Diliberto Hearts of Space, a US-based ambient radio programme produced since 1973 by Stephen Hill Star's End, a weekly ambient music programme broadcast on public radio in Philadelphia since 1976, hosted by Chuck van Zyl Ultima Thule Ambient Music, a weekly ambient music radio show broadcast on community radio in Australia since 1989 References External links American music radio programs
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Iran's annual Fajr International Film Festival (), or Fajr Film Festival (little: FIFF; ), has been held every February and April in Tehran since 1982. The festival is supervised by the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance. It takes place on the anniversary of the 1979 Islamic Revolution. The awards are the Iranian equivalent to the American Academy Awards. The festival has been promoted locally and internationally through television, radio and webinars; speakers have come from the United States, the United Kingdom, and Germany. Organizations contributing to the event have included the Farabi Cinema Foundation, Iran film foundation, Press TV, HispanTV and Iran's multi-lingual film channel IFilm. From 2015, the festival has been separated into a national festival in February, which is notable for premieres of the most important domestic movies, and an international one, held in April. Eligibility Entries into the International Competition section must not have premiered in Central Asia, Caucasia and Anatolia (with the exception of the country of origin), or the Middle East to be considered. Films entered into the competitive sections must have completion dates in the years 2019-2020, while Popular Genre Films, and Docs in Focus, and Special Screenings must have completion dates within 2018-2020. Feature films must have a running time of greater than 70 minutes, while short films must not exceed 15 minutes running time. Films cannot be submitted if they have been submitted in a previous edition of the Festival. Awards The 38th Fajr International Film Festival offered awards at the Closing Ceremony on April 20, 2020. Awards are given for Iranian films competing in categories outlined in the FIFF Rules and Regulations, which change in monetary amount from year to year. International Golden Simurgh for Best Film (awarded to the film director) + 800.000.000 Iranian Rial (IRR) Cash Prize (jointly to producer and director) Silver Simurgh for Best Director + 400.000.000 IRR Cash Prize Silver Simurgh for Best Script + 300.000.000 IRR Cash Prize Silver Simurgh for Best Actress Silver Simurgh for Best Actor In the decision of International Jury, the prize list must not contain joint awards and no film can receive more than two awards. Silver Simurgh for Best Short Film + 100.000.000 IRR Cash Prize (awarded to the film director) Eastern Vista Awards Golden Simurgh for Best Feature Film (awarded to the film director) + 600.000.000 IRR Cash Prize (jointly to producer and director) Silver Simurgh for Best Feature Film Director + 300.000.000 IRR Cash Prize Silver Simurgh for Best Feature Film Script + 150.000.000 IRR Cash Prize Silver Simurgh for Special Jury Prize for Outstanding Artistic Contribution in a Feature Film in the categories of camera, editing, music score, costume or scene design Silver Simurgh for Best Short Film + 100.000.000 IRR Cash Prize (awarded to the film director) National Competition Crystal Simorgh for Best Film Crystal Simorgh for Best Director Crystal Simorgh for Best Screenplay Crystal Simorgh for Best Actor Crystal Simorgh for Best Actress Crystal Simorgh for Best Cinematography Crystal Simorgh for Best Editor Crystal Simorgh for Best Original Score Crystal Simorgh for Best Makeup Crystal Simorgh for Best Supporting Actor Crystal Simorgh for Best Supporting Actress Crystal Simorgh for Best Sound Recording Crystal Simorgh for Best Sound Effects Crystal Simorgh for Best Production Design Crystal Simorgh for Best Costume Design Crystal Simorgh for Best Special Effects Crystal Simorgh for Best Visual Effects Crystal Simorgh for Best National Film Crystal Simorgh of Special Jury Prize Crystal Simorgh for Audience Choice of Best Film Other awards For all: Golden Tablet Diploma Honorary Golden Flag Single: Audience Award Golden Banner Inter-Faith Abbas Kiarostami Award Competitions Competition of Asian Cinema Competition of Spiritual Cinema International Competition International Competition of Short Films International Competition of Documentary Works Competition of Iranian Cinema Competition of Iranian Short Film Competition of Documentary Works Juries International Competition Jury Competition of Spiritual Cinema Jury Competition of Asian Cinema Jury Record holders Crystal Simorgh for Best Film: Ebrahim Hatamikia (Wins: 5) Crystal Simorgh for Best Director: Majid Majidi (Wins: 4) Crystal Simorgh for Best Screenplay: Kambozia Partovi (Wins: 4) Crystal Simorgh for Best Cinematography: Mahmoud Kalari (Wins: 4) Crystal Simorgh for Best Actor: Parviz Parastouei (Wins: 4) Crystal Simorgh for Best Actress: Hedieh Tehrani, Leila Hatami, Baran Kosari, Merila Zarei, Parvaneh Masoumi, Hengameh Ghaziani, Fatemeh Motamed-Arya (Wins: 2) Fajr International Film Festival editions 1st Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1983) 2nd Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1984) 3rd Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1985) 4th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1986) 5th Fajr International Film Festival (212 February 1987) 6th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1988) 7th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1989) 8th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1990) 9th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1991) 10th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1992) 11th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1993) 12th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1994) 13th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1995) 14th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1996) 15th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1997) 16th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1998) 17th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 1999) 18th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2000) 19th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2001) 20th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2002) 21st Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2003) 22nd Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2004) 23rd Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2005) 24th Fajr International Film Festival (2030 January 2006) 25th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2007) 26th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2008) 27th Fajr International Film Festival (31 January10 February 2009) 28th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2010) 29th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2011) 30th Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2012) 31st Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2013) 32nd Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2014) 33rd Fajr International Film Festival (111 February 2015) 2016 34th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2016) 34th Fajr International Film Festival (2025 April 2016) 2017 35th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2017) 35th Fajr International Film Festival (2128 April 2017) 2018 36th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2018) 36th Fajr International Film Festival (1927 April 2018) 2019 37th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2019) 37th Fajr International Film Festival (1826 April 2019) 2020 38th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2020) 38th Fajr International Film Festival (1624 April 2020) 2021 39th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2021) 38th Fajr International Film Festival (26 May2 June 2021) 2022 40th Fajr Film Festival (111 February 2022) Visitors Over the years the Festival has had numerous film figures attend, some of whom have worked closely with the festival as jury members. These include: Volker Schlondorff, Krzysztof Zanussi, Robert Chartoff, Semih Kaplanoglu, Bruce Beresford, Percy Adlon, Paul Cox, Shyam Benegal, Bela Tarr, Jan Troell, Helma Sanders-Brahms, Elia Suleiman, Agnieszka Holland, Andrey Zvyagintsev, Rustam Ibragimbekov and Costa-Gavras. Boycotts Two Italian film directors, Eugenio Barba and Romeo Castellucci, have announced that they will not be attending the 2020 Fajr Festival in Tehran. They made this decision at the request of some Iranian artists who have already boycotted the festival. So far, 139 people, including director Masoud Kimiai and various movie stars are boycotting the festival in a show of sympathy for the families of those killed in the January 2020 Iranian downing of a Ukrainian passenger flight. See also Fajr decade Notes References External links Film festivals established in 1982 1982 establishments in Iran Winter events in Iran Crystal Simorgh
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The 2006 Elections in Washington include races for the US Senate, US House and Washington State Legislature. This page tracks incumbents and challengers for the Washington State Senate. Summary of results Before the 2006 elections, Democrats held 26 of 49 seats in the state Senate, a 1 vote majority. Democrats successfully flipped five seats while Republicans flipped one, bringing the Democratic majority to 30 out of 49 seats. Results District 38 Jean Berkey (D) - Incumbent Jean Berkey was elected in 2002 into House Seat #2, and took the Senator position when Aaron Reardon took the position of Snohomish County Executive. Aaron was challenged by Glenn Coggeshell in 2002, and received 65.34% of the vote. District 42 Dale E. Brandland (R) - Incumbent Jesse M. Salomon (D) - Challenger Website: Dale Brandland was challenged by Georgia Gardner (D), Peter Tassoni (G) and Donald Crawford (L) in 2002, and received 49.25% of the vote. District 43 Pat Thibaudeau (D) - Incumbent, stepping down Rep. Ed Murray (D) Ed Murray for State Senate Loren Nelson (R) Ed Murray has served the 43rd district since 1995 in the Washington State House of Representatives. Pat Thibaudeau was challenged by Linde Knighton (G) in 2002, and received 79.04% of the vote. She announced her retirement from the Senate in May 2006, after Murray had declared his intention to challenge her for the Democratic nomination. District 44 Dave Schmidt (R) - Incumbent Steve Hobbs (D) - Challenger Website: Lillian Kaufer (D) - Challenger Website: David Schmidt was challenged by Phil Doerflein (D) in 2002 and received 53.09% of the vote. District 45 Toby Nixon (R) Website: Eric Oemig (D) Website: Incumbent Sen. Bill Finkbeiner has decided to step down, citing personal reasons. Rep. Toby Nixon has declared for the seat, leaving his House seat open. District 46 Ken Jacobsen (D) - Incumbent Brian Travis (R) Ken Jacobsen was unchallenged in 2002. District 47 Mike Riley (R) Website: Ed Crawford (D) Website: Claudia Kauffman (D) Website: Stephen Johnson was challenged by Deborah Jacobson in 2002, and received 55.52% of the vote. Johnson has decided to run for Washington State Supreme Court in 2006, making this an open seat. Steve Reichert was previously running for the Republican nomination, but withdrew due to an "old injury that has flared up". Ed Crawford recently retired as chief of the city of Kent Police Department. District 48 Luke Esser (R) - Incumbent Rodney Tom (D) - Challenger Rodney Tom is a 2 term Republican from the House in the 48th. On March 14, he announced that he would be seeking the Senate seat as a Democrat, asking challenger Debi Golden ( to step aside to avoid a primary election. References Senate Washington State Senate elections Washington Senate
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The Vassil Levski National Sports Academy (), commonly referred to as the NSA, is Bulgaria's premiere higher education institution specializing in teaching physical education. It is named after national hero Vasil Levski. History The academy was established in 1942 by a decree of Tsar Boris III as the Higher School for Physical Education (). It was named Higher Institute for Physical Education and Sport () from 1953 to 1995. In 1995, by decision of the National Assembly, the VIF was renamed the National Sports Academy. Discover a new, modernly-equipped educational building in the Student Town of Darvenica. A high-mountain training base at the Vitosha National Academy was created during that time. Academics The university offers bachelor's, master's, and doctoral degrees in a wide variety of sports-related disciplines. Curricula are distributed among three faculties: Faculty of Coaching Faculty of Physical Education Faculty of Kinesiotherapy, Tourism, and Sports Animation Careers The alumni of the National Sports Academy have found professional realization as: Coaches of club or national teams, as well as trainers in youth sports academies; Teachers and lecturers in physical education and sports at kindergartens, schools, and universities; Kinesitherapists or physiotherapists in hospitals, sanatoriums, and rehabilitation centers; Instructors in fitness and SPA centers; Sport Animators in sports and leisure centers; Trainers of people with disabilities and special educational needs; Sports Psychologists of elite athletes and teams; Managers of sports clubs, fitness centers, sports facilities, sports federations, and associations; Sports journalists and commentators in electronic and print media; Specialists in physical and martial applied training in the system of Ministry of Interior and Ministry of Defense. Basketball National Sports Academy men's basketball team won Bulgarian Cup in 1964. Cricket In September 2020, the ground was selected to host the first official T20I matches played in Bulgaria. References National Institutes of Sport Universities and colleges in Sofia Sports academies Sports universities and colleges Educational institutions established in 1942 1942 establishments in Bulgaria
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Abd Allah ibn Hudhafa al-Sahmi () (died 653) was a companion of the Islamic prophet Muhammad. He is best known in Islamic tradition for his role as the courier of a letter from Muhammad to Khusraw Parvez, the King of Persia, and for his imprisonment and torture by Heraclius, the Byzantine Emperor. In Muhammad's era Letter to Khosrow II Abd Allah bin Hudhafa al-Sahmi carried the letter of Muhammad to Khosrow II, the emperor of the Sassanid Empire (Persia). When Abd Allah entered the kingdom, Khosrow sent his messenger to get the letter off him but Abd Allah refused, saying Muhammad had ordered him to present the letter to the King only and he was not going to break the instructions of Muhammad. Khosrow was enraged by the letter, tearing it into shreds. When Muhammad heard Khosrow had torn his letter, he made a prayer that Allah tears his kingdom. Khosrow sent a couple of troopers to arrest Muhammad and bring him to his presence. As soon as the men reached Madina, Muhammad was informed by Divine Revelation that Perves, the emperor of Persia, had been murdered by his own son, which Muhammad disclosed to the troopers. The leader of an expedition Muslim scholars says that, and according to hadith of Sihah Sittah and Tafsir Ibn Kathir, the verse of Obedience about uli al-Amr was revealed about an incident of sahaba Abd Allah ibn Hudhafa. Muhammad once sent him as a military leader of some sahabas, on the way he became furious and told them to make coils of fire, and to plunge into it. However, Imam Asakir Zuhri said, Abdullah was a humorous person. He made this order in jest. After returning from the expedition, the Islamic prophet Muhammad said, obedience to the leader is only wajib in those matters which Allah has permitted. In Caliph Umar's era In 639 (19AH), during the Caliphate of Umar, he sent an army to Rome. There, Heraclius, the emperor of the Byzantine Empire, attempted to convert Abd Allah to Christianity with bribery and torture, but Abd Allah refused to recant. Heraclius attempted all sorts of torture, such as boiling other sahaba in front of him. He attempted to send a prostitute to Abd Allah's cell, but his firm belief in Islam led him to run around in his cell to get away from the woman. She eventually grew bored and gave up. Heraclius then attempted to scare him, by ordering his soldiers to shoot arrows at him, but not hit him. Again, this didn't faze Abd Allah ibn Hudhafa. When Heraclius boiled the other sahaba in front of Abd Allah, Abd Allah began to cry. Heraclius thought he had finally broken him and mocked him. Abd Allah, then declared that he wasn't crying out of fear, rather he was crying that he knew he could only die once, and proclaimed that he wishes he was blessed with 1000 lives in order to die in the same way, due to the strength of his faith in Islam. After all this, Heraclius tried on the last attempt. He told Abd Allah, "If you kiss my head, I will let you go." Abd Allah refused and said, "I wouldn't let you kiss my head". Heraclius then said, "Kiss my forehead and I will let go of 60 sahaba and you." Abd Allah refused. This kept on going until Heraclius said: "Kiss my forehead and I will let go of 300 sahaba". Abd Allah agreed. Abd Allah and the Sahaba were freed and made their way back to the Muslim lands. When talk of Abd Allah's bravery spread throughout the land, the Islamic Caliph Umar ibn al-Khattab, order all the Muslims to kiss the forehead of Abd Allah ibn Hudhafa al-Sahmi, and kissed him on his forehead first. Death He died in Egypt in 653 (33AH) during the caliphate of Uthman. References Year of birth missing 653 deaths Companions of the Prophet Banu Sahm
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Windows CardSpace (codenamed InfoCard) is a discontinued identity selector app by Microsoft. It stores references to digital identities of the users, presenting them as visual information cards. CardSpace provides a consistent UI designed to help people to easily and securely use these identities in applications and web sites where they are accepted. Resistance to phishing attacks and adherence to Kim Cameron's "7 Laws of Identity" were goals in its design. CardSpace is a built-in component of Windows 7 and Windows Vista, and has been made available for Windows XP and Windows Server 2003 as part of the .NET Framework 3.x package. Overview When an information card-enabled application or website wishes to obtain information about the user, it requests a particular set of claims. The CardSpace UI then appears, switching the display to the CardSpace service, which displays the user's stored identities as visual cards. The user selects a card to use, and the CardSpace software contacts the issuer of the identity to obtain a digitally signed XML token that contains the requested information. CardSpace also allows users to create personal (also known as self-issued) information cards, which can contain one or more of 14 fields of identity information such as full name and address. Other transactions may require a managed information card; these are issued by a third-party identity provider that makes the claims on the person's behalf, such as a bank, employer, or a government agency. Windows CardSpace is built on top of the Web services protocol stack, an open set of XML-based protocols, including WS-Security, WS-Trust, WS-MetadataExchange and WS-SecurityPolicy. This means that any technology or platform that supports these protocols can integrate with CardSpace. To accept information cards, a web developer needs to declare an HTML <OBJECT> tag that specifies the claims the website is demanding and implement code to decrypt the returned token and extract the claim values. If an identity provider wants to issue tokens, it must provide a means by which a user can obtain a managed card and provide a Security Token Service (STS) which handles WS-Trust requests and returns an appropriate encrypted and signed token. During the 2000s, identity providers that didn't wish to build STS could obtain one from a variety of vendors, including PingIdentity, BMC, Sun Microsystems, Microsoft, or Siemens. Because CardSpace and the identity metasystem upon which it is based are token-format-agnostic, CardSpace did not compete directly with other Internet identity architectures like OpenID and SAML. These three approaches to identity can be seen as complementary, because during the 2000s, information cards could be used today for signing into OpenID providers, Windows Live ID accounts, and SAML identity providers. IBM and Novell planned to support the Higgins trust framework to provide a development framework that includes support for information cards and the Web services protocol stack, thus including CardSpace within a broader, extensible framework also supporting other identity-related technologies, such as SAML and OpenID. Release Microsoft initially shipped Windows CardSpace with the .NET Framework 3.0, which runs on Windows XP, Windows Server 2003, and Windows Vista. It is installed by default on Windows Vista as well as Windows 7 and is available as a free download for XP and Server 2003 via Windows Update. An updated version of CardSpace shipped with the .NET Framework 3.5. The new Credential Manager in Windows 7 uses Windows CardSpace for the management and storage of saved user credentials. Discontinuation On February 15, 2011, Microsoft announced that Windows CardSpace 2.0 would not be shipped. Microsoft later worked on a replacement called U-Prove. See also Information Card Higgins project Shibboleth (Internet2) Identity management systems Windows Hello References Further reading Microsoft Open Specification Promise, May 2007. External links Software development Windows CardSpace on .NET Framework documentation site Developer articles and technical documentation on Windows CardSpace Microsoft Information Card Kit for ASP.NET 2.0 ASP.NET Relying Party (RP) code to support CardSpace Microsoft Information Card Kit for HTML platform-independent JavaScript and CSS code that detects if the client can use i-cards and provides the corresponding UI support Open source Ruby RP code for accepting information cards Open source Java RP code for accepting information cards Open source C and PHP RP code for accepting cards Open source C RP code for accepting information cards and STS code for managed i-cards Open source PHP Security Token Service code for managed cards Open source C# STS code for managed information cards Identity selectors Digital Me an open-source Identity Selector for Linux and Mac OS X A plug-in for Apple's Safari implementing an Information Card identity selector A plug-in for Firefox to activate CardSpace and other identity selectors Blogs Kim Cameron's Identity Weblog Blog from Microsoft's architect for identity Mike Jones: Self-Issued Blog on CardSpace, cards, and digital identity from Microsoft's Director of Identity Partnerships Vittorio Bertocci (archived) Blog on designing and developing with CardSpace from Microsoft's architect evangelist for Windows Server 2008 Claim-Based Identity Blog (archived) Blog on CardSpace from its development team CardSpace CardSpace Web services Federated identity Discontinued Windows components
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John Graham Lake (March 18, 1870 September 16, 1935) was a Canadian-American leader in the Pentecostal movement that began in the early 20th century, and is known as a faith healer, missionary, and with Thomas Hezmalhalch, co-founder of the Apostolic Faith Mission of South Africa. Through his 190819 African missionary work, Lake played a decisive role in the spread of Pentecostalism in South Africa, the most successful southern African religious movement of the 20th century. After completing his missionary work in Africa, Lake evangelized for 10 years, primarily along the west coast of the United States setting up "healing rooms" and healing campaigns, and establishing churches. Lake was influenced by the healing ministry of John Alexander Dowie and the ministry of Charles Parham. Early life and career Lake was born in St. Marys, Ontario, Canada and moved to Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan with his family in 1886. He was born into a large family of 16 siblings (eight of whom died young). He graduated from high school in St Mary's shortly before the move to Michigan, and claimed to have been ordained into the Methodist ministry at the age of twenty-one. However, his seminary attendance has never been confirmed and census records cannot confirm even ten years' education. Lake, then, may have had no formal theological training. Lake moved to a suburb of Chicago, Harvey, in 1890, where he worked as a roofer and construction worker before returning to his hometown in 1896. According to Lake, he became an industrious businessman and started two newspapers, the Harvey Citizen in Harvey, Illinois and the Soo Times in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, before beginning a successful career in real estate, and later, becoming a millionaire in life insurance dealings. Historian Barry Morton found no evidence that Lake ever owned the two newspapers, citing sources which indicate the Harvey Citizen was founded by the Harvey township, and the Soo Times was started by George A. Ferris and owned by Ferris & Scott Publishers. Morton further alleges that Lake exaggerated his business career, and that "clear evidence" shows Lake instead worked as a small-scale contractor, roofer and "house-flipper". In the 1900 Census, Lake's occupation is listed as "carpenter". In February 1893, Lake married Jennie Stevens of Newberry, Michigan, and the two had six children and adopted another before her death in 1908. During the 1890s Lake and many members of his family began appearing regularly in Dowie's services, where attendees were purportedly healed and allegedly brought back from death's door. In 1898 Lake opened a small chapter of Dowie's Christian Catholic Church in Sault Ste Marie and held meetings in the attic of his parents' home. In 1901 he relocated his family to Zion, Illinois, where he worked in the theocratic town's construction department. After massive retrenchments affected ever-bankrupt Zion City, Lake found new employment around 1905. He later claimed that he maintained relationships with many of the leading figures of his day including railroad tycoon James Jerome Hill, Cecil Rhodes, Mahatma Gandhi, Arthur Conan Doyle, and others. When he began his preaching career he claimed to have walked away from a $50,000 year salary (around $1.25 million in 2007 US dollars), as well as his seat on the Chicago Board of Trade. Lake's biographer, Burpeau, reported no evidence outside of Lake's own assertions that Lake was connected to these wealthy financiers and industrialists. According to Morton, contemporary records show Lake never left Zion City at the time Lake was said to be making his name in Chicago; he instead worked in nearby Waukegan as an "ordinary, small-town insurance salesman". Lake does not appear in contemporary newspapers until 1907 where he gave an account of his experience of speaking in tongues. In 1907 Lake was converted to Pentecostalism when Charles Parham staged a tent revival in Zion in an attempt to woo Dowie's supporters. After Parham's departure a group of several hundred "Parhamites" remained in Zion, led by Thomas Hezmalhalcha recent arrival from the Azusa Street Revival. As 1907 wore on, Lake grew in stature among this group, and was usually listed as co-leader. After Parham's arrest for reports of sodomy and pedophilia in the summer of 1907, the Parhamites descended into disorganization. Believing that many had been possessed by demons, a number of brutal exorcisms began, in which at least two deaths occurred. In the face of arrests and potential mob violence, the Parhamites were forced to flee en masse from Illinois. Lake and Hezmalhalch left for Indianapolis. Once there, they raised $2000 to finance a Pentecostal mission to South Africa. Missionary work in Africa With Thomas Hezmalhalch, Lake founded the Apostolic Faith Mission of South Africa (AFM) in 1908 and carried on missionary work from 1908 to 1913. Lake and Hezmalhalch would appear to be the first Pentecostal missionaries to South Africa, and introduced speaking in tongues. Many of those who joined their church had previously been Zionists allied to Dowie's organization who believed in faith healing. Morton writes, "Lake was instrumental in spreading this fusion of Zionism/Pentecotalismas that is unique to southern Africa... about half of southern African Christians this year are adherents of it... Lake played a decisive role in the spreading of this 'second evangelization'." Lake's movement attracted many of the early Zionists led by Pieter L. Le Roux of Wakkerstroom. Due to the segregationist impulses of the AFM's white membership, the majority of its African members eventually seceded, forming many different Zionist Christian sects. Just six months after Lake's arrival in South Africa, his first wife, Jennie, died on December 22, 1908. He referred to the death of his wife as Satans masterstroke. He continued his work in Africa for another four years, raising his seven children with the help of his sister Irene. Lake's ministry in South Africa was not without controversy. Morton wrote that Lake was accused of: misappropriating the AFM's funds, particularly that funds did not flow to poor rural areas but was eventually disproved. The healings that occurred under his ministry were documented thoroughly. He also wrote that "an analysis of the missionary that was full of blatant lies. " Marius Nel takes a different position, and mentions a "seemingly preconceived notion of Lake as a fraud and scam, supported by an unbalanced utilisation and unfair treatment of resources" Later life and religious work Lake returned to America on February 1, 1913, and married Florence Switzer in September 1913. Lake's comment on this second marriage was, "Men in these days consider themselves to be happily married once. I have been especially blessed in that I have been happily married twice." From this marriage five children were born. After a year of itinerant preaching, Lake relocated to Spokane, WA by July 1914 and began ministering in "The Church of Truth". He started an organization called The Divine Healing Institute and opened what he called "Lake's Divine Healing Rooms". Lake ran the "healing rooms" from 1915 until May 1920, at which time he moved to Portland, Oregon, for a similar ministry that lasted for another five years. He continued to found churches and "healing rooms" down the California coast and eventually to Houston, TX in 1927, before finally returning to Spokane in 1931. Upon his return to Spokane he purchased an old church and began his final church and healing room. In 1935, Lake suffered a serious stroke and died on September 16, 1935, at age 65. References Further reading External links John G. Lake Ministries Healing Rooms Ministries archive of John G. Lake writings John G Lake dot Org The Collected Works of John G Lake on Amazon Kindle Faith healers Protestant missionaries in South Africa African initiated churches 1870 births 1935 deaths 19th-century Christian mystics 20th-century Christian mystics Protestant mystics American Pentecostal missionaries Canadian Protestant missionaries American expatriates in South Africa Canadian expatriates in South Africa Pentecostals from Michigan American evangelicals Canadian evangelicals Christians from Oregon Christians from Washington (state)
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Nanaya (Sumerian , DNA.NA.A; also transcribed as "Nany", "Nanaja", "Nanja", '"Nanya", or "Nanai"; antiquated transcription: "Nan"; in Greek: or ; Aramaic: ; Syriac: ) was a Mesopotamian goddess of love, closely associated with Inanna. While she is well attested in Mesopotamian textual sources from many periods, from the times of the Third Dynasty of Ur to the conquest of Babylonia by the Achaemenids and beyond, and was among the most commonly worshipped goddesses through much of Mesopotamian history, both her origin and the meaning of her name are unknown. It has been proposed that she originated either as a minor Akkadian goddess or as a hypostasis of Sumerian Inanna, but the evidence is inconclusive. Her primary role was that of a goddess of love, and she was associated with eroticism and sensuality, though she was also a patron of lovers, including rejected or betrayed ones. Especially in early scholarship she was often assumed to be a goddess of the planet Venus like Inanna, but this view is no longer supported by most Assyriologists. In addition to Inanna, she could be associated with other deities connected either to love or to the city of Uruk, such as Ishara, Kanisurra or Uur-amssu. Name and origin It is accepted in modern literature that "Nanaya" is more likely to be the correct form of the goddess' name than "Nana," sometimes used in past scholarship. The meaning of the name is unknown. Joan Goodnick Westenholz notes that based on the suffix it is most likely Akkadian in origin. She also considers the only possible forerunner of Nanaya to be a goddess whose name was written Na-na, without a divine determinative, known from a few personal names from the earliest records from the Gasur and Diyala areas. The land later known as Namri might be located particularly close to the metaphorical birthplace of Nanaya. However, she notes the evidence is contradictory, as Nanaya herself is not common in later records from the same area, and her cult was centered in Uruk, rather than in the periphery. Two theories which are now regarded as discredited but which gained some support in past scholarship include the view that Nanaya was in origin an Aramean deity, implausible in the light of Nanaya being attested before the Arameans and their language, and an attempt to explain her name as derived from Elamite, which is unlikely due to her absence from oldest Elamite sources. Occasionally Indo-European etymologies are proposed too, but the notion that there was an Indo-European substrate in Mesopotamia is generally considered to be the product of faulty methodology and words to which such an origin had been attributed in past studies tend to have plausible Sumerian, Semitic or Hurrian origin. Frans Wiggermann proposes that Nanaya was originally an epithet of Inanna connected to her role as a goddess of love, and that the original form of the name had the meaning "My Inanna!" but eventually developed into a separate, though similar, deity. Olga Drewnowska-Rymarz considers it a possibility that Nanaya was initially a hypostasis of "Inanna as quintessence of womanhood," similar to how Annunitum represented her as a warrior. However, Joan Goodnick Westenholz argued that the view that Nanaya was a manifestation of Inanna in origin should be considered a misconception. An artificial Sumerian etymology was created for the name in late Babylonian texts, deriving it from NA, "to call," with a feminine suffix, A. A possible translation of this ancient scholarly explanation is "the one who keeps calling" or "the calling one". Invented etymologies were a common topic of late cuneiform commentaries. Functions and iconography Nanaya's primary function was that of a goddess of love, and she was referred to as blet ru'mi, "lady of love". The physical aspect of love was particularly strongly associated with her, and texts dedicated to her could be explicit. For example, a cultic song describes her in the following terms: "When you lean the side against the wall, your nakedness is sweet, when bow down, the hips are sweet," and indicates that the goddess was believed to charge fees for sexual services. She was also viewed as a guardian of lovers, according to a text from Sippar (Si 57) titled "The Faithful Lover" and to some spells especially the disillusioned or rejected ones. Joan Goodnick Westenholz describes her character as seen through the Sumerian texts as that of a "sweet erotic lover" and "perpetual lover and beloved". A characteristic frequently attributed to Nanaya as a goddess of love, present in the majority of royal inscriptions pertaining to her and in many other documents, was described with the Sumerian word ili and its Akkadian equivalent kubzu, which can be translated as charm, luxuriance, voluptuousness or sensuality. Joan Goodnick Westenholz favors "sensuality" in translations of epithets involving this term, while Paul-Alain Beaulieu - "voluptuousness." Such titles include belet kubzi, "lady of voluptuousness/sensuality," and nin ili erkandi, "the lady adorned with voluptuousness/sensuality." An inscription of Esarhaddon describes her as "adorned with voluptuousness and joy." However, it was not an attribute exclusively associated with her, and in other sources it is described as a quality of both male and female deities, for example Shamash, Aya, Ishtar and Nisaba. Nanaya was also associated with kingship, especially in the Isin-Larsa period, when a relationship with her, possibly some type of hieros gamos, was "an aspect of true kingship". Joan Goodnick Westenholz rules out any association between Nanaya and nursing in the context of royal ideology. Nanaya was also one of the deities believed to protect from the influence of the demon lamashtu, in this role often acting alongside Ishtar. Nanaya eventually developed a distinctly warlike aspect, mostly present in relation to the so-called "Nanaya Eurshaba", worshipped in Borsippa independently from Nabu. She was instead associated with the god Mr-bti, described as warlike and as a "terrifying hero", and, like in Uruk, with Uur-amssu. Like Inanna, she could also be identified with Irnina, the deified victory. According to Joan Goodnick Westenholz it is possible that a further aspect of Nanaya which presently cannot be determined is alluded to in an incantation from Isin, according to which she was the denizen of a location usually regarded as profane rather than sacred, the utummu, understood as treasury, storehouse or granary. The text contrasts her dwelling place with the dais on which Ishtar sits. Neo-Babylonian archives from Uruk contain extensive lists of cultic paraphernalia dedicated to Nanaya, including a feathered tiara (presumably similar to that depicted on the kudurru of Meli-Shipak II), a crown, multiple breast ornaments (including breastplates decorated with depictions of snakes and fantastic animals), assorted jewelry and other small valuables like mirrors and cosmetic jars, and a large variety of garments, some of them decorated with golden rosette-shaped sequins). In a single late text Nanaya is associated with an unidentified spice, ziqqu. Astral associations One of the most recurring questions in scholarship about Nanaya through history was her potential association with Venus, or lack thereof. Many early Assyriologists assumed that Nanaya was fully interchangeable with Inanna and likewise a Venus goddess, but in the 1990s Joan Goodnick Westenholz challenged this view, and her conclusions were accepted by most subsequent studies. Westenholz argues that the evidence for an association between Nanaya and the planet Venus is scarce, and an argument can be made that she was more often associated with the moon. Olga Drewnowska-Rymarz, following her research, concluded in her monograph Mesopotamian Goddess Nanaj that Nanaya was not herself a Venus goddess, and at most could acquire some such characteristics due to association or conflation with Inanna/Ishtar. Michael P. Streck and Nathan Wassermann in an article from 2013 also follow the conclusions of Westenholz and do not suggest an association with Venus in discussion of Nanaya as a luminous deity. Piotr Steinkeller nonetheless asserted as recently as 2013 that Nanaya was simply a Venus goddess fully analogous to Inanna, and interchangeable both with her and with Ninsianna, without discussing the current state of research. Ninsianna is well attested as a Venus deity and was associated with Ishtar and the Hurrian form of Pinikir who had similar character, but Nanaya was regarded as a figure distinct from Ninsianna in Uruk and in Larsa. Corona Borealis was associated with Nanaya in astronomical texts. Nanaya in art While references to statues of Nanaya are known from earlier periods, with no less than six mentions already present in documents from the Ur III period, the oldest presently known depiction of her is the kudurru of Kassite king Meli-Shipak II, which shows her in a flounced robe and a crown decorated with feathers. This work of art is regarded as unusual, as the inscription and the deity depicted on the monument are integrated with each other. The other figures depicted on it are the king in mention, Meli-Shipak II, and his daughter unnubat-Nanaya, who he leads to the enthroned goddess. Above them the symbols of Ishtar, Shamash and Sin are placed, most likely in order to make these deities serve as a guarantee of the land grant described in the accompanying text. Another possible depiction of Nanaya is present on a kudurru from Borsippa from the reign of Nabu-shuma-ishkun. On an Aramean pithos from Assur Nanaya is depicted in robes with a pattern of stars and crescents. A number of Hellenized depictions of Nanaya are known from the Parthian period, one possible example being the figure of a naked goddess discovered as a tomb deposit, wearing a crescent-shaped diadem. Late depictions also often show her with a bow, but it is uncertain if it was a part of her iconography before the Hellenistic period. Associations with other deities Deities from the circle of Inanna God lists consistently associated Nanaya with Inanna and her circle, starting with the so-called Weidner god list from the Ur III period. In the standard arrangement she is placed third in her entourage, after Dumuzi, Inanna's husband, and Ninshubur, her sukkal. Another text enumerates Ninshubur, Nanaya, Bizilla and Kanisurra as Inanna's attendants, preserving Nanaya's place right after the sukkal. In later times Ishtar and Nanaya were considered the main deities of Uruk, with the situation being comparable to Marduk's and Nabu's status in Babylon. While Ishtar was the "Lady of Uruk" (Bltu-a-Uruk), Nanaya was the "Queen of Uruk" (arrat Uruk). Many sources present Nanaya as a protge of Inanna, but only three known texts (a song, a votive formula and an oath) also describe them as mother and daughter, and they might only be epithets implying a close connection between the functions of the two rather than an account of a theological speculation. Olga Drewnowska-Rymarz assumes that the evidence only makes it plausible that king Lipit-Ishtar regarded Nanaya as a daughter of Inanna. Joan Goodnick Westenholz describes the relationship between the two goddesses as "definite if unspecified". Only in very late sources from the first millennium BCE they could be fully conflated with each other. Laura Cousin and Yoko Watai argue that their character was not necessarily perceived as identical even in late periods, and attribute the predominance of Nanaya over Ishtar in Neo-Babylonian theophoric names to her nature being perceived as less capricious. A variety of epithets associate Nanaya both with Inanna and the Eanna temple, for example "ornament of Eanna", "pride of the Eanna", "the deity who occupies the high throne of the land of Uruk". As early as in the Ur III period, Nanaya came to be associated with the goddess Bizilla. Her name might mean "she who is pleasing" in Sumerian. God lists could equate them with each other. It is assumed that Bizilla occurs among deities from the court of the prison goddess Nungal in some sources too, though Jeremiah Peterson considers it possible that there might have been two deities with similar names, one associated with Nungal and the other with Nanaya. It is possible that Bizilla was regarded as the sukkal of Enlil's wife Ninlil in ursakalama. Much like Ninshubur, Nanaya was frequently associated with the lamma goddesses, a class of minor deities believed to intercede between humans and major gods, and in some texts she is called the "lady of lamma." One example comes from inscriptions of Kudur-Mabuk and Rim-Sn I, who apparently regarded Nanaya as capable of mediating on their behalf with An and Inanna, and of assigning lamma deities to them. Uur-amssu is another deity who is well attested in connection with Nanaya. Olga Drewnowska-Rymarz notes that some publications regard Uur-amssu to be a cognomen of Nanaya rather than an independent deity. However, they were two distinct deities in Neo-Babylonian Uruk, and Uur-amssu's origin as an originally male deity from the circle of Adad is well attested. The Elamite goddess Narundi, in Mesopotamia best known for her connection to the Sebitti, was possibly associated with Nanaya or Ishtar. Kanisurra and Gazbaba The minor goddess Kanisurra and Gazbaba were regarded as attendants and hairdressers of Nanaya. The latter was associated with the sexual sphere, and her name might be derived from the term kubzu, frequently attested in association with Nanaya. In urpu she is described as the "smiling one," which might also point at a connection to eroticism, as smiles are commonly highlighted in Akkadian erotic poetry. Paul-Alain Bealieu notes that association with Nanaya is the best attested characteristic of the otherwise enigmatic Kanisurra, and that her name might therefore simply be an Akkadian or otherwise non-standard pronunciation of ganzer, a Sumerian term for the underworld or its entrance. It is commonly assumed that both Kanisurra and Gazbaba were daughters of Nanaya. However, as remarked by Gioele Zisa there is however no direct evidence in favor of this interpretation. In the Weidner god list, the line explaining whose daughter Kanisurra is, is not preserved. In one text from the Maql corpus Ishtar, Dumuzi, Nanaya identified as "lady of love") and Kanisurra (identified as "mistress of the witches", blet kapti) were asked to counter the influence of a malevolent spell. In some love incantations, Ishtar, Nanaya, Kanisurra and Gazbaba are invoked together. Another goddess sometimes associated with combinations of them in such texts was Ishara. In late texts Kanisurra and Gazbaba are collectively labeled as "Daughters of Ezida". Most groups of such "divine daughters" are known from northern Mesopotamia: Ezida in Borsippa, Esagil in Babylon, Emeslam in Kutha, Edubba in Kish, Ebabbar in Sippar, Eibbi-Anum in Dilbat, and from an unidentified temple of Ningublaga, though examples are also known from Uruk, Nippur, Eridu and even Arbela in Assyria. Based on the fact that daughters of Esagil and of Ezida are identified as members of courts of Sarpanit and of Nanaya respectively, specifically as their hairdressers, it has been proposed by Andrew R. George that these pairs of goddesses were imagined as maidservants in the household of the major deity or deities of a given temple. Marital status In love incantations, Nanaya occurs with an anonymous lover in parallel with Ishtar/Inanna with Dumuzi and Ishara with almanu, a common noun of uncertain meaning whose proposed translations include "widower," "man without family obligations," or perhaps simply "lover." In some early sources Nanaya's spouse was the sparsely attested god Muati, though from the Kassite period onward she started to be associated with Nabu instead. She sometimes appeared as part of a trinity in which Nabu's original spouse Tashmetum was also included. In the role of Nabu's spouse Nanaya could be referred to as kalat Esagil, "daughter in law of Esagil", which reflected a connection to Nabu's father Marduk. Both Nanaya and Tashmetum could be called the "queen of Borsippa", though the former eventually overshadowed the latter in that city. Tashmetum however retains the role of spouse of Nabu in most Neo-Assyrian sources, and was worshipped in this role in Kalhu and Nineveh. The evidence of worship of Nanaya in the same areas is inconclusive. In the first millennium BCE pairing Nabu with Nanaya in some cases, for example in Uruk, represented efforts to subordinate the pantheons of various areas of Mesopotamia to the dominant state ideology of the Babylonian empire, which elevated Marduk and Nabu above other deities. One late Babylonian litany assigns the epithets of Tashmetum, but also Ninlil and Sarpanit, to Nanaya. Parentage Urash, the city god of Dilbat, could be identified as Nanaya's father. She was sometimes specifically called his firstborn daughter, and she had a connection to his main temple, Eibbi-Anum. This parentage is especially commonly mentioned in emesal texts, where "firstborn of the god Urash" is the most commonly recurring phrase describing her. Another of Urash's children was the underworld deity Lagamal, while his wife was Ninegal. In one neo-Babylonian ritual text, Nanaya and Urash, paired with Ninegal, appear in a single formula. Texts from the reign of Rim-Sin I and Samsu-Iluna are the oldest sources to identify her as a daughter of Anu, a view later also present in an inscription of Esarhaddon. Paul-Alain Beaulieu speculates that Nanaya developed in a milieu in which An and Inanna were viewed as a couple, and that she was initially envisioned as their daughter. However, as noted by Olga Drewnowska-Rymarz, direct references to Nanaya being regarded as the daughter of Inanna are not common, and it is possible that an epithet indicating closeness between the deities rather than a statement about actual parentage is meant. References to Nanaya as a daughter of Sin, likely a result of syncretism between her and Ishtar are also known, for example from a hymn from the reign of the neo-Assyrian king Sargon II. Other attested connections It is possible that the goddess Ninilisu (Sumerian: "graceful lady"), who was worshipped in Ur III Umma where she was served by a gudu4 priest, was related to Nanaya, as elsewhere nin-i-li-s is attested as her epithet. In a bilingual Akkadian-Amorite lexical list dated to the Old Babylonian period, Nanaya's Amorite counterpart is Pidray, a goddess otherwise only known from later texts from Ugarit, in which she is treated as analogous to the Hurrian goddess epat instead. Worship First texts mentioning Nanaya come from the period of Shulgi's reign. She is attested in the administrative texts from Puzrish-Dagan, where she is among the 12 deities who received offerings the most frequently. Records also show that queen Shulgi-simti, one of the wives of Shulgi, made offerings to many foreign or minor deities, among them Nanaya, as well as "Allatum" (the Hurrian goddess Allani), Ishara, Belet Nagar, Belet-unir and Belet-Terraban. Her principal cult center was Uruk, where she is already mentioned in year names of kings Irdanene and Sin-Eribam from the Old Babylonian period. Her main temple in that city was Emeurur, "the temple which gathers the me." She was also worshipped in a sanctuary within Eanna, the main temple of Inanna, which was called Ehilianna, "house of luxuriance of heaven." It is possible that it was originally built by the Kassite king Nazi-Maruttash. According to an inscription of Esarhaddon, Eriba-Marduk expanded it. It still functioned in the Seleucid period. Another of her temples located in Uruk was Eshahulla, "house of the joyful heart," built by king Sin-kashid. In neo-Babylonian Uruk, Nanaya was second in rank only to Ishtar in the local pantheon. Paul-Alain Bealieu considers them to be the main pair among the city's quintet of major local goddesses, the other three being Bltu-a-R (later replaced by Sharrahitu, a goddess identified with Ashratum, the spouse of Amurru), Uur-amssu and Urkaytu (a theos eponymos of Uruk,) As early as in the Middle Babylonian period, Nanaya was called the "queen of Uruk and Eanna," as attested on a kudurru from Larsa. In Neo-Babylonian sources from Uruk, she is called the "queen of Uruk," while Ishtar was the "lady of Uruk." Nanaya was among the deities taken away from Uruk when Sennacherib sacked the city, though she was subsequently returned to it by Esarhaddon. Ashurbanipal also claimed that he brought her statue back to Uruk, though he instead states that she spent 1635 years in Elam. It is presently unknown what event his inscriptions refer to, and it might merely be a rhetorical figure. If it refers to a historical event, it is possible that it occurred during the reign of Ebi-Eshuh, during which Elamites raided Sippar and perhaps Kish, though due to lack of any sources other than the aforementioned late annals this cannot be conclusively proven. Offerings made to Nanaya in neo-Babylonian Uruk included dates, barley, emmer, flour, beer, sweets, cakes, fish and meat of oxen, sheep, lambs, ducks, geese and turtle doves. After the reorganization of the pantheon of Uruk around Anu and Antu in the Achaemenid and Seleucid periods, Nanaya continued to be worshipped and she is attested as one of the deities whose statues were paraded in Uruk in a ritual procession accompanying Ishtar (rather than Antu) during a New Year celebration. The scale of her popular cult in Uruk grew considerably through Seleucid times. The name Eshahulla, known from Uruk, was applied to a temple in Larsa built by Kudur-Mabuk and his son Rim-Sin I, which seemingly was also a temple of Inanna, unless two temples with the same name existed in the same city. In Larsa, Nanaya was one of the foremost deities, next to Utu (the city's tutelary god), Inanna, Ishkur and Nergal. Joint offerings to Inanna and Nanaya of Larsa are known from a number of documents. She is also attested as one member of a trinity whose other two members were Innanna and Ninsianna, in which Inanna's functions were seemingly split between the three goddesses, with Nanaya being allotted the role of the love goddess. In offering lists from the archives of the First Dynasty of Sealand Nanaya appears alongside various hypostases of Inanna, including Inanna of Larsa, though the latter could also be associated with the rainbow goddess Manzat instead. In a single case, Nanaya is also accompanied by Kanisurra in an offering list. A temple of Nanaya built by Lipit-Ishtar existed in Isin. The oldest recorded hymn dedicated to her also comes from this city. However, there is overall less evidence for the worship of Nanaya in Isin than in Larsa, as the kings of Isin apparently favored the goddesses Ninisina and Ninsianna instead. In Babylon Nanaya is attested for the first time during the reign of Sumulael, who ordered statues of her and of Inanna to be fashioned in his twenty sixth year on the throne. Later she was worshipped in the Eturkalamma, "house, cattle pen of the land," built by Hammurabi for deities of Uruk - Inanna, Nanaya, Anu and Kanisurra, and later on in the temples Emeurur and Eurshaba, "house, oracle of the heart." A temple named Eurshaba existed in Borsippa too, though Nanaya was worshipped in a chapel in Ezida, the temple of Nabu as well. A late ritual text describes the procession undertaken by Nanaya, her court and various other deities from Borsippa to Kish. A festival celebrating the marriage of Nanaya and Nabu is still attested from Borsippa from Seleucid times. A unique writing of Nanaya's name, dNIN.KA.LI, is known from documents related to it. In the late Old Babylonian period the cult of Nanaya was also introduced to Kish, where the clergy of Uruk found refuge after abandoning the temporarily destroyed city. Temples of Nanaya are also attested from Kazallu (Eshahulla, "house of the happy heart"), and from Nerebtum, though the name of the latter is not known, and it is simply called e dNa-na-a-a in known texts. In Nippur Nanaya had no temple of her own, though offerings to her are attested from a temple of Ninurta located there. It is possible that Nanaya was worshipped in Der, though the evidence is limited to a list of deities of that city taken away by Shamshi-Adad V during his fifth campaign against Babylonia. Some evidence also exists for offerings made to her in Sippar and in Dur-Kurigalzu. In Assur, there was a gate named in honor of Nanaya and Uur-amssu. However, it is uncertain if her cult had much presence in northern Mesopotamia. There is a lot of evidence for private worship of Nanaya, including seals with the phrase "servant of Nanaya" seemingly owned by many women. In incantations related to love (for example asking for feelings to be returned) she is attested as early as in the Ur III and Old Babylonian periods. Numerous theophoric names are attested as well. However, none of them come from the Ur III period, and in the Old Babylonian period they are limited to only a few cities, including Dilbat, Kish, Sippar, Larsa, Ur and most likely Uruk. Over two thirds of the known Old Babylonian names come from the first two of these settlements alone. Both men and women with such names are listed in records. In the neo-Babylonian period, Nanaya was the deity most commonly present in theophoric names of women, with 106 individual women and 52 different names attested. Examples include: Qis-Nanaya ("Gift of Nanaya), Nanaja-amhat ("Nanaya is the most beautiful"), Nanaya-ilu ("my deity Nanaya"). One historically notable individual bearing such a name was unnubat-Nanaya, daughter of Babylonian king Meliipak (ca. 1186-1172 BCE), depicted alongside her father and the goddess on a famous kudurru. Another was Iddin-Nanaya, a sanga priest of this goddess active during the reign of king Irdanene of Uruk, apparently responsible for various misdeeds, including the removal of a star symbol from the doors of the Nanaya temple. Outside Mesopotamia In offering lists from Ur III period Mari, a goddess named dNin-Na-na-a, seemingly Nanaya with the determinative "lady" (nin) added to her name, appears in among gods introduced from Uruk, alongside Ninshubur, Dumuzi and (Nin-)Bizila. Additionally, a deity of uncertain identity known from Mari and Khana, Nanni, is more likely to be connected to Nanaya than Nanna, as the name is grammatically feminine. In the west Nanaya is also attested in Emar, though only in a god list. The only known reference to worship of Nanaya among the Hittites comes from a single document mentioning her as the goddess of the town Malidaskuriya in the district of Durmitta, located in the proximity of the middle of the river Kzlrmak. It has been proposed that her worship in that location was a relic of Old Assyrian practices. Possible theophoric names are known from Hittite sources too. Nanaya was also worshipped in Susa in Elam, where she is particularly well attested in Seleucid times. It is uncertain at which point was she introduced to this city, though it has been proposed her arrival in the local pantheon was connected with the theft of her statue during a raid. Greek authors regarded her as the main goddess of Susa. Literature A bilingual Sumero-Akkadian hymn to Nanaya from the first millennium BCE, written in the first person as a self-laudation, describes many other goddesses as manifestations of her, in line with the syncretic tendencies typical for the literature of this time period. Each of them is listed alongside a specific location. Among the goddesses mentioned are Damkina (Eridu and Kullaba), Ninlil (Nippur), Ishara, Bau (both in Kish), Sarpanit (in Babylon), Shala (in Karkar), Annunitum (in Agade), Mammitum (in Kutha), Manzat (in Der), a number of goddesses whose names are not preserved, as well as various forms of Ishtar, including Ishtar of Babylon (described as bearded), Ishtar of Daduni and Ishtar of Uruk. Nanaya herself is assigned two cities, Borsippa and Sippar. No mention is made of Tashmetum. The purpose of this composition was most likely elevation of Nanaya above the other goddesses. In a mythical explanation of the rites of Egashankalamma (the temple of the Assyrian Ishtar of Arbela) pertaining to the mourning of Ishtaran's death, Nanaya is described as a goddess who provides Bel with an iron arrows. In the Hurrian tale of Appu six deities are listed alongside the cities where they were worshipped, among them Marduk, Shaushka and Nanaya, whose cult center in this text is Kiina. Joan Goodnick Westenholz considers it to be an unidentified location, but Volkert Haas assumes the name might be derived from Kish. Later relevance In a papyrus from Achaemenid Egypt the formula "Nanaya of Eanna will bless you" occurs. In the following Hellenic period, her cult spread to various distant locations, including Armenia, Sogdia and Bactria, though it has been pointed out that the goddess in mention was the result of a process of Hellenistic syncretism and it is difficult to tell which of her features had their origin in the Mesopotamian image of Nanaya. It has been proposed that Parthian coinage was in part responsible for her spread, though no known coins explicitly identify any figures depicted on them as her. The first attested reference to Nanaya in Bactria is a coin of Yuezhi ruler Sapadbizes. Later she occurs in an inscription of Kushan emperor Kanishka, who proclaimed that he received kingship from her. She also appears on Kushan coins. Her name is always spelled as "Nanaia" in Greek, but as "Nana" in Bactrian. The iconography associated with her is entirely Hellenic in origin, rather than Mesopotamian, though her position as a giver of kingship might be derived from Mesopotamian tradition. Nanaya is mentioned in the Second Book of Maccabees. She also appears in Acts of Mar Mu'ain, according to which Sasanian king Shapur II ordered the eponymous Syriac saint to make offerings to various deities, including her. Dedications to Nanaya, written in Pahlavi scripts, appear on some jewelry from the Sasanian period. However, there is no evidence that the rulers from this dynasty were involved in her cult, similar evidence is also lacking for the Achaemenid emperors from the earlier period of Persian history. The last Mesopotamian reference to Nanaya appears in a Mandean spell from Nippur dated to the fifth or sixth century in which she appears alongside Shamash, Sin, Bel and Nergal, though all of these deities, including her, appear to be treated as male in this case, indicating that the precise identity of the figures invoked was already forgotten. Some late references to a goddess partially derived from Nanaya are known from Sogdia, where a Greek and Kushan-influenced version of her was worshipped in Panjakent as late as in the eighth century. Her depictions in Sogdian art have no clear forerunners in earlier tradition, and appear to be based on four-armed Mahayana Buddhist figures. Syriac scholar Bar Bahlul, active around the year 1000, in his Syriac-Arabic dictionary defined Nanaya as a name which Arabs purportedly applied to the planet Venus. This is the last known pre-modern reference to Nanaya. References Bibliography External links A tigi to Nanaya for Ibi-Erra (Ibi-Erra C) in the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature A balbale to Inana as Nanaya (Inana H) in the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature A German translation of Appu (CTH 360.1) in Mythen der Hethiter. Das Projekt of the University of Marburg Mesopotamian goddesses Love and lust goddesses War goddesses Inanna
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The Internet Service Providers Association of New Zealand (ISPANZ) is an organisation formed by Internet service providers (ISPs) in New Zealand. Its members include most New Zealand ISPs with the exceptions of Spark, Telstra and Vodafone. Its objectives are: To promote and facilitate the effective functioning of the Internet in NZ as an open system. To promote wide connectivity and diverse styles of delivery for the Internet. To promote a fully competitive market place for Internet services. To inform concerning the possibilities for advancement of Internet services in NZ, and contribute to the wide understanding of the techniques and economics used in providing telecommunications infrastructure for the Internet. To encourage diversity, innovation, cooperation and independence for Internet Service Providers, resellers and Internet users in NZ. Board ISPANZ is led by a board of directors. As of December 2021, the board consists of: Mark Frater - Director, President Shaun Fisher - Director, Vice-President Mike Stevenson - Director, Secretary Steve Ritchie - Director, Treasurer Seeby Woodhouse - Director Bruce Trevarthen - Director David Haynes - CEO Members The current members as of December 2021 are below. A current member list is maintained on the ISPANZ website. Actrix Networks Limited Enhanced Solutions Compass Communications Ltd DTS ICONZ InSPire Net Limited Rexnetworks Netspace NZRS New Zealand Technology Group Primo TrustPower Velocity Woosh Gravity Internet Ltd Kordia Media tribe Ufone Vetta Online Velocity Internet Vital Voyager Internet Wheronet Wizwireless Prodigi Technology Services Ltd Ezyconnecy Rural Broadband See also Broadband Internet access (New Zealand) References External links Internet service providers of New Zealand
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Naftali Yehuda Halevi Horowitz is the Bostoner Rebbe, having succeeded his father, Grand Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Horowitz, the second Bostoner Rebbe, upon the latter's death in December 2009. He is the rebbe of the Boston Hasidic community from the New England Chassidic Center in Brookline, Massachusetts, built by his father, and also directs ROFEH International, the community-based medical referral and hospitality liaison support agency established by his father. Family Naftali Yehudah Horowitz is the third and youngest son of Levi Yitzchak Horowitz and Raichel Unger Leifer. He is a ninth-generation descendant on the male line of Shmuel Shmelke Horowitz, the Nikolsburger rebbe. His eldest brother, Pinchos Dovid Horowitz, is the Bostoner-Chuster rabbi of Borough Park, Brooklyn, and his other brother Mayer Alter Horowitz is the Bostoner rebbe of Har Nof, Jerusalem. His sister Shayna Gittel is married to the Vialopola rebbe of Flatbush, Brooklyn. Biography Horowitz received rabbinical ordination at Beth Medrash Gevoha in Lakewood, New Jersey and Tchebin Yeshiva of Jerusalem, Israel. He married Shayndle Weiss and in 1980 went to Boston to become the rabbi of Congregation Beth Pinchas in Brookline. Congregation Beth Pinchas is part of the New England Chassidic Center, an umbrella organization providing religious and community services throughout the Boston area. References External links Official Website of the Bostoner Shul American Hasidic rabbis 20th-century American rabbis 21st-century American rabbis Beth Medrash Govoha alumni Living people Year of birth missing (living people) Rebbes of Boston
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The Federal Office for Information Security (, abbreviated as BSI) is the German upper-level federal agency in charge of managing computer and communication security for the German government. Its areas of expertise and responsibility include the security of computer applications, critical infrastructure protection, Internet security, cryptography, counter eavesdropping, certification of security products and the accreditation of security test laboratories. It is located in Bonn and as of 2020 has about 1,100 employees. Its current president, since 1 February 2016, is former business executive Arne Schnbohm, who took over the presidency from Michael Hange. BSI's predecessor was the cryptographic department of Germany's foreign intelligence agency (BND). BSI still designs cryptographic algorithms such as the Libelle cipher and initiated the development of the Gpg4win cryptographic suite. Similar agencies The BSI has a similar role as the Computer Security Division (CSD) of Information Technology Laboratory (ITL) of NIST (United States) CESG (United Kingdom) National Cybersecurity Institute (INCIBE) (Spain) Unlike those organizations, BSI is focused on IT security rather than being part of an organisation with a more general IT standards remit. BSI is separate from Germany's signals intelligence, which is part of the military and the foreign intelligence service (BND). Responsibilities The BSI's scope of duties is defined by the German Federal Office for Information Security (BSI Act). The aim of the BSI is the promotion of information and cyber security in order to enable and promote the use of secure information and communication technology in government, business and society. For example, the BSI develops practice-oriented minimum standards and target group-specific recommendations for handling IT and Internet security. The BSI is also responsible for protecting the IT systems of the federal government. This involves defending against cyber attacks and other technical threats against the IT systems and networks of the federal administration. Once a year, the BSI reports on this to the Committee on Internal Affairs of the German Bundestag. The tasks of the BSI include: Protection of federal networks, detection and defense of attacks on government networks Testing, certification and accreditation of IT products and services Warning of malware or security holes in IT products and services IT security consulting for the federal administration and other target groups Information and raising awareness of the public and the economy on IT and Internet security Development of uniform and binding IT security standards Development of cryptographic systems for the federal IT The BSI is the central certification body for the security of IT systems in Germany (computer and data security, data protection). Testing and certification is possible with regard to the standards of the IT-Grundschutzhandbuch, the Green Book, ITSEC and the Common Criteria. The BSI is a national authority in the field of cryptography, which draws up recommendations and technical guidelines for cryptographic procedures and is involved in the development of international cryptographic standards. Programs IT Baseline Protection Catalog The IT Baseline Protection Catalog, or IT-Grundschutz, is a collection of enterprise security guidelines established by the office, which serve to identify and combat security-relevant vulnerabilities in IT environments. With introduction and catalogs, the collection comprises more than 4,800 pages and serves companies and authorities as a basis for obtaining certification according to IT-Grundschutz. By obtaining certification, a company demonstrates that it has taken appropriate measures to protect its IT systems against IT security threats. National Cyber Defense Center The National Cyber Defense Center (Nationales Cyber-Abwehrzentrum, Cyber-AZ) is a cooperative institution of German authorities at federal level for the defense of electronic attacks on IT infrastructures of the Federal Republic of Germany and its economy. It was launched on April 1, 2011 and is located at the BSI. The center is a core element of the Cyber Security Strategy adopted by the German government in 2011. It aims to optimize operational cooperation and coordinate protection and defense measures. This is based on a holistic approach that brings together the various threats in cyberspace: Cyber espionage, cyber spying, cyber terrorism and cyber crime. The goal is a rapid exchange of information, rapid assessments and concrete recommendations for action derived from these. Alliance for Cyber Security The Alliance for Cyber Security, or Allianz fr Cyber-Sicherheit, is an initiative of the German Federal Office for Information Security (BSI). It was launched 2012 in publicprivate partnership cooperation with the German Association for Information Technology, Telecommunications and New Media (Bitkom). As a members-only association major players in the field of cyber security in Germany aim to provide up-to-date and valid information on threats in cyberspace and supports the exchange of information, experience and best practices between participants. More than 6,800 institutions as of 2023 belong to the Alliance for Cyber Security, including 180 partner companies and 110 multipliers. Participation is free of charge and can be applied for by any German institution. UP KRITIS The UP KRITIS (UP stands for implementation plan) is a public-private cooperation between operators of critical infrastructures (KRITIS), their various associations and the responsible governmental agencies such as the BSI. It addresses eight of the nine critical infrastructure sectors. The sector "state and administration" is covered by the UP BUND and activities on state and municipal level. The goal of the UP KRITIS cooperation is to maintain the supply of critical infrastructure services in Germany. All organizations based in Germany that operate critical infrastructures in Germany, national professional and industry associations from the KRITIS sectors and the responsible authorities can participate in UP KRITIS upon application. BSI for citizens The tasks of the BSI include informing and sensitizing citizens to the safe use of information technology, mobile communication media and the Internet. The BSI therefore offers online content specially tailored to the needs of citizens (BSI fr Brger). The website covers topics and information on IT and Internet security in a way that is understandable even for technical laypersons. In addition to providing information, the BSI also offers specific and actionable recommendations, for example on topics such as e-mail encryption, smartphone security, online banking, cloud computing or social networks. Private users can also contact the BSI by phone or e-mail with their questions on IT and Internet security issues. In addition, the BSI offers a free warning and information service called "Brger-CERT", which informs citizens and small businesses quickly and competently about weaknesses, security gaps and other risks and provides practical guidance. Leadership 20162022: Arne Schnbohm 2023present: Claudia Plattner See also ENISA National Cyberdefence Centre Central Office for Information Technology in the Security Sector (ZITiS) References External links English BSI publications Interview with President Michael Hange German federal agencies Science and technology in Germany Security organizations Computer security organizations Federal authorities in Bonn Privacy in Germany
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Kalindula is a kind of bass guitar which gives its name to a style of popular music in southern-central Africa. It originated in the late 20th century and is popular in Zambia and is also found in Malawi and Zimbabwe. Some people claim it originated in the Democratic Republic of Congo but this cannot be fully supported by the evidence. It combines features of 20th century popular music with rhythmic and metric elements. The kalindula musical style is characterized by an up-tempo rhythm and, in addition to the kalindula bass guitar, one or more hand-crafted guitars which are called 'banjos' (pronounced locally as 'bahn-jo'). Homemade drum sets are also used in some kalindula bands. Kalindula bands in urban areas often incorporate electric guitars, electric bass and modern drum sets into their ensembles. In the Southern Province of Zambia, kalindula bands compete to participate in the annual Tonga Music Festival sponsored by Chikuni Radio station. Winning groups are offered recording contracts by the radio station and their tapes are sold in markets throughout the province. Current favorites in the Southern Province are Green Mamba and Mashombe Blue Jeans. Amayenge, winners of the 2005 Ngoma Music Award, are another well-known and long-established group, together with Distro Kuomboka band, winners of several regional and national awards as 'Best Band', who dominate the Kalindula scene on the Copperbelt. See also List of African musicians External links Chikuni Radio Tonga Music Festival photo gallery Kalindula Music Videos Other information Zambian musical instruments Malawian music Zimbabwean musical instruments Bass guitars
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Troy Southgate (born 22 July 1965) is a British far-right political activist and a self-described national-anarchist. He has been affiliated with far-right and fascist groups, such as National Front and International Third Position. He co-created the think tank New Right alongside Jonathan Bowden and is the founder and editor-in-chief of Black Front Press. Southgate's movement has been described as working to "exploit a burgeoning counter culture of industrial heavy metal music, paganism, esotericism, occultism and Satanism that, it believes, holds the key to the spiritual reinvigoration of western society ready for an essentially Evolian revolt against the culturally and racially enervating forces of American global capitalism." Far-right activism Southgate joined the National Front in 1984 and began writing for publications such as National Front News and Nationalism Today. According to Searchlight magazine, in 1987 he joined the Society of St. Pius X (SSPX). In 1998, he and other ENM members founded the National Revolutionary Faction. In 2001, Southgate and the NRF were the subject of a Sunday Telegraph article, in which the NRF was accused of being a neo-Nazi organisation infiltrating animal rights groups to spread fascism. Southgate's national-anarchist ideology has been described as an opportunistic appropriation of aspects of leftist counter-culture in the service of a racist, far-right ideology. Black Front Press Black Front Press was established in 2010 by Southgate to print his biography of Otto Strasser, and has subsequently become a publisher of historical, political, philosophical and esoteric texts. Views Southgate, who graduated in history and theology from the University of Kent at Canterbury in 1997, comes from a non-religious backgroundalthough he converted to Catholicism in 1987 and was in that same year, according to Searchlight, associated with the Society of St. Pius X (SSPX). Southgate later joined the International Third Position (ITP), believing it to be the legitimate heir to the National Revolutionary Movement in Britain, though he eventually broke with it in 1992, accusing its membership of gross financial impropriety, hypocrisy, racial miscegenation and of practising a bourgeois form of reactionary ultra-Catholic fascism incompatible with the revolutionary nationalism that, he claimed, they had betrayed. According to Searchlight, in 1998 Southgate was partly the subject of a smear piece by former colleagues in the ITP, in the booklet Satanism and its Allies The Nationalist Movement Under Attack, published by Final Conflict, and linking him and others that left the ITP to Satanism, with which he has never been involved. Graham D. Macklin refers to this slander as an "attack" due to leaving the "staunchly Catholic ITP" although he points out that it was only later, after the original publication of the booklet, that the ITP decided for some reason to produce an update that "singled out Southgate as a 'Satanist' and 'pro-faggot'". Southgate, to further his ideology of "revolutionary nationalism", subsequently formed the English National movement, which denounced Hitler and Mussolini as "reactionary charlatans" whilst praising fascists he felt had represented the Third Position more sincerely, such as Otto Strasser, Corneliu Zelea Codreanu, and Jos Antonio Primo de Rivera. Around this time he began to justify British ethnic homogeneity, which he claimed was "not racist", by recourse to the European New Right concept of Ethnopluralism. Southgate rejected Catholicism in 1997, and gravitated towards the extreme-right interpretation of traditionalism espoused by Julius Evola, particularly Evola's "spiritual racism", and synthesized this with Carl Jung's notion of the collective unconscious in order to push the idea of a "primeval Aryan psyche". The multiplicity of his influences led to his espousing an idiosyncratic form of palingenetic ultranationalism that divorced itself from the "artificial" concept of the nation-state. Southgate subsequently incorporated green-anarchism into his perspective in order to counter the 'corrosive influence of urbanism and decay', and embraced neo-pagan and heathen groups. Along with like-minded musicians, he sought to diffuse the ideals of Mithraic paganism and Nordic folk myths into music-orientated youth cultures. Southgate was influenced by Evola's view that feminism had led to a breakdown in what the feminine and masculine roles had to offer. Bibliography Southgate has edited in excess of 100 books, chiefly through Black Front Press, but the following is a list of titles published under his own name. Tradition and Revolution: Collected Writings of Troy Southgate Hitler: The Adjournment Nazis, Fascists or Neither: Ideological Credentials of the British Far Right, 1987-94 Otto Strasser: The Life and Times of a German SocialistAdventures in Counter-Culture: Politics, Music, Film and LiteratureFurther Writings: Essays on Philosophy, Religion, History & PoliticsBehold the Hammer! Nietzsche Under ScrutinyImperator Romanorum: Henry the Fowler, Otto the Great & the Rise of the First German ReichIntellectual Gallery: A New Collection of WritingsThe Bishop of Hippo: Life and Thought of Saint AugustineRunic Sex Postures of the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc (with Zbigniew Boguslawski)The Tribe Abhorr'd: Hilaire Belloc and the JewsFrom Lightning: Corneliu Codreanu, Horia Sima and the Story of the Romanian Iron GuardAesthetic Dawn and Other Romantic VersesPolitical Soldier: The Life and Death of Ernst RhmEagle of Saladin: The Life of Gamal Abdel NasserJudas in Paris: The Remarkable Life of Alfred DreyfusThe World Through a Monocled Eye: A Detailed Exposition of Julius Evola's Men Among the RuinsContra Principem: Frederick the Great and the Anti-Machiavellian RiposteThe Self Unleashed: Max Stirner and the Politics of the EgoBeyond East and West: Ayatollah Khomeini & the Iranian RevolutionJewish Mysticism: From Pagan Antiquity and the Hebrew Prophets to the Kabbalistic Renaissance and BeyondAnti-Zion: A NovelThinking Our Way to God: Romantic Philosophy and the Coming of Absolute IdealismBlack Nemesis: A Critical Life of Thomas SankaraHogwash & Balderdash: Peculiar Rhymes for Extraordinary ChildrenPendulum of Faith: The Lives of Douglas HydeIn Search of the Absolute: German Idealism in Light of Politics, Philosophy & SpiritualityReturn to Evola: A Fresh Look at Revolt Against the Modern WorldTo Walk Among the Angels: The Mystical Life and Work of Emanuel SwedenborgTruth Dressed as a Lie: The Unmentionable Life of Arnold Spencer LeeseSurviving Kali Yuga: A Contemporary Reading of Ren Gunon's The Crisis of the Modern WorldBeneath the Shade of the Lightning Tree: The Dawn of Acphalic Man (with Von Sanngetall)The Spirit Unbound: Rudolf Steiner's Philosophy of FreedomQuest for the Numinous: The Sacred Mysticism of Rudolf OttoThe Book of Emptiness: Learning from Japanese PhilosophyModernity Under the Microscope: Byung-Chul Han's Damning Critique of Contemporary SocietyRoots in the Sublime: Frithjof Schuon's Traditionalist Interpretation of the Great Religions'' References 1965 births Alt-right politicians in the United Kingdom Alt-right writers Male critics of feminism Living people Politicians from London National Front (UK) politicians English fascists Alumni of the University of Kent People associated with the University of Kent English nationalists English magazine editors English autobiographers Publishers (people) from London English expatriates in Portugal English modern pagans Neo-fascists Strasserism
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Autonomous District Lok Sabha constituency is one of the 14 Lok Sabha constituencies in the Indian state of Assam. The constituency consists of three autonomous districts namely Dima Hasao, Karbi Anglong and West Karbi Anglong district. The constituency seat is reserved for Scheduled Tribes. Vidhan Sabha cum Assembly segments Autonomous District Lok Sabha constituency is composed of the following assembly segments: Current assembly segments Previous assembly segments Members of Parliament Election results 2019 General election 2014 General election 2009 General elections 2004 See also Dima Hasao district Karbi Anglong district West Karbi Anglong district List of constituencies of the Lok Sabha References External links Autonomous District lok sabha constituency election 2019 date and schedule Former Lok Sabha constituencies of Assam Karbi Anglong district
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Thomas Garner (18391906) was one of the leading English Gothic revival architects of the Victorian era. He is known for his almost 30-year partnership with architect George Frederick Bodley. Early life Born at Wasperton Hill Farm in Warwickshire, Thomas Garner grew up in a rural setting that gave him an instinctive feeling for country crafts and construction, which were never weakened by long years spent in London. Career Thomas Garner was articled to the architect Sir Gilbert Scott at the age of 17. One of his immediate predecessors at "Scott's" was George Frederick Bodley, who was already beginning to establish his own reputation. A warm friendship developed between two. When he returned to Warwickshire, Garner undertook various small works as a representative of Scott, including the repair of the old chapel of the Lord Leycester Hospital at Warwick, which he buttressed into security. Garner married Rose Emily Smith on 6 October 1866. In 1868 he returned to London to help his friend Bodley, and they established the long and fruitful partnership at their office at 7 Gray's Inn Square. Garner lived at No. 20 Church Row in Hampstead from 1867 to 1893. At first, their collaboration was close and produced such homogeneous work that there was little external evidence of dual authorship. What is noticeable in some of the earlier buildings by the "firm" is the replacement of the French influences which previously had shown themselves in Bodley's work, by a distinctively English style. This period of close collaboration produced the Church of Saint John the Baptist at Tuebrook, Liverpool, soon followed and eclipsed by the Holy Angels at Hoar Cross, Staffordshire, and St Augustine's Church, Pendlebury, near Manchester the former begun in 1871, the latter in 1873. They also designed St David's Cathedral, Hobart, in Tasmania. As Bodley and Garner's commissions increased they became less exclusively ecclesiastical. Church building remained predominant but their practice widened to collegiate buildings in Oxford and Cambridge, and to private houses and offices. This broadening of scope reduced their actual collaboration. Bodley and Garner's pupils included the garden designer Inigo Thomas who specialised in formal gardens with geometrical plans in 17th and 18th century styles, which suited the numerous houses that Bodley and Garner renovated for wealthy clients. The ensuing period of dual practice under partnership left most of the secular opportunities to the control of the junior partner, Garner, while Bodley, with his penchant for Gothic forms and ecclesiastical work, devoted himself to church building and decoration. Garner was almost exclusively responsible for the design and supervision of most of the work at Oxford, including the alterations and tower at Christ Church, St Swithin's Quadrangle and the High Street Entrance Gate at Magdalen College, and the Master's Lodgings at the University College. He was entirely responsible for the subsequent President's Lodgings at Magdalen College. Garner also designed River House in Tite Street, Chelsea, and the new classroom building at Marlborough College. Hewell Grange, Lord Windsor's Worcestershire mansion, with all its elaborate details, terraced gardens and their architectural accessories, was also his work. Garner continued to contribute to the firm's ecclesiastical work. He designed the altar screen in St Paul's Cathedral and several sepulchral monuments, including those of the Bishops of Ely, Lincoln, Winchester and Chichester, and that of Henry Parry Liddon. In 1889 he designed the decorated gothic case for the organ at Church of the Holy Trinity, Stratford-upon-Avon. Despite Bodley's distaste for business and trade, he and Garner also set up a fabric company with Gilbert Scott the younger in 1874, to provide embroidered and textile goods, wallpaper and stained glass. The firm was called Watts & Co, trading initially from Baker Street in London, and still continuing its traditions from premises near Westminster Cathedral. The name derives from Bodley's distaste for trade. When the founders were asked: "Who was Watts?" Bodley replied: "What's in a Name". The final period of the Bodley and Garner partnership is best seen in St John the Evangelist Church, Oxford, built for the Cowley Fathers in 189496. In 1898 Garner was received into the Roman Catholic Church, and his partnership with Bodley was dissolved for fear that this might harm the latter's business. After dissolving the partnership, Garner designed and supervised the restoration of Yarnton Manor, Oxfordshire in 1897; the Slipper Chapel at Houghton Saint Giles; Moreton House, Hampstead; the Empire Hotel at Buxton by the Duke of Devonshire's estate. The crowning work of his life was the choir of Downside Abbey, near Bath, where his body lies. He finally returned to the countryside for his final home, Fritwell Manor in Oxfordshire, the Jacobean house that he restored in 1893 and where he died in 1906. His interest in conservation was fostered throughout his life by his study of history, fine arts and literature. He and Stratton wrote The Domestic Architecture of England during the Tudor Period, which B. T. Batsford published in 1911. References Sources Collins, David Mark (1992) The Architecture of George Frederick Bodley 18271907 and Thomas Garner 18391906 Peterhouse, Cambridge University External links Entry in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography 1839 births 1906 deaths People from Warwick District 19th-century English architects Gothic Revival architects English ecclesiastical architects Architects of cathedrals Burials at Downside Abbey Architects from Warwickshire
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Zambia is a landlocked country in southern Africa. Modern Zambian theatre has developed syncretically from the melding of traditional local ritual and ceremonial forms of dance, drama and narrative storytelling, with Western theatre that was introduced during the colonial period. About Traditional dance and dramatic forms Zambia is homeland to seventy-three Bantu peoples, each with their own language. Traditional rituals and ceremonies of the region incorporated dance and/or dramatic elements included: kuombaka a royal seasonal ceremony (Lozi) makishi a masquerade (Eastern Province) ncwala a commemoration of victories (Nguni) nyau kasinja a funeral dance (Eastern Province) umutomboko a celebration of the rule of Mwata Kazembe, which re-enacted the crossing of the Luapula River (Eastern Lunda) Additionally, there were widespread traditions of oral storytelling, particularly fables featuring the trickster hare Kalulu and other animals, which promoted moral behaviour and satirised human foibles. Colonial and post-colonial dance and drama Performance of traditional rituals and ceremonies was discouraged by European colonisers of Northern Rhodesia and its predecessor territories. The mixing of ethnic traditions due to urbanisation in new copper mining towns, and in some cases a gradual shift from ritual to commercial performance, resulted in new syncretic dance and dramatic forms. Western theatre was also introduced. The Northern Rhodesian Drama Association (later the Theatre Association of Zambia, TAZ), a whites-only organisation, was founded in 1952 and over the next few years several similarly-segregated theatres were constructed. Segregation was overturned in 1958 when the newly-formed multi-racial Waddington Theatre Club were permitted to join the association. Radio broadcasting was significant in the development of local drama. The Central African Broadcasting Services was founded in 1948 by Harry Franklin, a government information officer, and targeted indigenous listeners, with programs not only in English but in a variety of local languages. Africans trained in radio techniques included Andreya Masiye, author of Zambia's first full-length play; his 1973 The Lands of Kazembe performed at the Chikwakwa Theatre adapted his 1957 radio play Kazembe and the Portuguese. In addition to formally-written plays, radio also broadcast ongoing improvised plays. For instance, Malikopo was a long-running weekly satirical radio drama in siTonga starring Edward Mungoni. It began in 1947 and was still popular into the nineteen-eighties.It is worth noting however that during the colonial period there was no publication of a stage play written by an indigenous Zambian despite the fact that the Zambian publishing industry was born in 1937 when the colonial Northern Rhodesian government established the African Literature Committee. The indigenous Zambian Arts Trust formed in 1963. It toured with a repertoire of plays in Zambian languages and English, and ran theatre festivals.One of the distinguishing features of the plays written and performed by indigenous Zambians is that they drew inspiration and some materials from the Zambian oral traditions which included performances such as the oral narratives which are associated with traditional forms of dramatic expression. As Chilala argues in his article 'The African Narrative as a Tool of Education' African playwrights, including Zambians, have been known to blend traditional art forms and western dramatic concepts. UNZADRAMS, the University of Zambia's drama society, was pivotal in the development of Zambian theatre, both as a foundation for future developments and in reaction to it. UNZADRAMS produced Zambian plays, built the open air Chikwakwa Theatre, instituted a touring company, and produced The Chikwakwa Review, a journal. In 1975, the black-led Zambian National Theatre Arts Association (ZANTAA) was formed in opposition to TAZ due to dissatisfaction with the attitude of its predominantly white leadership towards non-western theatre. In 1986, Kebby Musokotwane, then Zambia's Minister of General Education and Culture, directed that the two organisations be merged to form the National Theatre Arts Association of Zambia (NATAAZ). Modern An organized Western-styled theatre movement can be found in Lusaka and other urban settings, but traditional dramatic arts are also part of the fabric of traditional life in many rural communities. In recent years, drama has been an especially important avenue for the fight against HIV/AIDS in Zambia. Notes References Theatre in Zambia
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Climbing mouse may refer to members of the following genera of rodents: Dendromus, from Africa; Dendroprionomys (Velvet African Climbing Mouse), from the Republic of the Congo; Irenomys (Chilean Climbing Mouse), from southwestern South America; Rhipidomys, from South America; Vandeleuria, from southern and southeastern Asia; Vernaya (Vernay's Climbing Mouse), from southern China and northern Myanmar.
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Akren is a municipality and district of Konya Province, Turkey. Its area is 640km2, and its population is 5,836 (2022). Its elevation is . Composition There are 14 neighbourhoods in Akren District: Aalar Ahmediye Alanky Avdan Belkuyu atren Dutlu Haclar Karahyk Kayasu Orhaniye Sleymaniye Tlce Yeni References External links District governor's official website District municipality's official website Populated places in Konya Province Districts of Konya Province Metropolitan district municipalities in Turkey Lycaonia
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is a maze video game developed by Hudson Soft for the Xbox 360 in 2006 and published by Hudson Soft in Japan and Konami worldwide. It is noteworthy for its departure from standard titles in the Bomberman series; it features more realistic graphics and a dark, dystopian future setting. The game was panned by critics and fans, and is considered one of the worst video games ever made. Gameplay Players, as Bombermen, must destroy each other to fight their way to the surface of the Earth and escape. Players can customize their character including their gender. The game is viewed from an overhead perspective, like other Bomberman titles. The levels have a number of pillars throughout that require players' characters to navigate down hallways; there are sometimes obstacles in these paths that can only be destroyed by bombs. The bombs are also necessary to defeat opponents. An alternate mode called "First-Person Battle" allows players to view the action from behind the player character and are able to maneuver the camera. In the standard mode, the Bomberman can be killed by a single bomb (including their own); in FPB mode, they are given a life meter and can take multiple hits. In both modes, the Bombermen can pick up different power-ups (including speed, bomb count, bomb strength, and bomb duration). Both modes last for 99 floors; if the player-character dies, players must restart from the beginning. The game features an online-only battle mode called "world battle" which supports up to eight players. Development The game was first announced by Hudson Soft at the Tokyo Game Show 2005 with a brief teaser trailer showing off the redesigned Bomberman. At E3 2006, Konami announced they would be publishing the game at their press conference. In November 2006, a mobile phone version, titled Bomberman: Act Zero Mobile Type, was released for i-Mobile phones exclusively in Japan. Reception Pre-release GameSpots Justin Calvert played a single-player demo of the game at E3 2006. He noted that the gameplay was "largely unchanged" from classic Bomberman titles. Post-release Bomberman: Act Zero received "unfavorable" reviews according to the review aggregation website Metacritic. In Japan, Famitsu gave it a score of 23 out of 40, while Famitsu Xbox 360 gave it a score of two eights and two sevens for a total of 30 out of 40. The game was criticized for its long loading times, bad collision detection, forgettable soundtrack, use of the same textures and graphics for every stage, tedious and repetitive gameplay, lack of a save feature, unbalanced A.I. and the series' unwelcome shift to a darker and more futuristic setting. The First-Person Bomberman mode was also criticized for its bad camera angles and the fact that it is played in a third-person perspective rather than a first-person perspective. GamePros Patrick Shaw felt that it shouldn't be used to introduce players to the series and that fans of the games should skip it. In the March 2007 issue of Electronic Gaming Monthly, Seanbaby listed the game as one of the Top 10 Worst Games of 2006, describing it as "the Bomberman game that sucks." The game has been named one of the worst video games of all time by GamesRadar+ and The Guardian. In 2010, GameTrailers ranked the game at number one on their list of the "Top 10 Worst Sequels". Hudson Soft themselves expressed negative opinions on the game during a video for Bomberman Live. Notes References External links 2006 video games Action games Act Zero Cyberpunk video games Video games about cyborgs Konami games Science fiction video games Video game reboots Xbox 360-only games Video games about slavery Video games with gender-selectable protagonists Xbox 360 games Multiplayer and single-player video games Hudson Soft games Video games about robots Video games developed in Japan
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Takt time, or simply takt, is a manufacturing term to describe the required product assembly duration that is needed to match the demand. Often confused with cycle time, takt time is a tool used to design work and it measures the average time interval between the start of production of one unit and the start of production of the next unit when items are produced sequentially. For calculations, it is the time to produce parts divided by the number of parts demanded in that time interval. The takt time is based on customer demand; if a process or a production line are unable to produce at takt time, either demand leveling, additional resources, or process re-engineering is needed to ensure on-time delivery. For example, if the customer demand is 10 units per week, then, given a 40-hour workweek and steady flow through the production line, the average duration between production starts should be 4 hours, ideally. This interval is further reduced to account for things like machine downtime and scheduled employee breaks. Etymology Takt time is a borrowing of the Japanese word , which in turn was borrowed from the German word , meaning 'cycle time'. The word was likely introduced to Japan by German engineers in the 1930s. The word originates from the Latin word "tactus" meaning "touch, sense of touch, feeling". Some earlier meanings include: (16th century) "beat triggered by regular contact, clock beat", then in music "beat indicating the rhythm" and (18th century) "regular unit of note values". History Takt time has played an important role in production systems even before the industrial revolution. From 16th-century shipbuilding in Venice, mass-production of Model T by Henry Ford, synchronizing airframe movement in the German aviation industry and many more. Cooperation between the German aviation industry and Mitsubishi brought takt to Japan, where Toyota incorporated it in the Toyota Production System (TPS). James P. Womack and Daniel T. Jones in The Machine That Changed the World (1990) and Lean Thinking (1996) introduced the world to the concept of "lean". Through this, Takt was connected to lean systems. In the Toyota Production System (TPS), takt time is a central element of the just-in-time pillar (JIT) of this production system. Definition Assuming a product is made one unit at a time at a constant rate during the net available work time, the takt time is the amount of time that must elapse between two consecutive unit completions in order to meet the demand. Takt time can be first determined with the formula: Where T= Takt time (or takt), e.g. Ta = Net time available to work during the period, e.g. D = Demand (customer demand) during the period, e.g. Net available time is the amount of time available for work to be done. This excludes break times and any expected stoppage time (for example scheduled maintenance, team briefings, etc.). Example:If there are a total of 8 hours (or 480 minutes) in a shift (gross time) less 30 minutes lunch, 30 minutes for breaks (2 15 mins), 10 minutes for a team briefing and 10 minutes for basic maintenance checks, then the net Available Time to Work = 480 - 30 - 30 - 10 - 10 = 400 minutes. If customer demand were 400 units a day and one shift was being run, then the line would be required to output at a minimum rate of one part per minute in order to be able to keep up with customer demand. Takt time may be adjusted according to requirements within a company. For example, if one department delivers parts to several manufacturing lines, it often makes sense to use similar takt times on all lines to smooth outflow from the preceding station. Customer demand can still be met by adjusting daily working time, reducing down times on machines, and so on. Implementation Takt time is common in production lines that move a product along a line of stations that each performs a set of predefined tasks. Manufacturing: casting of parts, drilling holes, or preparing a workplace for another task Control tasks: testing of parts or adjusting machinery Administration: answering standard inquiries or call center operation Construction Management: scheduling process steps within a phase of the project Takt in construction With the adoption of lean thinking in the construction industry, takt time has found its way into the project-based production systems of the industry. Starting with construction methods that have highly repetitive products like bridge construction, tunnel construction, and repetitive buildings like hotels and residential high-rises, implementation of takt is increasing. According to Koskela (1992), an ideal production system has continuous flow and creates value for the customer while transforming raw materials into products. Construction projects use critical path method (CPM) or program evaluation and review technique (PERT) for planning and scheduling. These methods do not generate flow in the production and tend to be vulnerable to variation in the system. Due to common cost and schedule overruns, industry professionals and academia have started to regard CPM and PERT as outdated methods that often fail to anticipate uncertainties and allocate resources accurately and optimally in a dynamic construction environment. This has led to increasing developments and implementation of takt. Space scheduling Takt, as used in takt planning or takt-time planning (TTP) for construction, is considered one of the several ways of planning and scheduling construction projects based on their utilization of space rather than just time, as done traditionally in the critical path method. Also, to visualize and create flow of work on a construction site, utilization of space becomes essential. Some other space scheduling methods include: Linear scheduling method (LSM) and vertical production method (VPM) which are used to schedule horizontal and vertical repetitive projects respectively, Line-of-balance (LOB) method used for any type of repetitive projects. Location-based management system (LBMS) uses flowlines with the production rates of the crews, as they move through locations with an objective of optimizing work continuity. Comparison with manufacturing In manufacturing, the product being built keeps moving on the assembly line, while the workstations are stationary. On contrary, construction product, i.e. the building or infrastructure facilities being constructed, is stationary and the workers move from one location to another. Takt planning needs an accurate definition of work at each workstation, which in construction is done through defining spaces, called "zones". Due to the non-repetitive distribution of work in construction, achieving work completion within the defined takt for each zone, becomes difficult. Capacity buffer is used to deal with this variability in the system. The rationale behind defining these zones and setting the takt is not standardized and varies as per the style of the planner. Work density method (WDM) is one of the methods being used to assist in this process. Work density is expressed as a unit of time per unit of area. For a certain work area, work density describes how much time a trade will require to do their work in that area (zone), based on: the product's design, i.e., what is in the construction project drawings and specifications the scope of the trade's work, the specific task in their schedule (depending on work already in place and work that will follow later in the same or another process), the means and methods the trade will use (e.g., when prefabricating off-site, the work density on-site is expected to decrease), while accounting for crew capabilities and size. Benefits of takt time Once a takt system is implemented there are a number of benefits: The product moves along a line, so bottlenecks (stations that need more time than planned) are easily identified when the product does not move on in time. Correspondingly, stations that don't operate reliably (suffer a frequent breakdown, etc.) are easily identified. The takt leaves only a certain amount of time to perform the actual value added work. Therefore, there is a strong motivation to get rid of all non-value-adding tasks (like machine set-up, gathering of tools, transporting products, etc.) Workers and machines perform sets of similar tasks, so they don't have to adapt to new processes every day, increasing their productivity. There is no place in the takt system for removal of a product from the assembly line at any point before completion, so opportunities for shrink and damage in transit are minimized. Problems of takt time Once a takt system is implemented there are a number of problems: When customer demand rises so much that takt time has to come down, quite a few tasks have to be either reorganized to take even less time to fit into the shorter takt time, or they have to be split up between two stations (which means another station has to be squeezed into the line and workers have to adapt to the new setup) When one station in the line breaks down for whatever reason the whole line comes to a grinding halt, unless there are buffer capacities for preceding stations to get rid of their products and following stations to feed from. A built-in buffer of three to five percent downtime allows needed adjustments or recovery from failures. Short takt time can put considerable stress on the "moving parts" of a production system or subsystem. In automated systems/subsystems, increased mechanical stress increases the likelihood of a breakdown, and in non-automated systems/subsystems, personnel face both increased physical stress (which increases the risk of repetitive motion (also "stress" or "strain") injury), intensified emotional stress, and lowered motivation, sometimes to the point of increased absenteeism. Tasks have to be leveled to make sure tasks don't bulk in front of certain stations due to peaks in workload. This decreases the flexibility of the system as a whole. The concept of takt time doesn't account for human factors such as an operator needing an unexpected bathroom break or a brief rest period between units (especially for processes involving significant physical labor). In practice, this means that the production processes must be realistically capable of operation above peak takt and demand must be leveled in order to avoid wasted line capacity See also Turnaround time Lean manufacturing Toyota Production System Muri Lean construction Factory Physics, a book on manufacturing management References External links Lean Manufacturing site about Takt time Six Sigma site about Takt time On Line business processes simulator Takt Time - a vision for Lean Manufacturing Further reading Ohno, Taiichi, Toyota Production System: Beyond Large-Scale Production, Productivity Press (1988). Baudin, Michel, Lean Assembly: The Nuts and Bolts of Making Assembly Operations Flow, Productivity Press (2002). Ortiz, Chris A., Kaizen Assembly: Designing, Constructing, and Managing a Lean Assembly Line, CRC Press. Production and manufacturing Lean manufacturing
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Aaron Payne (born 18 November 1982) is an Australian rugby league coach and former professional player who is the head coach of the Townsville Blackhawks in the Intrust Super Cup. Primarily a , he played his entire career for the North Queensland Cowboys. Background Born in Townsville, Queensland, Payne played his junior rugby league for the Central Tigers and attended Kirwan State High School before being signed by the North Queensland Cowboys. His father, Mark, played two games for Queensland in 1979. Playing career In 1999, while playing for Centrals, Payne represented the Queensland under-17 team, starting at halfback in a loss to New South Wales. In 2001, he represented the Queensland under-19 team, coming off the bench in a 2814 win over the Blues. In Round 12 of the 2002 NRL season, Payne made his NRL debut for the Cowboys in a 4032 win over the St George Illawarra Dragons. In his rookie season, he played five games, starting one at . In 2003, Payne represented the Queensland Residents team and played four NRL games, scoring two tries. In 2004, after a permanent move to , Payne became a regular in the Cowboys' side. He played 25 games that season, including the club's first ever finals appearances. His form earned him a spot in Queensland's Emerging Origin squad for the first time. In 2005, Payne played all 28 games for the Cowboys, including the 2005 NRL Grand Final, in which they lost 1630 to the Wests Tigers. In 2006, he won the Paul Bowman Medal, the Cowboys Player of the Year award, for the first time. In Round 18 of the 2007 NRL season, Payne played his 100th NRL game in a 1624 loss to the Brisbane Broncos. In 2008, in what was a poor season for the Cowboys, Payne won the Paul Bowman Medal for the second time and also received the Players' Player and Club Person of the Year awards. In 2009, Payne played just 16 games due to injury. The injury occurred in a Round 17 win over the Cronulla Sharks, in which Payne was playing his 150th NRL game. The injury ruled him out for the season. In 2010, Payne played 21 games for the club, missing three weeks due to an ankle injury. Payne is often considered an underrated player, operating in the shadows of high-profile Cowboys players such as Johnathan Thurston and Matt Bowen. Former Australian captain Gorden Tallis has described Payne as the "glue" that holds the Cowboys together. In 2011, he re-signed with the Cowboys for a further season as the club made the finals for the first time in four seasons. On 4 February 2012, Payne earned the first senior representative honour of his career when he started at for the NRL All Stars in their 3628 win over the Indigenous All Stars. Payne was a late call-up by All Stars' coach Wayne Bennett for the injured Cameron Smith. In Round 6 of the 2012 NRL season, Payne played his 200th NRL game, the third Cowboy to do so, in a 1842 loss to the Melbourne Storm. On 1 August 2012, Payne announced that he would retire at the end of the season. His final game was an 3316 elimination final win over the Brisbane Broncos at Dairy Farmers Stadium. Payne was injured in the match and missed the rest of the Cowboys finals campaign. For his contribution to the Cowboys, Payne was awarded a life membership with the club, the fourth person at the time to receive the honour. Coaching career In 2014, Payne became the head coach of the Cowboys' Academy program, mentoring players from squads in Townsville, Cairns, Mackay, Rockhampton and Brisbane. On 20 November 2015, he was named as head coach of the club's under-20 side. He coached the side for two seasons, taking them to the finals in both years, before the competition was ended. On 28 September 2018, he was named as head coach of the Townsville Blackhawks, signing a two-year contract. He replaced inaugural head coach Kristian Woolf. He coached the side to a 3rd place finish in his first season in charge. On 21 July 2020, Payne returned to the Cowboys, joining as an assistant coach for the remainder of the 2020 NRL season. He returned to the Blackhawks in 2021 as the Head Coach, where he took the club to a 7th placed finish. The side fell outside of the eight the following season, finishing 10th on the ladder with 7 wins and 2 draws (10 losses). Achievements and accolades Individual Paul Bowman Medal: 2006, 2008 North Queensland Cowboys Players' Player: 2008 North Queensland Cowboys Club Person of the Year: 2008 Statistics NRL References 1982 births Living people Australian rugby league coaches Australian rugby league players North Queensland Cowboys players NRL All Stars players Rugby league hookers Rugby league halfbacks People educated at Kirwan State High School Rugby league players from Townsville
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Mitchell Sargent (born 2 July 1979 in Canowindra, New South Wales), also known by the nickname of "Sarge", is an Australian former professional rugby league footballer who played in the 2000s and 2010s. A Country New South Wales representative forward, he played club football in the NRL for the Melbourne Storm, the North Queensland Cowboys and Newcastle Knights and in the Super League for English side, Castleford Tigers (Heritage 890). Playing career Sargent made his first grade debut for Melbourne in round 1 2002 against the Canberra Raiders, scoring a try in a 1612 victory at the Olympic Park Stadium. Sargent's final game for Melbourne was their 30-0 semi final defeat against Canterbury-Bankstown at the Sydney Football Stadium. In 2004, Sargent signed for North Queensland and was part of the club's first ever finals campaign. He played from the bench in North Queensland's preliminary final loss against the Sydney Roosters at Telstra Stadium. Sargent played from the interchange bench in the North Queensland Cowboys' first ever grand final in 2005 which was lost to the Wests Tigers. On 24 August 2006 Sargent had his contract with the North Queensland Cowboys terminated after he tested positive to cocaine from "in-house tests" conducted by the club. According to a statement from Cowboys management, Sargent admitted using the drug and waived his right to a 'B' sample . National Rugby League Chief Executive David Gallop confirmed in the same report that Sargent would not face the normal mandatory two-year ban prescribed by the World Anti-Doping Agency as the positive result was from an in-house, out-of-competition test. Although banished from the North Queensland Cowboys' team, Sargent was offered a three-year contract (starting in 2007) with the Newcastle Knights, which he accepted . He stated that he was "over the moon to be given this second chance". He left the Newcastle Knights after signing a two and half-year deal with Castleford in 2008. Sargent left Castleford at the end of 2010 and is now retired. Career highlights NRL Debut: 2002 - Round 1, Storm v Canberra Raiders, Olympic Park, Melbourne SL Debut: 2008 - Round ? ?, Castleford v Huddersfield Giants References External sources "Cowboy sacked for cocaine" in The Sydney Morning Herald, 24 August 2006 "NRL star tests positive to cocaine" in The Daily Telegraph, 24 August 2006 1979 births Living people Australian rugby league players Australian sportspeople in doping cases Castleford Tigers players Country New South Wales Origin rugby league team players Doping cases in Australian rugby league Doping cases in rugby league Melbourne Storm players Newcastle Knights players North Queensland Cowboys players Rugby league players from New South Wales Rugby league props
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John William McCloskey (September 19, 1925 June 1, 2017) was an American basketball player, coach and executive. He served as the head coach of the Portland Trail Blazers and general manager of the Detroit Pistons and Minnesota Timberwolves. As general manager of the Pistons, McCloskey assembled the team that would become known as the "Bad Boys" that won NBA championships in 1989 and 1990. Biography Early life McCloskey was born in Mahanoy City, Pennsylvania on September 19, 1925 to Buelah and Eddie McCloskey. After high school, he attended the University of Pittsburgh, where he played football. He left school to serve in World War II as a lieutenant commanding a landing ship for the Marines. After the war, McCloskey attended the University of Pennsylvania where he played three varsity sports. Playing career McCloskey played one game for the Philadelphia Warriors of the NBA during the 1953 season, scoring 6 points in that game. McCloskey also spent time in Eastern Professional Basketball League (EPBL), including with the Sunbury Mercuries. He was the EPBL Most Valuable Player in 1953 and 1954, and earned four nominations to the All-EPBL First Team (1950, 19521954). Coaching career McCloskey served as head coach of the University of Pennsylvania from 1956 to 1966, and of Wake Forest from 1966 to 1972. Following that, he served as the head coach of the Portland Trail Blazers from 1972 through 1974, earning a 48116 winloss record. He followed this stint as an assistant coach to Jerry West and the Los Angeles Lakers. When West became general manager in 1979, McCloskey felt he had earned the right to become head coach, but Jack McKinney was hired instead. Front-office career: "Trader Jack" In 1979, McCloskey became general manager of the Detroit Pistons. Over the next 13 years, "Trader Jack", as he was known, made over 30 trades, constantly upgrading his team to become a true challenger to the Boston Celtics, one of the dominant teams in the NBA's Eastern Conference. His best-known moves were drafting future Hall-Of-Famer Joe Dumars outside the lottery and rebounding champ Dennis Rodman in the second round of the NBA Draft, trading three players for future all-star center and dominant rebounder Bill Laimbeer and trading superstar Adrian Dantley for Mark Aguirre during the 198889 season, a move that helped the Pistons win the NBA championship in 1989 and 1990. After the Chicago Bulls swept the Pistons in the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals, "Trader Jack" made his last moves. He acquired Darrell Walker, Brad Sellers, and Orlando Woolridge, and let go of Vinnie Johnson and James Edwards to try to make the team younger. He drafted Doug Overton in the second round that year (the Pistons had traded their first-round pick away), who did not even play the following season. The Pistons struggled with their chemistry, as key subs like John Salley did not improve their performance, yet they won 48 games. They lost in five games to the New York Knicks in the first round, and McCloskey left the team. He later served in the front offices of the Minnesota Timberwolves (19921995), and the Toronto Raptors (2004), the latter on an interim basis. Personal life On March 29, 2008, McCloskey had his name honored in Auburn Hills (Home city of The Detroit Pistons at the time), with a banner raised at The Palace of Auburn Hills. McCloskey had six children. His daughter is the writer Molly McCloskey, whose memoir Circles Around the Sun: In Search of a Lost Brother (2011) recounts the story of the McCloskey family with particular focus on Molly's brother (Jack McCloskey's son), Mike. The family was featured in an article in the September 1953 Ladies Home Journal, as part of a long running series "How America Lives", titled "Meet Mrs. $10,000* Executive in the Home". In May 2017, it was announced McCloskey had Alzheimer's disease. He died on June 1, 2017. Career playing statistics NBA Source Regular season Head coaching record College NBA |- |align="left"|Portland |align="left"| | 82 || 21 || 61 || ||align="center"|5th in Pacific || || || || |align="center"|Missed Playoffs |- |align="left"|Portland |align="left"| | 82 || 27 || 55 || ||align="center"|5th in Pacific|| || || || |align="center"| Missed Playoffs |- class="sortbottom" |align="left"|Career | || 164 || 48 || 116 || || || || || || References External links Basketball-Reference.com: Jack McCloskey (as coach) Basketball-Reference.com: Jack McCloskey (as player) 1925 births 2017 deaths American expatriate basketball people in Canada American men's basketball coaches American men's basketball players Basketball coaches from Pennsylvania Basketball players from Pennsylvania Deaths from dementia in Georgia (U.S. state) Deaths from Alzheimer's disease Detroit Pistons executives Military personnel from Pennsylvania Minnesota Timberwolves executives Penn Quakers baseball coaches Penn Quakers men's basketball coaches Penn Quakers men's basketball players People from Mahanoy City, Pennsylvania Philadelphia Warriors players Portland Trail Blazers head coaches Pottsville Packers players Shooting guards Sunbury Mercuries players Toronto Raptors executives Wake Forest Demon Deacons men's basketball coaches United States Navy personnel of World War II United States Navy officers
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"The Final Cut" is the title track from Pink Floyd's 1983 album The Final Cut. Background This song tells of a man's isolation, depression, sexual repression and rejection. At the end of the song he attempts suicide but "never had the nerve to make the final cut". Additionally, the song may be told from its main character of Pink. "The Final Cut" is one of four songs (along with "The Hero's Return", "One of the Few", and "Your Possible Pasts") used in The Final Cut that had been previously rejected from The Wall. This song is in the video version of the album The Final Cut Video EP. The song made an appearance as the B-side of the "Selections from the Final Cut" radio promo single (with "Your Possible Pasts" on the A-side.) It also appears in the film Strange Frame. Personnel Roger Waters vocals, bass guitar, acoustic guitar, tape effects David Gilmour guitar, backing vocals Nick Mason drums, tambourine with: Michael Kamen piano, harmonium, orchestrations Cultural references The album The Dark Side of the Moog VI (1997) by Klaus Schulze and Pete Namlook is subtitled "The Final DAT". References 1983 songs Pink Floyd songs Rock ballads Anti-war songs Songs about suicide Songs about mental health Songs written by Roger Waters Song recordings produced by Roger Waters
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The counselor of the United States Department of State is a position within the United States Department of State that serves the secretary of state as a special advisor and consultant on major problems of foreign policy and who provides guidance to the appropriate bureaus with respect to such matters. The counselor conducts special international negotiations and consultations, and also undertakes special assignments from time to time, as directed by the secretary of state. Currently, the counselor holds under law a rank equivalent to that of under secretary of state. Unlike the other under secretaries of state, the counselor currently does not require Senate confirmation. Historically, the role was appointed by the president, by and with the advice and consent of the United States Senate as authorized by 22 U.S. Code 2651a as one of four "other senior officials." The secretary of state created the position of counselor for the Department of State in 1909 as part of a general department reorganization. In 1912, the position became a presidential appointment. Between 1913 and 1919, the counselor served as the department's second-ranking officer, assuming the role previously exercised by the assistant secretary of state. In 1919, the newly created position of under secretary of state subsumed the duties of the counselor. An Act of Congress, May 18, 1937, re-established the position of counselor of the Department of State. Between 1961 and 1966, the counselor also served as the chairman of the Policy Planning Council. On April 30, 1994, the title was changed to under secretary of state for global affairs when Counselor Timothy E. Wirth was appointed to that position, but another counselor was appointed in 1997. List of counselors of the United States Department of State References 1909 establishments in Washington, D.C. United States diplomacy
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Stephen Yardley (born 24 March 1942) is an English actor. After graduating from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in 1963, he became known for his many roles on UK television between 1964 and 2004. Career In the mid-1960s, Yardley was a permanent member of the company at Dundee Repertory Theatre. He also made early appearances on television in the 1960s in series including Danger Man and United!, and had an extended run during 196768 in Z-Cars. His subsequent work included performances as semi-reformed cat burglar William "Spider" Scott in The XYY Man (197677); Max Brocard in Secret Army (1978); Roy Swetman, a professional hit man in the hard-hitting British police drama The Professionals, the episode titled "Hijack" (1980) and as Police Inspector Cadogan in Virtual Murder (1992). He twice had roles in Doctor Who Sevrin in Genesis of the Daleks (1975) and Arak in Vengeance on Varos (1985) and also took a part in the science fiction series Blake's 7 (1981) and the BBC adaptation of The Day of the Triffids (1981). He had a regular role as Ken Masters in the BBC television series Howards' Way (198590), appeared in an episode of Heartbeat in 1996, and played Vince Farmer in Channel 5's soap opera Family Affairs (19992003). Yardley most recently appeared in the Sky One series Hex (2004). References External links 1942 births Alumni of RADA English male soap opera actors Living people Male actors from Yorkshire People from the Borough of Harrogate
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Richard Massingham (31 January 1898 in Sleaford, Lincolnshire 1 April 1953 in Biddenden, Kent) was a British medical doctor who is principally known for starring in public information films made in the 1940s and early 1950s. Life After working in medicine and making amateur films, Massingham set up Public Relationship Films Ltd in 1938 when he noticed that there was no specialist agency making short educational films for the public. In the films he typically played a bumbling character who was slightly more stupid than average, and often explained the message of the film through demonstrating the risks if it was ignored. Films' topics included postal deliveries, how to cross the road, how to prevent the spread of diseases, how to swim and how to drive without causing the road to be unsafe for other users. Family Massingham's father was H.W. Massingham (18601924) the journalist, and his siblings included writer Harold John Massingham (18881952), writer Hugh Massingham (19051971) and playwright and actress Dorothy Massingham (18891933). He was the son of Emma Jane ne Snowdon, the daughter of Henry Snowdon of St. Leonard's Priory, Norwich. Selected Films Dr Massingham says... Tell Me If It Hurts (1934) And So To Work (1936) The Daily Round (1937) Surviving the War: The Five Inch Bather (1942) In Which We Live: Being the Life Story of a Suit Told by Itself (1943) Post Early for Christmas (1943) Elopement in France (1944) An Englishman's home... Down at the Local (1945) Coughs and Sneezes (1945) Post-war Blues: The Daily Grind: Pool of Contentment (1946) Pedal Cyclists (1947) Watch Your Meters (1947) Jet-propelled Germs (1948) Pedestrian Crossing (1948) Post-war Blues: What a Life! (1948) 30 Miles an Hour (1949) Another Case of Poisoning (1949) Handkerchief Drill (1949) Warning to Travellers (1949) The Cure (1950) Help Yourself (1950) Moving House (1950) Introducing the New Worker (1951) In Popular Culture The animator Cyriak Harris created his animation Breakfast using samples of footage from Massingham's Pedestrian Crossing film: mainly, a shot of a seated Massingham eating breakfast in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, just as a passing car slams into his card table, spilling the contents everywhere. References External links 1898 births 1953 deaths English male film actors 20th-century English medical doctors People from Sleaford, Lincolnshire 20th-century English male actors Male actors from Lincolnshire
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Gksun (, or , Koukouss; or ; ) is a municipality and district of Kahramanmara Province, Turkey. Its area is 1,942km2, and its population is 50,676 (2022). It is near one of the sources of the Ceyhan River (ancient Pyramos), in the ancient region of Cataonia. History Cucusus has an ancient history, first included in Cataonia, then in Cappadocia, and then in the Roman province of Armenia Secunda. The Byzantine bishops, Paul the Confessor (died 350 AD), John Chrysostom (died 407 AD) and Emperor Basiliscus (died 476 AD) either died in or were exiled to this remote place. Of its bishops, Domnus took part in the Council of Chalcedon (451), Longinus was a signatory of the joint letter of the bishops of the province of Armenia Secunda to Byzantine Emperor Leo I the Thracian in 458 concerning the murder of Proterius of Alexandria, Ioannes was at the Second Council of Constantinople (553), and another Ioannes at the Trullan Council of 692. No longer a residential bishopric, Cucusus is today listed by the Catholic Church as a titular see. In the mid-10th century the town received many Armenian immigrants and by 1097, when the army of the First Crusade marched arrived at Cucusus, they encountered a large prosperous town populated by Armenians. The town, most likely with its own wall, remained under control of the Armenian princes of Cilicia but was abandoned due to Trkmen raids around 1375, with its inhabitants taking refuge in the towns of Hadjin and Zeitun. After that, the town became part of the Beylik of Dulkadir before it was conquered by the Ottomans in 1515. In April 1915, the remaining Armenian population of Cucusus was deported during the Armenian Genocide. 2009 helicopter crash On March 25, 2009, a chartered helicopter carrying Great Union Party's (BBP) Muhsin Yazcolu, three of his party's local leaders, and a reporter crashed at Mount Ke. The pilot and all the passengers but the reporter were killed. Ismail Gne, who initially survived, made an emergency call reporting the accident. A massive search and rescue operation, attended by thousands and assisted by helicopters and aircraft, was conducted. However, the wreckage and the five bodies were recovered only 47 hours later. The corpse of the reporter was found five days later far from the crash site. Composition There are 76 neighbourhoods in Gksun District: Acelma Ahmetik Allbucak Altnoba Apklar Arslanbeyiftlii Bahelievler Berit Bozarmut Bozhyk Bykamurlu Bykkzlck alayan amdere ardak Cumhuriyet Deirmendere Doankonak Elmal Ericek Esenky Fndkky Fndklkoyak Glpnar Gynk Gcksu Glda Gller Hackodal Hacmirza Hacmer Harbiye Huta Kaleboynu Kaleky Kamck Kanlkavak Karaahmet Karadut Karamer Kavut Kayaba Kazandere Keklikoluk Kemalpaa Knkkonaz Kireky Kzlz Kmrky Kprba Korkmaz Kkamurlu Kurtulu Mahmutbey Mehmetbey Mevlana Mrselky Ortatepe Payamburnu Pnarba Sarayck Srmal Soukpnar Tahirbey Taoluk Temraa Tepeba Tombak Yamurlu Yantepe Yeni Yeniyapan Yeilky Yiricek Younoluk Yunus Emre References Sources External links Populated places in Kahramanmara Province Districts of Kahramanmara Province Roman towns and cities in Turkey Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia Former Armenian inhabited settlements Metropolitan district municipalities in Turkey
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Hafik is a town in Sivas Province of Turkey. It is the seat of Hafik District. Its population is 3,594 (2022). The mayor is Harun sa Gltay (MHP). References Populated places in Sivas Province Hafik District District municipalities in Turkey
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Hekimhan () is a municipality and district of Malatya Province, Turkey. Its area is 1,514km2, and its population is 15,706 (2022). It is located in the upper Euphrates in Eastern Anatolia. Hekimhan is 1,075 m above sea level. The highest point in Hekimhan is Zurbahan mountain (2,091 m). The mayor is Turan Karada (CHP). Historical sites Tahan caravanserai (constructed by the Seljuk Turks), a Turkish bath and a mosque built by the Ottomans are some notable historical structures in the town. Composition There are 65 neighbourhoods in Hekimhan District: Akmaara Akstl Aasazlca Bayolu Bahedam Bahelievler Ballkaya Basak Bakavak Baknk Beykent Boazgren Budakl anakpnar imenlik ulhal Davulgu Delihasanyurdu Dereky Deveci Dikenli Dikili Dumlu Dursunlu Fatih Girmana Gl Gven Gzelyayla Gzelyurt Haclar Hasanelebi Haydarolu dir Ikl Karadere Karakek Karapnar Karyaka Karsllar Kavack Kocaz Kprl Mehmet Paa Kylky Kozdere Kurunlu Mimarsinan Mollaibrahim . Fethi Akyz Salck Sarayl Sarkz St Taba Taoluk Turgut zal Uurlu Yaca Yayladam Yeni Yeilkale Yeilky Yeilpnar Yukar Sazlca Yukarselimli Demographics Ethnic composition of the villages in Hekimhan District: Kurdish (Alevi): Aasazlca, Sarayl, Sazlca Kurdish (Sunni): Akstl, imenlik, Delihasanyurdu, Dikenli, Dikili, Gl, Gzelyayla, Haydarolu, Karapnar, Karsllar, Kavack, Kurunlu, St, Taoluk (Dereyurt), Yaca, Yeilky Turkish (Alevi): Akmaara, Bahedam, Ballkaya, Basak, Bakavak, Baknk, Beykent, Boazren, Budakl, anakpnar, ulhal, Davulgu, Dereky, Gven, Haclar, Hasanelebi, dir, Karadere, Karakek, Kozdere, Salck, Uurlu, Yeilkale Turkish (Sunni): Devec, Dumlu, Dursunlu, Gzelyurt, Ikl, Kocaz, Mollaibrahim, Sarkz, Yayladam, Yeilpnar Kurdish (Alevi) and Turkish (Alevi): Kylky Kurdish (Alevi) and Turkish (Sunni): Girmana (Yukarkrmanl) Notable people Mehmet Ali Aca References Populated places in Malatya Province Districts of Malatya Province Metropolitan district municipalities in Turkey
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Feckenham Football Club is a football club based in Feckenham, near Redditch, Worcestershire, England. They are currently members of the and play at Mill Lane. History The club was established in 1881. They were founder members of the Redditch & District League and were league champions in 192021. The club then moved up to the Worcester & District League, which they won in 195556 and 196263. They also won the Worcester Minor Cup in 197879. After winning the league again in 199495, Feckenham moved up to Division Three of the Midland Combination. They won Division Three at the first attempt and were promoted to Division Two. The club went on to win Division Two in 199697 to earn a second successive promotion, this time to Division One. A third successive promotion was secured when they finished third in Division One the 199798, resulting in promotion to the Premier Division. At the end of the 200708 season Feckenham dropped two divisions, replacing their reserve team in Division Two. They were Division Two runners-up in 201011 and were promoted back to Division One. When the Midland Combination merged with the Midland Alliance to form the Midland League in 2014, Feckenham became members of Division Two of the new league. The club left the league at the end of the curtailed 202021 season. They subsequently joined Division Two West of the Hellenic League for the 202223 season, before transferring to Division Three of the Midland League at the end of the season. Ground The club played at Mill Lane until the first team were required to relocate in 1998 as the ground could not be brought up to the standard required to play in the Midland Combination Premier Division. They initially groundshared at Evesham United's Common Road ground, before moving to the Valley Stadium owned by Redditch United. After the club dropped out of the Premier Division in 2008 they returned to Mill Lane before moving to the Studley Sports & Social Club. Honours Midland Combination Division Two champions 199697 Division Three champions 199596 Worcester & District League Champions 195556, 196263, 199495 Baylis Cup winners 199495 Redditch & District League Champions 192021 Worcestershire Minor Cup Winners 197879 Smedley Crooke Memorial Challenge Cup Winner 199596, 199697 See also Feckenham F.C. players References External links Official website Football clubs in England Football clubs in Worcestershire Association football clubs established in 1881 1881 establishments in England Midland Football Combination Midland Football League Hellenic Football League
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Brian Mayanja (born January 25, 1983) is a boxer from Uganda, who participated in the 2004 Summer Olympics for his native African country. There he was outscored in the first round of the Featherweight (57kg) division by Kazakhstan's Galib Jafarov. He qualified for the Athens Games by winning the silver medal at the 1st AIBA African 2004 Olympic Qualifying Tournament in Casablanca, Morocco. In the final of the event he lost to Tunisian fighter Saifeddine Nejmaoui. References sports-reference 1983 births Featherweight boxers Olympic boxers for Uganda Living people Boxers at the 2004 Summer Olympics Ugandan male boxers
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Athletes from Trinidad and Tobago competed at the 1964 Summer Olympics in Tokyo, Japan. This marked the return of Trinidad and Tobago to the Olympic Games as a separate nation, after having competed as part of the British West Indies at the 1960 Summer Olympics. Thirteen competitors, all men, took part in ten events in four sports. Medalists Silver Wendell Mottley Athletics, Men's 400 metres Bronze Edwin Roberts Athletics, Men's 200 metres Edwin Skinner, Kent Bernard, Wendell Mottley, and Edwin Roberts Athletics, Men's 4x400 metres Athletics Cycling Three cyclists represented Trinidad and Tobago in 1964. Sprint Roger Gibbon Fitzroy Hoyte 1000m time trial Roger Gibbon Individual pursuit Ronald Cassidy Sailing Weightlifting References External links Official Olympic Reports International Olympic Committee results database Nations at the 1964 Summer Olympics 1964 1964 in Trinidad and Tobago
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Hoitovirhe (English: Malpractice), released on 10 December 2004 by Spinefarm Records, is the first full-length album by the Finnish industrial metal band Turmion Ktilt. Track listing Singles Teurastaja "Teurastaja" "4 Ksky" Verta ja lihaa "Verta ja lihaa" "Volvot ulvoo kuun savuun" References 2004 albums Turmion Ktilt albums
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Bronx Community Board 3 is a local government unit in the New York City borough, of the Bronx, encompassing the neighborhoods of Crotona Park East, Claremont, Concourse Village, Melrose, and Morrisania. It is delimited by Sheridan Boulevard to the east, the Cross Bronx Expressway and Crotona Park North to the north, Park Avenue and Webster Avenue to the west, and East 159th Street and East 161st Street to the south. Community board staff and membership The current chairperson of the Bronx Community board 3 is Dr. Rev. Bruce Rivera. Its District Manager is John Dudley. Currently, Dudley is the longest serving District Manager in the borough of the Bronx. The City Council members representing the community district are non-voting, ex officio board members. The council members and their council districts are: 15th NYC Council District - Ritchie Torres 16th NYC Council District - Vanessa Gibson 17th NYC Council District - Rafael Salamanca Demographics As of the United States 2000 Census, the Community Board has a population of 68,574, up from 57,162 in the 1990 Census and 53,638 in 1980. Of them, 36,273 (52.9%) are of Hispanic origin, 30,201 (44%) are Black, non-Hispanic, 678 (1%) are White, non-Hispanic, 248 (0.4%) are Asian or Pacific Islander, 216 (0.3%) American Indian or Alaska Native, 169 (0.2%) are some other race (non-Hispanic), and 789 (1.2%) of two or more races (non-Hispanic). References External links Community boards of the Bronx
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"What's Left of Me" is a song co-written and recorded by American singer Nick Lachey. It was released on February 21, 2006, as the lead single from his second album, What's Left of Me. To date, it is Lachey's most successful single as a solo artist, reaching number 6 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. The song has also been recorded by Leandro Lopes, winner of the first season of Brazilian reality television show dolos, and was released as Lopes's first single. Composition "What's Left of Me" is a pop rock ballad that lasts for 4 minutes and 5 seconds. The song's instrumentation includes string instruments and guitars. Lyrically, the song expresses the pain of Lachey's divorce from his first wife Jessica Simpson since they separated in the previous year in 2005 and later divorced in June. Track list Digital download: What's Left of Me (main version) Europe CD single: What's Left of Me (album version) Don't Shut Me Out (bonus cut) What's Left of Me (Passengerz remix) What's Left of Me (Jack D. Elliott remix) Music video Lachey was documented on a MTV special that was aired on April 22, 2006, called "What's Left of Me". Following the special, a Making The Video was aired, covering the production process. The clip itself was premiered to the world at the end of the show. The video features Vanessa Minnillo (whom he would later marry), a former Miss Teen USA, and former Total Request Live VJ, who in the video clip presumably plays Jessica Simpson. As the video progresses, objects from a house begin to disappear, such as a laptop computer, a stereo, some pictures, furniture, and products inside the fridge. At the end of the video, the wedding ring that Minnillo is wearing on a necklace also disappears, and seconds later Minnillo disappears before Nick's eyes. A final shot of Lachey standing on an empty house projects the theme of the song, and shows that there's nothing 'left of him'. Many references to Lachey's personal life with Simpson are made: most specifically the wedding ring on the necklace disappearing, and the presence of a camera crew filming Lachey and Minnillo (a reference to Lachey's personal discomfort over the making of the show Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica). Chart performance "What's Left of Me" was one of the early successes of 2006. "What's Left of Me" debuted at No. 89 on the US Billboard Hot 100 and eventually reached a peak position of No. 6 becoming Lachey's highest-charting song as a solo artist. "What's Left of Me" remained on the Billboard Hot 100 for a total of twenty-five weeks. The song also performed well on other Billboard charts, including the Billboard Pop 100 where it reached a peak position of number 5. Thanks to the success of the single the album had an extremely strong debut at No. 2 on the Billboard 200 for the week of May 14, 2006. What's Left of Me sold 172,000 copies for that week, which was already a significant improvement upon the first week sales of his debut album, SoulO, which only sold 171,000 in total. Weekly charts Year-end charts Leandro Lopes version Background In the same year of "What's Left of Me"'s original release, Sony BMG's executives chose for Leandro Lopes and Lucas Poletto, the two finalists of the first season of dolos, to record the song which was called "Deixo A Voz Me Levar" (Portuguese for "Let The Voice Carry Me"), in preparation for a single release as soon as the winner was announced. Leandro and Lucas sang the song on July 27, 2006. Upon Leandro winning the competition, "Deixo A Voz Me Levar" was released on October 6, 2006, as the first single from his first album entitled Leandro Lopes: Por Voc (English: Leandro Lopes: For You). Music video Filming of Leandro Lopes' first music video started around September 2006 in So Paulo, So Paulo. The video was directed by Pietro Sargentelli and first premiered on October 13, 2006, on MTV Brasil. Track listings CD single "Deixo A Voz Me Levar" 3:09 References 2006 singles Music videos directed by Ray Kay Nick Lachey songs Songs written by Emanuel Kiriakou Songs written by Lindy Robbins Songs written by Nick Lachey Songs written by Jess Cates Pop ballads Rock ballads Songs about heartache 2000s ballads
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Auditory meatus can refer to: external auditory meatus internal auditory meatus
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Light is a single-member electoral district for the South Australian House of Assembly. Light is named after Colonel William Light (1786 1839), who was the first Surveyor-General of South Australia. The electorate was created in 1857, abolished at the 1902 election and recreated at the 1938 election. It is based on the semi-rural township of Gawler, and stretches southwards into the outermost northern suburbs of Adelaide. Covering a total area of 62.36km, Light consists of the suburbs of Buchfelde, Evanston Gardens, Evanston Park, Evanston South, Gawler, Gawler East, Gawler South, Gawler West, Hewett, Hillier, Kudla, Munno Para, Munno Para Downs, Munno Para West, Reid, and Willaston. Although growing urbanisation in recent years has resulted in Adelaide's growth spilling into Gawler, Light is classed as a rural electorate. The electorate was held by the Liberal Party and its predecessor, the Liberal and Country League, for all but one term from its re-creation in 1938 until 2006. For most of that time, it was a fairly safe to safe LCL/Liberal seat. A redistribution prior to the 2002 election pushed Light further into the outer Adelaide suburbs, paring back the margin from a fairly safe 6.3 percent to an extremely marginal 1.1 percent. At the 2002 election, Liberal incumbent Malcolm Buckby picked up a small swing in his favour and retained the electorate even as the Liberals lost government. In 2006 Tony Piccolo became the second Labor member to win the electorate, and the first Labor member for the electorate in 62 years. At the 2010 election he increased his margin against the statewide trend and decades of voting patterns in the seat, and became the first Labor member to be re-elected to Light. His victory was one of two that allowed Labor to hold onto a narrow majority despite losing the two-party vote. A redistribution prior to the 2014 election reduced Labor's margin significantly from 5.3 percent to 2.8 percent, but Labor again retained the electorate with an unchanged margin. After a redistribution slightly increased the Labor margin to 5.4 percent, Piccolo retained the seat in 2018 with a healthy swing of almost six percent, enough to make Light a fairly safe Labor seat (and just on the edge of being safe). This came even as Labor lost government, marking only the second time that the conservatives won government without holding Light. The electorate's first member in its current incarnation as a single-member seat was Premier and LCL founder Richard Layton Butler, who held the electorate for a few months in 1938 before making an unsuccessful attempt to transfer to federal politics. Other particularly notable members include Bruce Eastick, leader of the LCL/Liberals from 1972 to 1975 and Speaker of the South Australian House of Assembly during the Tonkin government. Members Election results Notes References ECSA profile for Light: 2018 ABC profile for Light: 2018 Poll Bludger profile for Light: 2018 Electoral districts of South Australia 1857 establishments in Australia 1902 disestablishments in Australia 1938 establishments in Australia
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Alyce Mary A. Platt (born 19 December 1963) is an Australian actress and singer. As an actress, she had roles in the TV soap operas Sons and Daughters as Amanda Morell, and Neighbours. Platt worked as a TV presenter and game show host, including cohost to Tony Barber on quiz show Sale of the Century from 1986 to 1991. Also a musician, Platt released her debut album, Beautiful Death, in April 2004. In 2012, Platt started playing another role in Neighbours, that of Olivia Bell, a potential love interest for Karl Kennedy. In May 2020, Platt resumed the part of Olivia for a second guest stint and returned again for another stint the following year. Early life Alyce Mary Platt was born on 19 December 1963 and grew up in Melbourne with her parents and two older brothers. From the age of 12 she was singing in competitions. At 16 she attended Box Hill Technical College for a two-year drama course. Career Acting Platt's acting roles include the regular part of Amanda Morrell in Sons and Daughters from 1983 to 1985; a guest role as Stephanie Collins in the short-lived serial Family and Friends in 1990; and as Sarah Wilkes in Ten's version of A Country Practice in 1994. In 1995, Platt appeared as a reporter in the "My Lovely Girl" episode of Halifax f.p.. That same year, she joined the-long-running soap Neighbours, playing the regular part of Jen Handley. However, Jen was written out after just a year when writers struggled to come up with stories for the character. She told Sue Malins of the Daily Mirror; "In the end, I don't think the scriptwriters knew what to do with me." Her last episode as Jen aired in March 1996. Platt had a recurring roles on Blue Heelers as Jeanette Holbrook in 2000; City Homicide from August 2007 and a lead role in the children's television series The Elephant Princess as Anita Wilson. The role that brought her most recognition was that of co-host of the then top-rated quiz show Sale of the Century from 1986 to 1991. She returned to this role for one special episode of Temptation on 14 March 2007, during the show's "Battle of the Network Shows" series, in which Temptation's hosts Ed Phillips and Livinia Nixon were contestants themselves. She later appeared alongside former Sale co-host Tony Barber on TV1's Cash Trivia Challenge. On 9 August 2012, it was announced Platt had re-joined Neighbours for a guest role as a new character, Olivia Bell. Eight years later, in a February 2020 interview for The Courier, Platt stated she had returned to Neighbours. She said, "I've gone back to Ramsay Street; I'm doing a little bit on Neighbours at the moment, which is wonderful. I'm enjoying it a lot, actually." Platt's management company confirmed that she would be returning as Olivia Bell, and her return scenes aired on 6 May 2020. She returned for another stint in 2021. Music Platt launched her debut album, Beautiful Death, on 4 April 2004 at the Corner Hotel. Carmine Pascuzzi of MediaSearch website said that she "does a decent job in providing an adventurous foray through her honest and melancholic musical thoughts. It's a collection of material spanning several years. The songs are mostly told with positive feeling and the hope for better things." Her second album, Live from the Vault, appeared in August 2006. Her third album, Funny Little World, was issued in November 2015. She wrote and performed the music for the documentary Journey Beyond Fear in 2018. Personal life In August 2004, Platt married Claude Carranza. References External links 1963 births Living people Australian women singers Australian game show hosts Australian soap opera actresses
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Not with a Bang was a short-lived British television sitcom produced by LWT for ITV in 1990. It ran for seven episodes, each 30 minutes long. The show was a dark science fiction comedy, focusing on the end of the human race on Earth. The title comes from the last line of T. S. Eliot's poem The Hollow Men "not with a bang, but a whimper"; The concept for the series originates from a self-contained 1986 Radio 4 afternoon play of the same title, from which Mike Grady was the only cast member to reprise his role in the television series. Premise The pilot episode of Not with a Bang begins with a spoof episode of the iconic BBC show Tomorrow's World, (which is also a nod to the opening titles of apocalyptic drama series Survivors) where Judith Hann is presenting a story on how scientists have apparently isolated the hormone that causes aging in humans. The chemical is then accidentally released from a vial and the effect spreads almost instantly, annihilating virtually all human life on Earth, turning people into little piles of an ash-like compound, before dissipating harmlessly. The show then follows the plight of the four human survivors three male, one female who survive due to various far-fetched reasons for example being sealed in a sound-proof booth during a pub quiz when the agent strikes the vicinity. The four characters are united by chance about one year after the event, and set up a base of operations in a country cottage. They then spend the next six episodes looking for other survivors, adjusting to life after the end of the world, and deliberating over the repopulation of the human race. The show relies heavily on a small cast of esoteric characters, including: rugby league fanatic Colin; everyman Brian, who comes closest to being the group's leader; and Graham and Janet, a bland couple who struggle over the issue of having children. Conversation between Graham and Janet frequently features Graham's reluctance and Janet's determination to have children, as well as Graham's extraordinarily low sperm count. The pub name is never mentioned in the show and while an interior quiz advert does reference the Red Lion in Episode 1, there is also a V for Versus above that and you can just make out a H which would suggest they did not attempt to rename the pub as in an earlier shot of the outside of the pub you can see the White Hart sign, the shots from the outside are of the White Hart in the village of Bouth in Cumbria. Cast Mike Grady as Graham Wilkins Josie Lawrence as Janet Wilkins Ronald Pickup as Brian Appleyard Stephen Rea as Colin Garrity Judith Hann as herself References External links Internet Movie Database Episode guide at the BFI website 1990 British television series debuts 1990 British television series endings 1990s British comic science fiction television series ITV sitcoms Post-apocalyptic television series London Weekend Television shows Apocalyptic television series English-language television shows Television series by ITV Studios 1990s British sitcoms
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The olfactory tubercle (OT), also known as the tuberculum olfactorium, is a multi-sensory processing center that is contained within the olfactory cortex and ventral striatum and plays a role in reward cognition. The OT has also been shown to play a role in locomotor and attentional behaviors, particularly in relation to social and sensory responsiveness, and it may be necessary for behavioral flexibility. The OT is interconnected with numerous brain regions, especially the sensory, arousal, and reward centers, thus making it a potentially critical interface between processing of sensory information and the subsequent behavioral responses. The OT is a composite structure that receives direct input from the olfactory bulb and contains the morphological and histochemical characteristics of the ventral pallidum and the striatum of the forebrain. The dopaminergic neurons of the mesolimbic pathway project onto the GABAergic medium spiny neurons of the nucleus accumbens and olfactory tubercle (receptor D3 is abundant in these two areas ). In addition, the OT contains tightly packed cell clusters known as the islands of Calleja, which consist of granule cells. Even though it is part of the olfactory cortex and receives direct input from the olfactory bulb, it has not been shown to play a role in processing of odors. Structure The olfactory tubercle differs in location and relative size between humans, other primates, rodents, birds, and other animals. In most cases, the olfactory tubercle is identified as a round bulge along the basal forebrain anterior to the optic chiasm and posterior to the olfactory peduncle. In humans and other primates, visual identification of the olfactory tubercle is not easy because the basal forebrain bulge is small in these animals. With regard to functional anatomy, the olfactory tubercle can be considered to be a part of three larger networks. First, it is considered to be part of the basal forebrain, the nucleus accumbens, and the amygdaloid nuclei because of its location along the rostral ventral region of the brain, that is, the front-bottom part. Second, it is considered to be part of the olfactory cortex because it receives direct input from the olfactory bulb. Third, it is also considered to be part of the ventral striatum based on anatomy, neurochemical, and embryology data. One of the most striking features of the olfactory tubercle is the closely packed crescent-shape cell clusters, which are located mostly in layer III and sometimes in layer II. These cell clusters, called the islands of Calleja, are innervated by dopaminergic projections from the nucleus accumbens and the substantia nigra, suggesting the role that the olfactory tubercle plays in the reward system. The olfactory tubercle is a multi-sensory processing center due to the number of innervations going to and from other brain regions such as the amygdala, thalamus, hypothalamus, hippocampus, brain stem, auditory and visual sensory fibers, and a number of structures in the rewardarousal system, as well as the olfactory cortex. Due to its many innervations from other brain regions, the olfactory tubercle is involved in merging information across the senses, such as olfactory/audition and olfactory/visual integrations, possibly in a behaviorally relevant manner. Thus, damage to the olfactory tubercle is likely to affect the functionality of all these areas of the brain. Examples of such disruption include changes in normal odor-guided behavior, and impairments in modulating state and motivational behavior, which are common in psychiatric disorders such as schizophrenia, dementia and depression. The olfactory tubercle has been shown to play a large role in behavior. Unilateral lesions in the olfactory tubercle have been shown to alter attention, social and sensory responsiveness, and even locomotor behavior. Bilateral lesions have been shown to reduce copulatory behavior in male rats. The olfactory tubercle has also been shown to be especially involved in reward and addictive behaviors. Rats have been shown to administer cocaine into the olfactory tubercle more than the nucleus accumbens and ventral pallidum, other reward centers in the brain. In fact, they will administer cocaine into the olfactory tubercle at about 200 times per hour and even till death. Functional contributions of the olfactory tubercle to olfaction are currently unclear; however, there is evidence of a perceptual role that it may play. Work from Zelano, et al. suggest that the olfactory tubercle may be crucial in sorting out the sources of olfactory information. This suggests that it may also play a role in odor guided behavior. Thus, it may link perception of odor with action through its connections with attention, reward, and motivation systems of the basal forebrain. Functional imaging data from this same group also shows that the olfactory tubercle is highly activated during tasks that engage attention, thus playing a large role in arousal-related systems. Because the olfactory tubercle is a component of the ventral striatum, it is heavily interconnected with several affective-, reward-, and motivation-related centers of the brain. It also sits at the interface between the olfactory sensory input and state-dependent behavioral modulatory circuits, that is the area that modulates behavior during certain physiological and mental states. Thus, the olfactory tubercle may also play an important role in the mediation of odor approach and odor avoidance behavior, probably in a state-dependent manner. Anatomy In general, the olfactory tubercle is located at the basal forebrain of the animal within the medial temporal lobe. Specifically, parts of the tubercle are included in the olfactory cortex and nested between the optic chiasm and olfactory tract and ventral to the nucleus accumbens. The olfactory tubercle consists of three layers, a molecular layer (layer I), the dense cell layer (layer II), and the multiform layer (layer III). Other than the islands of Calleja, which are characteristic of the tubercle, it is also noted for the being innervated by dopaminergic neurons from the ventral tegmental area. The olfactory tubercle also consists of heterogeneous elements, such as medial forebrain bundle, and has a ventral extension of the striatal complex. During the 1970s, the tubercle was found to contain a striatal component which is composed of GABAergic medium spiny neurons. The GABAergic neurons project to the ventral pallidum and receive glutamatergic inputs from cortical regions and dopaminergic inputs from the ventral tegmental area. Morphological and neurochemical features The ventral portion of the olfactory tubercle consists of three layers, whereas the dorsal portion contains dense cell clusters and adjoins the ventral pallidum (within the basal ganglia). The structure of the most ventral and anterior parts of the tubercle can be defined as anatomically defined hills (consisting of gyri and sulci) and clusters of cells. The most common cell types in the olfactory tubercle are medium-size dense spine cells found predominantly in layer II (dense cell layer). The dendrites of these cells are covered by substance p immunoreactive (S.P.I) axons up into layer III (multiform layer). These cells also project into the nucleus accumbens and caudate putamen, thus linking the olfactory tubercle with the pallidum. Other medium-size cells reside in layers II and III of the olfactory tubercle as well. These include the spine-poor neurons and spindle cells and they differ from the medium-size dense spine cells because they have sparse dendritic trees. The largest cells, and most striking feature of the olfactory tubercle, are densely packed crescent-shape cell clusters, Islands of Calleja that reside mostly in the dorsal portion of the olfactory tubercle, layer III, and can also be found in layer II. The olfactory tubercle also contains three classes of small cells found mostly in layers I and II. The first are pial cells (named as such because of location near pial surface), which look like miniature medium-size dense spine cells. The second are radiate cells and are easily identified by numerous multi-directional spineless dendrites. The third, small spine cells, are similar to the pial cells in that they also look like medium-size spine cells except they are not located near the pial surface. Development Migrating cells from several developmental sites come together to form the olfactory tubercle. This includes the ventral ganglionic eminence (found in ventral part of telencephalon, where they form bulges in the ventricles that later become the basal ganglia, present only in embryonic stages) and the rostromedial telencephalic wall (of the forebrain). Olfactory tubercle neurons originate as early as embryonic day 13 (E13), and the cell development occurs in a layer specific manner. The emergence of the three main layers of the olfactory tubercle begins almost simultaneously. The large neurons in layer III originate from E13 to E16, while the small and medium originate between E15 and E20. Like the small and medium cells in layer III, the cells of layer II and the striatal bridges also originate between E15 and E20 and develop in a lateral to medial gradient. The granule cells of the islands of calleja originate between E19 and E22 and continue to migrate into the islands until long after birth. Fibers from the lateral olfactory tract begin branching into the olfactory tubercle around E17. The lateral portion of the olfactory tubercle (which adjoins the olfactory tract) receives the densest fiber input and the medial portion receives light fiber projections. This branching continues until completion about the end of the first week after birth. Function Multi-sensory processes The olfactory tubercle plays a functional role in the multisensory integration of olfactory information with extra modal senses. Auditory sensory information may arrive at the olfactory tubercle via networks involving the hippocampus and ventral pallidum or directly from the olfactory cortex, thus showing a possible role of the olfactory tubercle in olfactory auditory sensory integration. This convergence has been shown to cause the perception of sound, caused by the interaction between smell and sound. This possibility has been supported by work from where olfactory tubercle displayed olfactoryauditory convergence. Retinal projections have also been found in layer II of the olfactory tubercle, suggesting that it constitutes a region of olfactory and visual convergence. These visual sensory fibers arrive from the retinal ganglion cells. Thus, the olfactory tubercle may play a role in the perception of odors when a visual source is identified. As far as olfaction is concerned, in vitro data from some studies suggest that the olfactory tubercle units have the functional capability of other olfactory center neurons in processing odor. It has been suggested that the olfactory tubercle may be crucial in determining the source of olfactory information and responds to odor inhalations that are attended to. Role in behavior The olfactory tubercle has been shown to be concerned primarily with the reception of sensory impulses from olfactory receptors. Because of its connections to regions like the amygdala and hippocampus, the olfactory tubercle may play a role in behavior. Rats rely heavily on olfactory sensory input from olfactory receptors for behavioral attitudes. Studies show that bilateral lesions in the olfactory tubercle significantly reduce stereotyped behavior such as copulatory behavior in male rats and a reduction in sniffing and chewing behaviors. These stereotyped inhibitions may have been caused by the removal of central neuronal processes other than the dopaminergic cells in the olfactory tubercle. Unilateral lesions have been shown to alter attention, social and sensory responsiveness, and even locomotor behavior in rats. Arousal and reward The dopaminergic neurons from the ventral tegmental area that innervate the olfactory tubercle enable the tubercle to play roles in reward and arousal and appears to partially mediate cocaine reinforcement. The anteromedial portions of the tubercle have been shown to mediate some of the rewarding effects of drugs like cocaine and amphetamine. This has been shown in studies where rats learn to self-administer cocaine at significantly high rates into the tubercle. Injections of cocaine into the tubercle induce robust locomotion and rearing behavior in rats. Clinical significance The multi-sensory nature of the olfactory tubercle and the many innervations it receives from other brain regions, especially the direct input from the olfactory bulb and innervations from the ventral tegmental area, makes it likely to be involved in several psychiatric disorders in which olfaction and dopamine receptors are affected. Many studies have found reduced olfactory sensitivity in patients with major depressive disorders (MDD) and dementia and schizophrenia. Patients with MDD have been shown to have reduced olfactory bulb and olfactory cortex as compared to normal people. In dementias, especially of the Alzheimer's disease type, the olfactory bulb, anterior olfactory nucleus, and orbitofrontal cortex, all areas of the brain that process olfaction are affected. The deficits observed in dementia include decrease in odor threshold sensitivity, odor identification and odor memory. Patients with schizophrenia exhibit deficits in olfactory discrimination that are not seen in patients with other psychiatric disorders not mentioned here. Rupp, et al. found that in patients with schizophrenia olfactory sensitivity and discrimination as well as higher order identification abilities are reduced. As mentioned earlier, the olfactory tubercle may be involved in the perception of odors due to the inputs received from the bulb and thus, by extension, may play a role in these psychiatric disorders. History The olfactory tubercle was first described by Albert von Klliker in 1896, who studied them in rats. Since then, there have been several histological and histochemical studies; done in this area to identify it in other rodents, cats, humans, non-human primates, and other species. Similar studies were done by several authors to find the cell composition and innervations to and from other regions in the OT. Over the years, several other methods have been employed to find the possible functions and role of the OT in the brain. These began with lesion studies and early electrophysiological recordings. Improvements in technology have made it possible to now place multiple electrodes in the olfactory tubercle and record from anesthetized and even awake animals participating in behavioral tasks. See also Mesolimbic pathway References Further reading External links The Enigmatic Olfactory Tubercle Overview on current research of the Olfactory tubercle at NIDCD. Brain Regions: Olfactory Tubercle Basic info about the tubercle at NeuroLex. Sections Containing Olfactory Tubercle Illustrated sections of all types showing exact location of tubercle in the brain at BrainMaps. Olfactory system Neurophysiology Cerebral cortex
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The Kunsthalle Bremen is an art museum in Bremen, Germany. It is located close to the Bremen Old Town on the "Culture Mile" (). The Kunsthalle was built in 1849, enlarged in 1902 by architect Eduard Gildemeister, and expanded several more times, most notably in 2011. Since 1977, the building has been designated a Kulturdenkmal on Germany's buildings heritage list. The museum houses a collection of European paintings from the 14th century to the present day, sculptures from the 16th to 21st century and a New Media collection. Among its highlights are French and German paintings from the 19th and 20th centuries, including important works by Claude Monet, douard Manet and Paul Czanne, along with major paintings by Lovis Corinth, Max Liebermann, Max Beckmann and Paula Modersohn-Becker. The New Media section features works by John Cage, Otto Piene, Peter Campus, Olafur Eliasson, and Nam June Paik. The Department of Prints and Drawings has 220,000 sheets from the 15th to 20th century, one of largest collections of its kind in Europe. The Kunsthalle Bremen is operated by the non-profit Bremen Art Society (), making it the only German museum with an extensive art collection from the 14th to 21st century which is still in private ownership. History History of the Art Society In 1823, a group of 34 businessmen interested in art founded an Art Society () in Bremen with the aim of "spreading a sense of beauty and form." It is one of the oldest such societies in Germany. The first years of the association's activities were focused on private art exhibitions, with the acquisition of works backed financially from ticket proceeds and business donations. Ten years after its founding, the Society owned 13 paintings, 585 drawings and 3917 leaf prints. The majority of the paintings were Old Masters, including the famous Madonna of Masolino and a series of paintings of Dutch painters of the 17th century, such as Jan van Goyen and Pieter Wouwerman. After 1843, large public exhibitions were organized in association with similar associations in Hannover, Lbeck, Greifswald, Rostock and Stuttgart. By 1846 the society had grown to 575 members. The Kunstverein Bremen is still the exclusive owner of the Kunsthalle Bremen and today has over 8000 members. The society is funded from foundations, private donations, bequests, and grants from the city of Bremen. History of the Kunsthalle The building of 1849 Supported by numerous foundations and patrons, the Art Society put out a competitive bid for a new museum building. A then very young Lueder Rutenberghimself a member of the Art Associationwon against prominent competitors. The Society broke ground on the Kunsthalle on 1 July 1847, becoming the first Society in Germany with its own building. The construction project was located on a former rubbish dump in the vicinity of the old city ramparts and the building was finished in 1849. Rutenberg's design was of a dignified but understated two-story building with a three-axis central projection of round arches. While the collections were largely owned by the Kunstverein, the property itself was owned by the city. Four stone figures over the entrance are of Raphael, Michelangelo, Drer, and Rubens, created by the sculptor Adolph Steinhuser (1825-1858). Expansion in 1902 After another competition among Bremen architects, a much-needed enlargement was commissioned in 1898. Albert Dunkel was selected to design the interiors, Eduard Gildemeister for the monumental sandstone facade, and decoration by renowned sculptors Georg Roemer and Georg Wrba. The foundation work was begun in 1899 and on 15 February 1902 the opening ceremony took place. The facade was under construction until 1904. The expansion was funded by foundations and businessmen in Bremen. Consequences of World War II The art gallery was closed shortly after the outbreak of war and the collection was initially stored in the basement. In the night of 5 September 1942, a fire bomb destroyed the central staircase and six rooms upstairs. It also burned the painting Washington Crossing the Delaware by Emanuel Leutze, which because of its size could not be removed. Today a second version hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. After this damage, large parts of the collection were moved to protected areas underneath the Bremer Landesbank and Norddeutschen Kreditbank. As the severity of air raids on Bremen increased, Mayor Bhmcker finally decreed that the collection should be housed outside the city in safety. The removal of the artworks began in 1943 to four different places: the paintings, drawings and graphic sheets were divided between Karnzow Castle of Count Knigsmarck near Kyritz, Neumhle Castle of Count von der Schulenburg in Salzwedel, and Schwbber Castle near Hameln. The sculptures were taken to the princely crypt at Bckeburg Castle. Karnzow Castle was located in Margraviate of Brandenburg closer to Berlin and it held 50 paintings, 1715 drawings and about 3000 prints from the collection. The castle was taken in May 1945 by Soviet troops and on their return home it was plundered. The Soviets also left the hiding place open, with the result that works of art were within the reach of everyone. Berlin sculptor Kurt Reutti, head of a unit of the Berlin City Council, was able to find several items by extensive research and reclamation from the local black market. However, the losses of the Kunsthalle Bremen stand alongside those of the Prussian Cultural Heritage Foundation and the Dresden art collections as the largest and most devastating of any German museum from the war. In all over 1,500 works from the Kunsthalle remain missing today. Reconstruction after 1945 In the immediate postwar period, the conditions of the museum and the activities of the Art Society were extremely difficult. Between 1947 and 1948, soldiers of the US Army were billeted in the art gallery, Print Room and Board Room. Because of war damage the building was unusable for displaying art, although exhibitions were organized at other locations starting in 1946. In 1948, ten rooms upstairs were again opened to the public for the 125th anniversary of the Art Society. After further repairs, all rooms on the upper floor were usable again by the end of 1951. In 1961 an extensive restoration was carried out which repaired the heavy war damage. The staircase and the front entrance were modernized in the style of the time. Expansion in 1982 An extension to the building was completed in 1982 by architect Werner Dttmann and caused a scandal. Contrary to the plans which had been approved in sandstone red brick facade was built instead. Renovations 19901999 In 1990 the Art Society secured financing for the renovation of the workshops, storage areas and the main Print Room of the now structurally and functionally obsolete building. Between 1996 and 1998, more renovations of the Art Gallery continued under the chairman Georg Abegg and director Wulf Herzogenrath. These were urgent because the exhibition halls were in poor condition, the lighting did not meet the requirements and climate conditions did not meet international standards. In 1995 the Art Society's board of trustees began a "Save the Art Gallery" capital campaign under the leadership of the merchant and deputy chairman Dieter Harald Berghfer, which reached out to patrons. Within one year it had received 7 million marks, a third of the calculated construction costs (in a city with fewer than 600,000 inhabitants). The state of Bremen and the Federal Republic then provided the other two thirds. Due to unexpected difficulties with the building, construction costs rose to almost 25 million DM, and these additional costs were raised solely by donors who wanted to support the efforts of the Art Society and the board of trustees. As a result of the renovation, golden oak parquet replaced the linoleum, while the 24 halls and intimate cabinets in which the permanent collection is grouped are bathed in color. Extension 2011 Between 2009 and 2011, the older constructions of 1961 and 1982 were demolished and two modernist, cubic wings with of gross floor area were added to the old main building according to the plans by architects Hufnagel, Putz and Rafaelian. The main building with of gross floor area was completely renovated and portions modernized. The project cost around 30 million. The families of Friedrich and Peter Lren of Lrssen shipyard fame and the Karin and Uwe Hollweg Foundation contributed a third, and the city of Bremen and the Federal Government each one-third of these costs. Additional costs of 3.5 million for among other things geothermal heating were covered by the art society. The new Art Gallery opened on 20 August 2011 and held its first major exhibition at the on 15 October 2011. Collections Paintings The museum's paintings span the 14th century to the present day and are primarily West European. Among the collection's highlights are French and German works from the 19th and 20th centuries, including important pieces by Paul Czanne, douard Manet, Claude Monet, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and Vincent van Gogh. It holds major paintings by Max Beckmann, Lovis Corinth, Max Liebermann, and Paula Modersohn-Becker. The museum also houses early modernist works by artists from the nearby art colony of Worpswede. Other represented artists include: Andreas Achenbach Albrecht Altdorfer Arnold Boecklin Carl Blechen Merry-Joseph Blondel Willy von Beckerath Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld Gustave Courbet Camille Corot Lucas Cranach the Elder Eugne Delacroix Albrecht Drer Adam Elsheimer Heinrich Jakob Fried Joseph von Fhrich Otto Gildemeister Eva Gonzals Franz Krger Johann Liss August Macke Franz Marc Hans von Mares Anton Raphael Mengs Edvard Munch Friedrich Paul Nerly Jules Pascin Camille Pissarro Odilon Redon Tho van Rysselberghe Otto Scholderer Carl Schuch Alfred Sisley Max Slevogt Sbastien Stoskopff Hans Thoma Carl Wagner Prints and drawings The Department of Prints and Drawings has 220,000 sheets from the 15th to 20th century, including hand drawings, aquarelles, copperplate prints, and printed graphs. It is one of largest and most important collections of its kind in Europe. Artists include: Edgar Degas Albrecht Drer Berthe Morisot New Media The New Media section features works by John Cage, Otto Piene, Peter Campus, Olafur Eliasson, Nam June Paik and others. The Kunstverein promotes current art trends by awarding the Bttcherstrasse Art Prize and organizing exhibitions of the Frderkreis fr Gegenwartskunst (association for the support of contemporary art). Baldin Collection In 1945 Soviet Army officer Viktor Baldin discovered the stored works from the Kunsthalle in the basement of Karnzow Castle. In order to protect them from complete destruction, he grabbed drawings by Rembrandt, Titian, Rubens, Goya, Van Gogh and douard Manet and brought them to the Soviet Union in a suitcase. In 1963 Baldin became Director of the Moscow Architecture Museum. In the autumn of 1989 he visited the Bremen Kunsthalle and reported to the chairman of the Art Society that he had the time to get two paintings and 362 drawings out of Castle Karnzow and had handed them over to the Schtschusev State Research and Science Museum for safekeeping. In the following years he tried repeatedly to return the artwork to the Bremen Art Society by appealing to the highest authorities of the USSR, but without success. The whole issue of "looted art" from Germany was still taboo at that time. In 1995, a show named after him was held in the Hermitage collection in St. Petersburg. In February 2003, the then Russian Minister of Culture, after a formal request of the Kunstverein in 2000, provided a written commitment that the Baldin Collection should be returned to Bremen. Although the collection is not covered by the Plundered Art Laws, the Russian State Duma has so far refused to return it. In 2005 Russia's Culture Minister Alexander Sokolov said that returning the collection to Germany was "out of the question." See also List of art museums List of museums in Germany Schlachterladen in Schftlarn an der Isar References External links Repatriation of artworks stolen from the museum during WWII Virtual tour of the Kunsthalle Bremen provided by Google Arts & Culture Museums in Bremen (city) Art museums and galleries in Germany Art and cultural repatriation Art museums established in 1849 1849 establishments in Germany
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The Minsk Blitz was the heavy bombing of the city of Minsk (population was 270,000), the capital of the Byelorussian Soviet Socialist Republic within the Soviet Union during the Second World War. On 24 June 1941, three waves of German Luftwaffe bombers, 47 aircraft each, bombed Minsk. The Soviet anti-aircraft defense of the city was poorly organized, and panic ensued. Because the water supply was destroyed, fires could not be put down, and the city was evacuated. As much as 85% of the city's buildings and the entire infrastructure was destroyed. More than 1,000 people were killed. See also German occupation of Byelorussia during World War II External links Article in newspaper - in Russian Video of the bombing, fire and ruins (as part of multimedia presentation) Minsk. City of Foreign Sun (. ). Belsat. Minsk Military history of Belarus during World War II History of Minsk Minsk 20th century in Minsk Minsk
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Skjnhaug is a village in the municipality of Trgstad, Norway. Its official population, as of 2005, was 1,817. Villages in stfold Trgstad
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Valentin Feurstein (1 January 1885 8 June 1970) was an Austrian military officer who served in the Austrian and German armies. Feurstein joined the Austro-Hungarian Army in 1907, he served in World War I and in the Austrian Bundesheer in the 1930s. He was commander of 3rd Division (stationed in St. Plten). After the Anschluss and the incorporation of the Bundesheer into it, Feurstein served as a general in the Wehrmacht. He commanded the 2nd Mountain Division during Fall Weiss and during the Norwegian Campaign. In 1941, he was promoted to full general of mountain troops (Gen.d.Geb.Tr.). He also served on the Italian front in 1943. Feurstein was city commander of Bregenz in 1945 and tried to declare Bregenz a non-combat zone. Valentin Feurstein died on 8 June 1970. Awards and decorations Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross (12 August 1944) References External links 1885 births 1970 deaths People from Bregenz Austrian generals Generals of Mountain Troops Austro-Hungarian military personnel of World War I Recipients of the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross Austrian military personnel of World War II Austro-Hungarian Army officers
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Greatest Hits: The Platinum Collection is a compilation album by American singer-songwriter Barry Manilow, released in 1993. All of the compilation's songs had been previously released, with the exception of the 1993 remixes of "Could It Be Magic" and "I'm Your Man". Track listing Charts Certifications References 1993 greatest hits albums Barry Manilow compilation albums Arista Records compilation albums
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Windeck is a municipality in the Rhein-Sieg district, in North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany. It is situated on the river Sieg, approx. 35km east of Bonn and 35km west of Siegen. The name Windeck comes from the Windeck castle ruins and the nearby village of Windeck. The community of Windeck was formed in 1969 through the merger of the communities of Dattenfeld, Herchen and Rosdorf. Today Windeck consists of 58 villages and some hamlets and homesteads. The most important are: Population figures as of March 31, 2019 Other villages are Oppertzau, Dreisel, Werfen, Stromberg and Au an der Sieg. In Windeck, the Leina company produces first aid kits and warning triangles. Notable people Andy Borg (born 1960), percussionist and presenter, lived briefly in Herchen Renan Demirkan (born 1955), actress and author, lives in Windeck Hanns Dieter Hsch (19252005), cabaret artist, lived in Werfen Peter Praet (born 1949 in Herchen), Belgian economist and central banker Jonas Reckermann (born 1979), beach volleyball player August Sander (18761964), photographer, lived in Kuchhausen References
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Maryland Route 299 (MD 299) is a state highway in the U.S. state of Maryland. The highway runs from MD 313 and MD 330 at Massey in eastern Kent County north to U.S. Route 301 (US 301) near Warwick in far southern Cecil County. MD 299 was constructed from Massey to Sassafras around 1930 and from there to MD 282 in Warwick in the early 1930s. The highway between US 301 and MD 282 was transferred to county control in 1958. Route description MD 299 begins at a four-way intersection with MD 313 and MD 330 at the hamlet of Massey in eastern Kent County. MD 313 heads northbound to the west and southbound as Galena Road, and MD 330 heads eastbound as Maryland Line Road. MD 299 heads northbound as two-lane undivided Massey Road and immediately has a grade crossing of the Chestertown Branch of the Northern Line of the Maryland and Delaware Railroad just west of the junction of the Centreville and Chestertown branches of the Northern Line. The highway crosses Jacobs Creek before an intersection with the northern terminus of MD 290 (Galena Sassafras Road). MD 299 continues northeast as Galena Sassafras Road, which passes the historic home Rich Hill and crosses Herring Branch into the village of Sassafras. At the north end of the village, the highway crosses the Sassafras River into Cecil County, where the name of the highway changes to Massey Sassafras Road. MD 299 reaches its northern terminus at US 301 (Blue Star Memorial Highway). Sassafras Road continues northeast toward an intersection with MD 282 in the village of Warwick. History MD 299 was paved as a concrete road from Massey to Sassafras in two sections in 1929 and 1930. The highway from Sassafras to MD 282 in Warwick was completed as a concrete road in 1933. The portion of MD 299 north of US 301 was transferred from state to county maintenance through a May 8, 1958, road transfer agreement. The highway was widened and resurfaced with bituminous concrete in 1976. MD 299 previously connected to DE299 when it continued to Warwick. Junction list Auxiliary route MD 299A is the unsigned designation for Massey Road Spur, which runs from MD 299 north to MD 290 in Sassafras, Kent County. The route was designated in 2012. See also References External links MDRoads: MD 299 MD 299 at AARoads.com 299 Maryland Route 299 Maryland Route 299
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Angus MacKay (born 10 September 1964) is a Scottish politician who served as Minister for Finance and Local Government from 2000 to 2001. A member of the Scottish Labour Party, he was the Member of the Scottish Parliament (MSP) for the Edinburgh South constituency from 1999 to 2003. Born in Edinburgh, MacKay graduated from the University of Edinburgh with a MA in Politics and Modern History. Before entering politics, he worked for Shelter Scotland and served as parliamentary researchers to Adam Ingram and Mo Mowlam, and was political adviser to Henry McLeish. In the 1995 Scottish local election, MacKay was elected to the City of Edinburgh council, and was later appointed Convenor of Finance in the council's committee in 1997. He stood down as a councillor following his election to the Scottish Parliament in the 1999 election. Donald Dewar appointed MacKay Deputy Minister for Justice under Dewar's administration. Deputising for Jim Wallace, MacKay had particular responsibility for land reform and coordination of the Scottish Executive's drugs policy. Calls for his resignation were made after he claimed the sex offenders register in Scotland was a matter reserved for Westminster. In May 2000, he revealed the Scottish Executive's ten year plan to tackle the drug crisis in Scotland, with an aim to younger drug takers as a young as 11. Following the death of Dewar, McLeish was appointed First Minister and he appointed MacKay to cabinet as Minister for Finance and Local Government. Early life Education Angus MacKay was born on 10 September 1964 in Edinburgh. He was educated at St Augustine's High School, before attending the University of Edinburgh where he earned an MA (Hons) in Politics and Modern History. Early career MacKay worked for Shelter Scotland from 1987 to 1990. In 1990, he became a parliamentary researcher for Adam Ingram, the MP for East Kilbride, Strathaven and Lesmahagow, and Mo Mowlam, the MP for Redcar. He was then political adviser to Henry McLeish from 1992 to 1995 and then Press Co-ordinator to George Robertson during the 1997 UK General Election. Political career Early political years MacKay was elected to the City of Edinburgh Council in 1995 and was appointed Convener of Finance in 1997. As Finance Convenor, he had responsibilities for shaping and delivering Edinburgh's annual budget and reviewing expenditure, service delivery and service reform. In 1999, he stood down from local government following his election to the Scottish Parliament. Deputy Minister for Justice; 19992000 In the first election to the Scottish Parliament in 1999, MacKay was elected to the Edinburgh South constituency. Scottish Labour secured a coalition agreement with the Scottish Liberal Democrats, putting Donald Dewar in the office of First Minister. Dewar appointed MacKay as the Deputy Minister for Justice in his administration. He was deputising for Minister for Justice Jim Wallace and had particular responsibility for land reform and coordination of the Scottish Executive's drugs policy. In July 2000, calls for MacKay to resign by opposition parties were made after he wrongly claimed the sex offenders register in Scotland was a matter reserved for Westminster. He later admitted it was a devolved issue for which the Executive was responsible for. Lyndsay McIntosh, the Scottish Conservative's deputy home affairs spokeswoman, called for his resignation, stating: "I think Mr MacKay has to consider his position... If he doesn't know the scope of the job and doesn't know his responsibilities then perhaps someone else should be doing the job". MacKay rejected calls for his resignation and focused on plans to introduce tougher guidelines on the monitoring of sex offenders. He said that from there would be a better system of information-sharing for police, councils and social workers and "the guidance will include advice on how these bodies can carry out risk assessments, not just of offenders on the register, but on other individuals with a previous conviction for a sex offence, or individuals suspected of such activities, who are giving cause for concern". As Deputy Minister for Justice, MacKay also had responsibility for drug policy. Following a trip from New York, United States, in May 2000, he unveiled the Scottish Executive's ten year plan to tackle the drug crisis in Scotland. Despite the launch of his new anti-drug campaign, the Executive failed to increase spending on tackling drugs. MacKay revealed the campaign would aim to young drug takers as young as eleven. "What we have to remember is that drugs and the drugs dealers are a very organised lot and they go out to recruit new customers at a very young age," he stated. MacKay added that the Executive was working hard to produce legislation allowing the assets of known drug dealers to be seized, but new legislation would have to be in line with the European Convention on Human Rights. Minister for Finance; 20002001 Following the death of Donald Dewar in 2000, MacKay served as campaign manager for Henry McLeish in his bid for the leadership of the Labour Party in Scotland and First Minister. McLeish's campaign was successful, defeating Jack McConnell in the contest. He formed his administration and appointed MacKay as the Minister for Finance and Local Government, replacing McConnell. When McLeish resigned in 2001, McConnell was elected as his replacement unopposed. In McConnell's first cabinet reshuffle, MacKay was sacked from Cabinet. Out of government In the 2003 Scottish Parliament election, MacKay was not re-elected after being defeated by the Liberal Democrat candidate Mike Pringle. Post-political career In 2003, MacKay, with Gail Hannah, founded MacKay Hannah Ltd in Edinburgh "to Influence policy making, Inform policy development, Connect with decision makers and build Networks." References External links |- |- 1964 births Living people Members of the Scottish Parliament 19992003 Members of the Scottish Parliament for Edinburgh constituencies Labour MSPs Finance ministers of Scotland People educated at St Augustine's High School, Edinburgh
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